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
Arts and Literature magazine of Fairleigh Dickinson University
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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The Iron Horse Creative Anthology Spring 2016
Arts and Literature magazine of Fairleigh Dickinson University
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
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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.
The Iron Horse
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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
23
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
The Iron Horse Creative Anthology Spring 2016
Arts and Literature magazine of Fairleigh Dickinson University
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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