Spring 2016Issue X

The Marquette University Literary Review, the official literary magazine and creative writing journal of Marquette University, presents the short fiction, poetry, creative essays, visual art, and flash fiction of Marquette’s most talented student, faculty, staff, and alumni writers. The Marquette University Literary Review is published semi-annually at Marquette University: P.O. Box 1881, Milwaukee, WI 53201-1881. Telephone: (414) 288-7179. Web address: marquetteliteraryreview.wordpress.com Email: marquetteuniversitylitreview@gmail.com.

A collection publishing the most unique and powerful voices, the Marquette University Literary Review compiles only the best literary works – those that are honest in their exploration, critical in their presentation of the human experience, and highly valuable in their literary merit.

This publication is edited by undergraduate students in the Klingler College of Arts and Sciences at Marquette University. Materials for publication in each issue are considered by direct submission.

General Editor: Michael WelchEditorial Staff: Lisa Bonvissuto, Lauren Jones, and Kieran MoriartyFaculty Editor: Dr. Larry Watson

© 2016 by Marquette University

Cover: Nolan Bollier, Half Tilt, 2015. Photograph. Private collection. Courtesy of Nolan Bollier, Milwaukee, WI.

Acknowledgments: The Marquette University Literary Review staff extends its sincere gratitude to all who have contributed to the continued success of this publication and offers its special thanks to Dr. Larry Watson, for his mentorship and advising assistance; Dr. Krista Ratcliffe and Wendy Walsh, for their administrative support; Professors CJ Hribal and Angela Sorby for their continued support; all other faculty and staff members of the Marquette University English Department, for their willingness to promote this journal to students, staff, and Marquette English Department alumni; and finally, to all authors who submitted pieces to this Spring 2015 edition of the Marquette University Literary Review, for their courage, talent, and commitment.

Contents Spring 2015

Larry Watson Introduction 5Michael Welch Letter from the Editor 6

Andrea Christoff “Blue Hill People” 9 “Shades of Rust” 10Cameron Harris “His Logic” 11

Dan Reiner Life in the South of Rome 13

Laura Litwin “On Being Born into a Catholic Family” 18

Saul Lopez “On The Fence” 19 “Tacos” 20 “Soy” 21

Thomas Southall Music in the Other Room 23

Meghan Hartnett “The Gamble” 35

Bryan Fitzpatrick “Empathy” 36

Contents Spring 2015

Shane O’Brien “Her Name Is Sue” 37

Ed Block “A NOLA Derelict” 40

Jacob Riyeff “A Fountain in Springtime” 41 “The Relics of St. Anthony’s Tongue and Vocal Chords” 41 Confessions of an Old English Poetry Reader 42

Jenna Azab “Snowglobes” 46

Megan Andreasen “James E. Kelly” 47 “Leaving Home” 48

Contributors 49

5

Introduction

The Marquette University Literary Review is a remarkable publication for a number of reasons. First of all, the submissions are restricted to writers, photographers, and graphic artists with a Marquette affiliation. Second, the review has a very brief submission and production period. This is a magazine that is completed within a semester’s time. The editors solicit material, and then read, select, edit, and format the accepted poems, stories, essays, and art work. At the close of the semester the editors publish the review and organize a launch event. Despite these limitations, year after year the literary review editors produce a handsome, readable publication that features literature and art as varied, vibrant, and vital as a reader is likely to find in the pages of any literary magazine. Here is 2016’s gathering— a cause for celebrating both the writers represented in these pages and the editors who worked so hard on The Marquette University Literary Review. - Larry Watson

6

Letter from the Editor

Coming off an incredibly successful issue in 2015, my editorial team and I looked to achieve a familiar goal: to showcase the talent of Marquette University. Sometimes it easy to forget the growing and vibrant writing community, who quietly create behind closed doors. It is my hope that this review will properly display the talent and promise of these writers. These pieces you will find inside are works to be enjoyed, reread, and shared, and I have had the honor and pleasure to be a part of this year’s issue of MULR.

The Marquette University Literary Review is celebrating its ten year anniversary—a decade of showcasing the best writers and artists that this university has to offer. From the bustling streets of New Orleans in “A NOLA Derilect” to the rolling landscape of Italy in “Life in the South of Rome,” let these stories take you on a journey. And it is my hope that this literary review will continue to foster, promote, and grow the collection of talented voices at Marquette University.

Thank you for reading the Spring 2016 Marquette Literary Review. I hope you enjoy what you see.

Sincerely, Michael Welch

7

“MKE” Photo credit: Nolan Bollier

8

“A Starry Night on Lion’s Head” Photo credit: Zan Zurawski

9

Andrea Christoff “Blue Hill People”

We went camping on the bourbon trail, the high weathered clouds the same as sky.

Steeps and biting valleys in moss. I heard a child shriek, you said it was a bird, or something sticky had been stung. We watched a show about an animal park, where anthrax killed them all.

A mosquito worked my ear. You smashed it on my cheek and said it was not my blood.

In these mountains, there were children blue from birth. Something in their blood and genes and fingernails.

You asked, “Do you feel alright?”

I felt nothing at all.

We took the path you wanted and killed a million ants.

You said it was a short cut.

10

Rust on concrete, scrubbed with oily limeand lacquer base. Rust in shells and yolks,smooth as marbles—rounded cells. A mole colored rust, irregular cancer or liver spots?Rust on flatware—a single tine, toss the set,infection is endemic. The node is weak, the utility ravaged. The dishsoap is toxic. Rust-edged lemon leaves: increase drainage, prune stems, pull roots, spray the loam. Rusted ink, dark as mustard seed, pocked with fronds of age. Rustling light from a scratched quill, the scrivener long weathered to ironed ash.

“Shades of Rust”

11

Cameron Harris “His Logic”

I stopped going to school todayMan up the street said he could get me paidI believe him because, he’s got the new jaysAnd a new beamerAnd my teacher Well,He’s got skechers and is driving a beater.

12

“Space Watch” Photo credit:Nolan Bollier

13

It was a cool Sunday in late February, the sun coming and going with the Roman clouds. The wind was gusting as it whistled through the cracks of the doors and windows. Unlike most days, I mapped out my route – a new route – to know exactly how far I’d be going.

I sat on the edge of my bed and double-knotted my Nike trainers – a routine that had become second nature with my daily workouts.

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t used to feeling nervous before going on a run, but this was different.

14 miles. Four miles further than I had ever ran before.

From my apartment on Viale di Trastevere, there is a nearby trailhead that picks up the paveway that runs along the Tiber River. I had only ever ran north on this path, as far as the Ponte Regina Margherita near Piazza del Popolo, but had never gone the oppo-site direction. Since one can only look up at the Castel Sant’Angelo so many times before tiring of it, I decided to head south for my long run.

The first mile on the path was nothing different from what I was used to: it was flat and covered in dry mud residue from the last flooding. My muscles were not even fully warmed up when, to my surprise, the path ticked upwards and turned off to the right, back toward the city streets.

I could still see the Tiber clearly, although it was shifting further away as I con-tinued on the path that now hugged urban roadway. The area to my left was now overrun with brush and weeds, so atypical to the elegant cityscape just a couple miles upriver. I came upon a busy intersection, and for some reason, there was no crosswalk to continue straight ahead. I was forced to wait to cross right, go straight, then cross back to the left – not an ideal route for any runner.

Much of the next few miles featured this same sort of inconvenience. The Tiber faded out of view, replaced by an onslaught of gas stations and repair shops, patiently awaiting the many Fiats and SUVs that passed by. The path turned along with the streets

Daniel Reiner “Life in the South of Rome”

14until it eventually came upon a series of five older-looking soccer fields. There was a full-sized dirt field in the center of the complex; the few remaining patches of grass yearned for the field to return to its glory days. Concrete bleachers were built into the grass hill, below where I was, and two old, wooden benches sat atop the hill. I imagined all of the different players who had run around these grounds over the decades and longed to know the history of this worn-down stadium. I passed by the complex and I was soon away from traffic again. -- I came around a bend of tall weeds and was nearly trampled by two big, long-haired, black dogs. They were playing with each other and went to chase something into the abyss of weeds. I thought they were strays, confused as to how they got onto the path, until I saw a small, white car speeding toward me up the hill on the running path.

“Hai visto due cani?” the driver asked, frantically. He realized I wasn’t Italian when he saw I was wearing neon yellow shoes, shorts, and a t-shirt in February in Rome. I un-derstood him, of course, but he continued: “cani, cani…bark, bark!”

“Ecco!” I replied, pointing into the brushwood. He praised toward the sky and sped onward.

The next mile on the path was quite lovely. The tar was fresh on the ground and the polished landscaping made running a little more mindless. Although there were still apartment buildings stacked on top of one another, the area seemed more pleasant. Below along the river, there was a new outdoor workout center, equipped with pull-up bars, planks and running bleachers, which I imagined would be fruitful with shirtless, top-heavy twenty-somethings during the summer months. There were teenagers skateboard-ing on some concrete blocks nearby. The refreshing stretch ended abruptly at a freeway interchange at Mile no. 4 – where A91 crosses the Tiber and overlaps Via della Magliana on the west bank and Via del Mare and Via Ostiense on the east – and I, too, was crossing the river. -- It was a quick left turn downhill after crossing the bridge, and the road split three ways without any signage for continuing. Deciding to go straight, I soon found myself on a deteriorating roadway that cut through an old junkyard; I could only see rusted cars above the tall, barbed-wire walls. I wove through the yard and was suddenly alarmed by a chorus of dogs barking – it was a dog pound, and it was a big one. I turned around before I forced myself to see what was around the next turn. I saw a cyclist come down the hill from the bridge and he turned left, so I followed.

15 Under the A91 bridge, there was a village of about fifteen hovels constructed of sheet metal, driftwood and tarps. A dozen dark-skinned men in a nearby junkyard looked to auction away old, dirty mattresses and sofas. Other men walked around pushing shop-ping carts full of trash. Five women, each holding a baby, sat on ragged couches in front of another dumping ground. Two women cooked on coal barbeques while men sifted through garbage. The shacks were packed tightly together under the overpass to protect from the rain. The few homes left out in the open had a set of tarps – black, green, silver, white – strung together above them for extra protection from the elements. I slowed my pace to take in the sights of the modern-day Hooverville, just four miles from my com-fortable apartment in the vibrant Trastevere neighborhood.

The next few miles on the path were much of the same. To my right, scrap and tire yards were scattered along the riverbank. To my left, the hum of cars and tractor-trailers on Via del Mare and Via Ostiense. In the distance, I could hear another dog pound across the two highways. -- The path was now a shared roadway, a few cars and motorinos zipping by from time to time. I was alone on the road for much of this portion, aside from two men boxing each other and the cyclist I had seen earlier. I passed a few farms on the riverbank, which mainly had horses, goats, cows and dogs. Many of them looked underfed. It was quiet on the trail; the only sounds were the birds chirping, my heavy breathing and the bushes and trees ruffling in the breeze. The air was dry and the wind was strong, and there was a faint smell of fire in my nostrils.

I came around a bend and saw a massive wildfire blazing in the shrubbery of a farm along the river. I had never seen a wildfire that big before, so I wasn’t sure of what to do. I looked around to see if anyone noticed the flames – especially the people in the farm-house nearby – but nobody was moving. Then, I saw a man tending to his crops! Were wildfires normal in these parts? I had to decide if I should turn around at that point before the fire spread to the running path. “Eh, just a little longer,” I said to myself.

The houses down the road were beginning to look more decrepit. These were indeed houses, not hovels, but calling them fixer-uppers is an understatement. In the backyard of a house underneath a power line tower, a small boy, no older than ten, was throwing up profusely. There was nobody outside with him, and nobody coming outside to check on him. “What is going on?” I said aloud. I contemplated running down the hill to help the boy, but I decided not to intervene.

16 I ran past the Tor di Valle Racecourse, the famous horse track now abandoned and dejectedly waiting to be demolished and replaced by a state-of-the-art AS Roma soccer stadium. The racetrack in the distance was nothing but an eroded shell of what it once was. Dozens of red-and-orange stables lay in the foreground, adjacent to the pathway, which were now just memories of champions and losers past. -- Rain began to drizzle down as I reached my seven-mile turnaround point just be-yond the track. The run back was more of a daze than the run out. I slowed my pace and took note of everything I had seen earlier. The hurling boy was now kicking a ball around with a friend. The wildfire was still ablaze, unattended. A driver in a blue van cursed at me for not getting out of his way on the path. I ran past a group of five teenagers on the path, three boys with pants below their waists and two pregnant girls. One of the wise guys tried running alongside me, but he fell off soon after. The village of shacks had seemingly stood still since I left it earlier: women still barbequing, men still scavenging and auctioning…and laughing. This was life in the south of Rome.

It was after 11 A.M. when I made it back to the dirt soccer field. There was a game going on between a team in old yellow kits and a team in different-shades-of-blue kits. A young man was sitting on one of the old wooden benches at the top of the hill, and I sat next to him.

“Scusi, parli inglese?” I asked.

“Un po.” He gestured with the universal sign for “a little.”

“What league is this?” I asked.

“It is a league for amateurs,” he said. “Not professional.”

“And who is playing?”

“Pian due Torri is in blue, they are home. Atletico Ostiense wearing yellow.”

He continued: “Due Torri is a school and team where children from this area can come play and learn. The players are having fun but they take it serious. These people love football and here they can play it.”

I thought about the grey field and what it meant to that community. The two of us sat on

17 I decided to leave when it started to drizzle again. I said “ciao, grazie” to the man, and he nodded and waved back.

Legs heavy, lungs dry, and mind racing, I jogged the final two miles back to my apartment. When I got inside, my roommates were just starting to stir. As they got their days started, I sat down and untied my shoes. I got into my bed and stared at the ceiling, thankful that I had a roof over my head and a bed where I could give my legs a rest.

I thought about the grey field and what it meant to that community. The two of us sat on the bench without speaking until halftime. Pian due Torri was winning two-noth-ing, and I decided to leave when it started to drizzle again. I said “ciao, grazie” to the man, and he nodded and waved back.

18

Laura Litwin “On Being Born into a Catholic Family”

I am the awkward in-between of who I have been and who I hope I can be

I am a torrent storm of polar opposites,

A flash flood amidst a drought,

I used to cradle the beads of my rosary as I slept and now my fingers don’t

remember how to fold themselves,

When my mother asks me, slipknot tongue and noose ready for the answer

I think she already knows, why I stopped going to church,

I do not have the heart to tell her that if I believe anything is holy it is

not the Bible, but this life I am living without it

The thing about religion is that it’s comfortable, like my

grandmother’s small town and Jesus statues,

If I were to write a poem about my grandmother it would be called

Blissful Ignorance and A Hint of Bigotry,

But I do not write this because, for a long time, that would have

been the title of my story as well

and that is not who I re-wrote myself to be.

19

Saul Lopez “On The Fence”

I was born in the land of dairy, on the beaches of the good land.Injected with Aztec bloodand covered with skin the color of golden tobacco.

I love the Midwest.The orange sunsets over Lake Michigan,the gentle skies overseeing farms.The smell of hops in the morning breezeas I drive down Wisconsin avenue.

I also adore Jaliscoand its dirt roads.The sense of freedomas I run on the warm sands of Puerto Vallarta and numb myself with tequila.

I feel my heart swell up,and skin trembleas I sing two distinct anthems. But people still call me out.“You’re not Mexican.” “You’re not American.”But I dance Cumbia, and love tamales.I wear Green and Gold and yellGo Pack Go!

But nothing of this matters,I am too white for Mexicans, and too brown for Americans.I am a walking oxymoron.

Roaming the streets, I grew up on,knowing that my boat shoes will not make my skin white, knowing that my cousins from Mexico will still call me a gringo despite my brown hue.

20

I have no home. No humble abode,on which I can grow old.For I am on the fence,trying to figure what culture makes the most sense.

“Soy”

I am the product of a dream,waiting to be fulfilled. A reason to live,the answer to the question,que hago aquí?

I am the hope of many,the envy of few. I know who I am.I know where I’m from,or do I?

I have a bar to raise,a promise to keep.Shoes to fill,and expectations to set.

I am here to succeed,and pass on this dream.This potential does notdie with me.

I have a debt to pay,

21a promise to fulfill,a story to pass on.

I have to write my story,and carry thosewho couldn’t cross.

Soy el futuro.Soy el ahora.

Aunque me roben la dignidad,no podrán robarme este sueño.

This is my home.

Even if “they” say it isn’t.

22

“Tacos”

Son la sangre comestiblede una cultura violada.

Traen seguridad,auguran éxito.

Pedo o sereno,un buen taco llena al alma y satisfice al corazón.

Grandes o chicos, míos o tuyos, buenos o buenos,los tacos son nuestros.

“Untitled” Photo credit:Siena Giacomantonio

23

In his apartment many Thursday mornings ago James had his window wide open. It was a hot summer morning and the heat was thick and heavy. He laid on his back with his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. He was asleep, but it was an uncomfortable one. While he was deep in R. E. M. his forehead began to glisten with sweat and his brow furrowed on its own. After a couple of moments, his whole body dripped with moisture. His eyes snapped open and his arms flung to his sides because his body thought it was drowning. His arms met with a wet slap of his sheets drenched in sweat. He looked around his apartment and let out a long sigh. Back in the day, James hated those summer mornings; they were always too hot and sticky. He changed into dry clothes and headed for the kitchen, mumbling. Annoyances like this bugged him the most. If it wasn’t the sticky heat, it was the biting cold that invaded his apartment or the noise of restless neighbors. One of the more famous culprits was his upstairs neighbor, whose children endlessly clamored around the apartment complex, yelling and cursing at each other. James typically grabbed his broom to bang the ceiling above him. At 8:45 he was to make breakfast. His eggs were cooking when he heard a noise.

Bam Wham. Thud.

The crash came from down the hall but it wasn’t the usual sound of the neighbors. He stopped what he was doing, turned off the stove top and tiptoed to the door. He leaned with his ear to the door, hearing huffing and puffing. It was a woman’s voice. James swung open his door. Nothing was there, but he heard the noise again coming from the stairwell. He followed it to see a lady on her knees, pushing a wide dresser with all of her weight into her apartment. She had a red bandana securing her thick threads of hair in a ponytail and she was dressed in a fitted pair of denim overalls. When James watched her push the massive thing, he could see her brow furrow. She had strong features. Her jawline was pronounced along with her protruding cheekbones. “You think you can help me out instead of just lookin’ at me?”

Thomas Southall “Music in the Other Room”

24 James snapped back to the present to see the woman standing up with her hands on her hips, looking at him. Her chest was heaving up and down and a thin layer of sweat glistened on her face. She was right, it was only good manners to help someone in need. James came over and bent down to push the dresser. He used his shoulder and leaned in. With a loud grunt, James pushed using all of this strength. But the dresser didn’t budge. “How did you manage to bring this all the way up here?” he asked the lady. She looked at him with a vindictive eye.

“I was doin’ fine, it’s just that when I brought it into the hall it was hard to move it around to push it through my door,” she said.

James could understand why. The dresser itself was a long thick wooden monolith that felt as heavy as a car. How the lady managed to get this far, James had no idea. Also, the hallways in this apartment complex were extremely narrow. Getting this beast of furniture into anywhere would be a challenge.

“Aaah, maybe if we drag it in from the front,” the lady suggested. She stepped back, approached the dresser which was lodged halfway between the hallway and her room and in one swing of her leg she flew over it and landed in her apartment.

“Come over, mister, it seems to be stuck over in the rug over here.”

James considered himself young, but he knew he couldn’t make it over the dresser with any amount of grace as the lady just did. Regardless, James ran and jumped over the dresser. His left knee hit the corner, and his hip banged the side of the dresser and he rolled off and with a loud OOOF! He landed at the foot the of the lady. He was now on the other side of the dresser. She saw the whole thing, and James’ cheeks flushed. But the woman thought it was hilarious. Her laughter came deep in her chest. She continued laughing, though James could tell that it was no longer directed at him, but rather she was just caught up in her laughter, the reason why wasn’t so important. James marked her peculiar.

James gathered himself and rose to one knee, watching her the entire time. She gave out one last rough and raspy HAHA! that sounded as natural as trickling

25water. When she was done she wiped her eyes and reached out a hand to James.

“My name’s Maya, nice to meet you.”

James took her hand in order to shake it, but instead when their hands met Maya’s fingers firmly grasped his and she yanked him up from his kneeling position. When they stood face-to-face James could see that they were about the same height. He then offered his hellos as well.

“Oh look at that, they fell out,” she said.

James turned to see a dresser drawer open. Its mouth laid open, spilling out thin square sheets with words on them like Blue Train, Coltrane, and Herbie Hancock. They were printed in dark reds and other smooth, dark colors and images. James must have bumped the drawer open during his difficult cross over the dresser.

“Careful!” yelled Maya as she dashed over to pull James away from the round flat disk on the ground right behind James’ heel. She then bent down to pick it up.

“Oh my, it’s been a thousand years since I heard this,” she said. What she was moving around in her hands was a vinyl record with an album cover.

“I love Coltrane’s sound, it’s so mysterious and large. Let’s play some.”

James didn’t know who Coltrane was so he remained silent. Maya was too caught up in her own excitement to notice.

“We have to take a listen. I’ll make some tea, why don’t you sit down on the couch?”

The rest of her furniture appeared to be moved in already and James looked at the dresser still halfway in the room, with its other half in the hallway.

“Oh don’t worry about that, we can always do it later,” Maya said as she stood in the kitchen area of the apartment. Soon the water boiled and she prepared the tea. James was looking around her apartment. It was cozy all

26right; every inch of every surface was piled with books, papers, and sheets of music. Magazines and pieces of paper with written notes on them littered every corner of the kitchen counter. James saw that her end table next to her couch was covered head to toe with sticky notes saying to do the laundry or water the plants. It was a clean chaos. James noticed that the floor was spotless. Maya set the teacups with steaming green water down on the coffee table in front of James. Soft music began to start playing from her record player when she sat down in a nearby velvet chair.

“They have words, you know,” Maya said as she peeked over her teacup, nodding to the music. Her eyes drifted on James, patiently waiting for a response. Maya’s voice was deep and sultry.

“Oh really?” James said after a long pause.

“Yeah, it’s just that most people don’t know what to listen for.” Maya took in the music and let wordless sounds fill in between them. James listened to the music, assured that Maya wasn’t talking about real, human words but the sounds of the instruments. He heard trumpets, drums, and keyboard but that’s all he heard; they were just sounds that pleased his ear.

“Can you feel the personality to it? It’s trying to say something. That’s what Jazz is, a way to find words without saying them.” Maya leaned over and watched James’s face for a twitch of the ear or the raise of the eyebrow, anything that would suggest he suddenly recognized the personality of the music. James didn’t want to seem rude, but he didn’t have a clue what Maya wanted him to find. She sensed this and let the topic drop from the conversation.

“This album is very special to me, someone very special gave it to me as a present.” she finally said.

“From who?” inquired James. Maya grinned, but yielded no reply. James could tell that she was used to not telling the whole truth but rather dropping bits and pieces. Oddly that didn’t bother James, he was fine with just seeing the part of Maya that she wanted him to see, but in order not to hurt her feelings he decided not to bring it up. He just continued sipping his tea as the record turned on the machine.

27 “Sometimes when I’m laying here I imagine that the record player is a stand mixer filled too high. You know, like the nice viscous thumps of the bass and the trickling sound of the trumpets are ingredients to a batter. Each song is filled to the brim that reach the top of the bowl, and it can overflow at any minute. As the record turns, I see contents of the mixer swish around in the bowl and when the best part of the song hits, I see the thick music spills onto the floor slowly and serenely.” She giggled, “isn’t that a fun way to think about it?”

James nodded his head absentmindedly.

They sat some more and got to talking. James again noticed how if he asked anything personal about her she managed to avoid it and bring the conversation back to him. Such as where he worked, his age, how long he had stayed in Chicago, the reason why he moved there. He answered politely: he was a tax accountant, 34, 10 years now, and he moved here from Ohio for work. He lost his accounting job five years back and he was making ends meet by taking odd jobs. It all made him sound very boring and even tragic, but James noticed Maya maintained a firm attention to what he said. He hadn’t experienced that in a while.

James tried again to know a little bit about Maya, but she didn’t want to answer where she came from or what she did for a living, but she was ready with any conversation pieces that avoided awkward silences. James found himself talking about himself even more. He wanted to be a writer, a word he now never allowed to surface in his mind before. Between the pauses of their conversation, James wondered if it was fear that prevented him from fully wrapping his mind around the idea and more importantly why was he comfortable telling this to a complete stranger? His mind’s eye acknowledged that his life was propelled now only by routines. Wake up, do dishes, eat toast, wear that tie, get on the green line to Clinton. But he didn’t reveal that much to Maya. He didn’t want to depress her; he was doing that to himself right now.

He finished his tea and said that he had to go. He admitted to himself that this was the first time in a long time that he had any personal contact with anyone outside of work and therefore felt a little drained.

“Are you sure you got to go?” said Maya and she stopped the record. She took it off the player and held it in her hands, spinning it around between her

28fingers. “Things were just getting interesting”

James turned to get up out of the chair he was in and his clumsy arms knocked the vinyl out of Maya’s hand. It one quick motion is rolled from her fingers and shattered on the floor below. Down at his feet was the vinyl fractured in seven parts. He looked to Maya. Her mouth hung open. She bent down to see the broken vinyl. She placed a finger on its remains, and let out a weak groan, traumatized.

“Maya...I’m sorry...” said James. It was almost eerie how silent Maya became. Her face held a blank stare. Still saying nothing, she walked to door and grabbed the edge of her heavy dresser. She contorted into a wordless scream and in one big yank, it was entirely in her apartment. She then pointed to the unobstructed door. “See? I’m done, I don’t need anymore help from you.” “Wait! I-I’m--” “I don’t want to hear it. Not right now. Please leave.”

James stood there for a moment, unable to form what he wanted to say, but he walked out her door defeated. The door shut behind him. --- Later that day James was sulking on the couch. He never made someone mad before. He heard music coming from down the hall coming from Maya’s room. Through the walls he could tell that the music was sad. It was slow and swaying, wrapped up in its own gloom. He heard the sound of a clarinet, piercing and dejected. The music sounded as though it had just lost a friend.

James knew of Jazz, but he never really listened to it. It all seemed so unattainable to him before. Jazz people were the type of the people down the street that only talked to other Jazz enthusiasts. They were the ones who spoke the language of music fluently. When James walked past them on the street, he couldn’t understand anything they were saying. Maya was probably one of these types of people and it was some sort of club that James didn’t have any interest in. But still, he felt bad. He didn’t mean to destroy something of hers. From the

29couch, James could hear the music in the other room wailing, maybe it was even wailing at him. James sunk deeper and deeper into his couch. --- A day passed and James came and went from his apartment, all the while jazz sang through the walls. It sang the same sad song all about a Stormy Weather. The words and the music spoke for Maya. James felt that he should do something. So he did. He knocked on Maya’s door later that day. Nobody came to open it. James’ fist rested on the door and he tried again. Since the Jazz volume was turned up, James couldn’t tell if anyone was going to come. Did Maya hate him that much? James began to move to go back to his apartment and *click*, her door unlocked. He pushed the door inwards and found the same apartment, but it changed since the last time he was here. The entire room was darker than he remembered. Gray curtains were dipped in a sad shade of black. The brown dresser that once looked sturdy now drooped into a slight frown.

Maya was nowhere to be seen from the door, so James stepped into the apartment and he immediately felt something. Something hung in the air that weighed heavy on James’ shoulders. The room was carrying something. Following the sound from the music, James saw the record player. Next to it was Maya, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, sunk into the faded orange couch. Her eyes moved to see him. They lingered and returned to staring at the wall.

James placed a CD in a yellow cover on the coffee table in front of her. Earlier he went to the store to find it. It wasn’t a vinyl record since the store didn’t have any but he went for the next best thing. James felt bad because there was a store in town that actually sold vinyl. It was a renovated basement that intimidated him. So he settled. “Here’s some Etta James,” he said. “For breaking your record the other day.”

She remained silent. A spark of annoyance flashed behind James’ eyes. He didn’t have the patience to figure this lady out. He gave her a present and she didn’t respond with a thank you. James turned his back to her to leave.

“That record was very special to me,” Maya then looked at the record that

30James had given her. “It’s not like I don’t want your gift. I can’t have it.”

The voice that came from behind him wasn’t Maya’s voice or at least nothing he remembered. It was low, like a lumberjack with a sore throat. James was going to ask why the record was so special to her but decided against it. Looking at the deflated Maya on the couch, he felt that it would be best to go. He left and closed Maya’s door behind him without saying a word. The whole time the low sad tones of the horn played in the background. --- For the next coming days, there wasn’t any Jazz playing. It was silent throughout the apartment building. There were no horns, no strings, no piano, nor a soulful moan of a voice. James would clean the dishes and the persistent absences of Jazz would bother his brain. The building rang with inharmonious silence so much so that James’ usual mellow risibility faltered to a flat line of dejection.

It was quiet throughout the apartment building. Whenever James walked past Maya’s door the silence sucked everything into a humming absence of sound as if a vacuum sealing in all noises was right outside her door. When James passed by that door each day he felt a pang of regret. It was his fault that he had broken something very important to her and caused her to fall into a depression that seemed to swallow the vitality of the entire building. He had to do something more. ---

Standing at the door of the record store downtown, the one that was a renovated basement, James opened the door and stepped in. The entrance was on the ground level so there was a staircase that lead down into the basement. Black plastic crates that held the records were set out in rows, spilling out colorful paper sheets firm with black vinyl. James saw some of the other people inhabiting the music store. Each of the inhabitants wore odd clothing according to James and their heads were down peering over each cover of the vinyl in the crates. They didn’t speak to each other, the only sound being the music playing overhead. With the sudden realization that he should pretend to look like he knew what he was doing, James had to find a place to plant himself and file through the music. Something caught his eye. A small plastic panel with the word JAZZ hung over a narrow hallway in the corner of the store. James looked at it with a sense of desire and apprehension for it was a dark corridor. That’s

31where he needed to go and he took the plunge, entering the hall. It was dark and cool and at the end there was an open doorway spilling out light. James’ steps rung in his ears as he walked toward the light. The rest of the world was fading away as James arrived at the end, in the tucked away universe of Jazz. --- Jazz carried itself through the halls, guided by the slow breeze of an open window. Its drum rhythm lazily sauntered from one room to the next, arm and arm with its mistress, the lovely horn section, who was loud and proud. The sound of the two arrived at the door at the end of the hall and drifted into the ears of James who was in the living room. The drums and the horns brought more friends too, and soon the smooth low tones of the bass found their proper place along with the sharp twang of the guitar. The music had a sort of hypnotic lull to it where its vibrations entered the mind and shook around the neurons and bounced around in the creased corridors of the brain. The crooning and grainy sounds of saxophones long past returned. Now the swaying of the music came from James’ apartment. The soft flowing breeze carried a leaf in from the park nearby. The hot dry summer cooked it brittle and yellow. It flew through the room, and swept past the new vinyl record player James soon bought after his trip to the music store. The blast of Armstrong’s horn shot it back up to the ceiling. It landed on the windowsill, thick and green as it was while on the tree.

James sat on the floor reading the back of a vinyl album. He was doing this for weeks. Ever since those magical chords churned out from his player, James sat on the ground with his back propped against the end of his chair, knees up and book in hand. The knowledge of jazz went through him every time he placed the needle on the black spinning plate.

Today was the first day he played Jazz without his headphones. Although he came to love the idea of having your head wedged between two speakers close to your head, he wanted to share his music today. The sun was out and the wind was blowing, and James’ windows were open and the music was playing. Ever since he pumped music throughout the apartment, he didn’t even notice the summer heat.

James thought it may have been the light in his eyes or that fact that his glasses needed to get fixed but the apartment building was gaining some of its life back. No longer did the wall droop under its weight or the paint look faded. Energy was humming through the building.

32 There was a knock on his door. James went to the door and peered through the keyhole. Wrapped up in the same thick blanket, Maya stood at the door, waiting for an answer. James pulled the door open and met her eyes. Before, her eyes were lifeless as mirrors but now they sparkled.

“Hi.” James said cautiously

“Hey,” Maya said smiling, “whatcha listenin to?”

“Some Elliot,” said James.

“That’s what I thought.” said Maya. She beamed.

She walked into the room with some higher mission right past James into his apartment. James, taken aback with her sudden transformation, just looked at her. She scanned the room searching his apartment for the goods, his record player.

It wasn’t anything impressive. It was a turntable and speaker roughly the size of a suitcase. It lay on the coffee table and its tiny speakers belted music throughout the entire apartment. James got it from a secondhand store so its edges were worn out, but to Maya it was a treasure chest of gold. She walked straight up to it and knelt down right beside it, placing her hand delicately on it.

“Oh my, I see that you caught on to my habit.” She giggled.

James could see that her demeanor had changed completely. Her color was brighter and she wasn’t sad. Her eyes met his when she talked.

“You could definitely say that,” James said.

Maya scared James when she jumped and gave him a big hug. She must have timed it with the big cymbal crash in the song that played in the background. She latched on to James, holding on for a very long time. The only sound was the music: happy, safe, and full.

33 “I’m glad you got into the music. I don’t know how to tell you this, but something flicked a switch in my mind and everything has changed you know, the first time I hear the music.”

James stood there, unsure of how to respond. Maya continued.

“I was like you once. I was stuck somewhere. Part of myself wanted to be one thing while the other half wanted something completely different. But then Jazz came into my life and everything changed. I see life in a new way now. I hope the same has happened to you. Here, why don’t you take this, as a gift.” In Maya’s hands appeared a record. “Tell me if you start hearing the words.”

The record had a bright yellow cover with a sunflower design over the front. James brought it to his face, scanning the details, and flipped it over. The back cover was a picture of a summer night, with a lady sitting on a picnic blanket looking at the stars above. In the corner was the word MAYA.

James didn’t know that Maya was a musician. He looked up to ask Maya about her music, but she was not there. James was perplexed and looked down the hall. Tell me if you start hearing words, she told him. His humble record player was there in the place it had always been. Soon Maya’s record spun beneath its needle.

The first song started with violin. It started low and as the drums came in, they danced to a faster beat. Soon entered the trills of the trumpet, and the rising crescendo came. Oh my god. James heard something between the notes, primordial and ancient. It was someone, himself, Maya? James heard ‘it’ speaking and James understood the ‘words’. They spoke with a rhythm, with a presence, with a body. The first song wordlessly sung about yearning for love. James understood that the second track was about enjoying life. Each note and beat existed as itself, solid enough to wrap your fingers around it. James then found what Maya was talking about, it was as clear as if its messages were written out on paper.

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“Rio Massacre” Photo credit: Megan Andreasen

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Meghan Hartnett “The Gamble”

Damn little house of cards With no windows, no doors— Was missing an ace And stood three jokers strong. Your trick fell flat in a moment Unbalanced by heavy breaths, Four shaky hands and a quivering lip. The devil’s little hat trick found you And an empire tumbles to the ground In a game of 52 card pick-up.

She’s never been to Vegas, But you bet on her anyway. Your king of hearts; her queen of spades.

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“Swirl Pool” Photo credit: Nolan Bollier

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Shane O’Brien “Her Name is Sue”

It was a Rockwellian summer of ease and attitude,Soda melting on the dash of a U-Haul with theFaux-leather sticky from the hot sun, a truck bed full of worn rentals, and Whatever is forgotten in the basement of a church.

The work of setting up parties is not too hard And the pay is real good But things change when a bitter old man requests A clothing pickup for the rummage sale. I ram the truck into the curb and jump outHe stands in a sun-bleached shirt and faded cargos And frowns at the choice he madeBut it’s the only one she would approve, he reminds himself.

He is on a stoop stuck in time, a street full ofAfterschool snacks, sleepovers, and messy roomsAs I follow him inside I almost notice two run past me and hide behind a bush.

The room is blue, thick with collectionsCaked in dust from past adventuresIn their framed pictures of sailboats, missing the childrenWho weren’t there for her to chase after. The only noise is a dated A/C unit that hums on a ledgeAnd a lonely piano with Compositions that once filled the house fromA time of cocktails and date nights.

He barks me up stairs coveredWith shag, green carpet, around the corner pastTwo abandoned rooms and intoHis own, an open green bedroom with a deep, storied closet.

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The unmistakable odor takes me toA reunion in Iowa, slide shows of what was Main Street, Friends lost in the war, what are now their children, What could have been their grandchildren.

I move quickly to clear her belongingsTo and fro, what feels like an estate saleWith a disgruntled ownerBut a promise to be careful.

I walk through the house and notice the missingUniforms, a polo normally stretched from wear,And sticky from a gym class in a schoolThat could not afford lockers.

He offers lemonade and a seatHis eyes grow weary with not much to sayHe mutters a joke about her anger over what took placeBut we know it’s for the best.

I exit one last time and see the bubbled house shielded from theStreet, near a school of Christmas programsRight by the park of urban tennis, which stands nextTo a dirty lake we swim in on restless nights.

I drive off, and for a second remember her clothingResting on a table in the back, and the story ofThe old man and his familyBut only for a second.

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“Paris at 1 am” Photo credit: Madeline Pieschel

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Ed Block “A NOLA Derelict”

A pale green bottle,with a tiny, cup-shaped nickout of its rim; its shouldersflecked with dandruff,scarred by years of contactin dented red machines,upright, or chest-stylesquatting on the floor.

Or, perhaps it came from someold bar along Decatur Street,or spent the last years with its buddies, huddledin a wooden box with fadedletters – Coca-Cola – on its sides.

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Jacob Riyeff “A Fountain in Springtime” UW Madison Library Mall 4.30.09

The sun slips out, sowing warmth.A duck floats in the fountain, sleeping—unaware of talk, too tired to bother.A calm spring breeze blows through the water:head in wing, watching dream.

“The Relics of St. Anthony’s Tongue and Vocal Chords: Padua, 2008”

Such a small selection of desiccated flesh—swallowing time and eternity up.

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“Confessions of an Old English Poetry Reader”

TO THE READER. – I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a personal affliction: I trust that it will prove, not merely of a moment’s interest, but, in a considerable degree, useful and instructive. Yet, how to begin the con-fession of so awkward and baffling a vice, so terrible an addiction to so insidi-ous a poison—especially when in the halls of poesis the lofty names of Chaucer, Milton, Hopkins, Eliot, et alia echo in such honeyed strains? Surely, the uncouth names of Cynewulf and Cædmon are rarely granted even a whisper in those hal-lowed corridors. And yet, this is what I am: a reader of Old English poetry. Before laying bare the depth of my bondage to this most sweet and ter-rible of anodynes, permit me first to acquaint you with how I first came to be a regular reader of Old English. During several years of wandering about the U.S. with little to do but read, meditate, and work in health-food stores, I found myself studying Hindustani music at the A— A— College of Music in S— R—, California. In moments free from music and the latest cashiering job I had se-cured, I would often wander up the hill to a pleasant neighborhood away from the incessantly travelled freeway, along which my apartment sat, to a small Dominican university whose library I frequented. Whiling away hours in the adequate stacks of this institution, I chanced upon a volume of Professor Tolkien. The volume in question (I still recall the dull brown cover and clear typescript) contained the venerable doctor’s scholarship on Finn and Hengest: The Fragment and the Episode (1982). Tracing the pages of unfamiliar language that served as the apparent focus of the work, I was soon dazed; my first look at Old English enticed but left me befuddled—and wanting more.

For lack of space and so as not to strain the reader’s attention, I will make a short tale of it: I gave up my studies at the music school, and began taking classes in English literature at the prestigious University of W— at M—. We be-gan, as one does, with grammar, morphology, scansion: all the seamy parapher-nalia the burgeoning Anglo-Saxonist must acquire before fully surrendering to the philological pull. It’s gotten serious. I hear your reassuring remarks—“So you like reading Beowulf; that’s not so dire”—and I do appreciate your kind attempts at assuaging my anxieties. But know that Beowulf is merely where it began;

43the Wanderer, the Seafarer (with a little help from a fellow Old English junkie, Mr. E— P—): these were all more or less harmless, though risky. They weren’t enough. Before I realized what had happened, what perilous avenue I had em-barked upon, I was foregoing sleep to read the hagiographical poems Guthlac (A and B!) and Andreas; throwing away afternoons reading the Germanic and martial retellings of biblical narrative found in Genesis and Exodus; even catch-ing some of the shorter didactic poems on breaks at work—a deplorable practice by all accounts. And yet, I couldn’t shake it. Please realize, my most patient reader, that I have known other mistress-es, other poisons, during my vagabond days before this single-minded pursuit began: some thought the strongest and most terrible of the kind—various eupho-riants and entheogens; nervines and psychoeuleptics; sedatives, soporifics, and oneirogens—yet no vegetative poison has proved more enticing, more all-con-suming, than my long-endured eidetic lady, Old English poetry—which has bid-ed with me for more hours than I care to tell, has searched to the darkest regions of my imaginings, my very soul, and has broken a clear light, in those select moments of acutest ecstasy, upon my poor beleaguered and searching mind. Eventually, I had to cut my gainful employment short, leave my home, and take up residence at a small but comfortable institution (the University of N— D—) in order to sate my appetite, institutional doses being the sole recourse for keeping me on an even keel. And yet, unlike my Manchesterian predecessor in confession, I have no regrets, no desire to step down my indulgence in this dreadful habit; in fact, I devote a good amount of my time to hooking others: unsuspecting acquaintances, old friends, and—most shameful of all—young students unprepared in their impressionable minds to deflect my persuasions or to know better.

The moral of this short narrative then is addressed to the prospective Old English poetry reader; and is, therefore, limited in application. If he or she has been brought into some manner of curiosity concerning the vernacular verse of the Anglo-Saxons and alerted to the possible pains and more so the innumerable pleasures of this fatidic corpus by my account, it is enough. Jeremy Taylor conjec-tures that it may be as painful to be born as to die: I think it probable: and though I did not have the diamond-like variations of Old English poetry at my birth, its analgesic effects have sustained me these past years, and, who knows, they may relieve me on my deathbed as well. The Venerable Bede, after all, is said to have

44composed and recited an Old English poem in his own final agony.

In closing, I distinguish myself yet again from my precursor, the late Mr. De Quincey, in that, unlike in his forsaking of his mastering habit, my dreams are not yet perfectly calm precisely in that I continue to embrace my alliterative mis-tress with no degree of genuine remorse. The imaginal world dwelling raucously within my head remains—my dreams awash in the muscular thrust of trochees; the sensuous swell of clashing accents and virtually unrestrained anacrusis; my inner world occupied by doughty saints and saintly warriors propagating such progeny that their meditations and darings, like the mead of poetry to those an-cient Norse, endure as (in the tremendous lines of Heaney)

a small crockfor the brain,and a cauldron

of generationswung at the centre:love-den, blood-holt,dream-bower.

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“Truth in Reflections” Photo credit: Madeline Pieschel

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Jenna Azab “Snowglobes”

Thick oblong snowflakes dawdlemonochromatic polka dots decorating grey sky,clinging to tendrils of hair, bunching on hunched shoulders.The forecast never called for snow. The flakes don’t listen. Their persistent presence transforms the dayshaken upside, falling down, and regaining directionin the same exhalation.

Clumping to half-remembered wordsshadowing glaciers stubbornly denying to disappearthe imposing snow amasses on cloudy old storieslike lyrics that won’t kindly exit from your braincontributing to a distractingly familiar refrain.

Turn over the snowglobe for a fresh shake--a reminder to reinvigorate. Taste each new flake on outstretched tongue,to drink in the life of surprise and conversation,waiting for knowledge and breath to accumulate in arrival of new snowflake.

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A towering lad with dark bushy brows so thickI could barely see the wise eyes beneath themHe only called me sweetie or doll faceWell before he forgot my name and who I was altogether

We would storm through the Black Walnut houseStiff from a long Wisconsin road trip and family quarrelsHead straight to the cellar for cream sodasChilling amidst boxes never unpacked

After a hearty meal of reunionI stayed next to the sheepdog on his worn wool rugAnd fed him ice cubes all night long

He was our patriarch, a doctor, a Michigan manRooted in counties Clare and Kerry“Devoted husband of 59 years to Lucille”

We walked to see the neighbor’s cows at duskSometimes we talked about the Navy Or dozens of birds flocking to the feeders As we sat, still and gazing at rolling acres

I don’t remember anything we said

Megan Andreasen “James E. Kelly”

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Along the paved milesI look out at the fields of dusty goldAnd see only stretches of tunneled pain

Dirty farms bring an escape from the hurt that overwhelmsResentment breeds from the place of my birthI don’t know how to divert and not feel guilt

Silos store grainsJust how I hold the tender piecesof my existence that I like enough to save for later

Let’s stop there, at the Danish museum, she saidNot this time, he repliedTheirs was not an agreeable marriage

Here I am now, on 35 North15 years past a missed exitDaring to dodge a dull eternity

Staring out at a muted spring,I try with all my strength to findMy beingWhere it isn’t hard to be

Maybe when I return, the barns will get a spruceThe smokestacks look less lonelyAnd we’ll always take the detour to the Danish museum

“Leaving Home”

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Contributors Spring 2016

Megan Andreason is an Omaha, Nebraska native and Marquette University senior studying nursing. Aside from being a novice poet, she enjoys exploring new cities and connecting with the Milwaukee community. Megan loves all things public health and has committed to a year of post-graduate service with Jesuit Volunteer Corps Northwest in Washington.

Jenna Azab is a graduate of Marquette University and the University of Wisconsin—Milwaukee. A lover of reading, cooking, yoga, and exploring, Jenna proudly teaches Writing at Marquette University where her students continually remind her of the beauty and power of writing.

Ed Block is an Emeritus Professor of English who taught for thirty-five years at Marquette and retired in 2012. Since retiring he has continued to write poetry, travel, and garden. His poems have appeared in various journals. Last fall he took the poetry workshop offered at Marquette by internationally known poet Carolyn Forché.

Nolan Bollier is a junior at Marquette University from Portland, Oregon, and is studying mechanical engineering. He has always enjoyed looking at quality photographs, but only began pursuing photography earlier this year.

Andrea Christoff graduated from Marquette University in 2011 with a Master of Arts degree in public service. After graduating she worked for the State of Wisconsin and recently took a position in the private sector. Andrea is a member of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association and has upcoming work in Two Cities Review.

Siena Giacomantonio is a sophomore, studying Writing-Intensive English with minors in Italian and family studies. Her interests include reading, photography, and horseback riding. She’s had a children’s poem—Valentine’s Day Soup—published through The American Library of Poetry in 2008. While not in school, she resides in Michigan.

50Cameron Harris is a senior at Marquette University majoring in broadcast and electronic communication and minoring in history. She is a musician by trade under the name “Cam Lee” but also writes a lot of poetry. This is the first piece of hers that has been published.

Morgan Hess graduated from Marquette last May with a Bachelor’s degree in history, and is currently pursuing a law degree. She thinks writing is a great way to express one’s feelings, opinions, and observations about the world around us. She loves Bukowski. She hates Dickens. And she thinks John Mayer is a terribly underrated guitar player.

Laura Litwin is a junior at Marquette University studying Writing-Intensive English, corporate communications, and Spanish. She is a passionate feminist, corgi-lover, science fiction enthusiast and in her spare time enjoys writing slam poetry.

Saul Lopez was born in the East Side of Milwaukee, overlooking Lake Michigan. But due to economic and racial restraints, he was raised in the South Side. He calls the “Good Land” home. He attended Marquette University High School before arriving to MU, where he is currently studying English.

Shane O’Brien is a senior in the school of Arts and Sciences majoring in psychology. He’s from Minneapolis, Minnesota and draws much of his material from his Catholic school upbringing in the city, along with small town life throughout the state. In his free time he enjoys playing the guitar, reading, and biking throughout his hometown. He will take his talents to City Year in New York City this fall.

Dan Reiner is a journalist from Croton-on-Hudson, NY. Dan has worked as Executive Sports Editor for the Marquette Wire and as a news reporter for The Journal News, and has had work published by USA Today. He studied abroad in Rome during the Spring 2015 semester and was inspired by travel writing and travel photography. He hopes to someday see more of the world and document his travels.

Jacob Riyeff currently teaches in the English department at Marquette and primarily studies Old and Middle English poetry. His study and translation of St. Æthelwold of Winchester’s tenth-century transformation of the Rule of St.

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“Space Watch” Photo credit: Nolan Bollier

Benedict into Old English is due out from Cistercian Publications in the spring of 2017. In addition, his first chapbook of poems, Lofsangas: Poems Old and New, appeared in 2015 (Franciscan University of Steubenville Press).

Thomas Southall is a Marquette senior majoring in English and Spanish. Primarily a visual artist, he incorporates vivid imagery into his stories. Authors that inspire include DH Lawrence, Salman Rushdie, Jean Rhys, Steven King, and JK Rowling. He plans to continue writing when he leaves Marquette.

Zan Zurawski is a Marquette graduate. He has taken studio classes at MIAD and studied abroad in South Africa.