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The PlowSpring 2014 Issue

The PlowEnglish Society

Literary & Arts Magazine

Volume 1, Issue 1Spring 2014

Editorial BoardMelissa BrodheadDiedre FlemingAlaina HaidonRobert Rebera

Victoria Watson

English Society AdvisorsDr. Abigail Bowers

Ms. Elizabeth Devore

The PlowThe Plow is a literary and art

magazine for students of the Kent State University at Ashtabula

campus and is published online once a year.

SubmissionsSubmissions may be sent via our

website: www.ashtabula.kent.edu/student/theplow.cfm. Submission

deadlines are on the website.

ContactYou can also contact us at [email protected].

Front Cover PhotoPhoto by Melissa Brodhead

Letter from the Editorial Board

We would like to welcome everyone to the inaugural edition of The Plow. During the long winters of Northeast Ohio, we are all familiar with the sight of a snow plow pushing aside the snow. During the summer months, many of us have plowed the earth for planting. Of course, all of us, at some point or another, have plowed our way through crowded hallways to get to class on time. Kent State Ashtabula’s newly sown literary journal, The Plow, invited students at Kent State Ashtabula to push aside writing blocks, turn their creative soil, and plow through the process of creation, and they embraced the challenge.

We received many submissions and the selection process was difficult, but we hope that the work featured in these pages is of the highest quality. We would like to thank everyone who submitted work to the journal to help our first issue be a success.

Our goal is to present the unique voices and visions of the students on our campus and we look forward to continued success with The Plow in the future.

The Plow Editorial Board

Poetry

Wreck of a Relationship 3Diedre Fleming

Musings on an Ex-Boyfriend 4Gabriella Irwin

DJ 5Gabriella Irwin

The End of Monsters 6Ryan Kinney

Relics (House of Stolen Light) 7Ryan Kinney

Hammer 9Ryan Kinney

Things 11Ryan Kinney

Free Kittens 13Ryan Kinney

Plato’s Paradox 15Ryan Kinney

The AntiChild 17Ryan Kinney

The Words Will Come 19Ryan Kinney

The Blue Collar Lament 20Ryan Kinney

Heartsick 21Victoria Watson

Creative Non-Fiction

Safekeeping 22Melissa Brodhead

Biding Time in Boulder 23Diedre Fleming

Two Dates and a Dash 29Victoria Watson

Masks 31Victoria Watson

Contributors 32

Table of Contents

Wreck of a RelationshipDiedre Fleming

This is a ghost storyof past loves lost. To the avenues of lasting legacies.Speeding past. Not fast enough for the sickness hovering close behind. The discomfort of riding side by side.What was that blind eye?Flirting with the guardrail and cement block. Teetering on the edge of the abyss. Smashing into something bigger than ourselves. A near miss. Stranded on the street.Hand and foot peeking past the white sheet. A body on the freeway I can’t take my eyes off of.A phantom rising above. Bleak frames resting in a traffic jam. Out of this darkness can you understand who I really am?Grief from losing you. Just an image in the rearview. Dying along the horizon. An old idea that will never be new.A picture that is closer than it appears to be.Snapshots of you stuck in eternity.

Poetry

3 The Plow / Spring 2014

Musings on an Ex-Boyfriend Gabriella Irwin

He’s fast asleep as I stepJust over the thresholdLetting myself in.He’s never locked the door.

Fresh eggs left on the counterWashed clean and setNext to a cardThat says ‘best wishes’

To touch his hair beforeI leave – such a decision!Eyes open facing upHe smiles“It’s good to see you”

You already said thatBut you say it againEyes scanning over Prescription bottles

And you wonder which Boundary would beCrossed if youFluffed his pillowsStraightened out the afghan.

The Plow / Spring 2014 4

DJGabriella Irwin

If ever so much joy has swelled a heartas the sight of you sleeping,then that joy is not one known by me.For no greater inner raptureof luck, bliss, and contentmenthas been realized by this imperfect body,whose soul your steady breath does reward.As the morning’s light kisses the downy curvesof your buttocks and back,I splendor in the knowledge that you - this quiet portrait;my sequestered masterpiece,should be at my eyes disposal for all time.I give thanks for each lock of your hair,for each half open glimpse of one eye every morning,above the rampart of pillowthat lives not long between us,as we greet each other’s bodies in the ceremonyof yet another day spent together.



The End of MonstersRyan Kinney

It was the end of monstersThe end of mothersThe end of haters Of loversOf pain and suffering Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bedNo terror floating in your headJust the buzzing and swarming of the insects

There was just the animalistic need to surviveAnd Gaia had decided It was best for her survival If we did not

The fall of man

Truth be toldWe did it to ourselves


Relics (House of Stolen Light)Ryan Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truckThat old song is playing on the radioWhose lyrics I have misheard and, hell… “Who did that damn song, anyways?”Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porchAnd more windows than wallsBut the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawnThe windows do not let the light into the home,But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girlsFinally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonmentUntil eventually their days of play started getting shorterAnd they return to their nine months of confinementWith no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my handTo be thrown into this house of glassI picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoodsI see the sunlight exploding from the foundationThe cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with greenYears of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceivingMaybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruinBut rather a cracked and worn old photo albumHousing years of relics of lives spent well and with loveLove that our generation could not possibly fathomDevoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it


How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the lightBut, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing insideSo that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightnessAnd anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kindRicher and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?What secrets do you hold?How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?What lives have you had?What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.“This is gonna be fun.”As I kick in the front door


HammerRyan Kinney

**Picks up Hammer**Swings Hammer

This one’s for every woman who didn’t love meAnd for every one that ever did

This one’s for every person who has ever doubted and underestimated meFor those who ever thought my life should be a mirror of their journey‘Cause theirs worked out SO well for them*SMASH

This one’s for my Father,Mother,Brothers

My brother’s keeper,Sins of the Father,And inheritance of Mother’s malice

This one’s for every time I’ve had to prove I’m the GOOD son*SMASH

This one’s for the bigots,Racists,

Hate-spewing monstersFor the motherfucking morons

This one’s for those who assume I’m gay‘Cause that’s SUPPOSSED to matter*SMASH

This one’s for those who have passed their petty judgmentsBased on the surface of my faceOr my visible scarsOr my hidden ones

This one’s for those who have called me freakFor those who judge me on who I wasNot who I AM*SMASH

This one’s for those who lack the ability to see in color and shadesLocked in their boring black and white senseless absolutesThere aren’t just gray areasThere are tints of every shade we a capable of perceiving

This one’s for the LITTLE people*SMASH

This one’s for those who patronize my intelligenceBut yet are so easily fooled into acceptanceWith a pair of plastic black frames

This one’s for IRONY*SMASH


This one’s for those who have let me downDisappointed me, failed meFailed to live to their potential

This one’s for EVERYONE*SMASH

This one’s for meFor not living up to my own potential

This one’s for who I AM*SMASH

And this one...These tears...

**Drops Hammer**Looks to the sky...

This one’s for my son


ThingsRyan Kinney

I don’t have people. I have things.

I suppose that is not completely true.As one of those “things” is so apt to say, “It’s a shade of gray.”

There are exceptions to that rule.As I, myself, am quite exceptional.There are a chosen few I let inAnd allow to peer into the darknessAnd through my unblinking, unwavering eyesLet the darkness stare back at them

However, for most people, They are a thing to me

Something to be used, with a specific purpose and functionWhose value is not based on mutual respectAtleast not more so than I give any of my personal belongingsPerhaps that is the core of the issueI personify my inanimate accumulationsAnd dehumanize my sentient gatherings

What good can you do for me?What good can you do for yourself,That I can then, vicariously, take credit for?And justify my use of youWhile I put you on reserve for my future megalomaniac endeavors

Some philosopher in an old book I have long since forgottenOnce suggested that true altruism is not possibleThat no matter how seemingly unselfish your motives wereThere was always some selfish desire in all actionsEven if it was the need to feed on the “warm and fuzzies” of convincing yourself that you are a good person

Another of my “things” has also suggested that my view makes me a sociopathI can agree with thatMy conscience lacks a separation between the human and the inertMost sociopaths have a certain charmThat makes them appear as if they care and are part of social, collective conscienceWhich is often very thinly veiled,Behind their complete disdain for any others


It’s not something that I want to be.It’s just a realization that I am coming uponI wish I was more humanI struggle against dehumanizing these mystifying creaturesBut the years of my life, my decisions and actions, and mere circumstanceHas left me less and less desire to trust and care for less and less people

Now things…Things I can control, warp, bend to my willI can use things;

They have a reason for beingThey are typically where I put them and only let me down when they breakAnd even then, they are usually easily replaced or subverted. They don’t leave me, lie to me, or betray meI won’t say that a thing has never broken my heartBecause, let’s face it,

I put more of a face on object than a personBut even the chips in my core from a seized engine or a shredded shirtDo not leave half the gash that someone clawing their way out of the depths of my darkness,

That I have allowed them to nestle into, does

To be honest, I do not even know what a person isI can define an object;My senses give it form, function, and purposeA person, however, is like a flowing riverWhile always the same in nameIt is constantly changing, shifting, and flowingLeaving me no reference pointNo straws to grasp ontoIf I cannot even understand my own ebbs and rapidsHow can I even begin to know this thing that is a person?

No, Better, or rather easier, that I freeze that river at a particular point

Or even simultaneously at multiple pointsThen I can lift it, move it, have some indication with which to know what it is and what I can do with itThen toss that piece back into the torrents, until I have need of it again

Now, if we really want to get down to it…I have spent a large portion of my life in introspectionAs a selfish being, I constantly try to figure out what and who I amDo you know what I found out?

I’m not really a person either;Just another thing.


Free KittensRyan Kinney

Whenever I see one of those signsAdvertising cheap, easy loveI am reminded of my darkest hoursWhen I fed my addiction to affectionTo a love, a life I could control.To something that needed me.

Surely they’ll love meAnd quell the devouring loneliness and disconnection

Like little furry whoresWithout the sex.Wrong kinda pussyWrong kinda love

When I had a full haremI discovered, there is such a thing as too manyThey were infested with parasites and ailmentsWithout constant attentionThey’d shit on and defileMy every possession

My childish and selfish delightTurned into an overwhelming nightmareI didn’t know how to handle themI never didNever herNever myself

Each time I put one downI’d see their scared facesPleading “Why don’t you love me?”“Because,” I’d say, “She didn’t love me.”“None of them do.”“They won’t keep me.” “I can’t keep you.”

Unable to understand whyAs I snuffed the life out of each little creature


Pushed to the brinkThey became souvenirs of desperationIf this horrifies you,Then you are right.It horrifies me too

I cared more for those cats than my grandmother that yearAt her funeral, I said prayers for themHer entire 77 years more worthless than several weeks with each catGrandma- Dead in my heart by her own callousnessThe kittens-By my own hand for their innocence


Plato’s ParadoxRyan Kinney

What if Plato was right?And there are eternal truthsEthereal knowledge that exists independent of humansJust waiting for us to grasp

What if all knowledge was not the product of human ingenuity?But just our ability to latch onto these truths.We can reach and hold them,But never with our handsFeel them,But never touch them

What if he was right?But off by a few millenniaMaybe it was a prophetic vision Just waiting for technology to catch upSome access code or binary formulaThat taps us into ultimate knowledge

What if you could instantly know anything you wished?And substitute lifetimes of trainingFor a momentary flashBach and Bruce LeeSocrates and EinsteinLennon and NietzscheAll their skill, yours with ease

What if you knew everything?Nothing would be out of your reachWould you become a god among men?Or covertly use your power to reign?Would you be a benevolent benefactor? And teach instead?Would you share your knowledge?Would you share your power?

Or would it drive you insane?Madness that only a genius could know.With no questions left to answer.Would, why I exist? Haunt your existence.


Would life lose its flavor?Would you spend your life bored?Obsessed with trying to locate something you don’t knowOnly to realize it’s all been done

Would your heart be left twisted and wrung dry?As your mind grew.Would you scar yourself?Or stand in the freezing rain.Just to remember what it was like to feel.Would you allow knowledge to make you cold and bitter?

Would you allow it to make you a monster?An immoral beast who did only because he couldn’t be stopped?If absolute knowledge corrupts,Would you lose your humanity?At the very moment you understood what it meant to be human?

What if you could know anything you ever wanted?What’s stopping you?


The AntiChildRyan Kinney

Happy Birthday, my AntiChild.What will be my gift to you? Life. A random slice of all that came before you.With the wisdom of a madman.

I will twist, and shape, and encourage,Oh yes, you will be corrupted.I will teach you, That the world is not as you’ve been told.

I will tell you,What it means to be a man, And a woman.And the difference is all in your head

No one is right or wrong.Only what’s right for you.Adults lie.Juvenile records are not permanent.Kids were made for fun.

While we’re at it…Santa Claus is a zombie, The Easter Bunny is a mutant, Unicorns are a government conspiracy…

Then I will tell you, I could be lying.But, think for yourself.I bet you could come up with a better story.And, know, That the sanest man in the room is probably the most insane.

Life will hurt, And often suck.But don’t give up.Women will break your heart.Growing up is a sin, But, be responsible for yourself.


Never take anything too seriously, And do everything with absolute sincerity.Question everything.Take nothing for granted.Seek the answers yourself.Answer Who am I? Then go out with Nerf guns blazing.

I will teach you to create, To turn garbage into gold. To give your thoughts form.And your hands their due.To see potential and possibility,Where others only see trash and hopelessness.Everything is art.

You will write on paper bags, And doodle on receipts.Grab the nearest object, And give way to your soul.

My little taint will ensure, That your thoughts MUST boltWith the spasmodic urgency of adolescence. Or you WILL combust.And sometimes, I will tell you to do just that.

Life will be your creation.Therein lies the truest art. The finest work of man, Is to make something out of themselves.

Why, the AntiChild?Because you will be the antithesis of every other kid,You will be better, You are our legacy.A universe of your own making awaits you.Built on a family of love, life, experience… And more than a few comic books.

The Words Will ComeRyan Kinney

When you are choked up and lost and cannot speak or breathe, The words will come.

Scribble them on bar napkins, Your palm, The waitress’s forehead if you must.Don’t let your words disappear into the ether of lost memories and forgotten dreams.

When you are brain dead and burned out,The words will come.

It takes just a spark, And a little fuel.A soft touch, A harsh collision.Anything can ignite your fury.

It’s your responsibility, And your right.To develop them into the divine,The art that imitates life, Or substitutes as it.

No matter what your excuse is, Or incapable as you think you are,The words will come.



The Blue Collar LamentRyan Kinney

I spend most of my week in a semi-conscience trance watching multi-million dollar machines work. They are more alive than I am. Monday at 3 PM I click off my brain, switch on automatic, and begin the countdown-T-minus 40 hours. Each minute that ticks by in the dull monotony slowly steals my sanity, bit by bit. The vampire conglomerate that signs my check robs me of my youth, intelligence, and vitality until I am just another mindless automaton.

These walls are masters of time. Each minute closer to Friday gets slower and slower, until on Friday they seem to tick backwards. Then on Monday, the entirety of the previous week repeats. Each day blurs into the other making them indistinguishable.

The dictator they put in charge of the asylum barks out commands on cue, just to remind everyone that they own you. All the while he never realizes that he’s just another puppet dancing for them, only his strings are shorter. When they inevitably cut them he has further to fall.

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week. In the few instances the machines malfunction I curse being awakened. At least as a zombie I don’t feel my mind rotting.

I live on the weekends. I shed the identity the uniform has forced upon me and my true self emerges. On the weekends I love life, I achieve the goals I value, not the hazy path set before me by the corporation that owns my soul. For two days the dungeon master gives me reprieve from my incarceration. Upon clocking out each Friday I suddenly feel rejuvenated, while Sunday night I begin dreading the impending coma.

The desperation for dollars are the shackles that keep me here. I am only truly living two days a week and dying the other five. I’ve made a pact with the devil, 5/7th of my life for a weekly pittance. Until the decay of my body matches that of my brain I return weekly to mind numbing tedium, the memory of my weekend existence fading into the background.

Written 1/28/08 while on the “job”Edited and organized into sensibility on a weekend.

HeartsickVictoria Watson

He said that he was fineAnd put back on the maskHe said it would take timeAnd pressed forward to his task


SafekeepingMelissa Broadhead

I used to blame you. I used to think it was all your fault, but that’s not the truth. I know that I brought it on my-self. Laying on my back with my head in the clouds, legs wide and thighs trembling. I could have said no. No. Maybe I did say it. Maybe I just thought it. I wanted you to pick up on my hesitation. I wanted you to feel the uncertainty in my touch. I wanted you to pull up your jeans and hold me. Tell me it’s ok. Tell me you understood how I felt. You knew me better than I knew myself and now you know too much. What you wanted was easy and I was willing to give. Low self-esteem loves attention and for a while, between first touch and last thrust, I felt beautiful. I was blinded by the attention. The feeling. I was looking for peace on a mattress. Heavy blankets are comforting but nothing felt safer than having the weight of you pressing into me. White became gray. Lines became blurred. Broken barriers. Broken me. Broken us. Friends became strangers. With muffled voices and searching hands you became unrecognizable. As did I. Who am I? I don’t need a man to violate me in order to validate my existence. I know that now. I wish I knew then. I always gave you everything. This was the inevitable final step. I should have seen this coming. I saw you coming. Lying on my back with my lips on your shoulder and your hands on my waist, I tried to convince myself that this was what I always wanted.

Sweat mixes with tears. The scent of latex fills the air and I could feel your heartbeat against my chest as you held me and told me you loved me. That’s all I wanted and this was my price to pay. I spent the next few days dazed. Soreness was my constant reminder. I’d close my eyes and hear you breathing in my ear. I’d close my eyes and feel you holding me tight. I didn’t know what it felt like to belong before that night, maybe I still don’t. But it was fun pretending. But the lights had to come on. The condom would go in the trash and you would go out the door. I would go in the shower. Your scent always lingered longer than you did and I always needed it gone. This “friend by day, fuck buddy by night” routine did little to raise my self-esteem. Only when your body was fit to mine did I feel like I was someone special. Only then did I feel empowered. I got off on the fact that all your attention was on me. Maybe it wasn’t, but that was then. On those few nights with you, when I was lying on my back with my heart between my thighs, hoping that if I kept it there, you would find it.

Creative Non-Fiction



Biding Time in BoulderDiedre Fleming

The trip to Boulder was only as planned as the time it took to steal the credit card from Marquita’s worn leather bound wallet. Running through discarded backyards, over the brown grass and chain link fences, gasping for breath, I rushed into my tent which was propped up behind an abandoned house. “C’mon Jasmine, where are you?” I said. I rustled around the dirty green quilt that smelled musty from weeks of lying outside in the damp midnight air. Finally, I found our prepaid phone and pounded dope boys numbers. As she ripped open the zipper bound entrance, Jasmine said, “Dia! Did you get it?” I jumped up, startled. “Fuck man you scared the shit out of me. Yeah I got it. Did she see me?” She looked at me with disbelief. “No, you’re cool. I can’t believe you slid in there with her in the kitchen,” she said. We both began to laugh like maniacs, or rather dope fiends knowing they are about to get high. Jasmine is about 5’11 and 230 pounds while I stand a mere 5’3 and 125 pounds. We looked like a freak show act standing next to one another. She used to hoist me up with her big mammoth hands, throwing me through any open window to rummage around previously unseen bedrooms looking for whatever we could to sell. On this particular day, no gymnastic acts were necessary. That summer was hot and chalk full of felonies falling down around my pale complexion. With only the dirty clothes on my back and needle mark’s down my arms, I really had nothing left to lose but my life. Even that had become trivial back in 2006. “Man I feel like death,” I said. Hunched over and holding my stomach, I rocked back and forth trying to simulate a fetal position until I got enough drugs to feel better. “We got to get right.” Looking at me, she had that distant look in her eyes, like she was trying to either revert back to some happier past or to fast forward to some unknown future. “I know…maybe we could just leave Dia. You know, run away together like we always wanted. Isn’t Chris in Boulder?” she said. My friend Chris had moved to Colorado about six months earlier and invited me to come out and stay. The first felonies dropped for the stolen cars so now I had warrants out for my arrest. Sleeping outside made it hard to elude the police, only shadows and random strangers letting me stay with them concealed my whereabouts. I often found myself in run down garages; collapsing onto old deflated pool rafts had made it a hard winter. I really wasn’t sure if I had another season left for that kind of survival. Rubbing the back of my grimy neck with my hand, I contemplated what we would have to do to move out west. “Yeah he said we could come out. But I don’t know, were gonna have to end up putting like $600 on that card. Isn’t it a felony after $500?” I said, referring to the stolen credit card, which had already found its resting spot next to the day old Polar Pop turned ashtray. After several phone calls to drug dealers, using “friends” and the Greyhound bus station, we had acquired both a ride to get dope and tickets to Boulder. Our bus left first thing in the morning when the dew was still settling on the canopy of trees surrounding our makeshift shanty. After a night full of nodding, we awoke snuggled up next to each other and our dope. “Dude, get up. We have to walk to Bunker Hill by 7,” I said, nudging Jasmine. Random grunts, a flick of the lighter and the smell of smoke, signified that we were up and ready for our next adventure. Founded in 1914 by Carl Wickman, the term Greyhound was not officially coined until 1929. That same year the stock market crashed and the bus line suffered greatly, as did many companies during that time. With over one million dollars in debt, many thought the line, and Mr. Wickman had reached their final destination point. As I crossed the threshold from city-street to the station, I too anticipated this was the end of something, either my madness or my life. The lot in Ashtabula was as empty as either one of us. Finding a secluded spot on the grassy hillside next to the cracked pavement, we dug out the rainbow colored glasses case that held our crusty spoons and bent needles. Hygiene is the last thing on your mind when you are trying to get high.


Restless and anxious, Jasmine prodded me. As she glanced over both shoulders to make sure no one was coming, she said, “Come on hurry up.” We searched our hands and arms trying to find a spot that wasn’t already covered in thick scar tissue so we could tie off. With one last push of those dirty old “rigs,” we were on our way. Ready to make a new life in a place that we could only imagine. Seeking a bliss we had only previously found in the injections of transparent liquid filling up cc’s worth of happiness. Rattling up the quiet suburban street, the bus came to a screeching halt, ending in a swoosh, as if it was already exhausted from the hours of travel. Beckoning us to get on for the ride of our lives, the folded doors opened, to which Jasmine and I gladly abided. A couple disclaimers from the Greyhound bus line: we will only be stopping in the shadiest of spots, and we will leave you if you are not back in the designated amount of time allotted for leisure. Staggering down the center aisle we stepped over old bubble gum and discarded bus tickets to find our spot at the back. Throwing our luggage into the overhead compartment, slowly we sunk into the blue upholstered seats, slouching down with zombie eyes still heavy from the effects of the sedatives. “This is gonna be awesome, we can finally get off this shit and move on,” I said. With a jerk we shifted from first to second to third gear, slowly rocking me to sleep while I clutched at the last of our stash in my pocket. The bus lurched over the pot-hole infested freeway to our first stop, Cleveland, Ohio. A city known for its failures: school systems, sports teams and sanity. Tall nameless buildings with vacant eyes crowd around the city landscape, gutted from the inside due to the poor economy that plagued northeastern Ohio. Several years later, just a few blocks from where I stood, a serial killer and a serial kidnapper will make Cleveland national news. Back then, both the city and I had hope, the city still had Lebron and I had Boulder. After hitting some weed behind a car in the adjoining parking lot, jasmine and I shuffled around under the flickering fluorescent lights. Sitting in various positions on the bench we would watch travelers traverse, wondering who might have a buck or to we could bum. Back in ‘Bula I would stand outside of Subway begging for dollars for the bus that never came, until the day management told me I wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. I always thought no one in the world could see me, but in retrospect I just couldn’t see myself for who I had become. Finally, I decided to call my friend Laura to see if she was around. Fingering the bottom of my tattered shirt, I waited while the phone rang. “Laura, its Dia. Hey, I’m in Cleveland for a nine hour layover. You wanna hang out?” After Laura agreed to meet us, we took a quick public bathroom bath in the sink and dried off on the electric hand dryer in the station. We got lost a couple of times on our way to the convenient store she told us to meet at. After pulling up, she jumped out of her new red Pontiac, with a look of shock rather than a smile. “Hey Dia, you look…tired?” she said. Her face was a reflection of what I had become. Pulling her in for a long hug, it felt good to take in the smell of better days. “I’m good dude, you know, I got myself into some trouble,” I said, as I withdrew back into myself. Laura was one of those friends I called when something really deep was going down. The last time she came and rescued me, I was fourteen and my mom had just broken a plastic phone on my face. With the upper part of my right eye gushing blood, she brought me to her house and mended my wounds. On this day she brought us to a bar on the river and bought us some food, probably knowing that was the most I had eaten in months. Beating around the bush for a while, she finally looked at me over her massive margarita. “So running away to Boulder, huh?” she said. Suddenly my shoes became the most interesting thing in the room. “Yeah, I guess I don’t know what else to do,” I replied. She turned her head towards the windows and gazed out at the river. “Well, I’m a runner. I run from everything…I always have,” Laura said. I think I have always loved Laura because she has always had a paternal love for me. She has never wanted anything from me but given


all she could; unfortunately for her, most people wanted something sinister. Her father took some of that innocence when she was younger after her mother had died, leaving her alienated at an Aunt’s house she hardly even knew. We were both foreigners in a familiar land and I think that was comforting to us both, I needed someone and she wanted to feel needed. Now she had become a cliché, stripping for money to pay for Law School. I recently found some unbecoming videos of her on the internet, but nothing will replace the image of her wiping the blood from my face or holding me close when she knew I had hit my bottom. After that day in August, I wouldn’t see her strawberry blonde hair again for six years and only briefly as I was running past in the Cleveland Half Marathon. Dressed in day-old hoodies and jeans that hadn’t been washed in weeks, we found our seats at the back of the bus and settled in for the long trip across country. Really, the landscape outside the square windows didn’t change much until we got out of Indianapolis. Most of the cities just went whirring by, streaks of light fading into my memory as my head bobbed and weaved from the fifteen Vicodin I had just eaten. At that time, I had long hair, and it was always pulled up into a greasy ponytail or tucked under some beat up hat. I used to pull my hats down so low so you couldn’t see my eyes. I hated people looking at my face. I hated looking at my own face, avoiding my reflection at all costs. Jasmine started to shake my shoulders and kick at my feet. “Dia. Dia. Wake up. Were in Iowa,” she said. Stretching out my sore arms and swollen hands, I yawned and looked around dazed. “Okay… okay. I’m up. Give me a smoke,” I said. The heat in Iowa was hot and thick that summer, suffocating me with some invisible hand. My skin was slimy and damp. Jasmine and I sat down on the steps of the station and shared a Marlboro Red; while my eyes were locked on the horizon, her eyes were locked on me. With some uncertainty, she said, “So you think Chris is really gonna find us somewhere to go?” Staring out at the endless plains, I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “I mean why would he tell us to come all the way out here if he was just gonna abandon us?” I said. I had already started to question everything. Our stomachs began to grumble in unison. “I don’t know. I do know I’m pretty hungry, though,” she said. See, we didn’t plan on eating because we were high when we left, but now the dope had run out and the first signs of the old come down were upon us. We took the last drags of our smoke, and left the last of our high on those steps in Iowa. After three days, we found ourselves in the junkie infested station of Denver, Colorado. One more little bus ride and we would be in the bustling city of Boulder: full of hipsters, hippies and intellectualities. Denver had a very distinct feeling of sickness that night, with one wandering soul after another begging for money. A dirty looking man, going from hand to hand, approached us. “Hey, you guys don’t happen to have $20 bucks do you? I’m a diabetic and I need to buy some insulin,” a guy around twenty-five said. Sniveling and shivering, he had something worse than diabetes. He had a heroin habit. A smile slid across my face. “Yeah? Me too. What a fuckin coincidence,” I said. The next day we were waiting for my friend to arrive in a run-down BP gas station in Boulder. After a couple hours and some small talk, between a fellow roadie and myself, Chris came speeding up on his scooter. A questioning and irritated look came over my face. “Dude. How are we gonna fit on that scooter?” I said. Hopping off of his scooter, he already looked annoyed. Rolling his eyes, he said “Well, it’s nice to see you, too, Dia.” Chris had been my friend for ten years. We dated once when I was sixteen. Obviously, that didn’t work out but we stayed close, mainly due to our drug use. That was how we met: through drugs, mutual friends and naivety. The first summer we knew each other, we took large quantities of LSD and lost our minds for about


three months. He was always pushing the limits of his use, whether it was eating a half ounce of shrooms or staying up for days on meth. Chris’s disparity was superficial and self-inflicted; he always knew his parents would allow him to live like a troll in their basement. He looked arrogant as he stood there in his tye-dyed shirt, like he belonged here and we were outsiders. “I live with my uncle. So you guys can’t go there tonight,” he said. My mind exploded with anger. “What! You’re kidding me right?” I yelled. “Where are we gonna go Chris?” Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “I don’t know but here’s forty bucks. I’ll call you in a little bit.” Without another word he jumped on his white scooter and scurried off down an unknown avenue. He would return to Ashtabula, like we all do, finding himself in the same places with the same strangers. Spending the next fifteen years on methamphetamines and other substances, trying salvage what is left of his sanity. Jasmine looked frightened and anxious as she turned to face me with her brown eyes dilated. “Dia, what just happened?” she said, “Did he really just leave us here with forty bucks to our name?” Letting my arms fall to my side, I stared down the unfamiliar street as the last of my hope turned to a distant speck. “Yeah, Jasmine. He sure did! We have to find somewhere to go,” I said. Immediately my mind went into survival mode. I played with the small patch of crinkled hair just above my right temple, something I had done since I was a child. It was soothing to concentrate on just the feeling of the hair between my skin and fingernail when everything else was falling apart. Back home when the screaming started and the dishes broke, I would find those little strands of sanity and sit for hours just tugging away until even that gave me a headache. After I paced for a bit, the old roadie who I had talked to earlier approached us. He was about fifty, with dirty shoulder length hair and a worn, weather beaten face. “Hey, you girls looking for somewhere to go?” he said. Dressed in the customary worn khaki pants and old t-shirt, he looked like someone I could beat the shit out of, if I needed to. I looked him up and down; determining in an instant if someone is safe or not is a skill you learn quickly in the wilderness. With incredulous eyes, I said, “Uh…yeah our friend just left us. And we don’t know the area.” The old man brought us to a hostel, paid for our room and told us to pay it forward. In the taxi ride there, he said he had once owned a 200,000 dollar apartment over-looking the ocean in California but gave it all up when he lost his wife. I guess everyone has got a story, but I wasn’t telling any of mine at that time. I barely noticed the changing landscape as I stared out of the window. I silently listened to what was being said while my mind raced about what to do next. We woke up the next day in full blown dope withdraw. Spinning her phone on the crooked end table, Jasmine looked nervous about what she was going to say next. “Dia, maybe I should just call my mom and see if we can get bus tickets home?” Jasmine said. Whipping around to face her, I stared hard at her face. “Why, so I can get arrested and charged because of the statement you wrote against me?” I said. Throwing her hands up in defeat, she shook her head. “Look, I was scared. I never had the cops question me before. I told you I was sorry for that a million times,” she said. Jasmine and I were meant to be together, our lives had been revolving since we were children. During our Catholic elementary school days, we were the only two kids to dress up for our book reports, she was Queen Elizabeth and I was Prince Charles. I remember the teachers parading us around the school so everyone could see how cute we were. The next parade we would be in was at the courthouse, shackled head to toe, jingling all the way to the defendant’s chair. Jasmine was a decent human being, up until the day she met up with me again, which was well into adolescence. I had been supplying her mom with weed for a couple years before I was re-introduced to her by her best friend, who happened to be my girlfriend at the time. Immediately, there had been some tension between us and within the silence of unspoken words our love for each other grew. On a quiet

night, long before our current nightmare began, we found each other on a broken sofa in her grandmother’s living room. I don’t blame her drug use on me, but I did give Jasmine her first experiences with oxycontin, needles, robbery and prostitution. A drug addiction would lead her from managing her own store at age eighteen to managing her commissary account in prison by age twenty-nine. Even to this day, I don’t think I will ever see that girl I fell for back in 2003, but I still find myself searching endlessly in those empty eyes through the two-way glass. Sitting down in the chair with ragged upholstery, I sighed deeply. “Let’s just go out and see what we can hustle up, okay?” I said. “Then in a little bit I’ll try to call Chris again and see what the hell is going on.” With forty dollars to our name, we set out to see the sites and scavenger for some food. Escaping the oppressive concrete blocks of Denver, Boulder is advertised as a hippie’s haven, with head shops and hashish on tap. Street performers litter the sidewalks with hats of varying sizes and styles, all crowding around your feet trying to get a buck. I couldn’t tell if it was me, but the roads felt slanted, like either gravity or reality, were pulling us down. At the center of this pragmatic city is Pearl Street, a cornucopia of dreadlocked Americana where everyone wears Tom’s, eats organic whole foods, and sidesteps all the dirty kids on the corner to set up their Djembe drums and acoustic guitars. Lined with bookstores, basement bungalows and cobblestone, it felt like a feeling that would go on forever, travelling all the way back into those cold hearts of the uptight East coast. Without a corporate company in sight, all you get is overpriced food for a beggar. Walking eight blocks north to Twenty-Ninth Street, our feet began to hurt and our mouths were dry. We were running out of justifications for all the ways this trip was worth it. Soon, we began to wander into a part of town that was familiar when the bungalows turned into low-income housing and the golden arches crested the skyline. Desperately, we shuffled into the bright light, dropping our dusty backpacks onto the floor, which looked pristine in comparison. Ordering a double cheeseburger and water, it was the last of our money. Reveling in the Hispanic affluence of the crew for a while, we lounged in the back booth, knowing we had a long night ahead of us. We set back out to find somewhere to sleep, with the air steadily growing colder. Finding an old discarded Mexican restaurant, we climbed the stucco style walls to settle in for the night. Nestling up next to me, under the wrinkled newspaper, Jas said, “So I’m calling my mom in the morning to see if she will buy me a bus ticket back.” Feeling the sting of a hurt pride, and the first sign of tears in years, I whispered, “I figured. I’m sorry things never turn out how I imagine them.” She scooted her body in closer. “It’ okay…maybe we can get money from Chris to get high when we get back,” she said. Here was the truth: we had been denying all along, that dope would draw us back, sooner than later. Boarding the bus just three days after departing, our dreams for a better beginning are probably still decaying on that forgotten Mexican patio. With some weed in our pocket that we bought from a guy named Booty, who dressed like a pirate on Pearl Street, we rode home more alive than we had left. Unofficially we had four days clean from smack and the stomach pains had all but subsided. We watched as the geography of our country ebbed and flowed, past the Rocky Mountains to the flat plains. Now the characters on the bus surrounding us seemed more interesting and real: there were the teenagers from Montana that fed us the soggy goose liver sandwich; the girl from Los Angeles moving back to Carbonsville, Indiana because her boyfriend just went to prison for a meth lab; the woman from Florida who told us that we could use our food-stamp card anywhere in the U.S., thus saving us from starvation; the congenial black guy headed back to New York from wherever he had been; the two dirty white girls from Ashtabula who failed to make it elsewhere. All of us searching for something we hadn’t found, looking outside of ourselves for what was missing from within. Anxiously on the phone setting up our first drug deal for dope in days, we would be arriving back to that same empty lot in Ashtabula in just two hours. That was one high we would never experience. I saw the first sheriffs’ cruiser about a block before the station was visible, immediately I knew it was all


over. As the bus swung back into that lonely place, the police cars boxed us in. Frantically Jasmine tugged at my sleeve. “Dia! What are we going to do?” she said. Past the point of running, I leaned back in my seat waiting for them to come aboard. “Nothing, Jasmine. We are going to do nothing,” I said. I looked at the back of the seat in front of me, void of any real emotion anymore. Grabbing me by my shoulder and directing me to the back of the car, he said, “Put your hands behind your back ma’am.” I watched as my dealer went by with his mouth hanging open, gawking, along with the neighbors, at the spectacle taking place on the corner of Bunker Hill and Austinburg road. At that moment, I was only sad that I would not be high in a few minutes as previously planned. Like Mr. Wickman and Greyhound, this wasn’t the end but just the beginning. Rebounding from the colossal losses, the bus line would go on to make record-breaking sales in 1935. Would I ever be so bold to break from this cycle of self-destruction I wondered, as the police door slammed shut behind me? Staring out of the window, I watched, with careless regard as my life was passing me by. Only distorted murmurs echoed in my ears. I turned my head towards the sound. “What?” I said. In a gruffy voice, the officer repeated, “What were you doing in Boulder?” With eyes glazed over, I replied “I don’t know.” Mid-way to nothing, I had just been biding my time.



Two Dates and a DashVictoria Watson

An ancient philosopher once questioned, what is life but a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away? (James) Life – such meaning is packed into one little word; it is so short, yet so full of potential. Each person is given one life. Each life is measured by a beginning and an ending date, with a span of time in between – two dates and a dash. Every person born into the world shares this common trait. For some, the date of their birth and death are the same, and their dashes are so very short. However, for those whose dash is longer, it contains a story to tell – what we commonly refer to as their life story, or biography. Life – such potential packed into one little word, one life can change so much or do so little. Likewise, each life’s dash, each life story, can tell so much or so little. It is the dash that has always intrigued me whenever I look upon a tombstone. As I peer at the little line etched in stone that marks the very existence of the person buried beneath, I ponder, “What was that life?” If I could somehow take a magnifying glass and peer closely into that dash, what would I see? What story would I read? I stand and wonder if the person beneath the ground ever had any significance, if this short, vaporous life was a sweet aroma or a pungent cloud. I recently peered into the dash of a man named Oskar Schindler through the magnifying glass of Steven Spielberg’s movie Schindler’s List. Oskar Schindler: April 28, 1908 – October 9, 1974. His dash told so much more than just his life story. Instead, it told a story of many lives –the 1,100 lives he saved.Fluffy white specks fall from the cold winter sky, dusting the landscape in a soft blanket of white. In a nearby brick building, a warm fire glows, sending puffy clouds of smoke into the crisp night air through a round chimney. A man brushes the newly fallen flakes from his warm winter coat, which is decorated by a gold pin. However, the flakes are not cold, nor do they melt in his hand. He looks over at his expensive car. Its dark color is sharply contrasted by the blanket of white. He scoops up a handful of the warm snow, and ponders as he looks up at the falling flakes, realizing that they are the furthest thing from snow. They are human ash. This scene from Schindler’s List displays the exact horrific moment when this suave and carefree man realizes just how sadistic and caustic the Holocaust truly was. Schindler was a brilliant and shrewd German businessman who used the war as an advantage to acquire cheap labor and earn more money than he could ever dream. The beginning of the film displayed a very charming Schindler who was the life of the party, merrily singing without a care in the world. He built a successful enamelware business from the ground up, enjoying the immense profit that it gave. However, as the film progressed, the song changed into a sad and mournful tune, and Schindler was faced with a cold and cruel reality. He slowly started to see the Jews as more than just a means of making money. He began to see that, quite possibly, they too were people. As the war marched on, his Jewish workers were being killed, captured and herded like cattle into the fatal Auschwitz concentration camp. He suddenly had to decide just how much it was all worth to him. He went to the notoriously cruel Amon Goeth, with whom he had started something of a friendship, in an attempt to get his workers back. He said, “Look, all you have to do it tell me what one is worth to you. What’s a person worth to you?” To that, Goeth replied with an answer that would shake Schindler to his very core and cause him to ponder life in a way he had never before, “No, no, no, no. What’s one worth to you?” (Schindler’s List) One person – one life, how much was it worth? Upon pondering this dilemma, he found that he no longer viewed them as mere Jewish workers. Instead, he realized they were people – people who deserved just as much as he did to have life. Schindler began buying Jews, selling nearly everything he had until he and his enamelware company were bankrupt. The purchased Jews were then put on a list – Schindler’s List. For seven months, the 1,100 Jews on that list worked in a new factory managed by Schindler, making ammunition for the Nazis. One day, Itzhak Stern, Schindler’s supremely adept bookkeeper, told him there were rumors being spread that Schindler was going around recalibrating the machines, causing the ammunition they were producing not to work. For this, he could be caught and severely punished. Schindler replied, “Itzhak, if this factory ever produces a shell that actually fires, I shall be very unhappy” (Schindler’s List).


Schindler’s Jews remained in that haven until the war ended. Since he had kept his Nazi cover, Schindler knew he must flee. However, before he could leave, the grateful Jews presented him with a ring they had made from one of their gold tooth fillings. They etched it with the Hebrew words, “For whoever saves one life saves the world entire” (Schindler’s List). Schindler started crying, “I could have got more out…I didn’t do enough.” Looking over at his expensive car with the dark shine he cried, “This car, Goeth would have bought this car. Why did I keep this car? Ten people right there, ten people, ten more people (Schindler’s List).” With trembling hands, he removed his swastika pin and lamented, “Two people, this is gold. Two people, he would have given me two more, at least he would have given me one, one more – one more person, a person Itzhak. For this I could have got one more person and I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t” (Schindler’s List). Schindler died penniless and barely known (“Oskar Schindler: An Unlikely Hero”), but today there are over 6,000 descendants of the 1,100 Jews that he rescued (Schindler’s List). His gravestone’s dash represents so much more than just one life. It represents a model of how much we as humans can really affect if we so choose to step out of ourselves. In an interview, Schindler said, “then a thinking man, who had overcome his inner cowardice, simply had to help. There was no other choice” (“Oskar Schindler”) Schindler chose life. Life – such meaning packed into one little word, such potential in those two dates and a dash. One life story can hold so much sway. Like Schindler, each of us must choose what story our dash will one day tell. What significance will it hold? When someone peers into each of our life’s story, what will it tell them? Will our dashes be worth reading?

Works CitedJames. www.biblegateway.com. Thomas Nelson, n.d. Web. 27 Oct. 2013.

“Oskar Schindler: An Unlikely Hero.” USHMM.org. USHMM, n.d. Web. 11 March 2013.

“Oskar Schindler.” Interview. 1964.

Schindler’s List. Dir. Steven Spielberg. Perf. Liam Neeson, Ralph Fiennes, Ben Kingsley, and Caroline Goodall. Amblin, 1993. DVD.


MasksVictoria Watson

It is a cold day with overcast skies. It is February 14th – Valentine’s Day. I look at the woman with puffy eyes sitting in an overstuffed chair. The love of her life lies motionless across the room in front of her. She seems to be holding up well, but her eyes tell a far different story. As she gazes on his frail form, his once strong and skilled hands folded neatly on his stomach, she looks as though her mind is wondering back to warmer days full of farming and rib cook-offs. He was a stubborn man, never one to express emotion or pain, but deep down inside he was kind and tenderhearted. He never had to say “I love you” because it was always known. I look at the faces of the people he loved – his brothers, wife, sons, daughter, and grandkids. He and his three brothers were always tough. They grew up raising cows and gardening. Nobody ever picked on one of them without having to answer to the others. His wife was always sweet and gentle but not unconfident or frail. His boys had taken after him, his daughter a perfect mix of the two, and the grandchildren a mirror of their parents. I study their faces. They are all trying so hard to conceal so many emotions. They try to mask their sorrows behind a face that calmly says, “I’m okay,” but when I peer behind those masks and into their weary eyes, I can tell they are anything but okay. They are torn and hurting and no one wants to say goodbye to the man lying in the casket. My family greets his family, giving hugs and condolences. My mom’s aunt pauses from gazing at her husband and gives us all hugs. She asks how we are doing and I hardly know what to say. I go down the row embracing family members I see only once or twice a year yet somehow feel close to them. I hug his daughter, her navy dress is soft – I have never seen her dressed up before. I tell her how much I love her and ask how she is doing. She responds that she is okay – it was just so hard to believe he was gone – she thought he would live forever. She wipes her tired eyes and we chat for a while. I always hate talking to people at calling hours. There is nothing I can say that will take away the pain or bring back the person they love. I lose count of how many times I ask people how they are holding up and I feel as though it is a rather foolish question to ask. They always answer they are doing okay when really they are not – they are just wearing a mask that says so. I watch as his family adjusts their masks for the long line of friends, family, and coworkers coming to say their final goodbye. As people start to pour in, the soft music coming from a DVD playing pictures of him in the adjacent room draws my attention. Two of his brothers stand solemnly in the doorway watching the precious memories of their oldest sibling fade in and out across the screen like the fleeting puff of smoke from a summer bonfire shared in times gone by. There is one of him on his first John Deere tractor, one of him and his wife as young lovers, him helping his granddaughter blow out birthday candles, one of him cooking his famous ribs, one after his last fishing trip. On and on they scroll and I watch my great uncles as they try to hold back the ocean swelling up inside of them. As they blankly stare at a lifetime of memories with not just their brother, but also their friend, I can’t help but wonder what they really feel inside. When they have finished watching they silently walk away. Neither of them say anything to the other for fear their mask will break. I shift my gaze to look at my sweet grandpa – so kind and compassionate as he speaks with long-lost family and acquaintances he hardly knows. I know inside he is broken, but to look at his face he seemed so strong. I’m not one for crowds and neither is my great uncle. We go stand off to the side in a corner where we watch the crowd come through. He looks around and remarks how he does not know half of the people there. His sharp blue eyes, identical to his brother’s, wander back to the casket. As he gazes at the cancer-filled body, his eyes start to fill up with tears and for a moment his mask falls off. I have never seen him express emotion much less cry. Choked, he quietly says to me, “He was my fishin’ buddy. We had a lot of good times together and lemme tell ya – I sure do miss him.” People come around the corner to greet him and he quickly returns the mask and chats even though he would much rather hide. Although he would never admit it – I know the funeral tomorrow will be the hardest thing he has ever done, and I wonder just how long his mask will hold before it finally breaks.


Contributors

Melissa Brodhead is a senior English major at Kent State University at Ashtabula.

Diedre Fleming is a senior Psychology major with a minor in English at Kent State University at Ashtabula.

Gabby Irwin is a senior English major at Kent State University at Ashtabula.

Ryan P. Kinney is a manic, geek-inspired artist, writer, deconstructionist, and megalomaniac. He finds beauty in the morbid, is self-obsessed, and is on a quest to convince everyone to create a better reality through their own pain and perception

Victoria Watson is a 2013 graduate of South Ridge Christian Academy and is wrapping up her freshman year at Kent State University at Ashtabula. She is a Student Ambassador, Student Worker, and member of the English Society. She hopes to learn and grow as a writer so that she can influence, inspire, and motivate others in the same way that she has been by the faculty and staff here at Kent.

The PlowEnglish Society Literary & Arts Magazine

Spring 2014

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