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HARMONIA

The Creative Writing Journal of the English Department

at SUNY College at Old Westbury

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Harmonia is the Greek Goddess of harmony and concord.

Born from Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of love, and Ares,

the Greed God of war.

Harmonia: Congruence. Concord. Harmony. Balance.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editorial Team Credits 6

Letter from the Editors 7

Aja Assoon 8 Life's Mosaic

Shamim Miah 9 Borders Within a Border

Marym Khan 10 North-East

Lorraine Troici 15 The Rebel

Samantha Bagwandeen 16 Germaphobe

Samantha Bagwandeen 17 Gone

Jonathan Dausner 18 Samuel H. Dentor

Anket Kohli 23 Shifting

Anket Kohli 25 Conversations

Christie Henriquez 27 Desolation

Christie Henriquez 27 Patience is Key

Jennifer Thompson 28 The Keeper

Gillian Dzakonski 31 Sandcastles

Anesa Fiyazuddeen 32 Women

Aja Assoon 32 We Are All Equal

Katherine Quelix 33 Clothes

Lawrence Ineus 34 Genesis

Bria Taylor 36 As a Woman

Submission Information 39

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2015-2016 Editorial Team

Senior Editors: Faculty Editor:

Jennifer Thompson Dr. Jessica Williams

Deborah Valencia

Jessica Wroblewski

Junior Editors: “Harmonia” Artwork:

Aja Assoon Alexa Bauman

Samantha-Jean Bagwandeen

Courtney Fitt

Lia Folger

Marym Khan

Anket Kohli

Valerie LaRoche

Shasa Morgan

Kristin Thomas

We are looking for new team

members for the 2016-2017

academic year!!!

If you are interested in joining

the editorial team for future

publications of Harmonia,

contact Dr. Williams

(williamsJL@oldwestbury.edu).

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

This past semester was so exciting for those of us working to get the

current issue of Harmonia out! We received an amazing number of student

submissions to read through and select from. SUNY College at Old Westbury has

extremely gifted students who have allowed their talents to show through their

work and ultimately through Harmonia. We, as a team, feel lucky to have been

able to come together and to experience this talent. Among the many poems and

short stories that were submitted this past semester, we were able to accept and

print eleven poems and seven short stories from students. Topics ranged from

silence within identity, the conscious mindset battling creativity, as well as the

inevitable themes of hope and fear.

Although this issue of Harmonia may not include every student submission

that was received, we are nonetheless more than grateful for every entry that was

sent to us. We, as a team, loved reading every entry and joining every writer

through the journey they embarked on in their work. We hope that in the future

everyone who would still wish to submit their work, will challenge themselves to

do so and continue to help make every issue of Harmonia a successful one.

Congratulations again to all of the students whose work was selected for

this issue. Thank you for helping us to create another brilliant issue of Harmonia,

the Creative Writing Journal at SUNY College at Old Westbury!

-- The Editorial Team of Harmonia, 2015-2016

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Life’s Mosaic Aja Assoon

Hues of whites, yellows, black on the canvas the imagery of color swirls, tantalizing, hypnotizing the mind, ensnaring the senses bringing forth a moment of peace. Sights that cannot be bought and sold, the spatters of blood stains of pain, blue, the bruises of a battered soul, and sickly white of taint and infection. The deepened sounds of my words bring forth a festivity of colors opened to the eye but do you see the pain and suffering, the fear and hostility, the injustice and indifference our world brings? Listen to the shattered beats of your hearts, emphasizing hopes and dreams later destroyed like glass. Let your mind be engulfed by a crescendo of sounds, memories that take over the mind and spirit. Images playing on the whitened landscapes, a rainbow, a simile, a metaphor, a hyperbole an exaggeration of life, a figure of speech. The years pass with no purpose, no voice, no nothing but a void later filled with deep thoughts.

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Borders within a “Border” Shamim Miah

There are borders everywhere around me,

I used to feel captured in borders,

I crossed some of them with bravery,

I knew many of them would be there.

I like to take a challenge to make them useful

If one side is ugly, the other side could be beautiful.

I face borders that are impossible to hide,

Borders between home and the outside,

Writing as a Bengali poet and author,

Writing as an English major,

Trying to collect light,

Crying alone during a dark night.

The physical border between my motherland and the U.S

The distance of fourteen thousand miles makes me helpless,

How can I ignore the invisible, unbreakable border,

that has hidden away my mother forever!

The border where I’m living now is not entirely dark,

It makes me think of a multicultural park,

Where all of us immigrants share the same land under the same sky,

Some of us are enjoying more privileges here,

Many of us are still not there,

Where all of us immigrants share the same land under the same sky,

Some of us are enjoying more privileges here,

Many of us are still not there,

But there are options to enrich our lives that go beyond a border

I can see different colors in a place as an “other”,

By living in a multicultural society,

I am able to find a collective beauty,

That provides me energy to remain creative despite living on a border,

The border offers me to look a little further,

I’m not just somebody’s partner, or just a mother, or just a writer,

In the multicultural world, I’m a contributing and proud member.

Honestly, living on a border is often can be painful,

But I always think that life is a gift and living is beautiful,

When situations get harder,

I absolutely ignore the multilayered border,

And look at the sky during a cloudy night,

Isn't it the same sky that made me a poet years ago?

Isn't it the same sky where the same stars glow?

Honestly, living on a border is not entirely scary,

There is always a chance to face it with bravery.

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North-east Marym Khan

The leaves are scattered on the ground in orange, red, green and yellow patterns.

The wind picks them up, tosses them around, throws them up and then destroys them.

They crunch beneath the feet. They die beneath the feet. The leaves signify the coming of

fall. The air with its crisp and sharp taste awakens the senses of every man who allows

his own self to be enveloped by it. The pilgrimage must be performed and he who comes

to understand the significance of this journey must perform it.

The decision is very hard for this particular man to make because he does not

know that he must go. He wants to stay here and remain in the life that he has come to

love. He wants to remain in the life that he has adapted himself to. He had to adapt

because if he hadn’t then he would not have been accepted by his neighbors, friends, or

his family. This man believes that he chose wisely in making his decision to not perform

this act of worship. It was a difficult decision for the man to make considering the

financial, mental, and the physical means that this journey will drain him of.

He eventually came upon the decision to go on this pilgrimage when a very

peculiar incident happened. He was walking home one day from class. There was no

parking by his home and so he had to park about two blocks away from his house. He

assumed the reason for the lack of parking was due to the house party has father was

having on this specific day. All of his father’s friends would be invited to their home. The

party would start at six, but guests were welcome to come at the time of their preference.

Afghans never arrive to a function at the time it is intended to start. They will choose to

either come extremely late, or extremely early. There is no middle ground. The man

begins his journey towards his house. It is a bit chilly out so he hikes his backpack on his

left shoulder from falling off, and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. It’s around

Salaat al-Maghrib time. He has to hurry and get home before he misses the time for

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prayer.

He remembers his mom telling him when he was younger that he must always be

inside the house during Salaat al-Maghrib time. The Jinns and the Shaitan’s, ghosts and

satan, are out at this time. He must remain in his house till he has prayed and then when it

is about thirty minutes after Salaat al-Maghrib then he can go out. His mother’s exact

words come to his mind, “I do not want you outside at this time or else you will get

followed by the Jinn home. Even worse, Yunus you could get possessed! Then who will

perform an exorcism on you?”. Remembering these words from his mother makes him

chuckle to himself while he is walking. He can hear the words as clear as glass hitting the

ground and breaking into tiny shards spreading everywhere. His mind switches from

English to Pashtu when he remembers his mother. When he remembers his family in

general. He looks at the sky as he is walking against the chilly air. The clouds look like

they were painted with a careless hand. They scatter all around the setting sun. There are

a couple of blots here and then some over there, far away. The clouds as they descend

back towards the setting sun take on different hues. Some are pink. Some are orange.

Some are purple. Some are light blue. All these colors are combined to create a painfully

beautiful sky.

The setting sun signifies the Salaat al-Maghrib prayer. The man sees his house

slowly coming into view. There are many cars in the neighborhood and on the block. He

wonders which one of his father’s friends are at the house and which ones still have yet

to arrive. He looks at the houses that surround his home from the distance. They all look

very dark and dreary. The atmosphere becomes almost ominous and mysterious now that

he has set his eyes on all these houses around his. The man quickly looks around. There

is no one following him. He had felt a presence and so he thought it was a guest who was

maybe walking towards his house for the party. However, there is no one around him.

The man checks his surroundings again. He starts to quicken his pace. There are two

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thoughts now weighing heavily on his mind at the moment. First, he must walk faster so

can make the time for prayer. Second, he feels a creeping fear and dread that someone

may be following him.

The man is now crossing from one block to the next. The distance between the

streets and the curbs appear short. However, as he is crossing them it seems like he will

never reach the next curb. He starts to jog towards the next street his house is on. The sky

around him is getting dimmer and the sun is now almost completely out of his sight. The

man now quickens his pace into a run. The chilly air he was walking against before, he is

now completely forcing his entire body against. He is cutting through the air in quick

speeds. He feels the air cutting his skin, his body, his hair, and his eyes. He finally

reaches the next street. He jumps over the curb and hits the pavement. As he lands on the

ground, he feels the vibration from his feet and toes making its way up to his head. He

comes to a halt and slows himself. He bends over on his knees to catch his breath. He

knows that if he comes home breathless his mother will question him and then will begin

to worry at her sons reply. His breathing appears to be normal and not blown. He sees his

breath appear before him in a light cloud and then disappear into the chilly night air. He

looks up and sees his house five houses away.

He gathers himself and makes himself presentable. He resumes walking again. As

the man is walking by the houses he feels his heart beating fast. Suddenly he comes to a

stop. He realizes the entire time that he was running his heart was not pulsing. He had not

felt the blood rushing in and out of all the pumps that are so intricately placed in the

heart. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. It was like he had never run from one street to the

next. The man starts breaking into a sweat as he is pondering over these thoughts. Then

he feels the wind and the chilly air grazing his back. He realizes his backpack is gone. It

is no longer on his shoulders. He immediately realizes he must have dropped it when he

was running towards his house. He starts running towards the block he dropped his bag

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on. In his mind he now weighs three different conflicts. First, he realizes that the time for

Salaat al-Maghrib may be over and he still has not fulfilled the prayer. Second, he still

feels that someone is following him. Third, he now must go back to the very place his

fear derived from and receive his backpack.

He thinks if he runs to get his bag, he can easily come back in time for prayer. As

for the presence he felt around him, he will simply ignore and endure it because the two

other circumstances outweigh the latter. So he runs towards the bag. He sees it lying on

the ground as he is crossing the street to the next block. However, he sees that his bag is

open and there is something inside. As he gets closer he notices that his laptop and books

are gone and they have been replaced by a large set of keys. He bends down near his bag

and picks up the keys in his hand. They are hanging off a beige colored ribbon. He looks

through the keys only to see that each one is identical to the one before. He counts the

keys and it occurs to him that there are at least one hundred keys hanging off the ribbon.

The keys don’t seem to have any weight to them. He picks up his bag and doesn’t seem

to remember that his laptop and books could quite possibly have been stolen. As he is

walking back to his house it occurs to him that these keys are all duplicates of the key to

his own home. The man quickens his pace to his house. As he is walking up the sidewalk

leading to his house he does not hear any sounds emitting from his home. The lights are

on in the house and there appear to be shadows moving within the walls however, there

are no sounds coming from his home. He then immediately becomes all too aware of his

surroundings yet again. He rushes up the steps to his house and puts one of the keys

hanging off the ribbon into the keyhole.

He feels the key go into the keyhole and he feels it settle there, but when he

attempts to turn it to the right it will not budge. The man panics and pulls the faulty key

out and tries the next key on the ribbon, and then the next, and then the one after that. The

man does this till he tires himself and he has gone through all the keys on the ribbon.

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There is one key left that the man had not yet attempted to use. He shoves the key into the

keyhole and when he turns the key to the right it unlocks the door. The man excited pulls

away from the door and as he pulls away the entire door starts to crack. It cracks from

the right corner to the left from the left corner to the right. The cracks become so

horrendous to look at, that the man backs further away from the door. He forgets that

there are stairs behind him and he misplaces his foot. He tumbles off the stairs and as he

is flying from the top step and is about to hit the ground, the door with all its cracks

crumbles to the ground. There is now a huge gaping hole in his house. The light and the

shadows that the man noticed before have disappeared. He finally hits the ground with a

hard thump. He feels his back smash into the ground and then he feels his head hit the

concrete. Then the man remembers that he didn’t fulfill Salaat al-Maghrib, there was no

one following him and he had left his backpack in the car.

The man is staring up at the sky and he notices that the sky is not black. The sky

flames through the clouds. The clouds blush with a crimson color. The clouds glow with

some blooming gold. A drop of plum with a dash of charcoal paints the clouds. A heavy

raindrop lands on the center of his forehead. The man looks towards his house and sees

his mom looking at him through the kitchen window. He starts to get up not feeling any

pain from the seven steps he just fell from. As he comes to stand on his feet he sees a

shape moving in his peripheral. A red glare emits from the shape and then it disappears.

The man sees the red glare travel towards him. It comes closer to him and as it

does it erupts in front of him. He touches the powder that floats in the air as the particles

glitter in the suns nourishment. The wind picks up and takes the floating particles with it.

The man turns in the direction of the wind with the particles and sees his family standing

on the other side of the street. His mother is smiling and beckoning him to join her from

the other side. The man turns away and looks towards his home. He starts walking

towards the direction of the sun setting and rising.

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The Rebel

Lorraine Troici

I admire the beauty of drawing outside the lines as the colors are breaking through the mold, I

imagine they're screaming "I am finally free"!

The assortment of blue and green colors blending together like an unusual sunset coming to

life on paper.

To another person this could been seen as trash, unflattering or they even may say this person

does not follow directions.

But to me I see creativity, vision, a rebel who refuses to be like the others.

The others follow along like marching soldiers listening to their captain but I deviate. I

continue to mix colors others would say are ugly, I continue to scribble wild flowers bursting

in all directions as if their job is to multiple and explode with color for eternity.

Of course I get quizzical looks from the bystanders and one person laughs. I laugh back at her

because she is to jaded to see the artwork I have created. She bites her lip and goes back to her

work drawing within the lines. She is just to cavalier to realize the vision of the chaos unfolding

in my artwork, but I forgive her, it takes someone special to admire beauty within chaos.

I continue to scribble and watch as my illustrations come to life as the wild flowers and trees

dance across the page.

The trees limbs begin scooping up some of the wild flowers as if they're inviting them into its

home. Several of the other free spirit wild flowers begin twisting around each other as if they're

dancing to the music created by the blowing of the leaves in the wind.

I finish illustrating and I feel the soft oil pastels melting on my skin as if they're trying to make

me become a mixture of their vibrant colors.

I look at my picture and admire its beauty, within the chaos.

Holding my master piece as the paper protrudes into my skin I say aloud "I shall name you the

rebel".

At this moment I imagine the flowers and trees exclaiming with joy because they finally realize

their natural beauty that I was seeing the entire time.

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Gone Samantha Bagwandeen

Germaphobe

Samantha Bagwandeen

Gale turned around and her eyes widened in fear as she trembled. She stumbled backwards until her back was up against the wall and she could go no further. Holding the broom in front of her ready to defend herself or go on the attack, but the way she gripped the broom so tightly that her knuckles turned white gave away her intense fear.

All the while it just stayed there in front of her.

Taunting her.

“I-I can’t do it”, she stuttered out while sobbing.

She dropped her weapon of choice and ran. Sprinting down the hallway and out the house, while hoping against hope that she wouldn’t have to face that ever again, she didn’t turn back.

She had to get away from it. She just had to get as far away as she could from….the dust bunny in the corner.

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Two men in gray uniforms drag me down the hall while I look around my head rolling from side to

side. White walls, white ceiling, white tiles, white doors. White, white, white.

Everything is still a little fuzzy from when they sedated me and my body; when I try to move it feels

like I moving through sludge. I can barely lift my head, dammit.

They think I’m crazy. Not my best friend who tried to kill me in my apartment with a butcher knife.

I start laughing.

The man on my right says to the other, “she’s lucid. Think we should sedate her again?”

The one on my left lifts my head roughly with his bear like hands and looks into my eyes. “Nah, we

got about a half hour left before she’s sober enough to do anything”, he says dropping my head.

Hysteria wells up in me again. I’m in an institution for the mentally cuckoo. Before I met Monica, my

best friend, I thought I was the most normal mundane ever. When I met her I didn’t believe the rumors

that called her crazy -- who wants to think their roommate is crazy? In four short weeks she burrowed

her way into my life and took me places that, I didn’t notice at the time, weren’t on the up and up, nor

were they random. I may have been a random target since I was the closest but I think she would’ve set

anyone up in her plan.

She drugged me and bound me and kept a video of everything she did to me. I may have actually lost

pieces of my mind during that time.

The men stop and slide an identification card into the slot in the wall. It beeps, and the one on my

right pulls it out. They drag me through the door and into a padded room. Soft. They let go of me and I

fall into a heap on the floor as they retrieve something off the other wall. I just watch the ceiling fan

spin round and round and round. And round and round- I get jerked upright by one of the men and they

begin putting the thing off the wall on me.

They start putting my hand into the sleeves which then get wrapped around me. One of them pulls

too tight and so, me still being too groggy to talk properly, I bite him.

He yelps and smacks me so hard my head whips to the side and I taste something akin to pennies

before he grumbles out “crazy bitch” and sucks on his wound.

I look at it. I drew blood. That makes me smile.

When they finish they head for the door while I just sit there swaying from side to side. The one I bit

turns back to me before he leaves, hostility evident in his eyes, “I hope you don’t last long. You’re a

waste of space.” Then he shuts the door.

I stop swaying and look around suddenly frightened. It’s too quiet, too white, too bright. And I’m

alone.

So I decide to escape into my head where I’m safe and I can’t get hurt. She can’t reach me here,

nobody can. I’m rocking again and humming – lost in my head, not really living, no thoughts, just

existing. But I’m safe.

Samuel H. Dentor Jonathan Dausner

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Martin and his wife Cindy were sitting on Martin’s porch outside of his home located in a small town called Yorkshire. They were taking a break from raking leaves on a beautiful clear October evening when they saw their neighbor pull into the driveway. There was a light breeze that blew the leaves around much like a typical expectation of Halloween night. Martin and Cindy lived on Maple Drive directly across from Tottenham Road; the two streets were perpendicular to each other and formed a big T. Their neighbor, Thomas, had just gotten out of his car and waved to Martin and Cindy when suddenly the sound of tire squeals filled the air. At first no one gave the sound a second thought but when the smell of burning rubber grew nearer a sense of impending danger arose. Thomas was walking up his walkway toward his front door when he turned and saw a Jeep rocketing down Tottenham Road, headed straight for Martin and Cindy’s home. The Jeep came to a violent skid straight into a streetlight located in front of Martin’s house. The driver practically fell out of his car and having been disoriented from the crash, was shooting an Uzi at Thomas and then towards the sky as he stumbled and rose. Martin could see the color of the fire coming from the barrel of the weapon as the driver murdered his neighbor. The amber color of the fire was like the autumn color of the leaves. Martin attempted to get Cindy and him to safety. He knew they would never have time to unlock the front door, so he took Cindy and they fled for the backyard. Martin kept Cindy directly in front of him, so if the bullets started flying in their direction he could shield her. They barely made it half way around the house by the time a bullet entered through the back of Martin’s neck and penetrated straight into the back of Cindy’s head. They both dropped. My apartment is medium sized and neatly kept by myself, as I am the only occupant. I am not a procrastinator. I owned my own car insurance company but recently sold. I’m currently un-employed. However, with the money I just got from selling my business that I inherited from my parents, I will remain unemployed because money is not an issue. I’ve always been a drinker. I grew up with neglectful parents whose only focus was work. I have a brief history of violence. I once robbed a bank at gunpoint purely for entertainment. I did little time in a Juvenile penitentiary while my filthy rich parents met with lawyers and judges to get me out and to close and seal my records. My name is Hunter S. Demalo. It’s October 13th and I just became aware of the attempted murder of Cindy, my ex-girlfriend and best friend since high school. I’m fairly certain that she was targeted only because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, knowing her fiancé’s nature and business that he was involved in has got me on edge. I’m worried that the killer will come back to finish the job. What the police know is that Martin’s neighbor Thomas owned a car lot. I suspect that selling cars wasn’t his only source of income. Thomas’s neighbor and best friend, Martin, was one of those guys whose bad side you didn’t want to be on. Although it could never be proven, Martin bore a striking resemblance to a sketch police drew up months ago. The sketch was of the man suspected to have murdered a local shop owner who was in debt to the mob. What I know is that the Jeep they found crashed into the lamppost was a car on Thomas’s

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lot. I know this because I test drove it last weekend. Cindy is in the hospital and in a coma. The best place to start is at Thomas’s house. It was about a week after the incident so everything was quiet at the two vacant houses on Maple Drive. The police had them roped off; but that wasn’t going to stop me from finding out who tried to murder my best friend. Martin always hated the fact that Cindy and I were still friends, so I had to keep my distance. But I saw her when I could. Cindy and I had broken up sometime in college. She couldn’t stand the drinking anymore. I had been too caught up in taking over my parent’s business to realize what I was losing. I was always the type of person who was blinded by the things I thought would make me happy. Once I got inside of Thomas’s house I went straight for the file cabinets. I took a screwdriver and hammer I found in the house and managed to get the locked file cabinet open. By the time I had gone through a ton of papers and found that Thomas’s brother was part owner of the used car business, I could hear someone coming into the front door. I took the file with me and hid in their bedroom closet. For some reason my nerves were acting up more than usual so I took a swig from my flask. The man came into the bedroom and went straight to the file cabinet. I took another swig and the sound of the metal cap on my flask alerted the man and he discovered my hiding spot. He held a gun at me, and he definitely had more to drink than I did. For a couple of seconds he just stared at me, heaving. As soon as I opened my mouth to tell him to put his gun down, he said “You Hunter Demalo?” “Yeah Pal, that’s me, but who the hell are you and why are you pointing that gun at me?” I asked. “I knew there was something fishy about you. You still haven’t gotten over Cindy, have you? Yeah, Martin told me all about you; did you murder my brother?” he snarled. It was Thomas’s brother, Alan. I knew that now. But why was he accusing me? Fearing that he was also connected with the mafia, I couldn’t let him know that I had that file. “Yea buddy you got me pinned,” I said sarcastically, “but I’m not gonna ask you again. Who the hell are you? I’m trying to find out who tried to kill my best friend. Now stop pointing that gun at me or you’ll really have a problem worth drinking over.” He didn’t lower his gun and it looked like he might have begun to speak but before he could let the words out I grabbed a coat from the closet and threw it at his face. I dropped to my knees and took him down by his. He was so drunk he never saw it coming. He dropped the gun and tried to throw me off. I threw my body behind his head and put him in a rear naked choke. “I told you I would become a problem for you. Now you better start talking.” I said to I loosened up to let him speak. “I ain’t tellin you shit.” Alan said. “You have no idea what kind of mistake you are making, do you?” At that point I knew my hunch had been right. They were involved with the mafia. I moved the gun closer to me with my foot and grabbed it with my right hand, still holding Alan’s neck close between my forearm and bicep. I put the barrel of the gun next to his forehead. “It doesn’t feel too good having a gun pointed at you, does it?” I said. “Now how do you feel about talking?” “My name’s Alan Shelby” he said. “Thomas is my brother. I’m here doing the same thing you are, all right? I’m trying to

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find the son of a bitch who killed my brother and Martin. And that’s it, that’s all I’m tellin you. It isn’t even loaded anyway.” Alan said. He was right; I could tell by the weight of the gun that the clip was empty. I had about enough of the conversation which was going nowhere, knocked him on the back of the head with the butt end of the gun and left him there unconscious. I quickly ran next door and did a quick sweep of Martin’s house. There was nothing to be found. No file cabinets, no letters, nothing except for a safe with Cindy’s name stamped into it. But the only way I was getting into that safe was with a combination. I called the cops and told them that it looked like someone had broken into the Shelby’s house and headed to the hospital to see Cindy. I asked the nurse at the front desk which room Cindy Cordone was in, and was directed to the North Wing room 309. There was a cop standing in front of the door who got a little pushier then I was comfortable putting up with. The cop asked me where I just came from so I told him. “The elevator,” I said. Un-amused by my humor, he stayed in place, blocking the door and said, “We got a call from Alan Cordone;’ say’s you two got into an altercation in Thomas’s house. You left him there unconscious.” “Damn, these cops are smarter then they look,” I thought. “You better check again bud, I’m the one who called you guys. On my way to the hospital I passed by and it looked like the front door was open. Why would I call in my own break-in?” With nothing else to say the cop moved aside and closed the door behind me. Cindy was still out. Her sister Jessica stood by her side. I knew her sister from parties back in high school and college and parties that Martin and Cindy threw. I tried associating with her only when I had to and only when it meant being able to drink with someone other than myself. I tried to avoid Jessica because she could never accept the fact that just because she was Cindy’s sister didn’t mean that I would be interested in her. I wanted to leave as soon as I saw Jessica there but I had to find out if Cindy had woken up at all. Maybe she had given a clue as to where to look next. Maybe she caught a glimpse of the killer. “Has she spoken?” I asked Jessica. “Em, wouldn’t you like to know,” Jessica replied with a slight bite of her lip and a glance up and down at me. I walked over to her and slightly pressed my body up against hers. “Listen; whoever did this is still out there. Cindy is my best friend. I’m trying to find whoever is responsible for this.” “Really, best friend? You could have fooled me. From what I hear, that flask of yours is your best friend.” “Hey, this isn’t about me,” I said. “I’m gonna catch the fuck that did this but I’m at a dead end. It’d be really grand if you could tell me if she’s said anything,” looking Jessica straight in the eyes. As she gleamed back at me she whispered into my ear “fourteen, thirty-seven.” I slowly moved away from her to the other side of Cindy’s bed, looked back at her and said, “Fourteen, thirty-seven? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Did Cindy say that?” Jessica nodded her head; “She’s been mumbling those two numbers for the past two days.” I told Jessica that if Cindy said anything else to contact me immediately and neglectfully

21

gave her my cell phone number. I walked into my apartment, made myself a drink and lit a cigarette. “Two numbers that was it,” I thought. The safe definitely needed at least three. I almost ruled the numbers out as just irrelevant mumbling until I thought, “fourteen, thirty, and seven,” three numbers. I chugged my drink and went straight to my car. The rain was pouring down but I had a good feeling despite the terrible weather. Fourteen, thirty, and seven; it worked. I went through the safe but nothing really stood out, except for a diary with the name Samuel H. Dentor on the front. I didn’t want to stay long so I folded the diary in half and stuck it in my back pocket. The rain was coming down so hard that it ran into my eyes off of my head and I couldn’t even see the metal pipe coming. I woke up the next morning in the hospital with stitches over my left eye and the left side of my face swollen like a golf ball. The nurse told me that they found me knocked out on Martin’s front porch and she gave me everything they found with me, which included the journal, my flask and a ruined pack of cigarettes. The next day when I left the hospital I thought it might be a good idea to install some security in my apartment. I knew it was probably that pansy Alan who needed to get a cheap shot on me, but there was still the possibility that it was that crazy motherfucker who murdered Martin and he didn’t like me snooping around. That night after I finished setting up my new surveillance equipment I read some of the journal for the first time. Whoever this Samuel H. Dentor was he didn’t care much for Martin at all. However, he expressed quite a bit of interest in Cindy. I started to drift off to sleep and my head was pounding from the attack so I thought it best to put the journal away and catch some sleep. When I woke up the next morning I was eager to read more from the journal, but I discovered that it was missing. I laughed to myself because I couldn’t believe how quickly my surveillance cameras would be of use. I went on my computer, watched the recording from the previous night and couldn’t believe my eyes. I never knew I was a sleepwalker. I stole the journal from myself. But what did I do with it? I saw myself leaving on the camera with the journal in my hand, and returning about an hour later empty handed. Confused and with my head still pounding I took a couple of shots and got a call from the hospital. I was needed in Cindy’s room immediately. When I got to the room Alan and Jessica were standing outside. I stood in front of Alan and sized him up but before I could say anything, Alan said “She’s awake; she won’t say anything until she speaks to you alone first.” I looked over and saw Jessica crying. I walked past her and into Cindy’s room. By the look Cindy gave me, I would have said she was still in a coma. She just stared at me blankly for a good minute then finally said... “You almost killed me, asshole…” “What?” I said. “Have you been talking to that lunatic Alan? For some reason that crazy bastard thinks I killed Martin and his brother.” “Hunter, I have something to tell you. You did kill those people, including Martin.” Cindy said. “NURSE! NURSE!” I screamed. Cindy stopped me.

22

“What the hell are you doing?” She asked. “Do you want to get us both caught?” “You’re talking stupid, Cindy. Can you hear yourself?” “I’m fine Hunter, calm down. We can’t let anybody know about this.” “I don’t understand. I’ve been investigating and the most likely suspect is whoever wrote that journal that you were hiding.” I said. “… That Samuel guy, Samuel H. Dentor” I said. “Stop playing Dick Tracy, Hunter. Don’t you see? YOU are Samuel H. Dentor.” Cindy She drew on a piece of paper and threw it to me. H u n t e r S. D e m a l o S a m u e l H. D e n t o r “But how…” “You have dissociative identity disorder. I knew Hunter could never help me get away from Martin, but I knew Samuel could, and would. Hunter you’re a tough guy but let’s face it, the only one who could keep me safe from that dirt bag Martin would have to be invisible. So once I found out about your problem and met Samuel for the first time, I kept it a secret. I knew that telling you about Martin raping me while you and I were dating would spark Samuel’s appearance. So I waited for the perfect time, and then I told you.” Cindy said “But Martin…” I began to say “Martin was an abusive, sadistic murderer who killed for money, Hunter. He was the only reason we couldn’t be together. He didn’t keep me in front of him to protect me; he did it so if you tried to kill him you would have to kill me as well.” Cindy said. My apartment is medium sized and neatly kept, by Cindy, my fiancée. I am a procrastinator. I’m unemployed but let’s just say I inherited a lot of money. I grew up with neglectful parents who only focused on work. I have a history of violence; I murdered two people. My name is Samuel H. Dentor.

Shifting Anket Kohli

23

They’re just sitting there to start. Just staring at each other, eyes locked as the time ticks

away. Two of the greatest shapeshifters and killers in the world having a staring contest. And

then he blinked.

“You blinked. I win,” Olivia said casually.

“Rematch,” Cillian replied as he took a sip of his drink.

“Seriously? Come on, that’s three steak dinners you owe me.” She’s grinning a bit now.

His expression, however, stays almost as blank as expected, the edge of his lip curving

upward just a bit. “Seriously. Game on.”

“Alright then.” She settles in opposite of him, taking a few breathes. “Start the timer.”

His eyes never leave hers as he reaches for the timer, setting it for five minutes. “Start

prepping, kid,” he says with a taunting grin.

She just rolls her eyes, making sure to blink enough to be ready. She also focuses on her

deep breathing, trying to relax. “Keep calling me kid, won’t change your losing streak. Kid.”

“We’ll see.” Cillian sat up straighter, rolling his neck. He controlled his own breathing,

settling into a slow and steady pace, controlled as best he could. They both waited for the timer

to go off, preparing for the moment when they would have to face off.

The timer dinged and eyelids flew open. They stared into each other’s eyes, gazes locked

like enemy combatants.

“Game on,” Olivia muttered, staring at Cillian.

“Dork,” Cillian replied, his eyes shifting into an electric blue.

“That’s your opening move?” She asked simply, her own turning all black, disturbingly

so. It received no reaction from Cillian.

“Cute. Not enough to creep me out.” His hair grew, turning a deep red, with tints of gold

near the edges.

“Oh, that’s a nice touch,” she said, grinning as feathers appeared, radiating out from her

24

cheeks and eyes. Her nose and mouth started to merge, turning into a hardened beak.

“Racing ahead a bit?” Cillian asked simply as fur started to sprout from his cheeks. He

planted his hands on the table, fingers lengthening as red fur started to sprout along them too.

“Nice look though.”

“Yours isn’t so bad yourself,” she said, changing direction as the feathers shrank into

themselves, slowly turning into dark black spikes. Her beak grew, getting a sharp curve at the

“You can’t win by taking an eye out,” Cillian replied simply, his teeth sharpening into

fangs. Sharp nails grew at his fingertips, his own fur turning a royal purple, with swirls of

orange tracing through them.

“Like I would stoop to such lows,” she replied with as much of a grin as she could muster

with her mouth around the edges of the beak.

Cillian chuckled at the sight of the bird-like face attempting a smile, and that was his

undoing, for he finally blinked. “Shit.”

“I win!” She says with a grin, throwing her arms up as she shifted back to her normal

human appearance, the beak being replaced by her normal lips, pointed quills retreating into

normal flesh.

Cillian rolled his eyes, his hair and fur retreating to normal length, changing back to the

normal black coloration. “So, that’s four I owe you now?”

“That it is,” she said with a smile. “Not all at once though, I can’t eat that much steak in

one go.”

“Right, whatever. One tonight I’m guessing. We’ll work it out.” He stood up, pulling on

his suit jacket. “See you around,” he added as he walked out.

“Toodles, kid.” She grinned, leaning back in her chair.

Conversations Anket Kohli

25

Lucas is the first one in the makeshift dojo, already meditating as Oz taught him before their

sparring session. He ignores the fact that the dojo is really just the basement with some

padding they got from a gym supplier on the floor. He ignores his curls, forming because he

rushed his shower, annoyingly brushing his forehead. He ignores his acute senses telling him

that his “master”, actually a man two years his junior and four inches shorter than him, is

coming down the stairs, smelling of his bed, of the waffles they both had for breakfast, and of

the girlfriend he kissed before heading down the stairs. Lucas ignores all that, focusing on his

breathing, on his abilities, and on the feral beast resting curled up in his chest, waking up and

stretching for the hopefully playful fight to come.

“Big dinner tomorrow night, by the way,” Oz calls out, stretching a bit as he walks to the

center of the room.

“That right?” Lucas asks in reply, opening his eyes slowly, blinking as the lights hit his iris

again.

“Mhmm,” Oz replies, rolling his shoulders now, his arms stretching out as he adds, “Rachel

Celeste asked if you and I could do the grocery shopping, since Darren’ll be getting the

venison.”

Lucas grins, leaning back to bounce to his feet in one fluid motion, a move that just prompts a

roll of the eyes from Oz. “I get to drive, right? Darren never lets me drive.”

Oz just rolls his eyes, starting with the first punch, a strong right hook that Lucas barely

manages to deflect with his forearm. “Because you drive like a crazy person on meth being

chased by the cops, and that car is the only thing he owns aside from this house.”

Lucas grunts, attempting to take advantage of the opening made by the block, striking with his

own right fist, blocked only by Oz’s left forearm. “I drive efficiently and with purpose.”

“Right,” Oz replied, turning the block into a blow by driving his left elbow into Lucas’s

shoulder, “Well I’m still driving.”

“Fuck you,” Lucas grunted out, his voice tinged with pain as he dropped his right arm, “I’m

older. I’ve had my license longer,” he added, kicking out his left foot to sweep Oz’s legs.

Oz jumped, coming down with a kick to Lucas’s torso. “Your license says your name is James

Stark.”

Lucas growled, eyes flashing gold as he stumbled back from the force of the kick. “Still had it

longer than you.”

Oz rolled his eyes, pulling back a bit to get some room, adopting a battle stance. “I don’t think

it counts if you’ve had it for longer than you’ve been old enough to actually drive.”

26

Lucas just smirked, standing properly again, fangs popping out as the gold in his eyes grew

steady. “I was a better driver at fourteen than most people are at thirty, what’s your point?”

“My point,” Oz replied, ducking low to get in a body shot, “Is that we have very different

definitions of good driving, apparently,”

Lucas grunted, parrying Oz’s fist, managing to land a punch to his face. “I’ll get us there faster,

and we’ll be in one piece.”

Oz growled, his own eyes finally flashing gold, “And if eggs break on the drive back, or some

drinks spring a leak and get all over everything?” He charged, landing a punch to Lucas’s ribs

that would have easily bruised a normal human being.

Lucas snarled, driving his elbow down into Oz’s back, “Why are you so paranoid about making

a goddamn mess?”

Oz growled, fangs popping out as he rammed into Lucas’s torso, lifting him up before

slamming him onto his back. “Because I don’t want to spend half a day cleaning out the car!”

Lucas groaned in pain, slapping his hand against the mat before tapping it rapidly. “I’ll drive us

there, you drive back. No mess, no fuss. Deal?”

Oz paused, eyes fading to their normal black. “Deal.”

“Thank you,” Lucas said, his leg shooting up to get Oz in the crotch.

Oz caught his foot, striking a nerve cluster on his thigh to induce a cramp. “Come on, I think

there’s still some waffles and bacon left.” He headed towards the stairs, whistling as he

stretched out his aches.

Lucas just grunted in pain, focusing on his leg, willing his supernatural healing to kick in.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said in a pained voice, waving offhandedly to Oz’s shrugging back.

Desolation

It is him that moves It's short breaths I respire It is him that swallows It is freedom I desire It is with heavy hands he swings It is my struggle that inspires One day I will quarrel One day he'll retire It is pain he afflicts Just maybe I'll commit And one day I'll hit... But if it's death he will bring Maybe then he'll feel pain? He is the one higher It's power he desires I constantly cower But when he dies It won't matter...

Up there is better than this sadistic hell

Patience is key

And in the distance I saw mountains

Clear as day

In the distance dark skies

But I seen his face

I see some people at the top

Happy faces, they looked pleased

I'm curious of their life

Maybe they'll let me see?

These strangers I hope to join

If they'll be accepting of me

But if I could get there sooner

They may disapprove

Cursed thee

I have no rush but I'll meet them soon

I'll wait patiently and give it time

But someday soon it may be mine

Till then I'll enjoy it here for now

But up there...

Christie Henriquez

28

Up there is better than this sadistic hell

The Keeper Jennifer Thompson

KA-BOOM! The sound of the thunder shook the massive structure down to the

foundation; seconds later the eerie blue glow of electricity fell across the vast skies. Yellow and

orange sparks showered the ground as the bolt of lightning claimed a tree not far from she

stood. A second streak of lightening extended from the overcast sky, illuminating the decrepit

mansion which lay in ruins upon the steep hill. Patches of dead grass lay scattered across the

enormous lawn. The monogram “W” on the iron fence lay wilted, nearly detached from its post

completely. The windows of the towers no longer remained whole; shattered bits of glass litter

the sides of the stone walls. The wind blew angrier at the dead trees, their decaying branches

swaying so forcefully that many whole trees had collapsed to the ground. The worn and

tattered flag rests upon the highest tower, the thread bare strips of cloth waving violently with

the storm. Without notice buckets of rain came pouring down from the heavens, nothing was

safe from the rush of the water. Down the hill it traveled, snaking in and out of the brush and

foliage taking some of it along for the journey.

The view of the mansion from the bottom of the hill seemed to reveal nothing. It

appeared to Lily as though the place had been deserted for hundreds of years – and perhaps it

had. When was the last time she was here? She didn’t want to think about that right now. She

continued to fight against the elements, braving her way to the front entrance.

She continued on her journey up to the deserted castle. The rotten wooden door swung

open the moment she stepped foot onto the entryway. The wood splintered upon impact with

the wall, nearly hanging off its hinges completely. Everything was left just where she

remembered it. In the parlor the two large blue stripped chairs remained positioned in front of

the chaise with the floral print. Within the fireplace lay three logs half charred from a fire

30

which had once possessed the brick smoke shaft a long, long time ago. Above the fireplace still

hanging on the wall was the portrait, how she’d hated that thing. The eyes always seemed to be

peering down, watching your every movement from anywhere in the room. Perhaps they were.

The man in the picture would remain standing for all of eternity; to his right was a little girl

about nine years of age wearing a red dress with a red ribbon in her hair. Her deep brown eyes

appeared nearly black with a look of disgust upon her pale face. Her slim figure gave her the

appearance of elegance and a beauty not many possessed. Then just on the other side of the

male figure stood another young little girl; a little girl Lily knew quite well. Her presence in

the picture looked slightly altered from the others, a bit newer as though she was a newer,

unplanned addition to the portrait. Her features were flawless; perfect blue eyes, long curly

brown hair that flowed perfectly across her delicate shoulders. She wore a frilly blue dress the

color of the sky; it looked as though it was crafted specially for her body. It was then that Lily’s

eyes drifted to the necklace hanging on the girl’s neck as her hand found its way to the

matching one around her own neck.

Lily’s eyes lingered on the portrait for a moment or so longer than she’d planned. Now

was not the time for this. She was caught off guard by the sudden slam of a heavy wooden door,

the iron hinges covered in rust screamed in protest. Immediately her head snapped to look at

the marble stair case, an open invitation to investigate. Her curiosity got the best of her and she

began to ascend into the darkness which awaited her at the top of the stairs.

From under the door was the orangey glow of candles fighting to light up every bit of

darkness in their path. The flickering flames cast great shadows across the floor boards

exposing all the imperfections of the wood that had now been rotting away for centuries. The

31

old knots in the wood no longer exist but they left behind small holes one could easily expand if

they didn’t step too cautiously.

Nervously she began to pace slowly towards the shadows the flames had been teasing

her with. Everything she’d been fighting off – all of her pain and efforts had led her to this

point. Once she opened this door there was no turning back. For so long she hid away here as a

child; she thought it seemed only fitting to return to the shadows here once more. Slowly she

put just enough pressure on the handle to release the locking mechanism and open the door to

the one memory she could never face in reality.

It was then that Delilah awoke in a cold sweat. Panting she looked quickly back and

forth across the room searching for anything real to hold onto; the pillow beside her seemed

reasonable enough so she held on to it as though her life depended on it. The tears in her eyes

soon found their way to her cheeks and she sat up in bed refusing to think about the dream she

just had. Living with the truth was an awful thing, but she promised herself she’d never taint

those memories. Tossing the pillow aside she stepped out of bed and fumbled around in her

closet until she got her hands around the dusty photo album and sat on the floor. As she opened

to the first page she closed her eyes and could almost feel the rays of sun shining through the

heavens warming every inch of her body, smell the flowers that just came into bloom. She could

hear her sister Ella calling her name, over and over. Then Lily opened her eyes and sighed as

though satisfied. Leaving the album on the ground she crawled back into bed; as her cheek hit

the pillow the thunder began and the rain began to fall outside. Trying to fall back asleep was

all she could do to hold onto the good memories for one more night.

32

SANDCASTLES

Gillian Dzakonski

SPEAKING IS MORE THAN A CARELESS COLLAGE OF WORDS SPEAKING IS MORE THAN THE CRAFT OF CAREFUL CUTS THERE IS NO ART IN CALCULATION AND SPLICING IS ONLY BEAUTIFUL IN THE PLACES IN BETWEEN WHAT IS STITCHED BACK TOGETHER AND [xxx] HEALS [xxxxx] DEFORMED THE WORLD IS FULL OF OYSTERS AND THE WORLD IS FULL OF OCEANS AND THE WORLD IS FULL OF LONELY PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE [TYING] STRINGS OF

PEARLS AROUND A NECK IS HOW TO FEEL LOVE AND THAT IF THEY STAND STILL ENOUGH TO BLEND IN[TO] SILVER NITRATE AND TO FOLD IN[TO] A SILICONE FRAME THAT THEY WILL ILLUMINATE IN THE CRUNCHING OF GLASS AND THAT THE FLASH OF PURE WHITE LIGHT WILL EXPOSE THEIR SHADOWS AND THAT

IN THE VOICELESS ARCHITECTURE OF THIS DARKNESS LIES THE DEPTH THAT DEFINES BRAVERY SO THEY DIVE INTO THE SEA NOT TO SWIM NO […] THEY DIVE INTO THE SEA TO CRACK OPEN SHELLS BUT NOT TO EAT NO […] THEY DIVE INTO THE SEA NOT TO FEEL PAIN HIDING UNDERWATER WHERE TEARS ARE INVISIBLE AND BECOME PERFECT[LY] USELESS AND AS THEY DROWN THEMSELVES THEY CLAIM THEMSELVES IN VIOLENCE DILUTING THEIR STRENGTH ALL AROUND THEM THE REFLECTIVE MIRRORS SPARKLE

WATCHING FROM THE SCALES OF THE FISH THAT DAZZLE THE OCEAN INTO SWIRLING INTO SWAYING INTO SLIPPERING ALONG THEIR BODIES SWIMMING TOWARDS THE SYNCHRONICITY OF ELECTRIC EELS SHIMMERING IN THE PLACES IN BETWEEN RIBBONY KELP DANCING IN THE GARDENS AND IT IS HERE SKIN ISN'T AFRAID OF RUBBING AGAINST SKIN AND IT IS HERE WHERE EVEN THE LONELY PEOPLE STARE AT THE BEAUTY THAT LIES WITHIN FEELING... FEELING EVERYTHING.

33

Women

Anesa Fiyazuddeen

Woman is fierce.

She is demanding.

She is ambitious.

She is not apologetic to those she intimidates.

for she has the ability and means to take on the world.

We are all equal

Aja Assoon

No matter who we are,

we try to do our best but are treated less.

TV shows with people, our history written on walls.

We try to work hard or have a keepsake of withdrawals.

You may beat me down with your discouraging words,

you may lure me into a bit of depression.

But you will not break down the perception,

34

that I built which was my life.

Clothes

Katherine Quelix

I want to dress like one of those fine-looking ladies

Walking in and out of the building so graciously harmonized from head to toe

The pleats on their skirts, their sturdy high quality boots and dress shoes, their feminine form

fitting and beautifully contrasted and crafted silk blouses, boiled wool sweaters, and high end

trendy trench coats… Even their casual trotting around denim pants look perfectly fitted.

I do love my body and my face… I even love my hair texture and the color of my skin… but I

just know that if I had those clothes and shoes and makeup… OH! I would be the perfect

dame…

I know just how to walk in those pretty heeled boots and pumps… I know how to match

beautiful fabrics, textures, and colors together so that they don’t overwhelm your eyes when

you check me out from head to toe… in fact, I know that if I wear a chunky necklace, my face

will look delicate if I wear reticent earrings…

I want to dress like one of those fine-looking ladies

Walking in and out of the building so graciously harmonized… they knew exactly

Where they were going after that glass door slid open for them.

Each dainty footstep looked as if they were previously counted and measure out carefully… like

they knew where their right foot would be placed and how their elbows would sway behind just

in time, as if nudging any negativity away from their bubble.

I do know where I’m going… I even know that tonight I will sleep with my boyfriend in his

big comfy bed… but I just know that if I had those clothes and shoes and makeup… OH! I

would be sleeping in my own big comfy bed, probably texting my boyfriend what a beautiful

day I had; walking past the sliding glass doors… taking confident and delicate steps, as if I

were walking on clouds… and nudging any negativity away from my bubble.

35

Genesis

Lawrence Ineus

I really miss the times when they were times untraceable

Unimaginable times,

Unnoticeable times,

Yet, you're still seeing these times,

Just in a different time,

But I can still tell you’re noticing my time is increasing, moving,

but I don’t know if that’s okay to tell anyone,

I mean you’re not really gone,

but to notice that I’d had to be really gone,

so I put myself in a state where I’m really gone to see if I could be next to you,

because I don’t know if my words still travel to you,

or if my voice still makes it to the door of your door that allows the hearing of beautiful sounds,

and I don’t know why I fear the worse,

when the worse had yet to come,

but the worse is feared

and the magnitude of the issue is highly increasing

and I…

I’m not sure if it’s raining because of the precipitation anymore,

and I’m not sure if it’s raining because I don’t feel it anymore,

and I’m not sure if it’s anything anymore.

and I’m not sure if I can call it anything anymore,

because it’s something to see,

36

Watch as My Royal fight the battle,

Gruesome battle with the oppressor,

and I wish for you to win,

Win with the spirit of the King within you,

and I’m pretty sure the king doesn’t want you to win,

He’s calling,

Listen to the call that being received and I will listen to the call on the other end,

My King wants you now,

Angel of all angels and you’re his precious one,

You fought hard,

and I won’t forget what shouldn’t be forgotten, because what’s forgotten wasn’t in relation to

you,

So I want darker color shades when you walk through me,

and I want to feel your presence even greater than I feel mine,

and I want to feel the love that you placed in me when I was empty,

The love that you gave to your royal who in turn fed me with un-conditional love.

Love me as I once l loved you.

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As a Woman

Bria Taylor

Deprivation, Desperation, Dehumanization

My life as a woman

Why can’t I be me?

Why must I succumb to society’s standards?

Bigger is better, plastered across my TV screen,

Shaping me into something I’m not.

Artificial body parts to capture the men’s eyes.

Long hair, don’t care?

Well I do.

I go through these things as a woman.

We go through these things as women.

Legs crossed, dress pretty, talk politely.

Maybe we should…but what if we don’t want to?

We’re all different, I’m different.

I shouldn’t have to abide by your rules

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Your standards.

Your laws.

I’m a girl, I’m a lady, I’m a woman,

Whether you think so or not.

20 bodies? 10 bodies? 5 bodies? None?

Why does my sexual past determine who I am?

Why are we viewed less of a women because of what we do?

The vagina is more than just your pleasure outlet,

It’s my outlet to bare life.

To bare love.

Don’t sexual objectify me.

But you do anyway,

Because I choose to live life as a woman.

Now I’m emotionally guarded.

Why?

You’ve scarred our hearts, soul, minds, wombs.

Dehumanized me based on my needs,

My wants.

My desires.

Do you love us women?

Do you want us to love the life we lead?

You may marry us,

Make us mothers of your children

Yet, kill us slowly with your objectification.

You make us hate us each other.

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Fighting each other for your attention and time.

We make each other enemies,

All for the male appeal.

Why don’t we lift each other up?

Tell each other that we’re beautiful.

They’re killing us, we’re killing each other.

Why can’t we just be women?

But that’s just how life is.

Life as a woman.

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To submit your work to a future issue of Harmonia:

Any current student at SUNY College at Old Westbury may submit

their works of poetry, lyrics, short stories, creative non-fiction, or

artwork to Harmonia.

Potential contributors can submit up to 3 pieces per semester.

All written submissions must be sent to HarmoniaJournal@gmail.com

as Microsoft Word files (.doc or .docx). You must include titles for each

of your submissions as well as your full name as you would like it to be

published. Short stories should be no longer than 5 pages and poems no

longer than 3 pages. You will be contacted with the editors’ decision

approximately 4 weeks after the semester’s deadline.

For more information, visit the English Department’s website:

www.english-ow.com

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