VentureLiterary Magazine of Rider University

Fall 2005

STAFF

EditorMichelle Doherty

Editorial BoardJohn BudgickPamela Estel

Christina HofstetterMadeleine Johnson

Bill LambustaJordana TusmanMelanie UnruhSarah WakeleeKat Zimoulis

Copy EditorsMichelle DohertyJordana Tusman

AdvisorDr. Matthew Boyd Goldie

Special thanks toDr Seiwoong Oh

Venture accepts submissions from Rider students, faculty, and adminis-trators. New staff members are always welcome. Comments, questions,and contributions can be directed to Dr. Matthew Boyd Goldie in theEnglish Department, to venture@rider.edu, or to the Venture Web site,http://enigma.rider.edu/~venture. Please make sure you include eachsubmission as a separate attachment to the e-mail, and include yourname and e-mail on each submission. Please place the title of thesubmission in the subject line.

©2005 copyright contributors

VentureFall 2005

Table of ContentsMy Tornado Is Just Resting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lauren Perez . . . . . . . . . . .1

Keyboard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annmarie Mercieri . . . . .2

The Couple . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jordana Tusman . . . . . . . .3

Seated Figure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kristy Kleinfelder . . . . . . .4

Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Morgan Levine . . . . . . . . .5

Woman on the March . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicole Lantino . . . . . . . . .6

Rider University High School Writing Contest

Past Sleep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lexie Bell . . . . . . . . . . . . .8

Circles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amy Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9

A Flock of Starlings Takes Off . . . . Jennifer Malat . . . . . . . . .10

Tikki’s Indonesia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Carolyn Mellick . . . . . . .11

The Great Depression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stacey Zerilli . . . . . . . . . .12

Maria y Luisa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Melanie Unruh . . . . . . . .13

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kristy Kleinfelder . . . . . .16

Capitalize . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Teresa Friscia . . . . . . . . .17

Keep Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Madeleine Johnson . . . .18

Raining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Wakelee . . . . . . . .19

An Overgrown Garden; A Satisfactory Porch Bill Lambusta . . . . . . . . .20

Hide and Seek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stacey Zerilli . . . . . . . . . .22

All For Nothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pamela Estel . . . . . . . . . .23

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Madeleine Johnson . . . .24

Elizabeth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jamiyl Mosley . . . . . . . . .25

Down That Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicole Lantino . . . . . . . .27

Cover art: Untitled, Kristy Kleinfelder

1

My Tornado Is Just RestingLauren Perez

The see you walking slowly on the edgenever worried you’ll step offThe try and explain every thought in you headBut you know every word is not enoughlooking in the mirror and reflecting you see everyone but yourselfAll they see is the person they need you to beSo calm collected and demureThey see you having every problem solvedalways with the cureBut when they see youWhen they see youOh can anyone really see you?Can the really see what deep down I’ve been suppressingInside my tornado is just restingA million dollar dayNever drops a cent your waythe sanity you cling desperately toIs what they all use as their glueAnd leave not a drop for youBut what can you doWhat can anyone really doThe mirror will no longer show a single faceInstead a painting hangs in its placeNo one hears what I’ve been confessingInside my tornado is just restingI’m telling you what these winds can doI’m telling you what I can rip right throughEveryone will say they thought they knew youBut they never saw the damage you could doThey never saw an aftermath so depressingBecause inside my tornado is just resting

KeyboardAnnamarie Mercieri

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3

The CoupleJordana Tusman

“Baby? Can we just cuddle tonight?” The girl asked as the boyreached over to unsnap her bra, something that he had finally masteredafter five years in training.

“Uh, why sweet puff? Don’t you want me?” The boy askedputting on his adorable puppy dogface.

“Of course, baby, but we never just cuddle anymore and I missthat,” said the girl.

“Well, that’s why we compromise,” said the boy rather non-challantly. “First we smash, then we cuddle. That way both of us arehappy.” The girl sighed.

“I’m serious, Billy.”“So am I, sweetness.”“Wow, Billy. What do you take me for? All I ask is that we spend

one intimate night cuddling in each other’s arms, and all you can thinkabout is banging me. That’s romantic, Billy, really romantic. You sureknow how to make a girl feel special,” the girl said rolling her eyes.

“Frankly, Chelsea, I would take it as a compliment. It takes apretty important chick for me to want to bang them.”

“Are you for real? I can get banged by any guy I please, and ittakes a real man to know when to turn off his horn-ball machine andjust chill. I need a snuggle bunny sometimes, not a testosterone injectedfrat boy.”

“Gee, Chelsea. You’re right. I’m sorry. If it’s just cuddling tonightthat you want, then it’s just cuddling tonight that you’ll get,” the boy saidas he pulled the girl to his side and kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, baby,” the girl smiled. “I appreciate it.” The boy smiledtoo and patted the girl’s head.

“I’ll tell you what sweet puff, tonight, I’ll cook us up somefettuccini alfredo, your favorite, and then we’ll get into bed, watch amovie, maybe even a chick flick cause I know you like those, and I’ll giveyou a relaxing massage as you drift off to sleep.”

“Aww, thanks, baby!” The girl smiled from head to toe, stretchingher arms around her bedmate.

“And we’ll cuddle all through the movie,” the boy finished.“Sounds wonderful, Billy, just great.”“Good,” the boy said, cupping his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“So,” he said, “can we fuck tomorrow night then?”

4

Seated FigureKristy Kleinfelder

5

artMorgan Levine

go ahead crashinto me. Shatterthat glass i piecedtogether so intricatelyi painted stars and moonsin hope you would stopto look at the scenery.

6

Woman on the MarchNicole Lantino

7

Rider UniversityHigh School Writing Contest

8

Past SleepLexi Bell

There’s an hour that passesduring soft, skin-thin nightswhen I grow into a stalk,tender with humid dark.My hair becomesbrown-green rivulets of plant.My eyes are not seen in the night(like once-lustrous penniesloving the cling of solitary soil).All my limbs becomegauzy husks,my tongue—a leaf of lilting drivel.

So tender,the open darkbreathes its cajoling breaththrough the pipes of night,of me.If I let myself be lulled,I miss the settling of hush,the soft alighting in thisgreat lung of wide-openness.

I try to stay up untilthe last hours of dark wiltfrom a full bloom.By then, my tiny insides becomeShallow ponds of lukewarm water,Touching only the ankles of conciousness.

CirclesAmy Lee

I don’t like circlesI draw them crooked sothey can’t beperfect.

The made an equation—called it a circle, madeone line connectto its end.

Ouroboros.

Let me tell you a story:A girl is raped and hasa child, a daughter.And many years later,a daughter is raped, andhas a child, a daughter.

I like to run in zig-zag circlesin the grass as it rains.My feet squelch down the wormsspinning in the mud, circling.

No matter how you turn a circle,it stays the same—in this partof the world, the breeze smells like fliesdrownedin too much honey.No matter how you turn your mind,it stays the same.

My mother is calling supperfrom the splintered wood ofthe gazebo. I sit in the dirtand with my hand I tracea circle.

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10

A Flock of Starlings Takes OffJennifer Malat

Tendons and muscles knifethrough air currents, liftingblack-gray feathersto the invisible world.Wings push draftsof air asidelike water under paddlesthat afternoon in the canoewhen we took turnsresting as the silvercraft glided overits own reflection,where the Maysun mattered more thanwhat we said.In the rapids,we tried to keepeach other afloat.You can’t wear lifevests if you wantto escapeto the sky.

11

Tikki’s IndonesiaCarolyn Mellick

I walk into the classroom after a four-day weekend, sit myself down atthe computer next to my friend, and give her a hardy handshake. I cantell she rolled out of bed ten minutes before the late bell by herextra-disheveled dreadlocks. We start up our computers to write. Shelooks at me with her sweatshirt hanging from her head and says,“Welcome to Monday, Carolyn. Welcome to Monday.” She looks back ather computer screen and continues the revision process. I tell her whenshe’s a famous doctor treating inhabitants of Indonesia with injections ofmorphine and amputations, that there will be an independent filmcompany documenting her life. I tell her that when this happens, she isto turn to the camera while dismembering an arm from its shoulder tosay, “Welcome to Monday,” then hand the bleeding extremity to thedirector with a crooked smile, and ask him to hold it for a minute.

12

The Great DepressionStacey Zerilli

13

Maria and Luisa had been neighbors for more than twenty years.They lived in the same apartment building, tucked away on one of thequieter city streets. Luisa´s apartment was just above Maria´s, so theirlaundry almost touched when it hung on the lines. Every day atlunchtime Luisa would lean out of her window and yell down.

“Oye, what are you cooking down there? It smells incredible.”“You silly woman,” Maria would call back. “It´s only my potato

stew.”Luisa would sigh. “But it has to be amazing , the way it smells. I

hope your family appreciates you.”“Of course, of course, be quiet.” Maria would laugh and return to

the stove, dipping her finger into the thick stew for a taste.“Perfecto.” She smiled to herself.

On the day of Maria´s daughter´s wedding, she went upstairs toshow Luisa her dress.

“Ay, que bonito,” Luisa cooed. “You look so beautiful, my friend.”“No, no. The color is nice, but it doesn´t suit my figure.” Maria

waved her off.“Well, I think you´ve never looked more beautiful,” Luisa

responded, ignoring Maria´s skepticism. “Besides, you have such a glowof pride right now.”

Luisa kissed Maria on both cheeks and wished her a good time.

Maria sat beside Luisa in the doctor´s office when they told her.Luisa didn´t cry, which Maria found surprising, as she herself had tochoke back tears. All she could do though was squeeze Luisa´s hand.

Luisa´s hair fell out quickly, just as they´d told her. A few daysafter she lost the last strands, she leaned out her window and called toher friend.

“Maria, come look at me.”Maria scurried from the livingroom, where she´d been engrossed

in her favorite telenovela. She peered up to the window above.“Luisa, are you-” she began, then stopped.Luisa wore an ash-blonde wig that blended well with her com-

plexion. It fell in small waves just above her shoulders. She stroked itwith trembling fingers.

Maria y LuisaMelanie Unruh

14

“What do you think?” Luisa´s smile was fragile.“I think you look beautiful, my friend,” Maria called back and

blew a kiss high into the air.Luisa smiled and disappeared back into her apartment.

Luisa´s health fluctuated over the following months. Some days,she and Maria would walk their dogs together in the park. Other days,Luisa would lie in her darkened bedroom, unable to move. Maria wouldbring her mint tea sweetened with honey in a small silver teapot.

One day in early February the day dawned unexpectedly warmand Maria was cooking with her window open.

“Oye, Maria,” came Luisa´s voice.“Luisa, how are you?” Maria smiled and leaned out the window,

staring up at her friend.“I´m great, my friend.” Luisa smiled. “Look at this.” Luisa slipped

her golden wig from her head to reveal the first sprouts of hair on herpink scalp. “Isn´t it incredible?” she cried.

“It is. I´m so happy for you.” Maria had to bite her lip to keepfrom bursting into tears.

“My nephew is getting married in the spring,” she said, runningher fingers over the tiny hairs. “I will have my hair by then.”

“How wonderful. Un besito,” Maria smiled and blew her a kiss.Luisa waved a kiss down to Maria and ducked back inside.The next day, early in the morning, someone knocked sharply on

Maria´s door. When she opened it, the woman from next door stoodbefore her, a stony expression on her face. She was a very large, unpleas-ant woman, and she and Maria had never been friends. She wore aleopard print bathrobe, stretched tightly across her ample figure. Mariahated leopard print.

“What is it?” she said warily, her arms folded and pressed firmlyto her chest.

“Luisa passed this morning,” the woman said and a look of pityseemed momentarily to cross her face of granite.

Maria nodded, unable to form words. The woman touched hershoulder and Maria managed to say thank you. She backed away thenand closed the door with a finite click.

The church was very crowded the next day. Luisa had always hadmany friends. As Maria stood in line for a last glimpse of her friend, shealmost smiled in spite of her grief to see such a turnout. When at lastshe stood before the casket, Maria saw that Luisa did not wear her

beautiful wig, but instead lay with her brown, stubby shoots of hair forall to see.

Maria knelt and gazed at Luisa. Tears were spilling down hercheeks.

“Nunca has parecido más bella, mi amiga, you have never lookedmore beautiful, my friend,” she whispered and kissed Luisa´s cool cheek.

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16

UntitledKristy Kleinfelder

17

CapitalizeTeresa Friscia

how does one be an Individualwhen The weapons massively destructwhen there is so much sacrifice for those who think it matterand none for those who capitalize The?and still, the mold of organization markets the human …

i am not no Jesus or propheti ain’t no President, no tsar, no queeni am not richi do not want to be a television diva or be faced with “reality”

But…

i used to think i was importantwe capitalize it— but i is not I,it is ian i alone,to be destroyed for money, power, earthbecause The doesn’t care that100,000 can’t care

an I for an i an i for iraq

but i know…that my mother had matteredi know that my father loved mei know that my lover was with mebut i’m not sure whyi couldn’t never be anything but what The wanted…

i massively destructonly to die in a land that i don’t know

18

Keep OutMadeleine Johnson

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RainingSarah Wakelee

I love the darkened feelingThe cold, wet, tasteless sensation.Each drop differentYet all appearing the same.The quiet, the stillnessCleaning my cracked soul.A moment in time, silentYet soft patters echo through.I lost myself in the night airSitting alone, pen in handComposing some chilled melody.The pattern rains on withEach passing breathUntil the silence is brokenBy the coming of the sun.

An Overgrown Garden; A Satisfactory PorchBill Lambusta

An overgrown garden is where—Emotions like worms infestingThe fruits on long vines, grown down off posts—We meet over the lively soil.

“I’m a cricket not a grasshopper.”“I’m a pillbug, not a medicine.”Statements: I make statementsBecause it makes me look smart.Your questions: you ask questionsBecause you think I know the answers.

Sometimes we talk too much—Like a man walking into a barAnd sitting on a stool for a drinkAnd the bartender asks…whileThe blonde says…To get in the way of the simple—Simple like children’s toysWith lost parts becauseWe and they always lost them—Things between you and myself.

But sometimes we wish for too many awkward words,When I say “grasshopper,”And you say, “Pill-Bug?…pill bug?”

Lush is this garden, but we need a porch.Strip the wood.

Let the seasons touch it,Delicately but passionately.The snow and rain and heatAll grace their lugubrious handsBecause they are never exactlyHow you remembered last Spring.

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21

Maybe she will say what I was wishing for,But that is not lemonade,But rather water.And that straw is bent.—These tricks of the light.

“Bring the seasons; I’m ready for change.”“It’s the right thing for me as of now.”Do you not see the porch?Were we not in the garden?No, I was in the garden,But we both ate too many fruits.We wanted to know life—To know the truth, God damn it.

Were we not in the garden?Are we not on the porch?

These,Treat wood with water always?Yet, I guess this porchIs satisfact’ry to rest on.

It’s good to know that I can see her heart,And know it just as well, if not better,Than she does.

Here:Water, wood, love, truth;To love is to knowThe truth.

22

Hide and SeekStacey Zerilli

23

All for NothingPam Estel

Audrey would much rather have torn the woman’s hair out thankeep listening to her speak. But that would have been uncivilized, and it’snot like she had the money to pay the lawsuit settlement.

“You understand that if you audition and I accept,” the womanwas saying, her chin held high, yet as if she was looking down on Audreyinstead of up at her from her seat, “that you will have to get into bettershape.” The implication was not lost as the director of the dance programeyed the young woman’s robustness.

And dye my hair blonde, I suppose, Audrey thought bitterly. Shecould not restrain the disdain in her stare. She was too used to this bull-shit to pretend she understood anymore.

“And even then you have a large bone structure, so I can’t prom-ise anything.”

Pity. The damn woman was looking at her with pity now, as ifAudrey could never amount to anything if her waist was not the samesize as her neck. She felt her hand curl into a fist, her nails digging intoher palm, and knew that it might be best to leave soon before she lost hertemper.

The instructor tapped a pen onto a sign-up sheet. “So would youlike to schedule a tryout?”

“Why bother?” Audrey growled, brusquely turning away andleaving the room.

It was like all they wanted to do is tear you down. Tear you downand rebuild you in their image: a skinny little bitch too busy followinginstructions than to push her limitations. They would see the potential inher, but never use it imaginatively. They would make her look as they sawfit, make her move as they felt necessary, like she was a doll, a fuckingmarionette.

Maybe she didn’t fit the perfect physical profile of a dancer,despite her strained attempts to fight what genetics had given her, butmentally and emotionally she was beyond others. To say dancing was herlife was an understatement. Back home when her work at the studio tookup much of her time, she walked through pain everyday. She overworkedher body relentlessly, pushed through her limitations and challengingnew ones, only leading to more frustration, tears, fatigue, and soreness.

But she loved it. Loved it all, more than anything else in her life.Looking back on it, she didn’t really think she knew how much dancewas a part of her until now, when it slipped from her grasp like a balloonpulled from the grip of a small child by the wind.

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ElizabethJamiyl Mosley

White chocolate truffle to the touch.Not the touch of hands,Not the touch of man,But the touch of presence,Of effervescence,Of elevated essence.Above and beyond her stature,What one would call her height,The frame in which her picture rests.Her tapestry, splendid, celestialHorizon curves out towards disbelief,Winding her way through time and space,Clock towers and guard towers and Eiffel TowersHave no power in her place.The place she lay claim to with every step and every breath.

It’s as if the angels are seeking sanctuary inside of her,Only to emerge from her lungs,With every word spoken, every silence broken.Peppermint slips from her lipsInto her cheeks, taught morsels,Whose rosy hue makes the entire platter more delectableAnd makes her mortality more undetectable.Eyes like eclipse, a warning to those who would dare stare directly intothem.Blindness to the path of sanity would be their fate.A conqueror’s smile,With no walls safe from her gaze,With every swirl of her hips,Another brick takes its trip to the ground,

To the crown atop her precipice.Brown locks cut to border her sublime estate.

Shell of velour.Scent of allure.Elegant in denim.Blue birds in her smile.

26

Extraordinary. Simple, yet extraordinary.Chalk drawing into which I’d die to dive.In this case, heaven is a downward spiral,If so, then cast me into the flames.

As she tells stories with the rainbows she’s tamedOn a canvas made her slave.Like those who are caught in her wake.In her waking, there is aura, borealis and aurora.

There are some paintings for which you’d pay any price,For they will carry you to a place,To a place where you can look her in the eye,Atop her Piccadilly pedestal,To say “I can not look you in the eye, but I can not look away.”Such is the gravityThose lips, cheeks and eyes have at the center of every man’s universe.And universal is the appeal,The desire to embrace that form,That formula for the blessing of a sole patronWho may wish to have her wish to be had.Curving out towards disbelief.

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