HARMONIA:

Harmonia is the Greek Goddess of Harmony and Concord. Born from Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of love, and Ares, the Greek God of War.

Congruence. Concord. Harmony. Balance

HARMONIA The Creative Writing Journal

of the English Department At SUNY College at Old Westbury

2018

Contents

2 Editorial Team Credits 3 Letter from the Editors

Patrick Shiels 4 A Wednesday Night in February Tom Elgort 5 To: New York City Anesa Fiyazuddeen 6 Reborn

Jaimie L. Mcgovern 7-10 The Senator’s Wife Megan Kahane 11 Routine Megan Kahane 11 Pieces Kate Oberg 12 A Slice of Night Elizabeth Walker 13 November 2016 Elizabeth Walker 14 Praying Never Worked Anyway Joshua Barrett 15-16 Thanks for Nothing Jaimie L. Mcgovern 17-8 Trapped Sarah Ansari 19 Real Life Scenerio Samantha Ascencio 20 Melody Kate Oberg 21 Lyrics to “Like A Nightmare” Patrick Shiels 22-3 Goodbye H. Malley 24 Melancholy Eve Christie Clerval 25 The Corruption Edgar Zavala 24 Tyrant’s Reign Robert Iredell 26 The Crystal Lens Tom Elgort 27 When I Was Eight

28 Submission Information

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Credits and Acknowledgements

Senior Editor Kate Oberg

Junior Editors

Joseph Jablonski, Brett McGuiness, Jennifer Pineiro, Jyoti Verma

Faculty Editor

Dr. Jessica Williams

Cover Art Steven Rios

We would like to thank everyone who helped us on our journey to create this issue of Harmonica. Special thanks to all of our contributors, the English

Department, and the Print Shop.

Visit us at:

https://owenglishwrites.wordpress.com/

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Letter from the Editors

Welcome, fellow peers and staff, to our 2018 issue of Harmonia, brought to you by the English

Department at SUNY College at Old Westbury. We gather, once again, for another year of

wonderful short stories and poems, written with overflowing emotions, as well as a great deal of

meaning. There have been many submissions, with a tremendous amount of variety from each

student. Within each piece of work published in Harmonia, we are reading the voices of the

students who want to be heard and have something to relate to amongst their peers.

Within this year’s issue of Harmonia, we have discussions of relationships, life, love, hope, and

strength. Due to an exuberant amount of submissions, we were sadly unable to publish them all

in our 2018 issue. However, the editorial team would like to thank each and every single

individual that was a part of making Harmonia another successful issue filled with art and

freedom of expression. Thank you, once again, for believing in the English Department. We

hope you to continue to read, write, and discuss pieces of work amongst your fellow peers and

enjoy the beauty of it all. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it

together!

Yours,

The Editorial Team of Harmonia

2018

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A Wednesday Night in February

Patrick Sheils

I tell ya, kid… This one was special. Me? I been around long enough. Long enough to know

what booze’ll do to a man’s face. What these smokes do to his voice. Shit, I been around long enough. But

I tell ya, kid… This one was special. Had those eyes. Big ol’ eyes. Empty out her heart without sayin’ a

word. See through ya. Eyes like two moons lookin’ for a planet to spin around. I tell ya, kid… This one

was special. She was round when old King Cole wrote ‘An Old Piano Plays the Blues’. Spent a night in Tunisia

with Dizzy Gillespie. Ahh, this bourbon goes down harsh. It’s the cheap shit. Drink the cheap shit ‘cuz it’s

the only thing I can taste these days. But I tell ya, kid… This one was special. Had that real lady perfume

on her neck. That scent that put a man on his ass. Kid, the Empire State Building would start to sway

back and forth if it caught a whiff of that scent. And she was mine. Me? I been playin’ here for ten years. Fifteen years. Maybe twenty. Them years tend to get lost when

you thinkin’ bout a woman like that. I tell ya, kid… This one was special. She used to do all the talkin’. I

played in every damn joint from Harlem to Tijuana with the best they ever was and nothin’ sounded

sweeter than that voice. Her voice. Me? I never was much for talkin’. I ain’t never talk to no one. Let

these ten fingers do the talkin’ on that piano over there. Don’t know why the hell I’m talkin’ to you now.

How old are you, kid? Shit, that young? You too young to know ‘bout a woman like that. Woman like that

stop a virgin’s heart. You make book on that. I tell ya, kid… This one was special. You too young to know what it’s like, starin’ up at the ceiling,

next thirty years of your life laid out like a piano ready to be played. Feelin’ that sweet breath of heaven-

sleep on your neck, knowin’ she dreamin’ bout it too. You don’t know ‘bout none of that. It ain’t your

fault. Kid your age don’t know shit. Gimme one of them smokes. They lookin’ at me now. I supposed to go on in a few minutes and play some tunes on that Steinway

over there. Fuckin’ Steinway in a club like this and I can’t get a ten spot for my troubles. You believe

that? But I tell ya, kid… This one was special. It’s funny, you know? The man who know what he got while he got it, that’s the man you want to be,

kid. You don’t want to be a man like me. I ain’t no man at all. When I could still taste this shit, this

the only thing I knew I had. Can’t blame her for leavin’. I ain’t even seen a picture of her in ten years.

Fifteen years. Maybe twenty. Them years tend to get lost when you got a hole in the old ticker. Only time I

get to see her is when I’m playin’ that piano. I tell ya, kid… This one was special. Me and her, we had a date tonight. Tonight I was gonna play our first date. That feelin’ of seein’ that

woman for the first time. Ain’t never gonna feel anything like that again. You know what, kid? Suddenly

I’m gettin’ the feelin’ that these fingers ain’t got no more to say. Don’t know why, but it’s just a feelin’ I

got. She was special, kid. She was special. Looks like it’s still snowin’ out there. God takin’ a shit on this big city again. I’m goin’ out

there, gonna walk around a bit. Do me a favor, kid. Gimme one more of them smokes for the road. They

taste better outside in the cold. And one more thing... Go tell that man over there that these

fingers ain’t got no more to say. Take care of yourself, kid. This ain’t no place for you no more.

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To: New York City

Tom Elgort

You always are wandering around,

Saying you cannot sleep at whatever hour of the night.

Or running around with your hair on fire,

Saying you’ve got some place to be,

Or another, or another, or another.

A packed crate without so much as an inch to move,

But a good place to get lost or reinvent yourself in the crowd.

Dirty to look at, like you haven’t bathed in weeks,

But also cleansing,

A basin in which the already tainted people might go to be born again.

You are a family dinner on Thanksgiving,

With your loudness and all your different points of view,

Opening minds through the every day grind.

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Reborn

Anesa Fiyazuddeen

He used to be rooted to me.

Rooted the way hickories and white oaks root to the ground beneath them.

And I felt to be just that, ground beneath him.

sucked life from me offering none back in return.

He stole from my spirit and continued to grow strong in the light as I wallowed beneath.

I feared him. I feared if he left me I would have nothing .

I would be a sad excuse for the strong woman I thought I was. I slowly began to not speak another word.

I felt myself tense and stiffen in his presence. The thoughts I played with in my head were cruel to me.

They said that I was unworthy of his love,

which is why I didn’t receive it.

They teased me for being less of a woman. I blamed him for what was happening to me. I said to myself it is because he treats me this way,

that is why I feel like this and then the same cruel thoughts I had before told me I should endure

this pain for hopes of a better outcome,

be the strong root for my man. Then I realized being his root meant that he was connected to me.

He did not need to give back what he took,

I needed to claim again what was mine.

I am the root that gives him life,

without me his existence is mere and I no longer wanted his existence to spawn from me. So, I poisoned myself. I killed the self that was deluded by false love. I killed the self that deflected responsibility of the actions that laid me to rest in turmoil. That self has died and now I am no one’s root,

but my own and with my own roots I am bursting with life,

growing myself. Reborn.

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The Senator’s Wife

Jaimie L. Mcgovern

A lone cello moans beneath vaulted ceilings, and Catherine, in the center of the crowded

ballroom, plasters a smile on her crimson painted mouth, as she gingerly adjusts the right lapel of

her husband’s suit jacket and runs the tip of her finger over the purple tack that anchors his tie.

Senator Jason Hartford continues his exchange with the Governor of Virginia as Catherine

does so, scarcely paying her any mind. When she finishes, smoothing the length of his jacket, he

grasps her hand, snaking thick fingers through her thin ones. Her cheeks tighten, and her eyes

survey the room, searching for something she cannot seem to find.

Silently, Catherine remains at the senator’s side, nodding in agreement to the advice he gives

the governor on his reelection campaign, and stretching her smile at each of her husband’s

passing colleagues. Her spine stiffens with each touch of stray hands, and while her attention

appears riveted on her husband, her eyes continue to wander in her search. Still though, she takes

great pains to play her role, leaning into the senator at just the right moment, ogling him

appropriately, laughing at what the governor calls jokes, even when her artifices sound shrill to

her own ears.

“So, Jay.” The governor’s beady eyes widen, and he leans in closer, as if sharing a secret.

“Are the rumors true?”

“I have no idea what rumors you’re talking about.” The senator’s cheeks dimple, and

Catherine casts her glace downward, looking at the snarl of hands at her left side.

The rumor the governor speaks about is hardly a secret. Speculation among the Washington

crowd predicts that the young senator will announce his candidacy for the highest office in the

nation in his speech at this evening’s Conservative Action Dinner. He won’t though. Not tonight,

at least, and that is deliberate on his part. He wants them to leave them gossiping, he wants them

to speculate, he wants to set himself up as the front runner, without saying a single word. At the

reminder of what is to come, Catherine takes a breath, then another, in and out, in and out,

reminding herself of the role she’s been trained for since her days locked inside an

ivied boarding school.

“Senator, Mrs. Hartford.” A young waitress approaches, tray of champagne flutes teetering

precariously on the flat of her palm. Catherine’s own eyes meet dark green, and her chest

tightens with intimate familiarity. “Champagne?”

“Thank you, Ava.” Catherine nods her acceptance. It’s her job to know the name of everyone

in the room, help or not, it’s her job to whisper those names into the senator’s ear when he

forgets them. The woman simply smiles in return, and lifts a glass from her tray, choosing to

hand the drink to Catherine first, though custom would tell her otherwise.

From the waitress’ hand, Catherine accepts the crystal flute, and soft fingers brush the

back of hers in the process. She sips, and she’s drawn to the senator’s hand as he accepts his. His

touch lingers a moment too long, and when she looks up to his face, Catherine watches as his

eyes wander, surveying the second womanly form before him. Jealousy flares low in her

belly, and she averts her gaze, stomach rolling, chest tightening at what she bears witness to.

When he’s through with the governor, the senator directs Catherine to their seats. With a

thud, their clenched hands fall against the mahogany table, and the vibrations from the

knock ripple through her wedding ring, and send a chill down her spine. They’re front and

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center, and the chandelier above bathes them in ethereal light. Her husband, the bright

young face of his political party. Catherine herself dressed in purple, his adoring helpmate. High

royalty, almost, before their adoring lords.

“Excuse me.” Catherine murmurs. The heat from the bright lights flushes her skin,

and finishing her champagne, she unravels her fingers from the senator’s, and stands slowly, so

as not to draw attention to herself.

“It’s about to start, Catherine.” He warns, narrowing his eyes, in such a way so that she’s the

only one in the room who notices.

“I won’t be long.”

She slips through the crowd, and out the side door of the ballroom, stealing down the

hallway. The champagne went through her too quickly, and when she finds the women’s room,

she’s careful not to tear her pantyhose as she slides them down her thighs. As

she relieves herself, she takes a moment to breathe again as she hides behind the locked stall

door, wishing she could stay in the cramped space for the duration of the night. But she can’t.

She knows the consequences of that, and she steps back out, leaning over the sink to wash

her hands, as the door to the room creaks open behind her.

“Mrs. Hartford.” A familiar voice intones, and when Catherine closes her eyes to her own

reflection, she feels the caress of fingers on her lower back, the press of a warm body against her

own, the soft breath that tickles her neck.

“Don’t.” She breathes, opening her eyes again, and meeting that familiar green in the mirror.

“Don’t call me that. Not you.”

“Cate.” The waitress whispers, then pulls back, glancing beneath the stalls.

“I’m alone. We’re alone.”

“He’s speaking now.” The woman breathes, a low disdain in her voice as she says it.

“Fuck.” Catherine spits, grabbing for one of the white towels that sit beside the sink, and

frantically drying her hands. “I have to go.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I’d help you out the window, and you could be done

with it.”

“No, Ava. I can’t. Not yet.”

As Catherine makes her way back to the ballroom, her feet feel heavy beneath her. In the

darkness, she weaves through the tables, avoiding the off-putting gaze of the suit-clad men and

the trophies beside them as she finds her seat. The senator’s voice booms through the

microphone, and when Catherine finally slinks into her chair, she can feel his eyes burning

through her. Her absence, as it always seems, rings stronger than her presence, and her heart

pounds in her chest, in her ears, in her fingertips.

She’d read his speech just this morning, but as the words leave the lips of the man she’d

married, they pierce her to the core. Even away from the stage, the lights feel unbearably hot on

her face, and were the senator’s eyes not boring into her, cataloging her every move, she’d

squeeze her own shut. She’s scarcely able to behold him as she speaks the words traditional

marriage, the words moral purity, the word sin, without being sick. But she can’t look away, she

can’t close her eyes, and they water, stomach twisting and burning as she imagines not the great

Biblical images he conjures, but the touch of lithe fingers on her lower belly, the tender press of

lips against the back of her neck, the burn of dark green eyes in low candlelight.

Catherine loses herself in her mind, her only place of solace in moments such as these, and

she doesn’t allow herself to hear the remainder of the senator’s speech. When he’s through,

she stands with the crowd, and she applauds him, playing the role of the genial wife, the role that

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grows harder with each passing day, beaming outwardly, though her knees threaten to give way

beneath her. Her husband returns to his seat beside her, and he doesn’t spare Catherine a

glance. Instead, he grabs her hand roughly on the table, yanking it toward him, possessing it, and

he watches as the governor takes the stage, clapping their tangled digits against the wood

beneath.

The evening feels endless, and though Catherine searches the room for the waitress,

she’s spends the remainder of dinner without ever locating her again. The loneliness strikes her,

following the closing prayer, and Catherine is dizzy with exhaustion. Finishing his tour of self-

congratulations around the room, the senator tugs her to their waiting car outside. In the

backseat, he lets go of the grip on her hand, and he’s still wordless as she flexes her fingers,

loosening the tension from hours of entrapment in his constricted grasp.

Washington streets whir by outside of the window, and when their imposing stone

house comes into sight, Catherine takes a deep breath, unprepared to go inside her own home.

The senator opens the door, and Catherine slides out after him, maintaining her step behind as

they approach the entranceway. The door feels heavy behind her as she closes it, and when her

husband turns to her, loosening his tie, she feels ice run through her veins.

“You walked back in halfway through my speech.” He seethes, towering over her, as he

takes a step forward. “Of all the times to use the bathroom, Catherine. Maybe if you’d have

taken it easy on the champagne, you could have been where you needed to be, when I needed

you to be there.”

“I had one glass, Jason.” Catherine looks down at her feet, then back up at him, just in time

to see his hand fly toward her face in retaliation for her menial defiance. She flinches, expecting

the slap of skin on skin, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the senator laughs, a lilting, icy laugh, and

his eyes darken with something Catherine fears more than the blow she’d expected.

“We have the mayor’s breakfast in the morning.” The senator tells her. It’s a reason, it’s

a warning, and Catherine’s stomach turns to lead. “Goodnight, Catherine.”

As the senator ascends the stairs, Catherine watches him, left palm pressed to the side of her

face, as if he’d actually struck her there. She breathes, in and out, in and out, and when she

lowers her hand, her rings feel weightier than normal on her fourth finger. For a long while, she

stands perfectly still, her purple dress clinging unbearably to her figure, the counter of her heels

cutting into her ankles. She wants nothing more than to remove the trappings of the evening, but

still, she remains frozen in her spot, twisting the diamond bands that adorn her hand.

When Catherine steals up the stairs, she carries her shoes, and she approaches her marital

bedroom, pausing at the closed door to listen for the tell-tale signs of her husband’s slumber

before she dares enter. The snores and wheezes carry through the heavy wood, and she turns the

handle gently, not venturing to make a noise as she pushes the entry open. For just an instant, she

watches the senator in slumber, his handsome form rising and falling from the breath in his chest.

He looks powerful, even in sleep, and she tiptoes to the walk-in closet, shutting herself in, before

she sheds her dress, and lets down her hair.

Hurriedly, Catherine slides into jeans, and she unearths an old hooded sweatshirt from the

bin of clothing that she hasn’t touched since before she moved into the place where she stands.

She finds running shoes next, amid heels of every color, and before she tucks them in the crook

of her arm, she reaches her hand inside. Her fingers for the roll of green paper long stashed

inside, fearful someday she’d arrive at this moment, and when they make contact, she lets out her

breath. She takes nothing else from the closet, and before she frees herself, she slides the bands

from her finger, and listens for the honk of sleep-heavy breath behind the door.

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Confident she won’t be caught slinking away in the earliest hours of the morning, Catherine

presses her way out. On light feet, she makes her way to the nightstand of deep red wood, beside

where she’d laid her head so many nights, and without a sound, she deposits the rings that

tethered her to this place, to this life, beside the wedding photo that sits there. She feels nothing

but freedom from bondage as she does it, no twinge of hurt, no ounce of sadness, no regret for

what may have been.

Without a single glance behind her, Catherine steals down the stairs, and, replacing the rolls

of bills in her running shoes with her feet, straight out the door. She strides down the sidewalk,

hastily moving from beneath the bright glow of the streetlamp and into the shadows. Though

green eyes flash in her consciousness, Catherine thinks of herself more than she’s ever allowed

before, and when a red cab glides up behind her, she quickly raises her right hand. When the

vehicle stops, she opens the door and slips inside, laying her head back against the cool vinyl

behind her and sucking in the stale air of the taxi cab. It’s dingy and acrid, but to Catherine, it’s a

breath of freedom, it’s a breath of life, and she smiles a real smile, not one painted on by years of

practice, before the driver speaks.

“Where to, Miss?”

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Routine

Megan Kahane

Traveling home the usual way,

Just like every other day.

Home before she knew it,

She walked up to the door,

Tried to unlock it

And realized,

“This isn’t where I live.”

Pieces

Megan Kahane

She gave herself away,

Piece by piece by piece

She handed him

her smiles,

Her strength,

Her confidence,

Her hope.

She willingly gave away

His favorite things about her.

Thinking she could trust him

To keep them safe.

She never would have thought,

He would toss them away

With the flowers he dropped

On her grave.

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A Slice of Night

Kate Oberg

She’d rather wake up to the sounds of a newly-started war, because it would mean a

disruption of her painful routine. If it happened, she would try to get some sleep. She often

wondered how the war would sound and if it would be too loud to sleep through but decided that

the relief would overcome any racket. It didn’t matter for today; the alarm clock, as usual, woke

her up from an unavailing sleep. The first thoughts and feelings of the day were particularly poisonous and uncomfortable. It

hurt to breathe and to open the eyes and to think of the day ahead. Some sort of wish for the

avoidance of worse things supplied the willpower to robotically shower and dress and prepare

the food she knew would just hurt her stomach. She walked out of the door into the cold, gray

rain and came back later that night with one more day down. She came home always a little bit better than when she had left. There was always the hope

that “tonight would be different” and that the next day wouldn’t be the same. She got ready for

bed as quickly as she could, inevitably slowed down by the exhaustion that wanted to propel

her to move faster. In bed, the calculations started: “If I fall asleep now, I could get eight hours. I have an hour

to fall asleep to get seven...” And the counter-melody: “I have to, can’t. I have to. I can’t! I

have to…” Minutes after that symphony had begun, something else started—an impossible

enemy for even a mild insomniac. No conscience could be clean enough; narcolepsy would have

no chance of settling in: a car alarm had been set off. “Oh god, somebody shut that off quick.” The initial adrenaline spike could be enough to

sabotage a whole night’s chances, but if that thing didn’t go off… Well, it didn’t go off. And the white noise didn’t help. And no room was far enough away.

Stuffing blankets in the windows didn’t help and the police couldn’t do anything about it. And at midnight it didn’t stop and at one o’clock it was still going off. At two she thought

she was done crying and by three she had given up. At four a.m. it was still going and at five she

just wondered why. At six she shut off her alarm clock and got into the shower, unable to tell

how wet she cried. Cold and sick and incompletely dry, invoking a vestige of willpower to step out into the

cold, gray rain, she puts down her bags to unlock her car, and wouldn’t you know it, it turns off. “Now it goes off?!”

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November 2016

Elizabeth Walker

When you get to the golden gates

She asks

What do you do

If they're only gilded?

Well you say

I've known rusty bars

Covered with dirt

And rocks stacked high to look like entry ways

And trees that separate perfectly and sometimes you just happen to walk through

And those are all fine and beautiful

But if you get to that golden gate

That promise land entry way

And it's only gilded

If it's really covering up hidden rust

And rot

You walk through

For all the people who think it's gold and all the ideas it pushes forward

And you tear it fucking down

Knowing that they love that golden statement

And you build one

The same one

That's true without any false pretenses

No rot or rust

No melted down pennies or nickels plated in gold

You build it with voices of power and intelligence

Not ideals that are made in other countries

Or voices who sound like slick oil

Running through water

Because baby girl

We accept what we think we deserve and

We do not deserve gilded gates

We deserve an entry way

That reaches the sky and people look in awe and there is no question on what to be proud of in this world

Because it is us.

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Praying Never Worked Anyway Elizabeth Walker

So we glorified it Painted it in pictures

Craved it Love

But remember us?

Hot days with bare feet and asphalt under our toes

Jumping too much

With a lot of distance left remember the reminder to take medication

remember the hush of sleeping pills

Whispered over phone lines

Remember how we tore at each other when it didn't work

Wanting pieces that were never ours to take

We were not fluid

We were not paintings of perfect lovers on walls

No one looked at us in museums

They looked at us through sad eyes

As we tried to shove the wrong color on palettes

and forgot to wet the canvas

Remember how we wept at flowers on the wrong doorstep

We cried over things as beautiful as flowers

I called my body a temple and wanted you to worship it But you told me you didn't believe in God

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Thanks for Nothing

Joshua Barrett

Josh had just hit the ripe age of fifteen. Tenth grade is that awkward stage where you are learning

how to tackle puberty while also learning pre-calculus. Being a teenager is not an easy task, especially

when you are about to come out as gay to a father that is a Pentecostal pastor. He had already posted the news on MySpace and let his closest friends know. “Be yourself, be

yourself, screw everyone…” That is what he kept telling himself to help keep his courage to tell everyone

his biggest secret. Initially, he lost a few friends, but realized that he did have some people to support him

through this entire experience. After a week of just a little teasing from people at school, he decided that it

was time to break the news to his family. “So, we have to write about a controversial news topic in class.” Josh rubbed the nervous sweat off of

his palms onto his jeans as he sat across from his father and step mother in the living room. “I think I am

going to write about same sex marriage.” “That isn’t a very appropriate topic, son.” His step mother exclaimed. It was obvious that his father

was trying to ignore the topic by burying his nose into Bible study. “I think it is very appropriate considering I am gay.” The words slipped out. There was no turning

back. Truthfully, this conversation escalated more quickly than he had hoped. “What…” His father looked up from his Bible. “Stop, son.” “Joshua! Take it back.” His step mother stood up as tears filled her eyes. “Quit trying to get attention

from us by saying such hurtful things!” “I’m sorry, but its true. I am gay and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.” He was lying. Of

course he cared what everyone thought about it, otherwise this would be a much easier task to

accomplish. Regardless, he smiled. For once, possibilities and life itself seemed limitless. For just a brief

second, Joshua Lee Barrett found himself. But, you know all of this already. “Go to your room!” His father was now standing in front of him, screaming in his face. Josh still

stood and smiled. BAM! He took a blow to the face as his father hit him and kept screaming. Sadly, this

moment was exactly how he expected his coming out to go. He rushed to his room and slammed the

door. “What do we do?!” He heard his step mother screaming on the other side. She was hysterically crying

as if someone very close to her had died. Josh was happy. Although his family was completely losing it,

he knew that this was the right move. BOOM! BOOM! Minutes later, his father began beating on the

bedroom door. “Open the door!” He screamed. “Someone is on the phone for you!” Josh quickly opened the door,

hoping that one of his friends had called and could rescue him from the hell that he was in. “Hello?” He answered the phone reluctantly, only to be disappointed that the person on the other end

was his step grandmother. “What the hell are you trying to do!?” She shouted. “Do you want attention? Well, you have it! You

are trying to ruin your parents lives and I will not stand for it. They deserve better from you. You are an

abomination and disgrace to this family and in the name of God, I rebuke this evil you are trying to bring

upon us!” But, you know all of this already. One week later, things had not changed. Josh’s family was not speaking to him. Simple “hellos” and

“goodbyes” seemed painful for everyone. In a time that he felt he should be celebrating his happiness, he

was more alone than ever. When he thought things could only go up from this point, the bullying began. The first time involved a lizard in his locker. After the school jocks heard the news of his sexuality,

they found it funny to begin torturing him since he was “different”. Small towns in Kentucky do not

exactly find “different” to be a good thing. The second time involved a snake in his locker. Luckily, his best friend and the one person who had

stuck by his side through the entire experience, was there to let him know before he found it. After these

two attempts of hate with reptiles, “fag” and “queer” began appearing on his locker daily. Things were

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shouted in the classroom, right in front of the teachers. Some of them even laughed along with the

bullies. But, you know all of this already. The next year, Josh was overjoyed that he could start driving. This finally meant he could escape the

prison he was held captive in. Knowing that his father would not let him use the car if he claimed to be

gay, he began a fake relationship with a girl at church. Although this temporarily helped problems at

home, the bullies at school used his car as a chalkboard for hate words. Eventually, the lie caught up with him once the girl grew tired of faking. She announced to the

church that Josh was gay. Regardless that he had already announced this prior to this moment, everyone

had a dramatic reaction and began laying hands on him. Prayer was the Southern Christian’s antibiotic for

pretty much anything. Once home, Josh’s father began shouting religiously in tongues. Everything was such a blur in the

moment. What should he do? Claim that the girl was lying? Claim that he was straight until he was able

to escape? How would going through this again help? Nothing was making sense. Being open and honest

put him in a dangerous position before and for a moment, there was a chance to turn it all around and go

back. Yet, that would be an insult to his character. The inner struggle had become similarly difficult to his

exterior problems. But, you know all of this already. The details in what happened that night are too cruel to put on paper. Being jabbed with scissors,

pushed down the stairs, and the police showing up after a phone call gives you a good idea of the

occurrences. Josh ended up staying with a friend for a few days to allow everyone to calm down. One

week later, Child Protective Services showed up at school. “What happened to your arms?” The social worker asked Josh. He had been called to the guidance

counselors office to discuss that dreary night where he had to call the police for safety. “Are you hurting

yourself?” “No!” Josh cried. He was embarrassed. He didn’t want this to happen at school. Everyone knew why

he had been pulled into the office. “I came out as gay. My parents do not agree with it and they are doing

things to me in retaliation.” “Josh, if you are hurting yourself, let us know.” His guidance counselor placed her hand on his

shoulder. This moment of clarification, realizing that everyone was against his stance in this matter,

helped him decide to just drop the issue and try and move on. He wanted all of this to go away, even if

that meant taking back everything he had said. But, that is not what happened. This visit at school led to

counseling services, religious therapy, and constant supervision to make sure he was not suicidal or doing

“gay things”. But, you know all of this already. Morality, a certain group of values depending upon the person. We have different ideas about what

that is, though. I don’t want you to think I am shaming you for where you stood in those moments. I am

shaming you because you should have done more. You should have stood up in every moment that you

could and not back down from the bullies, your parents, the social worker, and anyone else who stood in

the way of your happiness. Those small moments where you rewound the history you wrote ruined your

path. Earlier, I mentioned that our definitions of a good person are different. You thought that what you

were doing in that moment was you being a good person, but it was only causing more pain and more

stress.

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Trapped

Jaimie L. Mcgovern Wake up. Get dressed. Get in the car. Three things… Just three things. Open the door Just…open the door. See your grandma Go to work Easy, right? No—it’s not No—it’s not. On carpeted floor You sit and stare. Don’t feel happy, Don’t feel sad. Don’t feel anything at all. Everything and nothing, Two sides of a coin. Both weigh too much Both kept inside Both keep you inside. No—they don’t Yes—they do. There’s a way One way out, Like Alice Open the bottle Down the Rabbit Hole. Bottles on the dresser White makes you— Shake. Shake. Shake. Yellow puts you to bed Orange opens the door. No—don’t take it Yes—you need to.

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One orange pill. Swallow it dry. Wait… Wait… Wait.

Heart stops racing. Eyes stop leaking.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Push open the door.

Breeze against your face.

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REAL LIFE SCENARIO

Sarah Ansari

There were murders. Monk from "Monk" was called.

Columbo from "Columbo" came. Jessica Fletcher from "Murder She Wrote"

was already there. CSI from CBS network

arrived for prints. They all had potential,

kings of their rings everyone had something to declare

some prints- no proof it looked like a job of a pro.

Murders, She Wrote were already written but these were not.

They took place on a plane no one knows when and how

though they were all published at various times and places.

Matlock had an opinion though they all agreed on something

it was a she who did it because of the details involved

she was talk of the town rumors crossed left and right.

Monk declared, it could be a job of two. Columbo said “it's both, a woman and a man”.

Jessica believed both were working together.

CSI found traces. Matlock had observed

the techniques involved were both, updated and outdated despite all the efforts

that’s the closest they got they could not arrest

the culprits involved it was nothing like,

an on screen investigation the success criteria was high

they all felt defeated they closed every case they ever got

no matter, the circumstances it takes more

than just script and style bloody reality doesn't let anyone win it wasn’t as convenient as on screen

they came extremely close but missed by real world scenario

and faced the brutality of reality

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Melody

Samantha Ascencio

Once a girl happy and smiling

But that was five years ago

Insecure and scared is her logo

An empty shell was now living

Oh Melody

I should have seen, understand

Suffering suffers in your eyes

Sorrows, misery in your moans

Distress and despair now lays

Oh Melody

Lying down lotus position lights out

Staring in the abysmal secrets

She was starting to wig out

Losing her mind, pulling her hair

Oh Melody

But that was just the beginning

Was just the ecstasy and heroin

Was just the pain and the regrets

Was just the delusions and the weakness

Oh Melody

Euaaggchch! Bent down, hands on throat

Spilling the dirty true on the blanket

“I am addicted and dying”

Picks up the needle and stabs again

Oh Melody

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Lyrics to “Like a Nightmare”

Kate Oberg

It’s like a nightmare, or daydream that I had once before;

We were walking, and then we weren’t together no more.

Stood there silent, stood there ‘til I knew it was true;

You had vanished, and I was all alone without you.

Start to wonder, got this eerie feeling inside;

Wonder whether, it’s better to go run or to hide.

Kind of frozen, know I’d better do something quick;

Before I do though, this nightmare starts to play other tricks.

The street gets darker, and then it starts to get kind of cold,

Strangely silent, and this is where the story unfolds.

Started running, I’m running but I can’t catch my breath;

Then the pavement turns to silvers water instead.

Silver water, reflecting all the clouds in the sky;

Icy water, reflecting all my feelings inside.

The sun’s still setting, it’s frozen and it’s violet and blue;

The softest whisper, I hear footsteps, turn around—it’s not you.

A stranger’s shadow, or something disappears off stage right;

It’s getting darker but the sky, it’s like an empire of light.

A little lightning—makes a better story to tell;

Want it over, ‘cause this is getting scary as hell.

Run for cover, there’s a hollow in the leaves and I hide;

Won’t admit it, but if I did it this is where I’d have cried.

The wind is howling, the sky is pouring lavender rain;

Can’t see clearly and this part’s kind of hard to explain…

There’s this tremor, like metal on a glass violin.

It decrescendos; it’s almost imperceptibly thin.

It’s got a line like a melody familiar and old;

Stand and listen, I’m shaking, restless, quiet and cold.

Run to chase it, it’s only sounding farther away,

Getting further and god only knows how far I’ve strayed.

In a meadow, there’re shadows but there’s nobody there,

Just the darkness, the stars, the chill, my breath, the thin air.

Where’d you go love, somewhere in a parallel dream?

Are you lost, too, somewhere in a similar scene?

Lying down now, in sleep maybe this nightmare will end;

If sleep won’t come though, I’ll lie here still and try to pretend.

Here we go now, I’m fading and the slumber is deep;

You start to rock me, I pray the lord my soul not to keep.

If it’s real, love, I’ll never let you leave me again;

If I’m still dreaming, I’m praying that this dream never ends…

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Goodbye Patrick Sheils

It was that night in Dublin, holding hands in the cobblestone Square of Trinity College where our

eyes met for the final time. When my soul overcame the physical boundaries of this fluctuating world and

took the two of us to a place we had never been. We laid on the unmade twin bed in the moonlit bedroom

of her uncle’s home, a lamp housed under a dusty shade flickering on and off as the Dublin air blowing in

from the French window blanketed us from the world outside. Our relationship was consummated that

night, the keystone of a house that took far too long to build finally set in place. A life was created that night. I arrived back in the States two days later, buzzing with the intoxication

of a love renewed; the drug that makes a man forget that he is of this world, that anything else exists

outside of the love shared by the only two people on earth. If you’ve ever visited that world before and

you’re reading this, you know. You just know. As the days slowly turned to weeks, the effects of the drug began to wear off. Samantha had yet again

disappeared into the ether, leaving me to question the perceived strides I had made internally, the belief

that I may have finally overcome this metaphysical cancer that followed me like a shadow through even

the darkest of street corners. Months went by without a single word. Then came the dominoes. One fell,

and then another. And another. “I’m pregnant.” Terror and joy meet in an overwhelming torrent. How

else can one react to such news? That not only is he not alone on this earth, but a piece of him of will

soon embed itself into this tangible creation and cultivate their own story. Write their own book of

memories. To think of these moments in love, the moments that make every shitty day, every hangover,

every sour grape consumed utterly worth it, and then to think that you have just given this same gift to

another human being? That they will be able to experience it on their own, completely independent from

all else? An individual… A free individual with the capacity to think and question. To give love and

receive love, to fall and get back up. To bleed, to cry and to weep for joy. If life ended at that very

moment, the knowledge that I, Jeff O’ Rourke, maybe the most selfish man on the face of the planet had

been able to give a gift like that to someone else? I could have dropped dead at that very moment and it

would have been completely ok. I would have gone in peace. Samantha and I had made plans to meet in Dublin, to figure out how we would make this work. I

looked furiously for employment overseas, completely ready to give up the life that I had made for myself

in New York and to finally live my life for another. For our little girl. How it would be done, how we

would make it worth were but superfluous questions as meaningful as a scuff mark on a pair of old work

boots. It was going to work. I was going to make it work. Dominoes. One fell, and then another. And then another. I received a phone call from Samantha as I

maniacally drafted up blueprints for our daughter. Samantha tried to push words out through the gulps of

air forcing themselves in and out of her lungs. I couldn’t make out a word. Within moments, our call was

disconnected. Ok, I thought. She’ll call back in a few minutes. Only she never did. Two weeks ago, at 9:30 on a Saturday morning she hung herself in the master bedroom of her

mother’s home. My face froze and the phone fell out of my hand. Samantha Reali hung herself in her

mother’s bedroom. Later on that night, I opened an email that I had curiously overlooked. It was from

Sam. The lyrics to Brahm’s In Stiller Nacht, the same words that filled the single leaf of paper she used

for her suicide note that sat atop the night stand as her lifeless body swayed back and forth from the bed

sheet she used to snuff out the life of my unborn daughter. It was a sheet of paper no different than the

one I’ve been writing on since 7:00 this morning. In the quiet of night, at first watch a voice begins to lament. The night wind, sweet and mild, brought

the sound to me. My heart was melted by such bitter sorrow and sadness. I watered the flowers with my

pure tears. The beautiful moon wishes to set and not shine any longer on such pain. The stars wishing to

cry with me let their shining fade. One hears neither the song of a bird nor the expressions of joy.

And wild animals grieve with me in rocks and crevices.

23 | P a g e

Now I’m here, back at this café beginning to close up shop. I carry with me a darkness too severe to

put to words. I know now the pain you must have carried, Samantha. The only type of pain that can lead

us to this ugliest of destinations. The pain that makes the other side somehow less horrific than this one.

The barista just came up to me to confirm they’ll be closing up in a few moments. I spent a good while

this evening reading over these last few pages. I had seen Samantha degenerate into a desperate, wounded

drug addict from the brown-eyed girl that stole my heart under the fireworks so many years ago but I

never once dreamed this could happen. Even her diminished state did nothing but enhance the flame that

burned for her, stoking the fire as a way to immortalize the woman who once was. I don’t now, nor have I

ever possessed the strength to pursue this endless pit of despair, but if I won’t try now then it will never

happen. The image haunts me. How could it not? I keep imagining the detached tone of a news anchor as

they relay the underbelly of our world with the sympathy of a robot. Samantha had no one to cry for her. I

tried, and the tears would not come. Now, the small table at which I sit has room for one more item as I

take the poison pill out from my coat and place it upon the wooden surface. My heart rate begins to

accelerate. I close my eyes, expecting to be flooded with memories of the past only to find myself

completely drained of all, for they now occupy these pages of a filled notebook. They no longer belong to

me. Yet there is one memory left. A pedestrian afternoon of an undetermined time or place. I do not know

how old I am. It is utterly impossible to describe the feeling properly. Still, I will not sully the last

remaining artifact of goodness left in me with profanity or snark in an effort to maintain street cred. The

feeling of hearing a forty piece motet of Talis’ Spem in Alium, of melting into a pool as the heavenly

embrace of the world around me builds me back up and warms my bones is too powerful to ignore. It

dumps itself onto the page, my hand joining my memories, no longer belonging to me. The

overwhelmingly powerful instinct to give thanks, to extend my hands to the heavens, however fleeting

that moment may be makes everything else, literally everything else worth experiencing. To know that I

was alive. That I breathed and looked to the stars which exist on a level of magnitude outside of my

comprehension and yet for all their mass, still completely unable to feel as I have felt. To live as I have

lived. I feel weightless. Existence-less. I am there and everywhere, and in that feeling a truth is

acknowledged. The paradoxical nature of both my insignificance and importance revels in the

acknowledgement that I am not alone and yet still completely me. Within seconds the feeling is gone and I am left to sort out how I will live out the rest of this

moment, no doubt necessarily but the air of this final moment will somehow smell a bit sweeter, for this I

am certain. My mind is not powerful enough and far too cynical by nature to conjure up a magic trick on

this level. Sometimes things are as they are. Life defined in seconds. Moments. Days pass with no

consequence, overlapping into another as they create a ball of yarn to be scrapped when day turns to

night. But within those days are the moments, the seconds that animate. They make life life. We need the

forgetful days for without them the seconds would not be born and we’d have nothing to take with us as

we go. The parameters set. A life lived. A moment of eternity. This moment, this second I am

thankful. Sam, we will be together again. Goodbye.

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Melancholy

H. Malley

My home, where is it?

After all, it’s strange – it’s far away…

The air is filled with leaves and rain

As tears run down my face.

The kids are chasing frogs and then

Pick berries for the jam.

It’s noisy, messy, lots of fun,

Their memories will stay.

We have to leave the native land,

With heavy heart we go.

With autumn leaves, and frogs, and jam

And lots of kids in tow.

The Corruption Eve Christie Clerval

The system is now corrupted,

The way we used to live has now been disrupted, We live a life now so limited that it seems like our rights are being abbreviated,

Is Humanity still appreciated? We need to be reconstructed because the humane parts of us have now become cold-hearted,

The bad seeds need now to be deactivated in order to be disinfected, It’s been exaggerated that some lives don’t matter,

I am flabbergasted because I thought that “ All Lives Mattered,” Today Blacks are being degraded,

And to some, We do not deserve to be appreciated, Since when are we so consumed by evil that to some degree we can become Psychotic?

Can Humanity even be recognized anymore? It’s so sad to think that this is what we’ve become,

That we are so blinded by Ignorance, By Hatred, that we can’t see that something is wrong, Time is not on our side,

She has always moved at her own pace, at her own style, and never too close but parallel to our being, She will never be on our side to grant us the chance to fix it,

The time was then and we did not fix it, and the time is now yet we’ve made made no progress We’ve been given countless chances yet we only take them for granted,

We are as ignorant today and we were just as ignorant yesterday, And Now I fear that if we don’t open our eyes to see how corrupted we are,

If we aren’t already, We’re in a for a very rude awakening

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Tyrant’s Reign

By Edgar Zavala

Monuments rise as kingdoms descend

Rulers so mighty their powers ascend

Death and destruction they have on their hands

A plague that brings havoc and fear throughout the land

 

Blue skies now black

Severe punishment not be taken back

Waters blood red

As peasants lay in agony on their bed

 

Poor, hunger, and sickness is brought upon by the Tsar’s

Such amusement this brings them as they stare maniacally at the stars

Pyramids peasants construct as ordered by the pharaoh

Sitting on his throne waiting to kill anyone with his mighty arrow

 

People flee or stay hidden from the holocaust and deadly camps

So much wreckage left behind from torn apart books, and broken toys, windows and lamps

Hope, freedom, happiness all gone

Evil has truly won

 

Powerless and scared

Being brave is something no one dared

A miracle taking place is the only saving grace

To topple the evil all have refused to embrace

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The Crystal Lens

Robert Iredell

We look back at the days past through a crystal lens and see the great beam of light shine on

as a pool of emotion which bubbles in response. One ray meets me as the warm, red embrace of

an old friend. Another, heavier, beam smacks my resolution as a cold blue ocean wave slams

against a boulder alone on the beach and dissipates in a blur of white foam that feels like glass

shattering into the mind. Another bright greenish light comes to my vision, a time in which fields

and wild nature provoke my inner self which cast itself to remind the many many lost days to

confinement. Our crystal lens changes every day and with each day, hour, minute a new shard

rises to bend and distort the light of the past in a new and puzzling way. Can the shards be

undone? Will the light that reaches me now ever find its way to bend back through the lens and

bring to me a splash of warmth in knowing the simpler times? Distant memories preserved in

light. Untraceable yet true and present in the universe. Even now, the light of everything is

reflected off of me and is cast off into darkness. Will todays blue be tomorrows red? What will

my light now be in the future to me? Only the darkness of days to come truly knows. The growth

of the lens does not halt for no material thing. This lens grows in times of strife and in times of

pure delight. As I age it slows but never stops, each day, the time before becomes fuzzier,

different, changed. Could it be I see the smallest speck of truth from before? Or has the light met

my mind nearly untouched by the crystal that grows? This crystal is harder than any diamonds

and as knowable as time itself. Even the words of which I write become part of an identity that

the crystal lens has kept in itself preserved yet untouchable. The crystal lens holds us all. It feeds

on our growth as both a leech to our life-blood and as the sun to our mind-sky. Be it there, the

identity of the past is gone yet here. A question to which you are the answer. And today a

question to an answer of time. Fear not the lens. The lens will never fear you.

27 | P a g e

When I Was Eight Tom Elgort

When I was eight, I loved chocolate Nutty Bars and played lacrosse,

I hated being inside and didn’t understand movies,

But I loved to read.

When I was fourteen, I played video games for hours,

Sometimes I dreaded looking at unfamiliar people,

And I wore big hoodie to school every day.

I always loved my Mom and especially my Dad because he could always make me laugh,

I had four best friends that I spent all of my time with.

When I was seventeen I fell in love and had my heart broken,

They are the very best and worst experiences I’ve ever had,

I listened to people and talked about their lives,

I made a lot of friends,

I got mad when my parents talked about money,

I didn’t like the idea of money or see any grave importance in it.

When I was nineteen I made some new friends and didn’t talk to some old friends,

I cut my long hair and read less and discovered alcohol,

I was a jerk,

I didn’t eat anything I liked and followed too many people,

But I came home when I turned twenty.

I still didn’t like money much, but saw enough of its necessity,

When bad kids hung out on our lawn, I chased them with a hockey stick,

And when I turned twenty-one I went wherever I pleased and did as I wanted.

Now, at twenty-four, I feel my bones beneath my skin,

Sometimes I even have nightmares about burglars,

I read more than ever now,

And I have four best friends, whom I love dearly,

I hate money more than ever, yet am intimately acquainted with its requirement,

And as I write this, I am eating a Nutty Bar,

Only I eat them more slowly now,

Layer by layer,

Savoring each bite,

By thirty, I may even be mortal.

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To submit your work to a future issue of

Harmonia, The Creative Writing Journal

at SUNY College Old Westbury….

We accept submissions to Harmonia every Fall for publication in the

Spring. Potential contributors can submit up to 3 pieces. 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.

Poems should be no longer than 3 pages.

You will be contacted with the editors’ decision approximately 4

weeks after the semester’s deadline.

For more information, see the English Department website

www.english-ow.com

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