volume i: sanity

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Metanoia Mission Statement: Metanoia is a literary and art magazine which features works that were created through collaborations of artists across genres and art forms, both together in a physical space, or in online forums. The goal of these collaborations is to bring artists out of their dark corners where they work alone, and into a place where the collective intellect became a force that expanded the creative experience. Our mission is to provide a publication that facilitates a way for the creative act to also become an act of community.


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Ellie SuttmeierKirsten Samanich

Nicole ArochoSamantha Wallace

“Let’s you and I conjure together. You watch me and I’ll watch you and I will show you how to show me how to show you how

to do our marvelous human tricks together.”

-Courtney Milne

Cover art by Sallie RobinsonBackcover art by Nicole Samanich

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For as long as there has been art, there has, for some reason, been a tradition of the artist creating in a mystical and shrouded space; isolation and aloneness seem to be prerequisites for true art. Fortunately, many artists have voiced their dissatisfaction with this model of creation, asking for a way in which the creative act becomes also an act of community.

Metanoia’s mission is to be an answer to that question. This literary and art magazine features works that were created through collaborations of artists across genres and art forms, both together in a physical space, or in online forums. The goal of these collaborations was to bring artists out of their dark corners where they work alone, and into a place where thecollective intellect became a force that expanded the creative experience.

Oxford defines metanoia as a “change in one’s way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion”. While Metanoia is not so concerned with repenting sins or converting spiritual beliefs, we are, through our publication, striving to change the landscape of artistic creation by inviting artists to create within and across their communities. The theme of our first issue is “sanity,” a topic we believe is broad (and complex) enough to allow for a wide range of freedom and exploration during the creative process.

Cheers,The Editors


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Table of ContentsLeo Oliva / “Sanity” / 5

Carly Doyle / “Driving at Sunset” / 6Bethany Fraga / “Fire” / 7

Carly Doyle / “Study of the Sky: Exceptionally Flat” / 8Johnathan Flechas / “An Inner Chance” / 9

Chau Nguyen / “City vs. Nature” / 10 - 11Thomas Duncan Fulller / “I Thought I Heard Somebody Cry” / 11

Kathlyn Quan / “The Catholics and Republican Ate the Title So All That’s Left is Me” / 12, 14, 16- 17

Voltaire Austrackas / “Dysmorphia” / 13Leo Oliva / “Medicine Man” / 15

Cris Cucerzan / “Lounging” / 18 -19Karla Cote / “Sea Mount” / 19

Bernie Coleman / “Doctor, Doctor” / 20Louisa Clarke / “Release” / 21

Sallie Robinson / “Painted Dancers” / 22Bernie Coleman / “not together/sture self” / 23

Nicole Samancich / “Foreshortened Skeleton” / 24Kyle Allen / “Drops” / 25

Lily Weiner / “Christmas Day” / 26Louisa Clarke / “Whispers In The Wind” / 27

Karla Cote / “Mangroves” / 28Katharyn Howd Machan / “The Things My Parents Do With Blood” / 29

Katharyn Howd Machan / “Consider The Cold In Watchful Darkness” / 30Ngia Nguyen / “Looking For More” / 31

Nicole Samanich / “Searching” /32Jillian Kaplan / “Ginsberg” / 33

Bethany Fraga / “Water” / 34Leo Oliva / “Sketch for the Sleepless” 35

Caitlin Ghegan / “Please Speak Well Of Me” / 36 - 37Johnathan Flechas / “Free” / 38 - 39


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Carly Doyle

Driving at Sunset

There are sparks rushingpast my face, swelling into

clouds of blood and highlighter orange.Your mouth is a black hole,

demons snapping at your tonguefrom behind molars and goldenliquor foams between your lips,

spilling down down downonto my bare feet, stinging

with shards of precious stones embedded in the skin from chasing myself

out of my swollen skull.What is left I sedate

with every single thing.


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Carly Doyle

Study of the Sky: Exceptionally Flat

The wallpaper is drifting farther awayacross the walldown the hall–I cannot conceptualize going to find itwhile we sleep at nightand rock ourselves awaketo find sad pale wallswith bits of string:romanticized houses that still have picture molding.But they don’t and posters can drift too,leaving that empty spaceof what the wall would look likeif sunlight never touched the skin of paint.

Ninety minutes from nowmy brain will begin to flake apart,cells dripping from my sinuses;tears of blood. I will force myself to movemy aching feet, bones hollow.The snow is hole punch wastelittering the cracks in walkwaysand the doppler effect renders me motionless,stretched between the mountainsand cinderblock buildings.

In real life I’m not crazy,in real life I use my coat pocketsjust like everyone else,for receipts and chap-stick andlittle numb hands.


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10Chau Nguyen

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Thomas Duncan FullerI Thought I Heard Somebody Cry My shriveled brain shifts and smashesagainst the walls of my skullas I sit up from bed,sick with feelings of dread and regret.Flashbacks of scrambled eggs are stacked in the kitchenwhen, famished and pissed, I fought fruit fliessince my roommate thoughtyou could compost inside. Thoughthree bottles of wine managed to beneatly aligned. I left the party - alone, and walked along the water’s edgeaway from the town and I founda man planning to die, a gun buried under his chin.I said, “would you mind if I sit down?” “No, of course, go right ahead.” “Giving up so easily?” “There’s not much left.We have everything we need.”

“What about poverty?or war?” I stammer, near-sighted.“Are these not worth fighting to end?” He asked of me: “Do you honestly believeyou have a chance?” “Would you honestly want to knowwhat people think of you?” For a split-second I could see his faceand his awarenessunwinding like a cassette tape.


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Kathlyn Quan

The Catholics and Republicans Ate the Title So All That’s Left is Me

Tommy’s hair is different. It’s blue. A bright blue. Like a neon blue. Like blue signs. Blue ocean. Blue whales. When did he dye it? Wasn’t he Catholic? We used to go to Sunday school together. Does he still go? Weren’t Catholics sup-posed to be, like, ultra conservative? I frown. What? I put my hand to my hip, feeling my face turn red from thinking too hard. Never mind, it’s his business. He’s going into the coffee shop down the street. I shouldn’t be going into his business. I see him waving at a girl. Maybe his parents are getting divorced, but wait! Wouldn’t my mom know about that? She loves listening to gossip. He sits down at a table with the girl. Off with their heads! The day is just starting. I watch my shadow on the doorstep, sitting right next to me. It smiles and waves. I wave back. I can see people in the cafes, in the stores. They don’t see me watching. There’s a little girl crying as she holds her mom’s hand. I never held my mom’s hand. Is her hand hard and callused? Or is it soft? There’s a boy too. He’s drinking coffee. He won’t grow anymore. People who drink coffee are short like dwarves. Like leprechauns. It’s almost twelve. The sun’s high in the sky and I’m almost certain that I can see the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. It’s dancing with the stars. The angels are up there too, that’s what my dad tells me. He talks to me when I sleep like he’s still alive. There I am, sitting in front of my apartment. My mom insisted I stay with her, but I’m twenty-one years old. I’m an adult. I deserve to have my own life. And that’s when I left her and her bitterness at home. I moved out just a few weeks ago and, frankly, I’m having a glorious time. “Mia, c’mon, we’re going to be late!” Jude shouts, his head poking out from the window, “Remember to close your door!” I look behind me. My door is still open. Jude is my best friend. His car is his pride and his joy. It’s like a baby. He turned sixteen years old just last summer and worked hard to buy something to call his own. It runs on electricity. It stops global warming. Electricity is like my laptop. And my cell phone. He’s not in school today. He decided to skip. Skip, skip, skip to my Lou. I tell him school isn’t important when your mind isn’t in the right place. Jude was so excited about his car when he came over to my house, showing everyone in sight. He was suddenly Mr. Popular or so he thought. He claims ev-eryone wants to be his best friend, but that’ll never happen. No one can replace you, he reassures me all the time. Half of the school wanted to ride in it and the other half hated him for being Republican. The girls wanted to be seen with his car. They wanted to be photographed in front of it like some sort of Nascar strip


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Voltaire Astrauckas13

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girls. The guys wanted to drive it because the engine hummed so quietly it was almost impossible to hear. It makes for a perfect getaway. It glides across streets, practically flying. Pure flawlessness. The car is sort of gray, sort of shiny, sort of dull. It’s the color of cement when poured out onto the sidewalk. It’s pretty when people sprinkle glitter onto it. The door creaks as I open it and slide to the front seat. As usual, his shoul-ders hunch over the wheel, his mouth attached to a plastic bottle filled with yel-low and red and brown. “You look out of it. What are you drinking? It looks like PMS took a massive piss,” I wrinkle my nose, squinting. He snorts, the liquid suddenly spurting from his chapped lips. I back away quickly, using the window to support my weight as I try to mop the up seat. “Watch it, Einstein. These are new clothes.” I bought this outfit a while ago. The jeans are worn down from the many times I had to run in the rain, the top smells like oil and turpentine. Jude grins at me. “Are you feeling better? You had me worried last time... And the time before that.” I’m feeling good. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m perfectly normal. I can hear James Brown singing, I feel good. Dunananana. I knew that I would. “So, did I tell you that my mom’s going to be out of town for the next two months?” I pick at my nails, watching at the streets going by. Jude rolls his eyes. “Mi, you told me that three months ago. She’s already back from her exotic trip in Africa. You keep telling me this.” “How did you know? And she’s not back. She hasn’t called me yet.” “Uh, yeah, Mi, she’s back. She’s been back.” There’s silence and I stare out the window. The sky’s blue. “Don’t be worried, you’ll be fine,” I say and pat his shoulder “I hear the people there are really nice. They give you flowers and they give you good Jell-O. Hospitals are known for good Jell-O. Ask for a green cup though. Those are my favorite.” I’m taking him to the hospital. St. Sesruc’s Hospital. We made these plans a while ago when he started going crazy. The kid thinks my mom’s back from Af-rica. If she were, she would have called me. She would have been a good mother who made sure her daughter was okay. Jude is talking. He always talks. When he was younger, his father would al-ways smack him whenever he spoke out of line. His dad moved away three years ago. Jude talks all the time now. He tells me something about spam. And junk mail. And sushi. And fish. I once had a goldfish. Its name was Goldie and I loved the dear thing. But then, Lily Austin, that bitch, dared me to put it in the freezer. I was only six years old. She said it was like a penguin. It could live anywhere. Goldie died. I put it into the fire so it could melt. It only burned even more. The next day, I hit Lily as hard as I could and she cried. It felt good. I feel nice like sugar and spice.


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“Mum’s on one of those organic diet things. She doesn’t buy anything that’s pro-cessed. She’s got a cabinet of Twinkies in the kitchen. Fucking woman’s gone mad.” Jude’s Canadian. I like to think that my dad thinks of me as his little girl. I used to sit on his lap and he would read me stories about being in the army. He used to tell me that he met the prettiest girl when he was only sixteen years old. I don’t believe it’s my mother, though. His description never matched her features. The girl he talks about has blond hair. She’s skinny. She can hold in alcohol like a fat man can. My mom doesn’t drink. She thinks she’s too big. Her hair is brown. A dark brown. Tommy’s hair is neon. “Hey, Mia, you okay? You’ve been zoning out for the past hour, we’re al-most there,” he says, his voice gentle, and I look to my side. It’s Jude. His hair moves to the left of his face and he looks nice. He looks like the boy who gave me my first kiss. His name was Jason. We were twelve years old. I was sitting under the cherry tree and he told me my breath smelled like strawberries. And then he kissed me. I didn’t like him. He tasted like the bean burrito the cafeteria was serving. I also saw him pick his nose and then put his finger into his mouth be-fore he came over to me. When I eat Mexican food, all I can think of is Jason. Jude’s mom eats Twinkies. There’s a nudge on my shoulder and someone helps me out of the car. Where am I? I can feel flies bumping into me as they fly around. Buggers, I al-ways say. They’re funny little things. The place is spinning and I can feel my knees getting weak and my head feeling light. This is what Alice must have felt like when she was falling down the hole. She probably made friends with the Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat. I always loved the story. She falls and she meets the Queen of Hearts. The Queen must be good. She had a heart, a red heart. She was nice. She was caring. She looked through the glass, right? Did she like glitter cement? Did she like blue hair? Was her hair red? There are people looking at me. I can feel their beady eyes on me. I don’t know what to say. I am frozen. There is white all around. White is a bad color in Asian culture. It means death. Americans think it is purity, but I don’t believe them. I don’t believe Americans. My mom is American. The nurses are leading me away and I try to fight them. “You have the wrong person!” I scream. “He’s the crazy one!” I point to Jude, who is staring out a window. He pretends not to notice. He’s listening to me, right? He has to be. I want to hit them like I hit Lily Austin, but their grip is too tight. They whisper, their voices soft. I ask them where I am and they say St. Sesruc’s Hos-pital. Crazy people go here. My mom came here when she gave birth to me. She


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went to Africa. Only crazy people go to Africa. There’s too much sun there. You can burn to death. But me, I’m not hurt. I don’t have a broken leg or a broken arm. I don’t have a broken foot or a broken rib. Why am I here? The walls are staring at me. I can feel eyes glaring at me through windows. The doctors snick-er as they walk past. I can feel the Americans scorning me. They don’t like hospi-tals. They don’t like me. I’m in a hospital. They don’t want me. Jude is Canadian. “It’ll be good for you,” he says. He pauses and I wait for him to stop the nurses. He puts his hand into his hair. I hear his keys jingling in his pocket. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Maybe he’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. After all, crazy people never know what they’re doing. They’re crazy. They don’t go to school. “Don’t worry. I promise you’ll be okay.” I watch him walk away. He goes back to his glittery cement car. He drives away with the Queen of Hearts. Off with his head! I want to say, but he is already too far away. My message would never reach him in time. All I’m left with is James Brown. He’s American. So good. Dun dun. So good. Dun dun. I got you.


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Cristian CucerzanLoungingthe hills canter together,an accordeon squeezes out the tearsover a pint of beer.

I am an infant in understanding,shedding the unnecessaryfiligrees and fragments,political and social foibles,desperately ruptured by murmurs.

My first home, which I shared withmy brother, the modern Icarus, was our mother’s womb.She, our greatest hero - dying endlessly andendlessly reborn,so old that I did not think that shecould die, ruptured in God’s fingerslike a Chinese cookie.

The way your glasses stick fast to your face,tai chi on the top of rusted metal rods,you are done falling forward and catching yourself.Better to sit still and push shit uphill,a little ship cut loose, one lot, two tusks,beating hard against history.

Lines of linoleumhanging like fishy leaves,augmented reality,subliminal lullaby,how it mars the surface of the present.

The universe is insatiable, it has a thirst for you.Planets are moths circling around a flame,cigarettes are substitute phalluses,this is a work in progress and we are projectiles,we make everything into glassbuildings plunged into shadows.

My name is Thimble andI am a god of protecting little significant things.Please don’t squeeze me until I’m yours.

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Pour out a piano in your hands as soon as silencemoves into the neither here nor there;dismantle humanity’s intricate pathways.Wave goodbye to question marks, trolleyed wings,floorless, wished-for moments of existence.Love yourself; you are the one you’re with.

Rubbish and dust fly in the sky,encounter the line drawn under night time.If the parking lot is not wet,embrace the specific lamp post,flashing, before rounding the corners.

You have rehearsed this moment.

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Bernie Coleman

Doctor, Doctor

I am scaredIamnotgoodatanything

no good auckland weather forecasts,though there’s something about cookingno good because I’m twenty-four-something still yet to experienceanything otherthan sex –

it’s no Everest;

a year of yelling,and yellowing skin eveningsfrom anti-depressant sunrises

fuelling days withmindcontrol benderspurging creativity from my senses& riddingthe evolutionary drivebetween my loins to procreate like a professional

when I imagine things only in a certain light &to a certain extent I’m madder than before

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Louisa Clarke 21

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Sallie Robinson22

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Bernie Coleman

not together/suture self

I’ve never done anything I didn’t want to doexcept lie (& obsess)

in the soggy earth, heart of native bush head surrounded with rootsto stir up a few felt heart liesstitched about being fit enough to run

and I always joked it’s not cold enough in New Zealandto look deep enough into myself (Scandinavians will get this)

I think I have heart, though ‘times it rains in there,even when the sun’s warmed them showers,and the wind has lashed those blasted see-gulls! from my cataleptic point-of-view: the walls are darker shadows, foreshadowing the noon sunwhere circuital cicadas unseen and unsilent in summerare there out there everywhere about sex

“Fuck off and shut the door!”

I hear myself hear it but I don’t act on itand moments of those moments I feel typically awful typically I supposebut not awfully typical enough or together now


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hdb kqfNicole Samanich

Nicole Samanich


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hdb kqf

Kyle Allen


Snowfall follower.I see red drops drip on layers of crystalopen heavens shakingclusters from the ether.A dog bleeding.His paw cut open,leg limping.Back to home, four blocks more.I walk behind andwould approach, but get asnap and snarl every timeI do. I must remain removed.Snowfall’s indicatorred drops for eight blocks and a whimper.Open skin leakingmustering strength, repeating.


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Lily Weiner

Christmas Day

Skyping with your parents on Christmas. This is capitalism. It’s the mo-ment, that moment, when you get what you wanted; a job, love, but all you want to do is crawl back across the sea and lie on your Tempur-Pedic mattress under the ghost ceiling in your room. You want to run downstairs at 6:50 in the morn-ing, scared you’re gonna be late for school again, and hear your mom calling after you, “Breakfast, sweetie, eat breakfast” as she clambers around the house in a rush to get to school on time. She’s a schoolteacher, and although you don’t go to the same school, you both have to be there at the same time. She hands you half a bagel on your way out. It’s smothered in cream cheese. This is a Jewish family; your mother never lets you leave without eating. Your father has already made two pots of coffee by the time you get downstairs and is starting on the third when you’re on your way out. That’s all you want. To see you your dad sit-ting with his legs up in that ugly blue chair, reading the news on his laptop. He’ll ask if you want to go hear Neil Gaiman speak in Cambridge? He knows you want to; you’ll take any chance to add to your ever-growing signed book collection. But instead you’re here, across the sea, with a job to get to in a few days, unable to afford a plane ride home. You see your parents on Skype, the fake Christmas tree you’ve had for years standing behind them. Half the bristles are missing but they refuse to get a new one. You wish more than anything that you could have been there to put it together; to fight with your brother about where each bristle goes, and complain that if he wasn’t allergic we could have a real tree. He throws a fake leaf at you and yells that it doesn’t matter, Jewish people aren’t supposed to have Christmas trees anyways. We’re atheists anyways, you yell back, we can do whatever the fuck we want. And he looks back at you and laughs. You’re right, he’ll say, before going upstairs to leave you to piece together the rest of the tree.


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Louisa Clarke


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Katharyn Howd Machan


need to go unmentioned. Quiet

corners know the secrets, soft

cats disappearing, the cellar door

with its sharp black hinges, key

no one else is to touch. Once

I dared to write a story for school--

well, that was the last pencil

for me. Can you hear? Somehow

these bricks seem so very close

and somehow so far away. I

don’t need much food. The bars

let in light from time to time

and I have my red, red bowl.


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Katharyn Howd Machan


for Lee Gurga

Light a candle.

Write a poem.

Tell us about swans swimming

in a blackness only death knows.

Fantasize you are a traveler

tasting dawn’s hibiscus breeze

above the ashes of a corpse

a sister dared to scatter.

Amazing how much warm soft green

can venture out of shadows!

Touch your winter now;

lament sharp ice, deep snow.

Everything you have ever hungered

becomes what you can know.


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Nghia Nguyen31

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Nicole Samanich32

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Jillian Kaplan


we who honey timebeneath a drunk sun

we who lay in the grass in autumn,the earth a purple and orange bliss ofsunsetting leaves waiting for the last crumble,

we who set ourselves in shadowsas eclipses block out the silhouettes ofourselves, leaving only silhouettes of the moonand your hand gently drifting in my own–

we who stutter poetry in hallwayspretending we aren’t pretentious and lovingevery last adjectivethat drips off the tonguewe who wish we were the angel-headed hipstersof Ginsberg, or the sunken myths of a space-riddenfairytale,

we who wander daily, worrying aboutjobs and grades and hours and grocery bags,

we who call ourselves flesh but feel so, so much morewhen our flesh connects, soft soft things that speculate energy,

we who will laugh when the last bits of death fleckthe crinkles around your laughing eyes and your orange armsbecause we never believed in life, saw it as a real thingto be suckled and cherished and absorbed like heaven–

we who are only twenty and waiting to feel. How silly.


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Caitlin GheganPlease Speak Well of Me

Caro was normally not so hard to convince. But on that particular night, it took five flips of the light switch to convince her that Liz still hadn’t twisted a new light bulb into the overhead socket in the guest room. Perhaps it was ev-erything else that had happened that week or perhaps it was the fact that she was prone to tripping across the hideous puce carpet, but Caro had no desire to stumble through the dark in a mad attempt to find the lamp. Caro dropped the first of her bags. The voyage for the lamp switch seemed hopeful. Her toes had not yet tangled themselves in the carpet. Instead, they squelched in something cold and of the consistency of pea-nut butter. The chunky variety. Caro’s fingers found the lamp switch; her thumb brushed against a layer of dust as she turned to the source of her discomfort. Perhaps the solitariness of Mickey’s Motor Inn would have better suited her. Less cat vomit. A two minute walk to Palumbo Liquor. Actual phone access so the maid might call nine-one-one in the morning if she discovered Caro spread-eagled on the floor. But at least she had a friend. She had Liz. She had someone who wouldn’t, couldn’t abandon her. Caro hopped to the dresser and pulled a cheap, brittle tissue from the box. Swallowing the squirming feeling that bobbed between her stomach and throat, she tossed the refuse into the chewed wicker wastebasket. As Caro pinched sev-eral more tissues in between her fingers and knelt to clear the glob from the floor, Liz came in, her gingersnap hair disheveled, her breath short and rough under the weight of a cardboard box. “Sorry ‘bout the light, been meaning to…oh.” Liz’s voice faltered at the sight of her friend, hunched over the mess. “Shit. Yeah. Percy. Gotta take him to the vet…Really, sorry, Caroline.” Her forgetfulness was a chronic illness. “It’s fine, Liz. Really,” Caro replied, offering a smile before heading back down the stairs to the car, parked crookedly outside Liz’s Brighton Street condo. They worked in silence, hauling each of the six remaining boxes and bags up to the guest room. By the time Caro shoved the last into the corner, her forehead brimmed cool with sweat. Liz dragged herself to the door jam, her plump body sagging with what little exercise it could handle. “Well, I’m kinda beat, so I’ll just, um…let you do your thing, if that’s okay?” she asked, her hands twisting in thought. “That’s fine, Liz,” Caro responded, pulling her precious Nikon from its pad-ded black bag to check its lenses. “I mean, do you need me? Do you need help unloading things…?”


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“No, I’m good,” Caro said flatly. Her fingers ceased their fiddling motions over the camera. She looked to Liz and forced the corners of her lips up in re-pent. “You just… go to bed, okay? It’s been a long day.” Caro hoped that five years of friendship could cushion her coldness. Three years of attachment, as she had learned from recent experience, did not always sustain loyalty. Liz’s brow furrowed in thick, worried creases as she gave a nod. Her hand hesitated at the guest room doorknob before deciding to leave the door ajar. Without another word, she slipped down the hall. Caro closed the door. She cocked her head towards the fattest bag of clothes, which sat on the bed, wrinkling the musty floral comforter. She glanced at the flickering red num-bers on the digital clock: ten-oh-two. The night was young, but doing anything but sleeping seemed a dangerous idea. Unpacking could wait. If she could find a new apartment and a better job, one that actually required a degree in photography, she wouldn’t have to bother with it at all. Avoiding the patch of cat sick, Caro shuffled to the edge of the bed and yanked at the bulging suitcase’s chipped zipper. It was a curious thing, she thought, to know that her entire life could have fit into four trashy cardboard boxes, a suitcase and her mother’s old carpetbag. Her hands rummaged through the muddled, unfolded contents of the suitcase, searching for a pair of clean socks and a loose top. Hopeful, she pulled at a dark gray bit of cotton, wedged between a red sundress and a lime green bikini. She paused as the red letters popped up from the wrinkles and revealed themselves to her: UMass Amherst. More slowly, she untangled the oversized shirt from the other contents of the bag to let it hang in her hands. She ran her thumb on the little white bleach blot above the U. She held it close to her face for a moment before pressing her nose into the fabric. A cold whiff of after-shave mixed with generic convenience store shampoo. The space beneath her ribs swelled; her stomach swirled in recognition. But something else was there. Something lingered that shouldn’t have. Caro breathed in deeper. The precious familiar was frosted with a foreign scent, something that certainly wasn’t Adam, highly concentrated in the shoulders—azaleas with a toxic drop of Corona. How could he have done it, she thought. Did those three years mean nothing? Caro scrunched the shirt until her knuckles screamed white. Twisting it in her fists, she pulled at its dry stitches until they snapped apart and wrenched at the cotton until the shirt was a pile of shreds. She pushed the suitcase off the bed, stripped, and slipped under the cold sheets. The carpetbag and suitcase were carefully emptied the next day. The rest of the boxes went untouched for two months.


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Johnathan Flechas39

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ContributorsKathlyn “Katie” QuanA sophomore at Ithaca College, studying Writing and Culture & Communication. “Born and raised in San Francisco, I often draw my inspiration from different cultures, countries, and languages.”

Lily WeinerA senior Writing major at Ithaca College, where she is the Editor-in-Chief of Stillwater Maga-zine and community liaison for the Ithaca College Feminist Society. Born and raised in Mas-sachusetts, in her spare time Lily looks at pictures of elephants on Google while eating peanut butter with a spoon.

Louisa ClarkeA junior at Ithaca College. “My love affair with art started in high school and has constantly reminded me to see the beauty in everything, even when life looks bleak. I am always trying to evolve as an artist. I view the arts as a communication tool and healing process, something enableing people to bridge the gap between cultures and realize we inhabit this world as one.”

Bethany Fraga A senior Writing major at Ithaca College, with minors in Still Photography and Spanish. She deals with her various manifestations of insanity through hula hooping and taking long runs outside.

“Voltaire Astrauckas” (Helena Ortiz)A freshman Writing major at Ithaca College. “There are several obsessions in my art, and even, perhaps, a compulsiveness. There are some themes present throughout my work, but I hope to continue growing as an artist. Perfection is a myth, yet we must still strive for it.”

Carlene “Carly” DoyleA junior Writing major at Ithaca College with a History minor. From northern New Jersey, Carly enjoys flying on airplanes, speeding and asparagus. Her creative writing includes two published short stories.

Karla CoteA senior Documentary Production and Sociology major at Ithaca College. “Some of my favorite shoots have been of my friends or in New York City; also of performance essays that include shows, street musicians, experimental performance/dance, or community action.”

Bernard “Bernie” ColemanA poetry and fiction writer from Auckland, New Zealand. He is single and bears a striking resemblance to Jimmy Neutron. Bernie can’t decide whether he prefers tea over coffee.Nghia NguyenA freelance graphic designer from Vietnam. He enjoys taking pictures of everyday life and of his many travelling adventures.

Thomas Duncan FullerA junior Politics major at Ithaca College. “Ideally, after school i would like to live alone in the country, writing editorials for Aljazeera occasionally.” Duncan wants to give credit to Evelyn Schuyler.


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Cristian “Cris” CucerzanA student at the University of Auckland in New Zealand, studying Writing Studies and French. Cris was born in Romania, and is fluent in Romanian, English and French. “I’m not certain where the tinges of my writing come from, but playing with words fascinates me.”

Katharyn Howd MachanThe author of 30 published collections, her poems have appeared in numerous magazines, anthologies, and textbooks, including “The Bedford Introduction to Literature and Sound and Sense.” She is a professor in the Department of Writing at Ithaca College in central New York State. In 2012 she edited “Adrienne Rich: A Tribute Anthology” (Split Oak Press).

Chau Nguyen A junior Integrated Marketing Communications major at Ithaca College, Chau was born and raised in Vietnam. She loves arts and crafts, Do-It-Yourself projects, exploring different cul-tures, and considers herself a big foodie.

Nicole Samanich A sophomore in the Illustration Department at the Rhode Island School of Design. Most of her work is either painting, drawing or a combination of both.

Sallie F.S. Robinson A senior Television-Radio major concentrating in Audio Production with a Music-Voice minor at Ithaca College. She will spend her last semester in Los Angeles pursuing an internship. You can keep up with her work and future projects at salliefalls.com.

Caitlin Ghegan A senior Writing major and Web Programming minor at Ithaca College from Franklin, Mas-sachusetts. Editor of both Noah and Stillwater literary magazines. Her fiction, poetry, essays, and features have been published in Stillwater, Threads, Tandem, and The Ithacan. Ghegan will be interning at Cornell University Press next spring and hopes to start a publishing ca-reer. To read the rest of her story, go to our Tumblr, http://metanoiaexperience.tumblr.com/.

Jillian KaplanA senior Writing major and Anthropology minor. After college she hopes to use her anthropol-ogy knowledge by doing service-work abroad and then later turning her experiences into an awesome piece of writing. Jillian loves to write poetry and is also currently a staff writer for the arts & culture section of The Ithacan. She is an avid tea-lover and a very snappy dresser.

Leo Anthony Oliva A Communication Management and Design major at Ithaca College. He enjoys working on cre-ative projects in his spare time, and also loves to explore the outdoors.

Johnathan Flechas A college student in Tallahassee, Florida. He got into photography and videography around the age of 15 and hasn’t stopped since. Flechas now finds himself looking at things in a more cinematic point of view and hopes to take these interests somewhere further in his life.

Kyle AllenA Writing major and History minor from Massachusetts. He writes and records music with the band Generous Melon Tango.


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We would like to extend a special thanks to Catherine Taylor for her guidance in this project, and furthermore we

appreciate the efforts from all of our contributors and donors!

“I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature… All of this is art to me.”

--Hunter Reveur

Peach Out!42

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