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Traditional gifts for a second anniversary are cotton and garnet. Happy 2nd Anniversary, Ablaze ! Since cotton is an interwoven material, we can see how it represents a journal like ours that brings a campus together, entwining works by students, staff, and faculty. Cotton is flexible and durable, too, and while this 6th issue marks only our second full year, we feel it shows the promise of endurance. Cotton is also synonymous with comfort, so conventional gifts are often towels, robes, and comforters – those items we indulgently wrap ourselves up in, like a good story or poem. On the other side is the garnet stone. With its deep red color, it often symbolizes a fiery passion, and as we look over this volume of work – our longest to date – we feel this gem is an apt image for our cam- pus community’s burning desire to express themselves in the many genres of writing.
So, Dear Reader, we invite you to enfold yourself in these readings like your favorite blanket and warm yourself by their promethean fire.
Here’s to another year, with the hope of more to come.
Write on! Ablaze Staff
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T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
The Empty Chair by McKenna Nay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 New Beginnings by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Moments by Jeffrey Perez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Eye Color: Who We Are by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Try It by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Breaking the Rules by Carolyn Oravitz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Advanced and Alone by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 The Purple Man by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Nuclear Love by Antonia Garrah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 A Distant Memory by Antonia Garrah .................................. 21 Admitting Emission by David Hontz, M.S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 An Organic Chemist’s Frequent Retort by David Hontz, M.S. ............... 22 Radium Girls by Emma Kamionka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 The Name Game by Mykala Patel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 A Letter to My Children by Ashley Cintron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 A Mother’s Day Poem by Samantha Rosencrans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Engineering a Dream by Jacob Boedeker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Horizons Explored: A Poetry of International Education by Eriane Enriquez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 The Academic Journey of Jane and Ela by Compromise Oboro . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Life’s Not What It Seems Without Me by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Quel Che Sará by Lauren Marsico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
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T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
I Promise Myself by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Wordplay by Amy Dana-Mayernick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 B.L.I.S.S. by Esther McGill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Words to Live By by Emily Seelye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Desolation by Emily Seelye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Who needs me? You or Me? by Ashley Faux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Mind Betrayal by Josh Doughton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 We Are One by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Brightened the Enlightenment by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Brooks Ghost 16 Review by Faith Depiero . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Types of Employees in the Workplace by Ashley Faux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Wearing White by Jc Fairchild . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Sir Gawain: The Great Romance Hero or Something Different by Kelly Hopkins ............................... 58 Untitled by Colleen Lavelle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Untitled by Colleen Lavelle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Nature by Luis (Leezy) Abreu .......................................... 67 Marathon by JMart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 The Arastain Wolf by Jc Fairchild . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 My State by JMart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Nature by Eric Hanley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
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A Collection by J. Schultz Behold!........................................................ 71 Nature’sPalette................................................. 71 TheYardBoss.................................................. 71 Spring Paradox by Rachel Kissell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Chicken Tender by JMart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Thick as Thieves by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Wild Horses by Brooklyn Ramer ....................................... 73 What Are My Manners? by Sam Fisk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Friends and Foes by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Smoke to the Heavens by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 My Miraculous Lady by Arlene Diaz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 A Peaceful Visit by Emma Henry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Rain by Beth Sodergren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Erasing You by Megan Jones .......................................... 88 Your Touch by Aimee Garcia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 I’ll Never Look into Your Eyes Again by Anthony King ..................... 90 Sunset Reminder by C.L. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Pop Culture Baby by Shelby Ford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Here Comes Spring by Amanda Misson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
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A Collection by JMart Winter......................................................... 97 Spring......................................................... 97 Summer....................................................... 97 Fall............................................................ 97 Allergy Season by Jennifer Yinger ...................................... 98 Pollen Pandemic by Jennifer Yinger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Spite by Stefan Deutsch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Those Damned Daffodils (An Un-Romantic Poem) by Andrew Stephens . . . . . 99 El Diablo by Andrew Haus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Imagery Garden by Andrew Haus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Malocchio Pinocchio by Lauren Marsico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Love’s Augury by Jennifer Yinger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Love by Katelyn George . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Us by Mike Stud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Lost Lust by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 It’s not You by JB Brookings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Unsportsmanlike Conduct by Jennifer Yinger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 A Girl Named Golf by Stefan Deutsch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 “Take Me Out to the Ball Game (April’s Edition)” by April Rhys-Jones . . . . . . . 120 April Baseball by Gregory Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 Sea of Sacrifice by J. Schultz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
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T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
Writing as an Outlet for Amateur Psychoanalysts by Sam Fisk . . . . . . . . . . . 137 Wireless Transmission by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 Vision to Collision by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 No End of End Times by Jennifer Yinger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 Moving Life by Mega Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 True to the Fact by Megan Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 The New News by Anna Angar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 4 Minutes to Midnight by Anna Angar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Wrong Side of Right by Stefan Deutsch ................................ 148 Right Side of Wrong by Stefan Deutsch ................................ 148 Cheer Me Down by Stefan Deutsch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 Power Vacuum (a sonnet of sorts) by Anna Angar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Some Nightmares by Stefan Deutsch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Death of a Pedophile (slightly edited for television) by RS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
About Ablaze : Ablaze is the digital journal of writing at LCCC. We publish the work of students, staff, and faculty across a wide range of genres, including short stories, poems, essays, research papers, and features. ©2023, Ablaze Our Staff: Dr. H Ed Ackerman Robert Bogdon Kim Hess
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The Empty Chair
McKenna Nay
You walk into graduation and sit down at your seat. Next to you is an empty chair, where a gown and cap are neatly placed. You stare at it, tears filling your eyes. The empty chair should be where that girl is. The girl who’s been in your homeroom since kindergarten, the girl whose locker you’ve been placed beside throughout middle school and high school, the girl you’ve grown so close to. The rest of your class files into their seats eager for commencement, but you stare at the empty chair. Names are called and everyone walks across the stage, but they’re missing someone. The girl in the empty chair. They never mention her name, but her family still goes. Crying where her name should be,
but she never shows. The sun is shining and a butterfly lands atop the cap. She finally showed up. The girl in the empty chair.
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New Beginnings
Megan Jones
The end is here where the beginning starts. You heard this term in second grade. You sat in quads of four sharing crayons and thick-tip markers. You ran in circles looking at nothing but picture books. Teachers passed out treats and The Magic School Bus played in the background. You bump up a few grades and finally realize what homework is. The drama starts and you find new best friends. The sounds of Christmas music in a classroom bring joy to everyone.
Can’t forget about puberty! Take a walk down the hallway and you have neutered high school. You go to your little school dances and develop your first real crush. You go to games and play a few yourself. Did you make the homecoming court? State testing was mandatory and projects stacked up high.
Life gets harder…. You figure out who you truly are inside and what you want to accomplish. Prom life gets you glammed up for your favorite night of the year. Senioritis kicks in and final exams are up. It’s hard to say we have come to this point in our lives. In just the blink of an eye, we have grown and are moving onto better things in our lives. That’s a part of growing up Are you ready? Because I’m not….
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Moments Like a moth to a flame We try to return to them Unbeknownst to us the reality For we cannot relive these moments Moments For they are just that To be lived in Had we lived for each moment
Jeffrey Perez
And left them where we found them Would we be filled with such disdain Is pain something we find while chasing something we miss? Trying to turn back time Thinking of ways to do things differently How many times have you been able to say that you’d do the same thing twice? Moments Where time stopped, if only in your own mind Moments Where souls connected, if only in your own experience Moments Where reality crashed, expectations burned and lenses were no longer rose-colored Which of these moments do we cling to most? Moments Where your soul ached and your gut cringed
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Moments Where your thoughts spoke so loud even the piercing sound of silence couldn’t overpower them Moments Where the love fleeted and you held on Moments Where you tried to let time work out a different outcome Moments Where you realized time would not Moments When you wondered about the validity of all that you’ve experienced Moments Where you questioned your own resilience Moments Where you reminded yourself of who you were Because there were many moments where you’ve allowed yourself to forget Moments The beginning to an end And the end to a beginning But in retrospect Moments Are just that
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Eye Color: Who We Are
Megan Jones
Eye color is a funny kind of thing. So many colors for those we see every day. Ever wonder what they mean? Maybe you’re common brown. An iris as dark as the bark on a forest tree. You are very independent as a person. You are self-confident, determined and trustworthy. You offer a sense of security and stability to anyone in your presence. Maybe you’re born with blue eyes, as crystal clear as the sea. Although most blue-eyed babies have changes to their colors weeks after birth, maybe you still have a calm and peaceful personality. Are you creative or have a large mind? Just think about it.
Do you have hazel eyes, a mix of brown and green? You are courageous and never back down from a challenge. You may be mischievous and more approachable than others. Is your eye color more rare, green? You are a mysterious person. Is nature your hobby? You tend to have a curious eye for it. Nature helps you have a positive and creative outlook on life. You tend to get jealous easily, but are very passionate in a relationship and possess large amounts of love. Are your eyes so dark that they are like a black cat’s soul? You are very secretive and keep to yourself until you feel comfortable. You
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are loyal and passionate, especially to your friends. You may even tap into powerful energy. Gray eyes, the rarest of them all. Gray tends to be mixed with other colors but is rare to be left by itself. You can change your mood to fit any situa- tion. You represent wisdom and gentleness. You are sensitive but possess a great deal of inner strength and think with logical reasoning. Eye color is a thing we see everyday through people and dreams. Eye color represents part of who we are and our personality; and that is what makes us unique.
Try It You will never know unless you try it - something my friends tell me every day. What if I want to but I can’t. I’m scared and cannot continue. What do I do when I want to try it? I will never know.
Megan Jones
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Breaking the Rules
Carolyn Oravitz
Rules rule. Writers know rules should be followed when writing for publication, but are there ever any exceptions to the rules? Let’s look at some rules that were “successfully” broken. Rule: Avoid starting a book with the words, “It was.” Rule Breaker: “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times,” from the classic A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Rule: Word count for young adult novels should be no more than 80,000 words. Rule Breaker: The first Harry Potter book was 175,000 words. Rule: Don’t write about something that could never happen. Rule Breaker: The book, The Wreck of the Titan , written 15 years before the sinking of the Titanic, was considered too unbelievable since no ship built like that could ever get a hole in it from an iceberg and sink. Rule: Don’t bother writing forewords because no one ever reads them. Rule Breaker: Stephen King wrote three forewords in his best-selling book, On Writing , and I read them all. Rule: When writing for children, write real words they can read. Rule Breaker: Dr. Seuss’s words zigger, zong, zlock, zillow, and zizzer-zazzer-zuzz. Rule: Self-published novels do not sell well. Rule Breaker: The Shack by William Paul Young went from a few hundred self-published copies to 15 million copies sold.
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Rule: First books won’t be bestsellers. Rule Breaker: Jonathan Cahn’s first book, The Harbinger , was on the New York Times bestseller list for over 110 weeks and sold over 2 million. So, we can conclude rules rule, except when there are exceptions to the rules, which seems to sometimes happen in the rule book on writing.
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Advanced and Alone
Megan Jones
Note: Written in an hour.
A scrawny, meek upper-aged woman I was who sat beneath that huckleberry tree. The smell of flowers beneath my nostrils filled my head with an overpowering scent. I took in the atmosphere around me. Birds flew up above my graying covered head into the crystal-clear sky. Up high the birds flew left to right. The white puffy clouds floated gracefully through the atmosphere. Squirrels chased by stray cats ran up trees to safety. Life was all around, right under every nose, but only it was to blind by the naked eye. Living in the 21st century has made an impact on the world I lived in. I could not go one day without seeing a person with their face stuck to a screen. All of these new technological advancements. Blah blah blah. Who needs them? I had never found any interest in them since they first appeared on this earth and I didn’t plan on starting then. The reality is in the world around us, not whatever lies in the confinement of wireless devices. People say they help you with school work. Well, study then. “Read books” I always told them. The life of history came from paper, ink, printed books. These devices did nothing but trouble, getting people brainwashed, bullies, and pictures. It was all just a bunch of horse shit. The green, silky smooth grass swayed in the wind and upon my bare feet laid a tiny ladybug, almost invisible as the eye could see. Cars passed by, and people walked hand in hand but were occupied by the device in their other palm. I felt demoted in some sort of sense, but I was not completely in the dirt. I had a phone. Of course I did, to make calls when upon an emergency and my old car breaks down. I had the most basic flip phone a person can think about. The exterior was a basic shade of shiny gray and the buttons were black with white lettering. I had that cellular device for about six years at the time. It wasn’t my life, but it was something I needed just like every - one else, just smaller in style. Very low-quality pictures were able to be taken and calls went through to others well, although texting a sentence did take a while in time. I was always offered new plans, but I never found interest in taking them up on those. I stretched as I stood up off the ground. My bones cracked in multiple places, leaving extreme relief throughout my body. I grabbed whatever belongings I brought to my relaxing place and began to walk down the hill and across the street to the supermar - ket, so I could fill my empty fridge. Bag was on my shoulder and the phone was in my grip but my eyes were straightforward looking on to where I needed to be. My hand
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clenched onto the door handle to the store just as a young male teenager walked out, face attached to the screen with a load of groceries in his other hand. In an instant we were both on the ground rubbing our heads and fighting for a race to stop his cabbage from rolling out onto the street. After the shenanigans fiasco, it took me a second to
realize that my flip phone had been taken from my hand. I searched the ground, mov- ing slowly between my footsteps. With wide eyes and a feeling of sorrow, I saw my phone laying next to the now closed door shattered into pieces like it was only being held together by thread. “You idiot bastard!” I screamed at the young man. “Look what you’ve done to my phone. Now what do I have to do?” Without any words of sympathy the young boy shrugged off the question and walked it off. I sat there with my tote bag and a broken phone. My feet soon took to me and led me to a phone store for where I had not been in for over six years. The build - ing was tall and stocky shelves filled with new devices that I knew nothing about. I dropped my shattered phone on the white counter of the front desk and retained it with concern and confusion. I simply looked at him and said, “Can you fix it?” He took the phone in his palm and examined it. It looked well beyond small compared to his larger hand. It didn’t even fit from finger to the middle of his hand. “No, ma’am, we are not able to fix this. Maybe over thirty years ago, but in this day and age, definitely not. Our store does not sell these products anymore. Everything is new and advanced. I’m sure you could have told that by the way you look around the store. “Is there a new one I can help you find?” “Is there really no possible way of fixing my older phone I had for six years?” “No, as it’s been a long time to keep a phone,” he said, “but it is time for a new up- grade. They don’t make phones like these nowadays, so it’s best to get in touch with the world and those around us.”
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Without being a rude customer, the only thing I could do was sigh and turn away. I walk slowly around the store examining shelf by shelf, phone by phone, price by price. They had smaller phones reaching a couple $100. I scanned for a smaller price and possibly a flip phone, but, as the guy said and was undoubtedly correct, there are no more flip phones at any store. The phones got bigger and bigger as the racks went by. Some cost over $2000. The newest, as they say, ‘iPhone Pro’ is up to number 20 now, and I swear it is as big as my face. With no other options remaining, my brain told me to grab the smallest one that they had, so I went with a small Samsung device, costing roughly around $500. But there was nothing else
cheaper in good shape for my new change. I did all of the paperwork and set up the device. Big whoop! I knew absolutely nothing coming from the gentleman’s mouth, and I still don’t as I think about it today. I went home with a big defeat in my plans and sat on my sofa, staring down at the cell phone that sat on the coffee table in front of my view. It was bigger than my flip phone both in length and width. There was no flip to the phone. Along the screen it is about eight inches in length as my the flip phone only sat about three. The screen has no buttons, only a touch screen which kept messing up as I moved my finger along. As time grew on, surprisingly so did my obsession. I gradually started to learn the new technology and gained what they called “experience” with it. One or two hours a day turned into eight by the end of the first few weeks. Weeks turned to months and months turned into two years, and I was just as focused as the other people were on their devices. I had become really fond of it to the point where it became my liv - ing, my life. At the daily work site, I played with it on my break, continuing on into my much-needed work. Bosses of all sorts yelled and argued with me about my work studies and if I didn’t shape up, I would be put out of the job. But I couldn’t do that! What about my phone bills! I need my phone! I couldn’t survive without it! After a week of hard labor, I sat around in my bedroom, not wanting to move or do any physical activity besides my phone. I was already two years into this new process and already bought a new computer, a pro with 5 built-in cameras on both sides of the screen and a 30-inch screen and base. It felt more like a standing com- puter but was more heavy than a laptop. I sat on my bed, the most comfortable place to be. A muffin grasped in one hand and my phone in the other. I sat there for what seemed like hours before I changed back over to the computer. New 3D games, fast power and constant full battery kept me entertained for hours within the day. My
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house shook but I paid no mind of attention to it, thinking it was a simple earthquake, most common where I lived. My stomach growled for hours, but I had no food to feed it. My bones grew weak. My skin paled and my hands grew cold and clammy. After what seemed like days and my stomach organs couldn’t take anymore abuse, I put down the everlasting computer and cell phone before getting up, only to instantly fall back down by my slim legs. Down the stairs my boney ass took me to the front door. Mail piled in front of the door from the mail slot, but dated back to four days prior. My business gifted me letters saying that I was fired. The sun shone through the kitchen window. Gray fog appeared slightly behind the sunshine. The doorknob was cold, but turned smoothly against my hand as it turned. A pile of wood and rubble fell into my feet as the door swung open. What surrounded me was far more horrifying than anything I ever saw on the internet on my devices. No more buildings. No more trees. No more roads. No more people. The earth as far as I can see was burned and crashed to the ground. Nothing but silence filled the air. I walked out onto the rubble and my naked foot dug into the wooden boards below me. I called out the names of neighbors. No answer. I called again. No answer. I turned around in my tracks and was met with the same desperate fate as I saw everywhere else. No one. The only thing left standing was my half-blown away house at its fullest and an internet cable that leaked exactly to my house. The internet still works! But it wasn’t the same. No one. No nature. No blue skies and no mixed flowers. No people. No cell phones. The technology of today brought us to war. I missed it because of my own personal obsession with new technology. I’m currently the only person here. Alive...with oddly working wi-fi. I have the advancements, but the unspoken truth of being alone with new technology.
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The Purple Man
Megan Jones
Note: Written in minutes based on three words He ate… he ate… and he ate his hot fudge sundaes one after the other. Larald Woolington was a shy man. A man that bothered no other. His shirts were purple, and the pants he wore to cover his jug were a darker tint of that color. He wore round pur - ple glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose of his chunky pink flesh. He sat on his purple reclined chair day and night, stuffing his face until his cheeks couldn’t hold anymore. He slept with sundaes in his lap or next to him on his purple sheets and dreamt about the marriage of one. Cautions and bombs filled the streets outside of his small purple house that sat right in the middle of town. The Russian and Ukraine war started days before, but Larald paid no mind. He continued to sit on his throne as people around him died as havoc took their souls. One day, it all just stopped. The film The Color Purple had finished and the end credits were rolling. The world was quiet. All noise from the outside world
has just stopped. It was then Larald finally picked up his heavy head from his sweet treat. He took his six-hundred-pound lifeless body off his chair and wad- dled over to the light purple door. The wind blew past the purple walls as the door opened. He stepped out to nothingness. There were no people, no houses, no aircrafts and no weapons. No nothing. His house sat alone in the middle of nowhere. He began to cry and drop to his aching knees. The sky turned to a purplish gray as it closed in on the last man on Earth, Larald Woolington.
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Nuclear Love
Antonia Garrah
The feeling of joy bursts out of me A feeling so strong like the nuclear bomb It radiates and impacts on sight In your embrace, I found my light A beacon of hope burning bright But over time, it fades and darkness comes out Scars, bruises, and its true colors show I slowly get sicker as time ticks by The truth, the lies It was thought to be a hope But now I just lay here and die alone
A Distant Memory
Antonia Garrah
A deathly ill empty space Avoidance A vacant place A misshaped box Broken and torn Years beyond to be fixed Completely destroyed Echoes of distant relatives Laughs, cries, yells
A place that used to be home Is just a reminder of a dark past That should just be left alone
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Admitting Emission
David Hontz, M.S.
Fluorescence is timely, Phosphorescence takes time
An Organic Chemist’s Frequent Retort
David Hontz, M.S.
Steric Hindrance – An Organic Chemical Failsafe
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Radium Girls
Emma Kamionka
Radium has harsh effects on our bodies and the environment, and the young women in the early 1920s show proof of this. With that, Radium-paint- ed luminescent dye watch dials caused illnesses in young women, leading to lawsuits and compensation for women’s rights. Marie Curie was a world-renowned scientist who specialized in physics, chemistry, and medicine. Curie is the only woman to win two Nobel prizes in science and also coined the term “radioactivity” after she and her husband Pierre Curie discovered radium in 1898 (Abergel, Rebecca, et al. 267–75). She utilized radiation in cancer treatments and developed mobile X-ray and radiation therapy units for World War 1 medical uses. Radon therapy was an ailment
October 25, 1922 advertisement Free Trader-Journal and Ottawa Fair Dealer
to reduce joint pain, skin problems, respiratory illnesses, and allergies. Moreover, in some cases, it is still used today to treat rheumatoid arthritis and other autoim - mune diseases. Unfortunately, her death was due to aplastic anemia thought to be produced by an exceeding amount of radiation exposure. Inspiringly, Curie’s work is said to be attributed to women’s contributions and rights in the field of science in order to decrease barriers and prejudices towards female workers. Radium was later combined with paint to create a luminescent dye for airplanes and watch dials to see the time in the dark. Women, usually young, would ingest the dye unknowing of the risks. Radium is similar to calcium in that it targets the bones but in a negative way. In addition, too much exposure can lead to several health problems including but not limited to various cancers like bone, multiple myeloma, leukemia, breast, and lung cancer. Many of the bodies of the women who died from radiation are buried at the Argonne National Laboratory due to the substantial amount of radioactivity in their bodies (Abergel 267–75.) Marie Curie’s lab was built in 1933 to extract radium elements from the ores. The lab closed in 1978 but is still filled with radioactivity that can cause health threats for mil- lennia (Patel 76). Anyone who enters the building must wear protective gear because not only is it composed of dangerous chemicals, but it is also surrounded by concrete walls, barbed wire, and cameras. The town Arcueil, Paris where the lab is located now
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urges that much more should be done to remove the sources of radiation because is starting to appear in furnaces, soil, and plants. The cleanup, however, has cost them about $10 million and has been in progress for over a decade (Patel 76). The young women of 1917 (ranging from mid-teens to early twenties) usually descendants of immigrants, worked particularly in dial painting factories. A new wrist - watch invention came into play which provided luminosity to allow soldiers to see their watches in the dark. However, around the 1920s-1930s, present and past dial painters began to suffer from various illnesses. Many scientists believe today it was due to an extensive amount of radium in the dye that painters worked with. Many of the women ingested the paint by licking the tip of the paint brushes to make the numbers and symbols on the wristwatches finer in detail. In addition, the dust from the air is constantly being inhaled in the factories (Clark 1-2). Each day dial painters dosed themselves with bone- and tissue-damaging sub- stances. Some of these included bone marrow and bone tissue (especially in the jaw) which lead to infection and diseases in the gums and other dental regions. Studies suggest that 18% of women who worked before 1950 accumulated a significant dose of radium and almost 700 women who worked before 1930 had an estimated rate of 42% of initial body burdens of 5 microcuries (radioactive material) and 16% having 50 microcuries or more (Clark 8-9). Many of these dial painters were left handicapped and their attitudes and efforts have been extensively studied, but interviews with survivors tended to be unsuccessful due to concerns about interference with long- term studies. These studies have shown that in the early twentieth century, women were more susceptible to toxic chemicals than men. Some theories suggest that women at this time were younger than men and were employed more in industries containing substances that could lead to chronic poisoning (Clark 23). The first illness linked to industrial radium poisoning came to light in Orange, New Jersey, in 1922 (Moore 385). These reports were from women who were instructed to apply luminous numbers on dials. Katherine Schaub, a dial painter, was one of the first to make the connection towards the dial painting illnesses. She participated in several suits against her employers which even led to the covers of newspapers and magazines. Furthermore, she wrote letters expressing her fears about her illnesses to a pathologist named Harrison Martland who further identified radium as the cause of cancer and death in the women. However, Martland was a medical examiner, who declined to testify in his early testimonies due to citing publicity and “misstatements”. Moreover, he only discussed other physicians in his consultations and conclusions, but not even those were direct. This left Dial painters and their lawyers in an unten - able position because there was little to no equipment allowed to diagnose radium poisoning.
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Katherine compiled a list of all the women who worked with her in the factory who had either gotten sick or died. The dial painters’ cases were combined to avoid any duplicate tes - timonies assigned to the Court of Chancery. The trial date was set for January 12, 1928, and the goal for the women was for the court to rule that the company was to blame for their tremendous con - ditions (Moore 417-428). USRC agreed to provide $15,000 to each woman, a pension of $600 a year for life, past/future medical
Women working at a factory of the United States Radium Corportation, 1922. Wikimedia Commons/public domain
expenses, and USRC covering all court costs. However, the women had to be exam - ined each month and if they were no longer suffering from radium poisoning, the monthly payments would cease (Moore 227). Katherine Schaub unfortunately discov- ered a sarcoma in her leg and then had to wear a metal brace indefinitely. Her mental health took a turn for the worse, leading her to drink and refuse some of the treat - ments. As her diagnosis sinks in, her physical and mental health deteriorates, and she is committed to a hospital later that year (Moore 273). There were serval other similar cases around this time with women in Ottawa. In 1927, Ella Cruse, a mid-twenties female who had worked in a radium dial factory, started to develop aches in her jaw and body. Within a matter of days, she developed a painful pimple on her cheek that grew to become so enormous that she became confined to her bed and died shortly after from “Streptococcic poisoning” (Moore 188). Another case was with Catherine Donohue. She and her friends Marie and Charlotte expressed their experiences and suspected their illnesses were due to the paint. Catherine was further examined by Doctor Charles Loffler, in an informal clinic set up in a local hotel. In 1938, they decided to go to court with an attorney named Leonard Grossman. Grossman’s main focus was representing the poor and women. Because
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poisons were not covered under the law in previous cases, they argued that the paint was not poison. With that, women tried to get copies of their medical records, however, the hospitals refused to release them, so in December, Grossman served a notice to the Radium Corp. to release the tests. On February 10, 1938, Catherine’s husband Tom carried his wife to the hearing where only the Radium Corps. lawyer, Arthur Magid, was present for their representation. The press sought out Catherine’s testimonies discussing the women’s poor conditions. After a long strenuous battle, the verdict was announced: United States Radium Corp. is guilty. Judge Marvel ordered payment to
Catherine’s past medical expenses, salary for the entire period she could not work, other damages, and an annual life pension of $277. However, Radium Corp. later filed an appeal, asserting that the women were lying about having been instructed to use the brushes and that they had never denied the danger of working with radium (Moore 358). Marie Curie discovered radium in 1898 and used it in cancer treatments and thera - pies. Her death was due to aplastic anemia, most likely caused by excessive radiation exposure. Radium was later combined with paint to create luminescent dye watch dials, causing illnesses in young women working in dial painting factories. Many wom - en like Katherine Schaub sued their employers and eventually received compensation. These women’s efforts and determination for rights will forever go down in history. May 10, 1928 The World newspaper (New York, NY)
--- Works Cited --- Abergel, Rebecca, et al. “The Enduring Legacy of Marie Curie: Impacts of Radium in 21st Century Radiological and Medical Sciences.”
International Journal of Radiation Biology , vol. 98, no. 3, Mar. 2022, pp. 267–75. EBSCOhost, https://doi-org.luzerne.idm.oclc.org/10.1080/09553002.2022.2027542 .
Clark, Claudia. Radium Girls: Women and Industrial Health Reform , 1910-1935. The University of North Carolina Press, 1997. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=e000xna&AN=41308&site=ehost-live&scope=site. Moore, Kate. The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America’s Shining Women . Sourcebooks, 2017. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=nlebk&AN=1484120&site=ehost-live&scope=site Patel, Tara. “Marie Curie’s Mess.” Bloomberg Businessweek , no. 4628, Sept. 2019, p. 76. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ulh&AN=138336903&site=ehost-live&scope=site.
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The Name Game
Mykala Patel
The sun burns hot on our backs, sweat dripping into our eyes like warm sum - mer rain. Dust coats our hands as we dig deep in the earth for growing notes of music, their thorns digging into our flesh. The cuts on our hands are deep, so deep, that if we look hard enough, we can see the faint white of our bones. Like flower petals peeled back just far enough to see the white. We are numb to the pain, our aches have become part of us, we feel when we ache.
We work harder when the white suits pass by, turning our gazes to the earth where notes hide from us. The steel shackles around my wrists are heavy, steel mixes with gold. Our steel bands are steadfast, forever, while their gold breaks away after three years. That’s our deal. The suits, however, do not care what color your band is, as long as your notes are beautiful. It’s what happens when you can’t dig enough that scares us. When we are weak or can’t find notes, they kill us. We have seen the blood of our own spilled across the grass, and we have ignored their cries like the cowards we have become. We have forgotten our names, our life sentence to slavery doesn’t merit a proper name. But we have nicknames, names that define the notes we provide. The others started calling me “Blue” a long time ago, and my notes are beautiful. My notes are distinct, somber, and melodic. This range of twelve bars with chord progres - sion, walking bass, dissonant harmonies, syncopation, melisma and flattened blue notes. Our nicknames are the music we provide to the world; yes they repeat, but so do songs. This is our burden. We can never be free. The man who digs about five feet away from me is an old, gold-banded called “Classic.” He has about 2 weeks left on his chains, we can tell because they have been
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keeping a better eye on him than usual. If it were anyone else, we would speculate that they want to kill him before he can go, but Classic is not a man to worry about. But we watch him ever so curiously. A man his age, salt and pepper hair growing in his beard with slow movement, has no reason being among us. He moves like an old tree and he speaks. By the suits, he speaks far too much. And not only that, but he sneaks notes into my basket when he
thinks I can’t see him. This dying melody of a man is wasting what few notes he has left, and he only has two weeks left on the gold chains.
We whisper and he speaks far too loudly. We move and he strides. We are sheep and he is an ox. He is strong-bodied, yet weak with age. He has worked, and he cannot stop working. It makes the rest of us wonder why he is here, what made him risk death? We wonder about his real name and who he might have been before the chains. We agree that we don’t like him. We all agree that Classic is Dangerous. . . .
It is warmer than usual the day that Classic speaks to me. I wake with the sun and am led to the note fields. Classic is already there, hands deep in the earth. I am chained five feet away; my hands dig into the ground and my fingers brush the note covered in dirt. The sound of a note hitting the side of my basket draws my attention and I glare at the older man. He smiles, chuckles, and turns his attention back to his work. Part of me wants to throw the note back at him, chastise him for wasting his notes, but he begins humming. We don’t hum to pass the time here; humming is for the suits, not for slaves. I work, slipping my fingers over the curve of a note. I can’t help but wince as a thorn cuts my flesh, caking with blood and earth from my years in this field. “They call you Blue, right?” The voice is too loud, gravelly and like tires on asphalt. I glance around me, panic settling in my veins. The white suits don’t mind when we speak, but it doesn’t mean that they want us to. They don’t want us to have ideas.
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I glance over at Classic, and he is smirking at me. Like I have proven his point, a point he never made. My face bunches when I look at him, because I notice that he might have been attractive in his youth. I wasn’t brought up to think in looks, but I still no - tice, even if I don’t want to. We stare at each other long before I answer. “Yes-” I snap as quietly as I can in the silent field. “- Now stop talking to me.” Classic smiles, not the patronizing smirk he gave before. “They call me Classic, but my name is--” I cut him off before he can finish. “I don’t want to know your name- Names are meaningless here.” He quiets as soon enough we are joined by more chains. We work in silence, not speaking, not humming, and the suits hover over our shoulders as we work in the burning hot sun. A suit stops next to me, scooping a hand into my basket and lifting it to her face. She approves. That’s enough for me. However, she pauses at Classic’s basket; there are hardly notes there. The suit keeps moving, shaking her head as she walks. My head turns to watch her go, why am I watching in the first place? Classic tips his head, watching the suit, and then looks at me. I look away before he sees my watching eyes. We work, the sun bakes the backs of our necks. We ignore the heat. We ignore bodies that slump over from heat exhaustion. We work so we don’t die. But someone does die today. A young man, about twenty feet away, is dead within moments. The suits unclasp his golden shackles and drag his body to the flames. A furnace that burns at all times. He is hauled up and thrown in, his ash and bones will be used to grow notes.
The whispers called him ‘RB’. We work harder, even Classic. . . .
I wake before the sun this time and am taken outside. Today is the first. They bandage our hands on the first of every month. The medic, a suit, observes each hand, check- ing for infection beyond damage.
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“Looks clean,” she says. “No need for gloves.” But I do need gloves. The earth met my bones years ago, but I nod and am led to the field with my steel bonds, alone in the light of the rising sun. Of course, I am not alone for too long. Soon enough, Classic joins me in the field, five feet away from me. “Morning,” he says to me. I ignore him, brushing my hands through the dirt, a note peeking through the earth. The bandages on my hands make it harder to grasp the notes, harder to move the dirt. A note drops into my basket, and I look up. Classic stares back at me. I frown at him. My hands manage to wrap around the note with my thickly bandaged fingers, thorns grappling with the fibers, and toss one of my valuable notes into his basket. I look down before I can see his eyes. Classic shifts his hand into the basket, drawing out the note. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His bandaged fingers caress the note, I can almost hear what it might sound like if it ever gets used. “Why’d you go and do that?” He asks me, setting the note on the ground between us. “Why do you keep doing it?” I snap back. He pushes the note towards me, trying to get me to take it. I glare. He watches. “I got nothing better-” he states plainly, shrugging and returning to his patch of soil. I start to speak, but his words mean nothing to me. It doesn’t make sense. “Nothing better?” I question, my voice louder than I expected it to be. He smiles and chuckles, pushing the note closer, so close that his golden shackles pull tighter against his wrists. He is an odd man. “Nothing better.” He confirms with a nod, “So take the note, Blue.” I don’t have a name. I’ve never had a real name, but when he calls me “Blue,” it feels like a name. I reach out and take the note back, dropping it in my basket. We work in silence until the sun starts to rise again. Classic works, humming and digging as he does. I wonder before pausing in my work. What makes my name? What makes any of our names? What is his name? I turn my attention back to him, dropping a note in my basket. “What did you say your name was?” I ask after a moment of silence.
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I’ve never been close to anyone before, never got the chance to be. Some of the oth - ers speak in whispering words. At night, I hear them sharing stories and songs. Not me. With death walking in lines behind us, it is too dangerous to care about anyone other than ourselves. Fearing your own death is hard enough, but fearing the death of someone you care about? It seems like too much to bear. Then why do I ask? What compelled me to give away a note? To ask a question? To ask his name? As if it would matter what his real name might be. It doesn’t. It can’t matter. Slaves don’t have names; we don’t have friends. I could have been someone who cared that she didn’t have these things. But you have to have something to miss it. Classic stares at me, almost in shock, as if he didn’t expect me to ask. Maybe he didn’t. I’ve given him no reason to expect anything from me. He collects himself and leans He looks like he might respond, parting his lips to speak, but the others start to file out. Our hands bandaged like mummies, our souls cracking like china. But there’s no cure for that. Even if there were, I wouldn’t take it. Classic is about to speak, but a suit makes their way to us, standing behind him. We look down, our faces to the earth, our eyes watching the suit as they stand with guns and bats. When they look at us, we look away. By the end of the day, we are given sandwiches, fruit, and bottles of water. No one dies today. I hear my name in the mouths of the suits, I collected more notes than most today. It doesn’t feel as nice as it usually does. . . . That night, instead of sleeping when my head hits the pillow, I listen to the others speaking. A group of girls in golden chains whisper about reading magazines and going to stores. A group of men with steel wonder about bars they had heard from those long freed from their chains. A woman in steel comforts a young man, telling him that he has time and his gold will be gone someday. back on tree-like knees, strong but endlessly breakable. “Why’d you do that?” He asks, observing me carefully. “Why not?” I respond with a shrug.
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I listen for what feels like hours, listening to the hopeful words and daydreams the suits can’t take from them. I start to believe in them, in the dreams they have. The man who sleeps under me, who signed onto the golden chains, usually cries himself to sleep. When I hear the quiet sobs deep in the night, I reach out my hand. I wake late the next morning, a hand still in mine. I don’t release him until he wakes up. We call him Reggae. . . . I am taken to the fields with most of the people in my bunk, but when I get there, Classic isn’t. I wonder about him as my hands sweep dirt away, my mind welcomes the thoughts that his words started filling. Where is he? His basket sits across from me. I hear whispers of a sickness spreading through us, sending us to the medics, to hospitals, even to the grave. It makes me shiver. I ask about Classic, my neighbor seems shocked that I can speak, but she tells me what she knows. Ballad tells me that Classic got the sun sick, not the new sick that kills us. It was a relief to hear, but the sun sick is no joke. I had it when I was younger, two days of hot and cold flashes that had me plastered to my uncomfortable bed. I send out hope to Classic, even if I don’t believe in a higher power. What kind of higher power allows this torture? But I allow myself to hope for the older man. Around three, at the highest point of the sun, Classic returns to us. He looks paler than usual, his face and skin clammy and sick. Sun sick. He kneels in the dirt, slow and dizzy to watch, slumping. His suited guards leave, and he looks at me with bloodshot eyes and dry lips. I reach out my hand, not bothering to look for watching eyes. Classic lets his fingers brush mine, but the chains pull us farther and farther away. My index finger curls around his middle, he feels to hot. We hold on as long as we can without being noticed, when the heat and distance forces our worked fingers apart. A few of my notes make their way into Classic’s basket. He’s falling behind the rest of us, and his golden chains are about to expire, then he’ll be gone. The thought causes of pang in my chest, I can’t explain it. I don’t want him to die, but I don’t want to see him go. Humming fills my ears as the moon rises, when I look up, Classic is staring at the sky.
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