Black & White SPRING 2016 Fairleigh Dickinson University

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The Spring 2016 Issue: Black and White

The Iron Horse Creative Anthology

Literature and Arts magazine

Published annually by Fairleigh Dickinson University

Cover art “Owl” by Morgan Tomasko

Cover Design by Gabriella Shriner

Special thanks to:

Rebecca Chace

David Daniel

Jas Verem

Amelia Fisher

Natalie Phillips

Sarah Azavedo

David Grand

For more information and submission guidelines, go to:

www.fduironhorse.wordpress.com or contact [email protected]

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Fairleigh Dickinson University

Fairleigh Dickinson University at Florham

285 Madison Avenue

Madison, NJ

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The Spring 2016 Issue: Black and White

The Iron Horse Creative Anthology

Arts and Literature magazine of Fairleigh Dickinson University

Editorial Board and Members:

Catherine Cooney and Zach Montero-Colbert - Head Editors

AJ Brunell - Secretary

Erika Marohn - Public Relations

Sarah Van Clef - Treasurer

Gabriella Shriner - Layout Editor

Rebecca Chace - Staff Adviser

A Letter from the Editors

This is our second edition under the new name, along with the theme Black and

White. Our name went from Scribblers Literature and Art magazine to the Iron Horse Crea-

tive Anthology in the Fall of 2015. We did this to sound more official, and continue to be

optimistic about the magazine’s future.

The organization’s purpose is to foster a creative community of Fairleigh Dickinson Uni-

versity students, not only through writing but also through photography, graphics, and

studio arts. Our campus is one of the few in New Jersey that offers Creative Writing as a

major, along with other renowned Fine Arts studies. We have a responsibility to reflect all

the talent that the school has to offer.

Our E-board has changed drastically over the year, from a majority of upperclassmen to

a majority of first year students. These Iron Equestrians have given a new outlook that is

necessary for a new era of the magazine. We can only hope for more insightful and dedi-

cated contributors in the near future. Our members have endured many hardships from

being a relatively small group to an overall lack of knowledge regarding our name change,

and they have taken it in stride.

For the past two issues we have branched out into having an online presence. We

hope that it will continue to grow as we take the next steps in developing this magazine.

As all the E-Boards before us, we hope that you have learned more about yourself and

FDU’s creative community. We are grateful to those who have supported us through this

change. With pen in hand and fire in our souls, we will forge ahead.

Best wishes on your journey,

Catherine Cooney and Zachariah Montero-Colbert

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The Iron Horse Creative Anthology Spring 2016


TABLE OF CONTENTS

POETRY

Atlantic …………………………………………………………………....… page 6

Maiasia Grimes

Black Label ……………………………………………………………….... page 9

Mark Hernandez

Darkness ……………………………………………………………………. page 12

Madison Snider-Smith

The Biology of Snowflakes …………………………………..….………. page 21

Gabriella Shriner

Staring at the World …………………………………………………..…. page 24

Brian Edmiston

Thanksgiving Dinner …………………………………………………….. page 30

Erika Marohn

FICTION

Following the Life of a Mirror ………………………………..…….….. page 8

AJ Brunell

Journey to the Afterlife …………………………………………….…... page 13

Amanda Ramirez

King of Innocent Souls ……………………………………………....… page 22

Ashley Humienny

No Problem ………………………………………………………...…….. page 28

Zachary Heffner

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROSE

Love Hate Letter ………………………………………………………….. page 10

Caitlin Anderson

More than Just the Storm ……………………………………….…..... page 19

Morgan Tomasko

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

Dragon ……………………………………………………………………..... page 7

Morgan Tomasko

Liar …………………………………………………………………….....… page 20

Mark Hernandez

My Lover’s Arms ……………………………………………………..…… page 27

Morgan Tomasko

Who Knows? ………………………………………………………………. page 11

Morgan Tomasko

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES …………………………………………. page 31

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ATLANTIC By Maiasia Grimes

The waves are tossing themselves turvey They are not breaking or crashing They are locking hands and skipping to and fro

They are flipping back their foam hair And basking blue in the sun

When they settle They lay down comfortably And search out shapes in the clouds

They let light slip And shimmer along their surface

And the light does not know These are shadows below

That it cannot reach

There are yearning depths and quaking deeps

The Iron Horse

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“Dragon” by Morgan Tomasko

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FOLLOWING THE LIFE OF A MIRROR

By AJ Brunell

It was such a simple thing, a thin piece of mirrored glass. It was given a frame and

put on a wall. It never moved on its own, but it saw more than anyone would ever know.

For everyone looks in the mirror. And the mirror always looks back.

It was put in a bathroom, first. It hung on the back of a door. It watched three gen-

erations grow and age and then go away forever. It saw thousands of outfits. It watched

hundreds of friends. But its time in that house was coming to an end.

Its frame was repainted. Now it was pink, with purple flowers. It was put in a little

girl’s room. She needed the taller mirror so she could practice ballet. The mirror watched

her proudly. It watched her fall. It watched her practice. It watched her grow tall.

Then the family moved, and the mirror went with them. It was repainted again. Now

it was light blue. It still watched the girl; she was a teenager now. She used the mirror for

things other than dancing. It watched her try on outfit after outfit for every single date. It

watched her cry after every breakup. It heard her when she called herself fat, and ugly. It

wanted to break when it couldn’t show her she wasn’t.

When the girl got married, she took the mirror with her. It was put in a bathroom

once more. It stayed there for seven years. Then the girl’s daughter tripped; her head hit

the mirror. The mirror cracked, and the daughter cried. The mirror was thrown away and

replaced.

Now the mirror sits in a dump; its glass in pieces all over the ground. For the first

time ever, it can watch the sky. It watches the clouds. It watches the birds, and planes.

But it’s no longer loved. Through the years, it breaks down into smaller and smaller piec-

es. Then, finally, its glass is worn down to little more than dust. It cannot watch the world

anymore.

The Iron Horse

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BLACK LABEL

By Mark Hernandez

Black label was the best drink in the bar,

And it was your favorite by far

We were young and we only had a couple of bucks

But you didn’t care; you ordered another shot

Because you didn’t give two fucks.

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LOVE HATE LETTER

By Caitlin Anderson

My Dearest Fuckface Douchebag Love,

It is impossible to put into words how much I hate care for you. Utterly impossible.

On a scale of one to ten, I would rate my love for you a negative six thousand. That’s also

equivalent to the amount of times a day I think about strangling holding you close to me.

I don’t know what I would do if you suddenly disappeared from my life. I would surely go

clubbing in celebration spiral into a deep and lengthy depression. I can’t wait to never see

you again. I’d like to meet you under the cover of night, near some trees sprinkled with

spring blossoms. That way we could be totally alone so no one could hear you scream my

impassioned declaration of undying hatred love for you. I feel it’s imperative to tell you in

person. Please, come alone. My first degree murder of clandestine confession to you needs

no witnesses. I pray that you will be my Juliet and kill yourself return my feelings uncon-

ditionally, as it will make my heart soar with joy and triumph. Make me the luckiest, hap-

piest person on the planet and never show your fucking face to me again be mine. I need

your presence in my hastily dug-up backyard life. Your fugly mug almost otherworldly

beauty runs through my mind all day, and it shrivels my soul bit by bit every day I don’t

have the privilege of beating you repeatedly with a blunt weapon admiring you in all your

glory.

I beg you, for my sanity, allow me to cut off hold your hands in mine in our own pri-

vate crime scene sanctuary.

Forever your mortal enemy assailant humble admirer,

--XYZ

The Iron Horse

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“Who Knows?” by Morgan Tomasko

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DARKNESS

By Madison Snider-Smith

In the wake of darkness, with icy breath,

My heart threatens permanent pause

And if I soon shall meet my death

It will be in Night’s bloodthirsty jaws

With a putrid smell, and heavy air,

And a solemn stillness yet unending

Try as I might to choke despair

I cannot face this Night pretending

The brush of fingers, cold and cruel

Here in this barren, empty place

And though the lurking shadows rule

I find my way by moonlight’s grace.

And even though the monstrous dark

May swallow me whole, may take my eyes

It will never leave its mark

Because always, still, the sun will rise.

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Journey to the Afterlife

By Amanda Ramirez

The Groundskeep

All that pass end up here. He’s seen it all. He is the Groundskeep, after all.

Some are happier than others. Some are considerably more polite. Often times, he

can even carry out relatively pleasant conversations with most. It all depends on the luck

of the draw. Regardless, he is the Groundskeep, and the steady upkeep of the gardens is

his first and only duty. He is not required to speak with these decidedly lonely individuals;

he is simply required to mow the grass, trim the hedges, and weed the plants. There has

never been a time when he’s seen more than one of the dead at any given moment. They

never come in groups. It is all dependent upon the way they die and the way in which they

lived their lives.

He wished that weren’t so, sometimes. He’s seen some kind creatures left alone and

waiting to wilt with the passing seasons. They were the only things in the gardens that

wilted. Heaven forbid his flowers do the same.

Recently, he has come across Lydia. She appeared one day, sprawled across a bed

of daisies and daffodils, with a smile on her face. The plants caressed her bare skin like a

lover would and she didn’t breathe a word. She didn’t breathe at all. (That’s the thing with

dead people, the Groundskeep often had to remind himself—they don’t breathe.) Her pres-

ence was warm and inviting, a wonderful contrast to the often hostile and aggressive ways

of the dead. She’s the first he’s seen in the field in what feels like an eternity, for the field

was for the happy and peaceful. The field was for children, caught off guard in the cross-

fire that was life; the field was for grandparents, those who’ve lived their lives to the fullest

extent, who are content to leave their loved ones because they’ve had their time; the field

is almost never for the young adults of this world.

But, when there is one, he has to smile, because he knows they’ve done something

right.

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He knows she died in her sleep of a heart attack that caused her no pain. He knows that

she had fallen asleep that night grinning, happy, for once, with her life. He knows that on-

ly a couple of months ago, she had been considering an easier ticket to the gardens, one

that the Groundskeep himself doesn’t often like to imagine. Despite what he knows, what

he sees says it all. Lydia inhales deep, the scents around her cascading like waterfalls. If

he is to be honest, he pays her little mind and returns to pruning his azaleas off to the

side.

It is not too long after Lydia that Amelia arrives. He sincerely wishes she hadn’t.

He had been closer towards the edges of the gardens, where he doesn’t normally

tend. It’s usually too crowded in this neck of the woods.

He spots her immediately, a shot of pale white skin against the dark, menacing

shades of the vineyard. Not truly a vineyard, all that grows here are vines, wild and tan-

gled, like heart that’s been wounded or a murder that’s been violent. He rarely comes

here, because the vineyard grows nothing of worth and breeds nothing but pain. He simp-

ly comes to clear a path, once every thousand deaths or so, because they can only stay

stuck here for so long. Some of them are able to climb out. Others are not as lucky.

Amelia is tangled in the thick of the vines, frightened and panicked. In her real life,

she had been an asthmatic, needed her inhaler for every little thing. In her real life, how-

ever, she had been mostly happy, loved.

The Groundskeep would like to point out that “had been” are the appropriate

words.

The vineyard is the place where suicides go. There is no need to sugar coat it. It is

suffocating in these parts, one of the reasons he hates to show his face and everyone is

always asking for help, moaning and rattling the enclosure. It is a small and claustropho-

bic place to be, making it fitting for the dead that felt as if their real lives were closing in

on them, tangling them up in an impossible frenzy, too difficult to escape from. Like

quicksand. The Groundskeep is especially grateful that quicksand does not exist in his

garden, because the amount of dead ones stuck in there would appall him even more.

The Iron Horse Journey to the Afterlife

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It is not uncommon for the dead of these parts to speak to him. Their voices are hol-

low and they echo in his ears like prayer, the way a cry echoes in the vaults of a church or

an empty room.

“Excuse me,” Amelia calls to him as he’s taking a break from clearing the path, “Sir,

please. I need help. I’m stuck, sir, I can’t get out. I’m scared. I’m stuck. Please.” It’s what

he hates the most, more than trimming the hedges or tending the roses. He loathes when

they ask for help, when he can’t give it to them, when he’s powerless in a way he’s never

felt. He knows she’s had her heart broken, by the one she loved more than anything in her

real life. He knows the love consumed her, licking at her toes and her ear lobes, loving eve-

ry inch of her like a wild fire. He knows she made it to the end of her life wanting, needing

to be set free of the torture of watching her loved one love someone else.

And now she’s here, in his vineyard, where all the tortured ones go.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you from here, my dear. But keep trying. I’m clearing a path,

just for you. You have to detangle yourself,” He rises from his rest and continues along the

path, “I suggest inhaling. That’s always a good start.”

It isn’t long before Roy arrives, covered in soot and lying, dazed, in the middle of the

garden’s hedge maze. He is decidedly more coherent than most of the other dead ones,

wandering the twists and turns of the maze like one would the metro or the halls of an of-

fice building. He gives off an air of familiarity, like he knows what he’s doing. Most of the

dead rarely do. He touches along the walls of the maze gently and the soft leaves of the

hedges brush against his fingertips like the down of a quilt. No matter where he turns, no

matter how many dead ends he approaches, he remains spirited, turning back around

and continuing down the next path. Roy is one of the most optimistic dead ones that the

Groundskeep has ever seen.

It’s when the sun is hovering over the horizon and skimming across the tops of the

hedges that Roy looks up to see the Groundskeep, quietly trimming the bushes with what

looks like a pair of scissors.

“Excuse me,” Roy calls up to him, and the Groundskeep looks up from his work for

Ramirez

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only a moment before he bows his head back down. Those that appear in the hedge maze

always have a lot of questions. They’re the curious ones. Their personalities always vary

and their questions are never the same. The dead of the hedge maze are the ones to al-

ways surprise him, “Excuse me, sir? Mister Groundskeep? Can I ask you a question?”

The people of the hedges have always been a mystery to him. He enjoys their pres-

ence the most.

“What is it that you need, son?”

“Am I dead?”

The question did not throw him off. A lot of the dead asked if it was so. They were

usually just a touch more hysterical, “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“I died trying to save Izzy, right?” Roy makes a left turn, out of sight of the

Groundskeep. He shakes his head and waits for Roy to return, for the Groundskeep

knows every nook and cranny of this maze and while he’s doing better than most, Roy is

nowhere near the end.

“Yes you did, son.”

The two of them are silent as Roy turns to the right, opposite where he had been. He

comes back with a worried look on his face. That had also been a dead end.

“Never try to be a hero, is what people told me. Because being a hero killed people. I

was always a defiant boy. I was never to be ‘suaded. Impulse is what drove me in my life

and impulse is how I died,” He paused and looked up, shielding his face from the sun,

“Tell me: Was I a hero? I saved Izzy, right?”

These are the sort of questions that the Groundskeep cannot answer. It always

pained him when he couldn’t.

“You’re too far north of the maze, son. Backtrack south a little. You’ll find more an-

swers there.”

If the hedge maze was for the questioners, the gazebo was for the talkers.

He found Isadora soon after he had left Roy. He had been repainting the gazebo,

The Iron Horse Journey to the Afterlife

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for it had been in desperate need of a touch up when she appeared, right in the middle of

his work. She stayed in her landing spot and did not move, mindful of the Groundskeep’s

careful work. He had her painted into a corner, an unforeseen circumstance, but where

most dead ones would’ve stomped around in a fit, she sat arms at her side and legs

crossed.

“Hello, sir!” She was a happy dead one, smiling and swaying in her spot, “How are

you today?”

He only smiled at her fleetingly before returning to his work. The gazebo was a calm

and delicate place, where those with big hearts and loving lives ended up. Most of the

dead that arrived here didn’t even know they were dead.

“I’ve had a pretty good day myself. I went to the grocery store with my husband. I

haven’t been able to find him since, though. Have you seen him?”

Again, the Groundskeep did not respond. He looked at Isadora briefly and knew

that she was one of those- the ones that didn’t know they were dead. And how could she?

She had been held hostage in that grocery store, frightened into a corner and threatened

at gun point. And then she had died, and it isn’t clear to the Groundskeep as to how or

why. But she is dead, now, and there is nothing to mourn except the loss of her beating

heart. It is difficult to tell the dead that they’re dead.

“That’s alright. He’s a trickster, he is. I lose him all the time. My name is Isadora, by

the way.”

The Groundskeep inhales and tries to keep a straight face. Despite an eternity,

there are some moments that he wishes he didn’t have to live through.

“But you can call me Izzy.”

There are the kind and there are the mean. There are the strong and there are the

weak. Regardless of what you were, this is what you are now- dead. There is nothing that

can change that and there is nothing to bargain. You are a dead one and you have noth-

ing outside of these gardens. It is rare, however, that there appears those that stray from

the garden gates. The Groundskeep has seen it, of course- he’s seen it all –but it’s like

snow in July or a fish out of water.

Ramirez

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Just today, there was a newcomer. A young woman appeared, dressed smart and busi-

ness-like. She was of the collected sort, self-aware and quick-witted. The Groundskeep

knows this type. She appeared just beyond the gates in the unattended, the parts of the

garden where the Groundskeep never goes. Most things are dead there, others overgrown

and wild. There are remnants of a fire long since passed, brought by some newcomers

with short-tempers and pyromania. It is the very edges of the world of the dead, where the

corrupt or the misled or the selfish go.

Catherine, a Civil Rights activist and lonely spinster, had been in the middle of a

speech when she’d been assassinated, shot through with a bullet like a spear through a

paper bag. Catherine had been ruthless, a true advocate with a cause and a devil-may-

care personality that made her both loved and hated. She was merciless and often unkind,

but she had her heart set in the right place, so the Groundskeep liked to think. He didn’t

often judge the dead.

He watched her from the other side and she stared back. Neither she nor the

Groundskeep spoke a word to each other. He knew all of her deepest secrets, how she

broke the heart of a woman she had loved and left her for a warmer bed; how, in high

school, she had been terrified of the world, angry at everything and everyone; how, even

know, she is still angry, fighting to fight.

The outskirts swallowed her. Stoic like a stone hedge and still as a board, Catherine sat

among the filth and overgrowth as delicately as she could, but there was not much delica-

cy to be found. The Groundskeep did not tend to the broken fence or water the dying

plants- he simply watched her. Catherine was used to being watched.

She’d been watched all her life, but never once tended to, like the outskirts of a garden.

The Groundskeep has seen much in his eternity. He has seen the dead and their fears,

the dead and their dreams, the dead and their smiles, the dead and their wretched sobs.

He has seen them try to breathe, only to realize that they can’t. He has seen them try to

claw their way out of this nonexistence, only to realize that this is where they will remain.

Everything he knows is dead.

Even the flowers to which he tends so lovingly and carefully do not breathe a sigh.

The Iron Horse

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MORE THAN JUST THE STORM

By Morgan Tomasko

Tip tap. Tip tap. The sounds of the outside penetrated my lit-by-candles living room.

It’s just the hurricane throwing twigs at the window, I thought. Let it be.

…

Tip-tap-tap-tip-tap-tap.

The tapping on the glass infuriated me—I threw off my blanket and ran to the win-

dow, grabbing the curtains. Even as I ripped them back I screamed at what slowly re-

vealed itself.

The little girl who used to live next door—drenched in rotting leaves and hurricane

muck-- still wearing her burial dress.

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“Liar” by Mark Hernandez

The Iron Horse

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THE BIOLOGY OF SNOWFLAKES By Gabriella Shriner

Long legs

Long and thin, thin and cold Stretching, leaping

over four wooden, winter-solid, back porch steps

when you bring

your eyes close enough: Small microscopes…

You see little six-pointed organisms, Breathing,

Existing with movement.

I’ve never seen that before Frozen, suspended, woven into a scarf

walking to the car Never seen you before

Talk to me, Cluster of symmetry,

and tell me Whisper with icy edges

Reveal that

which you’ve never seen before.

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KING OF INNOCENT SOULS

By Ashley Humienny

He wasn’t as cold as everyone thought he was. Death made a lot of people cold—

that was definitely true. And he was cold, in the beginning—of course he was. He was bit-

ter, jealous of his brothers and bitter for being shoved in the Underworld for all of eternity.

But bitterness couldn’t last forever. Eternity was a long time, and being bitter got

boring.

Especially when he started to realize the strange effect that constant death had on

him. Other gods lived in a state of glorious immortality, completely out of touch with the

brevity of human life. They started wars that slaughtered thousands of humans. They cre-

ated disasters that killed men and women and children alike.

They had no concept of the value of life, because they would always have it. They

didn’t understand why humans feared death, because they didn’t have to die.

He came face-to- face with this fear every day of his immortal life. Not one soul

passed who hadn’t confronted the idea of death at least once in his or her life, and con-

fronted it fearfully. From the smallest child to the coldest killer, no one was spared.

They said he was heartless for ignoring the screams of the dead. How could he

stand to live in a place where the wailing of tortured souls echoed on and on forever?

It wasn’t easy. But he never condemned the innocent to such a fate. They always

seemed to forget that. He would never ignore the terrified wail of a child, dragged down

fresh from the world above, small and scared and helplessly confused.

The little ones didn’t know why they were here. Some of them didn’t remember dy-

ing. Many of them came without parents. Whenever one came, he or she stood like a tiny

statue on the rough floor of a vast black cave, surrounded by thousands of spirits, wide

eyes darting around in panic. They screamed for whoever they’d left behind in the world

above.

The Iron Horse

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Humienny

He would kneel before them. They would stare at him like they’d just seen a ghost,

screams cut off with silent terror.

He would smile. “Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be all right.” His hand, pale

as death but not quite as cold, grasped their tiny fingers. “I’m going to take you to a won-

derful place, where you will be safe and happy for a very long time.”

He never knew what it was that changed their minds—if some part of them suddenly

understood where they were going, or if they saw something in his soft smile that assured

them that everything really was going to be all right.

Then the child would give a little nod. Their tiny fingers would flex, growing comfort-

able with his embrace. “Okay.”

The children always got to him. They hardly had a taste of life before it was

snatched away from them.

That was why he would never start wars the way his blissfully immortal relatives

did. That was why he felt he understood something they never could: one of the greatest

fears of humans. That was why he smiled at the little ones, why he liked to hold their

hands, why he sometimes liked to carry their innocent souls through the shadows to their

eternal fate.

That was why he wasn’t quite as cold as everyone thought he was.

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STARING AT THE WORLD By Brian Edmiston

I sit and stare to see more of the world but the longer I stare the less I see.

When the seas are bleached and lions lie dead in the sun yet we move along behind our walls buried in our tomes I stare at the world. When the ghost of trees crack and snap through empty houses on every block yet gardens are plucked of their fruit and not a soul plants a seed I stare at the world.

When gold shines behind the screen yet my eyes are closer to touching it than my fingers ever will our heads weighed down by the words we carry in our palms I sit and stare.

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When men and women sing love yourself and silence others where hate is mistaken for truth and a family is dinner for one free to be sad, free to be alone I sit and stare. When we only stop to demand and argue over rights yet never think to go and do what’s right I close my eyes. To sit and stare too much of too little If I could see what it meant to be alive to feel what was real I close my eyes. To see the world wasn’t in our hands where fame and hate consummate ignorance brings out laughs pride clutches our finger tips a longing for kindness hides behind our lips I open my eyes.

Edmiston

26

The world was here on this page, on this table out the window, out the door continuing to a place we once called home The world was there further beyond my sight, my sound, my grip, my mind farther than I will ever walk upon where the eyes of God look down at me To see I had stopped staring.

The Iron Horse Staring at the World

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“My Lover’s Arms” by Morgan Tomasko

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No Problem By Zachary Heffner

Joey

Bobby

SCENE: It’s mid-day, sun high in the sky in the woods. Joey, a young man, is hiking when

he comes across Bobby, a middle-aged hunter.

Joey: Hey there, bag anything good?

Bobby: Yea, got me a twelve-point buck.

Joey: Twelve-point? Pretty impressive.

Bobby: Yea, bastard put up a good fight.

Joey: Buck that size must be heavy.

Bobby: Yea, would you mind giving me a hand?

Joey: No problem.

(Leaves Rustle)

Joey: Hey there, bag anything good?

Bobby: Just a doe, nothing much.

Joey: Hey, it’s something.

Bobby: I know, it was just too easy, you know?

Joey: Yea, the hunt is the best part, isn’t it?

Bobby: Yea, it is. Well, I’m gonna get this back to my truck, I’ll see you.

Joey: See you.

(Leaves Rustle)

Joey: Hey there, bag anything good.

Bobby: No, but the damndest thing just happened.

Joey: What?

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29

Bobby: I’m standing there, got my rifle aimed at a beautiful twelve-point buck, just about to

squeeze the trigger, and this doe steps out of the woods next to me. It just stands there,

doesn’t run away, does nothing. Just stares at me. I put the rifle down and it comes closer. I

reach my hand out, and it presses its head into my palm. Can you believe that?

Joey: Wow, so what happened with the buck? Did you finish the job?

Bobby: No, I just left. Didn’t even bother with the rifle, just left it leaning against some tree.

Just didn’t care.

Joey: You left your rifle? You don’t care if someone just takes it?

Bobby: No, I don’t need it anymore. It’s no problem.

Heffner

30

THANKSGIVING DINNER By Erika Marohn

I step through the doors, the white washed walls whirl around me Hugs smother me, thick black smoke coating my lungs

Endless nonsense greetings, “Hi sweetie” “Haven’t you got a boyfriend yet?” Fill the air

Their cloying scent sweet against the roof of my mouth Novocain on my tongue without numbness Soon the sweet nothing phrases turn heavy

Politics and religion race across the table The neutral zone never changing, ground neither lost nor gained

An organized storm, chaotic activity ensues Relatives asking, “Pass the peas” between ignorant statements Racial slurs I don’t agree with but I’m forced to smile and nod

To “respect” those elders who unwisely and unwittingly insult the family I chose The carcasses of my own opinions lying stone dead Strewn on the floor, heads carved from their bodies

The turkey’s innards pulled out Blood, decorative artwork on the floor

Splattered tastefully on pristine walls Rose petals against snow The wicked witch holds out the poisoned apple

Grandma offers another slice of pie Piled with whipped cream on top of her soft words

Filled with the tang of whiskey, barbs pricking skin More blood falls, this time it’s mine Wounds refuse to heal

Thyme not helping them seal

Until I speed off toward home

The Iron Horse

31



SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

If interested in submitting your work, please follow these steps:

1. Review the submission guidelines below or on our website at

www.fduironhorse.wordpress.com for the type of work you are submitting (i.e., see

“Written Work” for a short story or poem and “Art Work” for scanning and submitting a

painting or photograph.)

2. Include your name, School ID, Major/Minor, Year (freshman, sophomore, junior or sen-

ior), and best way of contact (e-mail, phone number, etc.). Please note: the purpose of in-

cluding this information is to incorporate it into the student bio.

3. Submit your work to [email protected] (see submission guidelines below) along

with a short paragraph (3-5) sentences as a short bio. Things to include might be hobbies/

extracurricular activities, home town, preferred writing genre/art form, or anywhere you

may have been published previously/awards won. This bio will be included at the end of

future editions of the Iron Horse Creative Anthology, beginning with the Spring 2017 issue

in the “Contributor’s Notes” section.

For more detailed guidelines, visit The Iron Horse Creative Anthology online at:

www.fduironhorse.wordpress.com.

Written Work:

Prose, Poetry, Dramatic Scene/Monologue, Song Lyrics, etc. are accepted

12 pt. font/double-spaced/Word Document or PDF files only

Maximum 15 pages per author, and/or 3 separate pieces

All work must be entirely original. No fan-fiction allowed (it violates copyright laws)

Art Work:

Sketches, Paintings, Drawings, Comics, Graphic Art, Photography, Sculptures, etc. are

Accepted. ALL work must be scanned in; no photographs of work (paintings/drawings/

sketches) will be accepted.

All work must be entirely original.

No fan-art allowed (it violates copyright laws)

Maximum 3 pages at 1 full page each per artist

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