Washington College's Student Literary and Arts Magazine

Issue: November 2013

Editor’s Note

Editor’s Note

Our October issue centered on the theme “Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast,” the idea being that we would focus on different kinds of adventures and adventuring. After the issue was published, I learned that one of the pieces in the issue, which dealt with personal […]

Moses Goodreau nd The Matter of The False Idol – Part II: A Stranger Calls

Moses Goodreau nd The Matter of The False Idol – Part II: A Stranger Calls

Moses narrowed his eyes. “Only I’ll be taking my cut out of whatever that idol’s worth. You can tell me now or I can find out myself when I have it, but either way I know this payday has to be much larger than anything the Hopkins girl promised.”

Drawing

Drawing

“Drawing” by Anna Baldwin
I heart chaos

I heart chaos

The sirens sound. Ants march
on the capital, hands in their pockets.
They never miss a beat, feel the heat
of their 190-proofs with the cloths jammed in.

The Charm City Circulator

The Charm City Circulator

The CCC slows for a second, but the clock ticks—
Off they go, leaving the man, his goatee,
And his North Face jacket
Behind.
“Hey!” he shouts. Sighs.

Murderer

Murderer

by Kasey Jones

It is inevitable
that bugs find a way in.
A brave brown one
dares to crawl up
the white wood
of my bed, lured
by the sweet strawberry stain
left from snacking.
When I go at it
with a book,
it springs like a small
pogo stick
a quarter of an inch
into the air.
I shoo it off my bed,
slapping and crushing him
on the paneled floor.
Yes, him.
Because something automatically
seems more alive,
becomes more personal,
when you’ve killed it.
Red bug juice spurts,
spreads in a messy pattern,
antennae torn from his head,
a broken crown.
And a small piece,
something inside
his tiny bug body
leaps one last time.

Photography

Photography

Photograph by Emily Klein Photograph by Emily Klein “Spider” by Erin Cooper Top photograph by Melissa Agnostak

Wrong-handed

Wrong-handed

Left was wrong.
I knew from an early age
that I was wrong.
In my awkward right palm
I grasped a yellow pencil
with a bubble gum pink eraser,
not so sweet
when a mistake was made.

Overheard

Overheard

by Kasey Jones

I like to eavesdrop
on people speaking too loudly
on the beach,
not realizing that the salty wind
carries their voices.
They sit too close anyway.
And as I’m trying to drift off,
with dreamsicle-scented sunscreen
and the sun on my back,
a bundle of conversation
pricks my ears,
clinging like grains of sand
to wet skin.
A wife is arguing
with her husband about his smoking.
You promised only one this morning.
Can we stick to that?
Okay, he agrees.

Their teenage daughter sits between them.

It’s vacation.
It’s not like your mother’s here.
Then, I could see why you’d smoke,
the wife continues.
This dig hurts him.
I can feel the weight
behind his strained sigh.
I don’t blame this man
for his stress.
With this wife,
I think I’d smoke too,
a big, fat, flavorful cigar.
I can’t help but wonder
if this is one of those vacations
meant to salvage a marriage.
A nagging wife,
her pushover husband,
and their silent daughter.
She closes a book,
on the same page as an hour before,
then, standing slowly
she walks down
to the choppy water.

Get ready for bed aerobics

Get ready for bed aerobics

Look at the wall, think of eyes closing,
eyelids made of lead, colors dropping.