1 Prisms Managing Board Editors-in-Chief: Loryn Helfmann and Shelby Ozer Managing Editors: Zoe Huber-Weiss and Elizabeth Vogel Layout Editors: Rachel DeChiara and Sabrina Merold Head of Arts and Design: Lila Gyory Arts Editors: Jeffrey Frankel and Monica Murthy Senior Editors: Molly Alter and Ben Martin-Katz Copy Editors: Katie Charney, Katharine Fuzesi, Clara Mooney, Anna Tyshkov, and Cynthia Yang

Faculty Advisors: Debby Dixler, Alexandra Mahoney, and Lou Scerra

Staff Members: Amy Chen, Rachel Greene, Laurel Gupton, Eliza Huber-Weiss, Yasmin LoPrete, Claudia Lu, Alicja Madloch, Alyssa McPherson, Prianka Murthy, Charlotte Smith, Carissa Szlosek, Andie Wei, and Mollie Wolhforth

Special thanks to Andrew Alford and Julius Tolentino for their assistance with this issue.

The Prisms staff would like to acknowledge the existence of explicit language in this issue. In printing this language, we hope to preserve the integrity of the work.

Cover Art by Theo Rapanu Words Read these words in a rhythm. by Alyssa McPherson...... 6 The Search by Charlotte Smith...... 8 The Weight of the World by Katharine Fuzesi...... 9 Mother by Rachel DeChiara...... 10 Dear John Doe by Rachel Greene...... 12 Queen of Fundy by Katie Charney...... 13 Children on the Craft by Clara Mooney...... 14 What’s Supposed to Happen by Katharine Fuzesi...... 16 Ode to the Silent Letter G by Rebecca Antwi...... 17 The Best Personal Essay. Ever. by Alex Liao...... 20 Defensive by Carissa Szlosek...... 20 Group Effort by Rachel DeChiara...... 21 Socks on Wood by Shelby Ozer...... 22 Funerals by Jessica Waggoner...... 24 Liar by Alicja Madloch...... 25 Two Kinds of Mature by Katharine Fuzesi...... 26 Submission #73 by Rachel Greene...... 28 Sometimes I Wish I Could Stay Here by Annie Tvetenstrand...... 30

Ar t Untitled by Nicole Andrzejewski...... 7 Untitled by Kevin Jiang...... 9 Fates by Carissa Szlosek...... 12 Sunlight by Anna Tyshkov...... 15 Rocky Road West by Carissa Szlosek...... 16 Krissy by Alicja Madloch...... 18 Rubinstein by Anna Tyshkov...... 18 Hong Kong by Cynthia Yang...... 19 Who Doesn’t Love Chocolate? by Francis Lai...... 19 West Village by Elizabeth Coscia...... 23 NYC by Greta Skagerlind...... 23 Josh by Greta Skagerlind...... 24 Untitled by Anna Tyshkov...... 27 My Mother’s Eyes by Katie Charney...... 29 Elle by Katie Charney...... 29 Winter by Katie Charney...... 31 The Beginning by Monica Murthy...... 31 1980’s Prisms logo

4 So What’s a QR Code? This Fall, we are excited to introduce a new digital element into Prisms. This issue features QR codes for a select number of poetry and prose pieces, which will allow you to hear an audio recording of an author reading his or her work. The QR codes appear as large checkered squares next to three pieces in this issue of Prisms. If you download a free QR reader application on your smartphone, you can scan the code with your phone and it will bring you to a URL of the audio recording.

5 Read these words in a rhythm. by Alyssa McPherson this poem is a challenge to you to read these words in a rhythm. speak these words like they’ve got soul—let them saunter off your tongue in the sultry tunes of smooth jazz... and don’t be afraid to give them a little swagger. drop the stilted recitation, the monotone intonation, the robotic drone that comes buzzing out the mouths of the uninspired like bees are filling their cheeks. add some honey to these words. make ’em sweet, let ’em cascade through the ear canals in streams and creeks and rivers of gold. let ’em water these dry, barren fields and sink down into your roots, back to a time when your ancestors breathed ancient stories and exhaled songs into the sacred land in a language you used to understand. pull these words back to a time before pop stars copyrighted dollar signs and belted drunken vapid rhymes like they know what it means to have that magic flow. speak these words like a spell, let your voice be the wand that illuminates the dark side of these cratered minds, where neglected dreams and passions and childish hopes reside, hiding from the beasts that would rip them apart if you let ’em— so you better fill these words with the roar of the lion, fill these words with the howl of the wolf,

6 make the air quake and the nerves shake with wonder, let these words rumble up from inside you like the churning of thunder, let them part the clouds of your self-doubt and fill your voice with light. teach these words to sing the music of You, swell these syllables with the harmony of your past, your present, your future, and all those moments in between... because when you open your mouth, you can make dull eyes glisten, when you open your mouth, all the world will stop and listen if you read these words in a rhythm.

Untitled by Nicole Andrzejewski

7 The Search by Charlotte Smith The wind pummels against my stiff spring coat, cracking my hair in the sky. His hooves cut into the untouched ground. The sound of dead grass being ripped.

The trees stand crooked and black the world holds its breath as my horse and I trudge through its hollow stomach. The wind is in a frenzy. It searches for spring.

My horse scrambles up a slope the sound grinds in my ears and the fallen rocks sink into a muddy pit. We are so alone.

We arrive at a stream. It barely makes a sound. The water is so black, so cold. It moves slowly, swallowing all signs of life, slips into every crack and licks it clean.

As we step around brambles, tangled and dry, his ears prick, alert and ready. Surprised.

A lonely cluster of deer limp out of the trees their coats hang loosely over bones and bicycle handle hips.

One glances our way, its dark eyes hopeful its hollow face calling: Where is the spring?

8 The Weight of the World by Katharine Fuzesi If the building were to crumble down on me and all the different people were to pile on top of me and all their voices were to wrap around me like sheets covered in needles and broken glass and teeth and coins and forks and pencils and they were all different colors and they were all shouting and they all scared me, I’m not sure what I would do. Initially I might scream. I might take a day to cry. And then I might begin to dig myself out of the rubble.

Untitled by Kevin Jiang

9 Mother by Rachel DeChiara She wakes up at six, slowly stripping off the slept-in sheets. Her fatigued figure can narrowly withstand the cruel, piercing air of the bedroom. Alas, solace presents itself in the form of slippers. She slides her slender feet inside the cozy shields.

She listens to her husband’s treadmill. Squawking and squeaking, it routinely grates the airwaves in her otherwise tolerable house. The machine, an overture to the discordant symphony composed each morning, goes mute. The heavy, heated steps of an angry man shake the century-old abode.

They do not speak. Passing each other without recognition, she braves the perilous steps into her eldest daughter’s bedroom. At only nine years old, Catherine manages to instill an overwhelming measure of fear in her frail mother. Daughter lies already alert in her precocious palace.

Daughter feigns angelic sleeping when mother’s willowy wrist grips the crystal doorknob. The mundane game between mother and daughter begins when the first sliver of light pours into Catherine’s castle from the perturbing hallway. Daughter makes the first move, dramatically Pulling her plush duvet over her curly locks.

Mother, abiding by the schedule, gently rests her backside at the foot of the oversized bed, to be quickly kicked by a miniature, menacing foot. Soon, she opens the curtain, curtailing the darkness and welcoming the insensitive December sunlight. Daughter shrieks shrilly, and mother, satisfied, departs. 10 She scarcely won, yet a victorious smile penetrates her glum expression. Next she taps lightly on the door of the adjoining bedroom. The faint rustle of an action figure-coated comforter signals her son’s presence. She plays no charades with the boy. He brushes his teeth without any lip.

The stairs speak softly under her delicate slippers. Her elegant fingers skim the harsh bannister. In the kitchen, a mug ornamented with “hers” sits smoking on the cool granite.

She takes a sip of the coffee, prepared daily by her husband, and enjoys a brief fermata. Sugary cereal makes its way into plastic bowls, and swims in a pool of skim milk. A Cinderella lunchbox eats a peanut butter sandwich, no crust, a green apple, and a store-bought brownie.

Small snow boots zip, and tiny arms fill puffy jackets. Two children unfailingly whine about the oversized coats and tight mittens that thwart touching.

The marshmallow-shaped tykes waddle in front of their mother, past the layer of grimy, day-old snow, and onto the school bus. The kids’ faces tint red as the bus driver scolds mother for once again delaying his route. She unapologetically nods and apathetically averts her eyes.

In six hours she will retrieve the princess and the boy. The maddening negotiations of parenthood will dictate her moves. She will peck Daughter goodnight, tuck Son into bed, and climb into a warm coffin pre-heated by cold Husband.

11 Fates by Carissa Szlosek

Dear John Doe Inspired by This Is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams by Rachel Greene

I have stopped writing letters to you because I don’t know what to say anymore.

I’m sorry but its just a chore now so hard and so sad.

12 Fates Queen of Fundy by Katie Charney On Campobello Island, the water rarely runs above 44 degrees. Oceanographers agree these frigid waves are a product of the Bay of Fundy – an extensive area of water on the Northeast Coast. At age nine, this water was my sworn enemy. I anxiously observed the icy ripples from atop my castle of tumbling dunes. I stood within inches of the tide, but retreated just as the water grazed my toes. I was the timid rabbit dashing from yard to yard – a child in limbo between the consoling sand and the powerful ocean. And yet, as days turned to weeks, the summer saw a steady increase in my confidence. First I allowed the waves to claim a few toes, then my entire foot, and then the biggest accomplishment – my ankles. The final days of August signify summer’s conclusion, when self-reflection inspires a certain spontaneity. As the sun retreated into the horizon – earlier every evening – and the first splashes of rose ink spread across the paper sky, my mother gathered the beach chairs, meticulously dusting the sand off our cooler. There I stood, unwilling to leave, but afraid to stay. The temptation of the rolling waves – reams of paper folding across the ocean floor – became irresistible. That summer, my meager acts of bravery had guided me closer and closer to my comfort zone’s limit. Erupting with a sudden overpowering courage, I dove off the edge – literally. I sprinted headfirst, eyes closed, hair flailing, into the depths of this arctic sea. Underwater, my eyes opened for the first time – I was a new person. As I perched cross-legged on the sandy ocean floor, I was Queen of Fundy. When I surfaced, my astonished mother asked, “How’s the water?” Standing waist-deep and nearly frostbitten, I responded, “I-i-t’s okay once you g-g-et used to i-i-i-t.” “How do you get used to it?” she asked. “After a while you ca-can’t feel your legs. Then th-the cold d-doesn’t hurt anymore.”

13 Children on the Craft by Clara Mooney

Eighteen Sixty Five Photograph on Oil on canvas:

Placid yet distraught little doll-boy, And maternal little doll-girl, Not so patient any longer, posing against The graying green backdrop.

A spaniel is propped in the doorway, Curious, peeking in on the masterpiece, Paws spread in anticipation of The happy destruction he will soon commit.

The portrait should be stunning. The ruins of accessories that are scattered Against the aging room Prove the young photographer’s tenacity,

And yet, the scrapings and strokes assembled With the utmost technique and etiquette Cannot manage to conquer the so apparent, So vivid, Living Infused in the photograph.

Two Thousand Eleven Children on Oil on canvas:

A series of layers and lines and silhouettes In shades of pinks and reds and grays Ground-less Sky-less ‘a city’ Dictates Ms. O’Keeffe

14 The layers appear to tilt In one direction or the other And are marked with two black rods And three carnations

Two voices transcend the hall: One lulls like the honey-lemon tea She just sipped in her lofty kitchen

The other splits like the china He, the son, Regretfully Accidentally Sent crashing to the kitchen tile

“. . .but do you get the feeling of a city?” “It feels very alive.” “. . .but to me, it feels very personable.” “I like the flowers.” “Well, she was famous for her flowers...”

Sunlight by Anna Tyshkov

15 What’s Supposed to Happen . by Katharine Fuzesi I remember exactly when I stopped saying, “I love you” over the phone. It was after I realized I did not love you. After seeing that kind of love in another’s eyes, part of me couldn’t help but notice the lacking emotion in my own. Deep and incredible appreciation for all things and everything you have done for me? Yes. Love? No. At first I cried with guilt, with fright, and then it didn’t bother me as much. I told myself, it’s what’s supposed to happen; at some point, I’ll hate you. My head, my toes, my neck, my fingertips will ache with the wish for you to step out of my way. This is a good thing, I told myself, it’s what’s supposed to happen. And yet suddenly something popped and my world flooded with unknown possibilities and formerly anonymous capabilities. I am drowning. All decisions are now under my property; they are no longer up for discussion but for personal contemplation. No longer do you decide what’s right and wrong. No longer can your pride be my motivation to live. Now I have to live for me and for pride in myself. And suddenly I see the tie that bonds me to you. I see it stretch from my heart to yours in a stream of pure white. And, I see it beginning to crumble; it is slowly and painfully being chiseled away, each break inflicting excruciating pain on me, and you. And suddenly I realize, that I must love you, I must, for I feel my heart breaking so sharply that I must clutch my chest. And I wonder, what will become of you and me? What could possibly replace what was before?

Rocky Road Westby Carissa Szlosek

16 Ode to the Silent Letter G by Rebecca Antwi Ode to g that always sits quietly between the great i and powerful n It doesn’t say a sound and in words like sign it does not reign over the word but grovels at the feat of the other letters

It waits to be said

So the g begins to hate the i and longs for the ending of the n and as it hates the n and i, as it yearns to be: Painted on the lips of the people instead of teetering on the tip of the tongue it begins to hate all the other letters and as it lays silently, hates all of the alphabet, and English and the spoken word but if it hates the spoken word... it must hate the written word, and if it hates that it must bring itself to hate all spoken, written, and thought where it holds its breath after u as it does after the i in sign.

So it hates all, and you and I, and the word and the alphabet. But in all things does the g not know the k is silent too? Sometimes. And yet K knows it is before L and after J and is a part of the alphabet which forms words And sometimes makes the K (and the G) “King.” And without g would the two still not be kin?

17 Krissy by Alicja Madloch

Rubinstein by Anna Tyshkov

18 Hong Kong by Cynthia Yang

Who Doesn’t Love Chocolate?by Francis Lai

19 The Best Personal Essay. Ever. by Alex Liao I am going to write the best personal essay ever. Similes will be as plentiful as the stars in the sky. I can use internal rhyme a couple of times. I will be absolutely adamant about my application of alliteration. My hyperbole will extend for miles, and make my essay a million times better than any work of literature you have ever read. I will use jiggy slang, onomatopoeias will provide bang, and analogies will be as essential to my essay as guns are to gangs. Will it be a form of personal expression? Yes. Will it teach you a lesson? Yes. Will I ask rhetorical questions? Yes. My topic will be as hot as the tropics, and epic-- the opposite of micro- scopic. I might write about music, the smooth sounds that soothe and surround me, sweet like a philharmonic. I might write about how I seek to stop the stereotypes I see in school, social groups perfectly formulated like a conic. I might write about the significant stress I suffer through, that makes me want to explode like BOOM-- atomic. I might use repetition. However, first I must procrastinate. Before I write my masterwork, I must pick up the phone and order some Master Wok. Before I can get my thoughts rolling like stones, I must sit back, relax, and ride with the vibe of the Rolling Stones. Before I find my stroke of genius, I must stroke my... cat Giorgio. Now, I am sitting in my disheveled bedroom, establishing a sense of place. I look down at my ripped jeans, and up, at my punk rock posters, showing, not telling of my teenage angst and rebellion. The cold rain pounding on my rooftop sounds like a sensory detail that improves the quality of my writing. However, my essay remains as unwritten as a Natasha Bedingfield song. Where do I begin?

Defensive by Carissa Szlosek

They’ve been calling her a robot, the comparison really isn’t fair. Sure, working to be the best doesn’t phase her, But she’s more than a hollow, metal sheath; she has pride and profanity. Her strut shouts “I’m the shit,” as she passes by with her flawless figure. When is the last time you heard, about a robot caught up in all the vanity? about a prudent girl with no inner vulgarity? She’s not a fucking robot.

20 Group Effor t by Rachel DeChiara I II

Sitting in the passenger seat As I watch the vehicle rush by, I hear the faint yet familiar sound. Its lights and tune synchronized seamlessly, “It’s coming in our direction” – I think. I wonder to myself The perfect fourth of a siren The cause of the panic, Approaching the BMW. The reason for the ambulance.

Instantly we brace ourselves, I visualize the trembling hand Our eyes dart to the rear-view mirror, That reached for the nearest phone We spot the trio of lights, And dialed the three, fatal digits, Their sequence dancing atop As children, they were labeled “serious” The speeding vehicle. Only to be used in an absolute emergency.

The notes ring progressively louder, I ponder the emergency that led to the call: Announcing their presence to the world, The pound of a body slamming Belting out a perpetual signal, On the living room rug, Warning drivers to disperse, A gift from Grandma, given last year, Giving the ambulance more room. Purchased on her vacation to India.

Like Moses commanded, The terror of the paramedics, The hurried, precise, concerted effort Drenched in ignorance of the ordeal, Of the cars parting a sea Loading the still body onto the stretcher, Makes me feel accomplished and proud Forcing oxygen into the wounded lungs Of my friends on JFK. Of a person whom they’ve never known.

As the vehicle disappears from my view, I realize I’ll never know the outcome, And I wonder If it’s still an ambulance Or if it’s become a hearse.

21 Socks on Wood by Shelby Ozer Thin fabric shields, you complete my exoskeleton. Camouflaged among my clothing they would never suspect such vital buffers...... I swathe myself daily in your white cotton cradles, let you isolate and immunize and bind me with resign. I pull your pedestrian protections tightly against my roots.

But in vain. I still flinch when I feel you pick up dust from wooden floors, or the water spilled on kitchen tile...... We’re saved, you and I, by the sweet smell of lemon Pledge and the belief that nothing can infiltrate, penetrate,

reach us where we’re wrapped. But my hands, my teeth, my fingers are left exposed...... I used to like my nails and skin, and walking barefoot in the grass...... Be grateful while you still can touch and not silently pull..on..socks..in..shame and..continue..to....separate....out...... the parts.

22 West Village by Elizabeth Coscia

NYC by Greta Skagerlind

23 A FuneralsPhilip Larkin Imitation by Jessica Waggoner These types are all the same. As I enter quietly the church doors swallow me. I walk the tightrope of tension to a back pew while “Amazing Grace” launches like bullets from the drones of bagpipes, impaling the already wounded respect-givers. Why must pain be exacerbated so? “May the road rise to meet you” Father recites. I imagine a life of comforting loved ones of the deceased, making each banal death feel unique.

As I watch the pallbearers exit I plan my escape. Minimal interaction with mourners. I cling to the wall and exit swiftly, returning my hat to its place. Fresh air replenishes me, I think this is when I’m supposed to realize my own mortality. But I’ve seen this too many times. Drawn into a local pub I step down into the musty dark room. Thick air suppresses my organs and encroaches my brain. I drop a few sixpence for something watered down off the tap. I stare at my fading hands in dim light. One day I’ll sleep too.

Josh by Greta Skagerlind

24 Liar by Alicja Madloch How can I be destroyed By my own fictitious words? A wicked fairy tale of my own imagination Is leading to an ironic not-so happily-ever-after.

The viscid webs I’ve spun Come to cocoon me with their pointless plot twists. Did coming out as interesting Really inspire these outrageous lies?

Breaking trust they don’t know is broken, Shedding “real” for yet another skin. I’m made of thinly threaded letters, Too hard to keep contained inside my mind.

I keep looking through a screen To all others’ vivid happiness, While mine stands sketched meekly in the open Waiting to be colored in

Glimpsing dubiously at the fragile shadow Of un-developed memories that I’m not proud to call upon, Gently planting my own seed of loneliness, A character spurred from a castoff pen is now my only true companion.

Friendships live yet I live in a world of my own With my lies. Persona almost transformed. Evidence destroyed.

Would husking away the false At least start the chapter on a real day? Or close the book Leaving me trapped in a world of my own creation?

25 Two Kinds of Mature by Katharine Fuzesi At this point I’ve forgotten what a stair is and yet I find myself climbing many of them, chasing after you. I’m not sure what just happened nor I am sure of what is happening. The world is spinning. My thoughts whizz by so fast and I feel myself struggling to read them. My brain gets so frustrated that it opens the door and squirms its way out of my head. With a hand on the door, it shoots one angry glance back at me, before... BAM. Reality. Sounds amplified. Words slurred. Sights blurred. The world still spins. At the top of the staircase is a bathroom. You had gone in and slammed the door. I push my ear up against it as well as my open hands. The door feels solid and yet it sounds hollow. My ear sinks further into its cold white wood. Your sobs are broken and I can hear them bounce off each of the walls in the bathroom before they finally get to me. I whisper your name. No answer. I curl my fingers into fists and knock. No reaction. Listen, I understand. You’re the one who’s competing. You chose to run the race with your entire life on your shoulders. You’re the one who’s forced to watch plays about sad people who hope and read books about the people who screwed us over. You’re the one who thoroughly inspects yourself each day for strong opinions, sincerity, and confidence. You’re the one that writes. I’m the one who likes to dance. I’m the one who goes to parties every other weekend and spends hours contemplating my outfits. I’m the one who thinks that boys are cute and imagines what it would be like to be kissed. I’m the one who plays with my hair. Listen, we both got problems. We both got ex-pay-tay-shins. But look at me: I’m not crying! Look at me: I’m doing okay! Still no answer. I rest my head on my hand and groan; I’ve never been good at this comforting thing. Listen, I try to push the word through the door, Why don’t you come back to the party. Have a drink, dance, talk to that guy! Still noth- ing. I can hear your mind boggling and bobbing and baffling. I’m sorry you’re feel- ing this way. Really I think a drink will help. Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you feel the need to debate? To understand what’s going on in the world, what went on in the world, and how can you still choose to immerse yourself in such a corrupted society? You don’t need to, right? All someone needs is somebody to love and a place to love them, right? I turn the doorknob to find the door unlocked. I walk in to see you stand- ing there, staring right back at me. Your eyes are bloodshot; your lip is quivering. I don’t know what to do. You seem angry or frustrated. Are you frustrated with me? I put my hands up to my face and push hard against my eyelids only to realize, I’m crying. I pull my hands away and look at the mirror to see one pair of eyes staring back at me: I’m alone. 26 I fall to the ground; my legs submerge into the cold tile floor. I lean against the wall and pull my knees in tight. Around me, the echoes of my thoughts collide with each other, with the walls. They pierce my forehead and I scream. No one seems to hear me over the roar of the music below me and yet for a moment the world gets quiet. Slowly I untangle myself and fight against gravity until I’m standing. I look up and then I look in the mirror before reaching for a towel and turning the faucet on.

Untitled by Anna Tyshkov

27 Submission #73 by Rachel Greene Everyone settle down— We have 53 pages of submissions to go through.

Crap.

Remember to write down the submission number And title of the work.

Already done. Let’s move on.

Would anyone like to read?

No.

Come on guys, we don’t have all day.

Sure seems like this has been going on for that long.

“I’d like to read.” Thank you ______for volunteering.

Yeah thanks, now I don’t have to read.

(Unique beginning transitions to a philosophical interpretation of life and love, which ends in a reflection.)

Yes. No. Abstain.

I love the use of metaphors. The tone was very dark but I felt like it suited the subject matter. I was a little confused about....Do you think you could scroll up a bit? Yes right there...I just didn’t understand why the author felt the need to add this sentence. I no (know) this is a nit picky grammar thing but isn’t that supposed to be know?

Alright let’s vote.

Crap.

28 My Mother’s Eyes by Katie Charney

Elle by Katie Charney

29 Sometimes I Wish I Could Stay Here by Annie Tvetenstrand They say that the library’s closing in 30 minutes. This could be a problem, because on the way out I like to spin in the rotating door more times than neces- sary. Lately I’ve found the door has grown heavy. My dances of joy are hidden between the stacks. I’ve tried to adjust my walk but the only solution I’ve found is to wear reflecting sunglasses. Several times I’ve felt an uncontrollable laugh bubble up, and I’ve barely been able to hide it.

Sometimes I sit on a sterile couch and shiver, but I’m too young and too cold to do anything about it. Sometimes I pause and count the body parts where I can feel my heart beat. Sometimes when I yawn I twist my mouth up and squeeze one eye shut.

And sometimes I just stand between the stacks and breathe. I’m holding one book: smooth, blue, and slim. There’s a book here for everyone, and I’ve found mine. May I keep it, please?

30 Winter by Katie Charney

The Beginning by Monica Murthy

31 32