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LIterary and Arts Journal published annually by CBU's Rose Deal School of Arts

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  • 2014

  • this

    sen

    sele

    ss m

    urde

    ro

    f cr

    ow

    s

  • judges

    editors

    layout & design

    advisors

    Brendan Prawdzik Divya ChoudharyJana Travis Jeff GrossNick Pena Sandra DavisScott GeisVincent ONeillWendy Sumner-Winter

    Hannah EvonMadeline Faber

    Sheridan Cross

    Karen B. GolightlyNick Pena

    printingCB Publishing and Solutionscover artAlexis Blum / Reflection: January 2013 Herbs Par-

  • 24 3:28 A.M. 26 Harvest27 The Carbon Cycle28 My Mother Raised Me in the Kitchen29 Lamentations Below30 This Senseless Murder of Crows33 Fell33 Lovers Day34 Just a Toy35 Licorice36 Summer Rain37 A Fine Romance

    6 A Gift of Nature8 Another Day in New York10 Fulfilled Home12 Half Empty13 Street View14 Onward15 Past the Bridge16 We Never Forget17 Day Surfer18 Water in Light19 Untitled20 The Cross Will Stand21 Water in Darkness

  • 40 Mike at Moes41 Picasso42 Wonder Woman43 Untitled44 Untitled45 Audrey46 Untitled47 Untitled48 Justin49 Untitled

    52 8 Weeks to Sea59 Lifetime Policy64 Remember My Pain69 Burying Lee75 Soul Talk

  • a g

    ift o

    f n

    atu

    re

    /

    Alvin

    Sio

    w

    digital arts first place

  • an

    oth

    er

    da

    y i

    n n

    ew

    yo

    rk

    /

    Al

    vin S

    iow

    digital arts second place

  • 9

  • fu

    lfil

    le

    d h

    om

    e

    / A

    lvin

    Siow

    digital arts third place

  • 11

  • ha

    lf e

    mp

    ty

    / B

    ianc

    a Co

    wen

  • street view / Taylor Goode 1313

  • onward / Alexis Blum

    14

  • past the bridge / Alexis Blum

  • we

    ne

    ve

    r f

    or

    ge

    t

    /

    Alvi

    n Si

    ow

  • day surfer / Alvin Siow 17

  • water in light / Kristian Faith DeRidder18

    untitled / Lauren Browning

    19

  • untitled / Lauren Browning

    19

  • the cross will stand / Kristian Faith DeRidder20

  • water in darkness / Kristian Faith DeRidder

  • by authors name

    .

    W ,

    es.

    y e

    Im just a toy.

    A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

    Everything I say is ignored.

    My feelings and compassions are ignored.

    I am used.

    Used for play

    .

    24

    3:28

    a.m

    .

    Its 3:28 a.m.,two strokes on the metal star til ignition. My toes crunch sleet beneath rubber heels,fingers conquering purchase on the manila filter.Its cold; each breath comes out like sawdust,useless and dead.

    Frank Fowlers on the corner with ruined cuticles.He chews them like jerky strips, a habit he picked upfrom midnights burning up the freeway.I think hes crazy, but my frame of reference is hazy.

    Its 3:48 a.m.We walk a couple miles together because hes harmless.He tells me the story of the time he shot his wife.It was midnight, and he rode the elevator to the bottom floor,stepped out and remarked, Its cold.

    He tells me he took the filthy sidewalk to the end of his block today and hailed a cabbut the street was silent; so he walked two miles through Arcadia, took off his shoes and left them in a gap where a church wall met an archway.

    Claire Rutland

    poetry first place by authors name

    .

    W ,

    es.

    y e

    Im just a toy.

    A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

    Everything I say is ignored.

    My feelings and compassions are ignored.

    I am used.

    Used for play

    .

    25

    He met Greta, a woman caped in newspaper furs who asked him if hed seen her son.A fan of war movies, he strapped on a practiced smile. He told her hed write and left his wallet at her feet.

    Sometimes, he swallows snowflakes he finds in his pocket.He tells me today he walked backwards through a McDonalds drive thru.He asked the woman in the speaker for two McDoubles and a cherry Coke,and when she said he needed a car to go through the drive thru,he walked to the window and smiled with his teeth until she stopped staring at him.Like my wife used to, he muses, and we walk off toward the river bed.He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on a trash can lid.

    Its 4:23 a.m.His feet and mine leave prints on the concrete. He touches the ground, and his hands pull away sticky, uncomfortable and dark.

    He tells me that yesterday, he spoke in neon colors, and every breath sounded like Grand Central Station.A police car stopped him from going into a 7/11 for Zebra Cakes and smokes.The officer, a balding wraith in sweating polyester, told him, Youre making gestures in a parking lot, buddy.The 7/11 flickered like 1950s television static.

    Im an adult, he tells me, running his hands over his knuckles until they feel like rosary beads.He walks off a few feet, and fishes in his pocket for snowflakes. He presses a lint wad beneath his tongue and doesnt notice the difference.

    Its 4:38 a.m.

  • by authors name

    .

    W ,

    es.

    y e

    Im just a toy.

    A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

    Everything I say is ignored.

    My feelings and compassions are ignored.

    I am used.

    Used for play

    .

    25

    He met Greta, a woman caped in newspaper furs who asked him if hed seen her son.A fan of war movies, he strapped on a practiced smile. He told her hed write and left his wallet at her feet.

    Sometimes, he swallows snowflakes he finds in his pocket.He tells me today he walked backwards through a McDonalds drive thru.He asked the woman in the speaker for two McDoubles and a cherry Coke,and when she said he needed a car to go through the drive thru,he walked to the window and smiled with his teeth until she stopped staring at him.Like my wife used to, he muses, and we walk off toward the river bed.He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on a trash can lid.

    Its 4:23 a.m.His feet and mine leave prints on the concrete. He touches the ground, and his hands pull away sticky, uncomfortable and dark.

    He tells me that yesterday, he spoke in neon colors, and every breath sounded like Grand Central Station.A police car stopped him from going into a 7/11 for Zebra Cakes and smokes.The officer, a balding wraith in sweating polyester, told him, Youre making gestures in a parking lot, buddy.The 7/11 flickered like 1950s television static.

    Im an adult, he tells me, running his hands over his knuckles until they feel like rosary beads.He walks off a few feet, and fishes in his pocket for snowflakes. He presses a lint wad beneath his tongue and doesnt notice the difference.

    Its 4:38 a.m.

  • harvestNathaniel Celeski

    26

    The salty sweat beads on my skin, Swaying with the motion of the humid air. Briefed on my mission, I waited, standing guardto defend what was ours.Dads soldier, armed and ready for battle.

    Moments after settling into my camouflaged hideout, I spotted the predator of our treasure. It had been teasing Dads hard work all summer. Its wings flapping and flailing, like a free-falling plane, it dove toward the earth, landing on its post. It perched. Its eyes gazed all around, in search of roundest, reddest, and biggest.

    Staying hidden from the bulging eyes of my target, I steadied my breath.Three shots, three sounds, and three rounds. Ill never forget. Its wing clipped, its heart pierced, its last breath.The thief, sentenced to death by my hand.The soldier I had become, now transformed into the executioner of the garden pests.

    Screaming, I ran to Dad.I killed it, I killed it!His proud smirk vanished when he saw my sorrow;my first kill, my last.

    poetry second place

  • the carbon

    cycleJessica Love poetry

    third placeAs we bottle water, we bottle life,capturing our nature within plastic.With renewable promises of a green globe, we convince ourselves to tame nature.Dasani and Ozark replace the memories of maples and oaks as clear canteens stream off shelves.Freedom has withered while purified lifeis preserved in a bottle.Yet life contained in a bottlewill drown in a footprint.

    27

  • .W ,

    es.

    y e

    Im just a toy.

    A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

    Everything I say is ignored.

    My feelings and compassions are ignored.

    I am used.

    Used for play

    .

    my mother raised me in the kitchen

    Jessica Love

    28

    My mother swaddled me in Saran wrap.She taught me to laugh in Tupperware and loved me in a Ziploc.

    She hugged me with aluminum foil armsand kissed me with waxed paper lips.

    Her hands struck me in the iceboxand wiped my tears at room temperature.

    Her voice whispered to me in the shake of the saltand screamed at me in the blades of the blender.

    She tucked me away with the spoonsand found me in the dripping water of the sink.

    She listened to me with measuring cups and ignored me with a meat tenderizer.

    My mother raised me in the kitchen.She said good-bye with the sugar bowland left me to rot in the trash can.

  • .W ,

    es.

    y e

    Im just a toy.

    A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

    Everything I say is ignored.

    My feelings and compassions are ignored.

    I am used.

    Used for play

    .

    lamentations belowLarshay Watson

    29

    The thrust cuffed my sensesinto a ball of pride.I cried for release.Muscles tightening my urgefor these pangs to cease.Crawling cramps crumbledmy will,and my mind mingledbe