Finally Captured by Ella Humphreys

Issue 36.2

Editor’s Note

Dear Washington College Community—

The fall semester is finally winding down, and I’m sure the promise of a quickly approaching break is a relief to all of us. The past few weeks seem to have been particularly disruptive. Between the everyday struggles of college life—at Washington College, especially, demanding academic and extracurricular commitments are not uncommon—and a divisive election season that has fostered nationwide tension and anxiety, we can easily become engulfed in a sense of powerlessness. Far too often, the more overwhelming aspects of life can seem to eclipse our vision.

During times like this, our support for one another is vital; community strengthens us, and we persist. After all, our connections with others remind us that there is hope. Soon, we’ll be able to pause, take a breath, and look back at everything we’ve accomplished since August; despite the looming dread, there is much to be proud of, and there are many people to be grateful for.

Issue 36.2 of Collegian speaks earnestly to this rise and fall of pressure. Intensity builds rapidly between these thoughtfully-crafted works, embarking on a feverish, all-consuming journey before sinking back into gentleness. This collection is both dreamlike and steadfast in its impact; the writing and art in these pages will leave a lasting impression, begging you to ask questions about the world around you—and about your own effects on it.

I encourage you to embrace the energy Collegian 36.2 so readily offers. Allow your heartbeat to quicken and slow as our contributors guide you through fervor and into softness. When you’ve finished, remember to take a moment to breathe.

With love,
Lucy Verlaque
Editor in Chief

Sorry Mary Jane

after James Allen Hall

My grandmother is a place you can’t fucking bike around.
An unwalkable city, too many roads, hills, the place
you get splattered to the curb by a car tacked with a scuffing
bumper sticker family. She’s the plant-choked kitchen where I’m made to
cook, I hate to cook, my brother’s the next room over,
she reaches for a knife to massacre thyme and
compliments my hands, my skin, my curls, her granddaughter.
She’s a place you sit in by the creek getting moss on your jeans,
checking your phone to see when you can head back—
ten more minutes. My grandmother: a garden,
one of five, divorced, alone, she knows my name and
nothing else about me, she’ll die calling me what I’m
not, never was, am to her, my grandmother, the place
where you sit in your room and don’t visit, where she’s not
allowed to garden because she killed our hydrangeas, where
you sit on a kitchen stool, hungry, where you seal
the windows up tight so bugs can’t get in,
but do anyway. The bugs get in anyway.

Sunset on the Lake by Halina Saydam

by Savannah Nies

sick, masochistic lion love

after Stephenie Meyer

we lean across the lunch table, share fresh depth—
drinking flame between tiny bloodless kisses,
and like the morning, I feel vast come evening—
escaping the strong aroma to devour life and
find her rhythmful heart open;
full hearts, warmest together,
all champagne.
lust haunts lostness
away in some open meadow;
would near-drunk clouds always lay together here,
devouring a strong moon,
our night pleasure would diamond,
light glittering and unhiding from omniscient Cupid.
soft girl arms have beautiful promise—
her vast embrace—
heart seed voice, you were right!
still, sweet boy heart beats anew, finally.

by E.T. Bogue

Modern MacBeth

There’s blood on my hands, and I don’t know how it got there.

My whole body trembles as I raise my fingers toward the hazy glow emanating from the dusty little Ikea lamp Dad bought on a whim three years back. Ugly yellow light washes over my skin and the dark, sticky blood coating it. Not quite dry but not fresh, either. It feels itchy on my palms, my wrists, and the pads of my fingers. It’s gotten under my nails and stuck fast, uncomfortable and unrelenting. Its metallic scent wafts towards me, propelled by the ceiling fan spinning overhead. My stomach turns violently.

I lurch across the kitchen, shambling like Frankenstein’s monster does in all the movies. When I reach the sink, I lean against the counter, the edge pressing hard into my ribcage. Above me, the fan makes a dull whomp noise every time it completes a rotation, and the sound grates against my ears. My eyes have started to sting. My throat has started to ache. I turn the faucet on and lather everything from my fingertips to my forearms with dish soap, all with shaking hands. Then I lean into the water, not hot enough to be scalding, but close. Globs of Gain run down my wrists. The artificial citrus smell assaults my nostrils. The faucet is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the taunting sound of the fan.

What have I done? I think desperately. What happened?

The last thing I remember before waking up on the floor with blood staining my hands and clothes is going to bed in the other room, head aching. I could feel the migraine coming on, which is always a frightening ordeal, and not just because of the pain. But I thought that out here, alone in the mountains, things would finally get better. I thought that when that sharp, stabbing pain reverberated through my skull, I could cope. And above all, I thought that when, in the aftermath of the migraine, I had one of these uncontrollable blackouts, the isolation would keep anything bad from happening. No computer in flames at work, no window broken in my housemate’s bedroom, no niece screaming when I nearly stumbled into the busy street. It was just going to be me, locked in a rustic cabin surrounded by uninhabited wilderness. That was what I told my dad when I asked him for the keys. I was so confident then. But now my surety has been shattered. Somehow, despite the isolation, things have gone wrong, and they’re worse than I’ve ever imagined. There’s blood on my hands. I don’t know who it belongs to, just that I have no open wounds, so it can’t be mine.

What have I done?

I scrub frantically, trying to scrape the congealed blood off my skin. I think back to high school, when the migraines had only just started, when the worst thing that happened during the blackouts was tripping on the stairwell. In my senior year, my AP Literature class read MacBeth. I don’t remember all of it—I was never a big Shakespeare person—but there’s one scene that I can recall vividly, that sticks with me after all this time. Lady MacBeth, violently cleaning her hands as she spirals into insanity, thanks to the all-consuming guilt over her part in regicide. I remember that scene as my fingers start to wrinkle beneath the water and suds slide over my skin, carrying dried flecks of blood away with them. There are, I realize, only two meaningful differences between myself and that famous character created hundreds of years ago. The first is obviously that, for Lady MacBeth, the blood was metaphorical, while for me, it’s terrifyingly real. The second difference is that Lady MacBeth knew exactly what wrongs she had done, and that knowledge was what tore her apart in the play’s last act. I have no idea what I’ve done, and half the horror comes from gaping at the gaping abyss in my memory.

There’s a lump in my throat. I pull my hands out of the water, take a deep, shuddering breath, and inspect them with burning, teary eyes. The skin is both shriveled and flushed pink. I’ve got most of the blood off, but some of it remains stuck beneath my nails. The faucet gushes. The fan whirls around and around, and it makes me want to scream.

What have I done?

Maw von Kerberos by Jeremy Cress

by Jove Gleason

Fishwives

i.

You’ll have to forgive me
but you looked so lovely on that
hook, wrapped around its steel
neck, shimmering in the water,
the hook and you both,

Together, understand the ocean is choking and
vast, that you were drowning, and I, in your
absence, what choice did I have but to
bite, to join you the only way I knew
how? I hope my teeth didn’t catch

You like the hook in my
neck, I hope
it didn’t hurt,

I hope it still
doesn’t.

ii.

To emulsify isn’t enough, we have to congeal.
Bite through the tender flesh to the fork

So hard your teeth ache with it. Taste each
scale on your tongue, let me feel each bump
on your tongue, as you do the scale, let the
taste of it be rotten like fermented fruit,
cultured cheese, like a fish in the ground
for months until it’s a delicacy. Love me

Enough to coagulate, to stay at the back
of your throat, parasitize your every meal
until their taste isn’t anything but me.

iii.

I love you like a sardine
in a can, packed in, tinned
together in juice-and-skin
amalgam. Even peeling the lid
back feels like a separation, inevitable,
and still, I hope we’re eaten one

After the other,           or all in one go,
stabbed by the same fork,       pinched
by the same fingers that we
can mingle in the stomach acid,       dissolving,
digested                   together. We’ll            pretend it’s
the ocean, my love, and to not know the difference; as
close to heaven
as we can manage.

Nature Has Eyes by Ella Humphreys

by Bryce Widdoss

Nineteen

Dear Mom,

Today I turned nineteen. Young enough that I can become whoever I want to be, but not quite old enough to go ahead and actually do it. Nineteen feels too young for all this—I’m here at college, managing a life filled with the crushing weight of student debt, balancing the cost of textbooks and meals, pulling my hair out during every test, assignment, or midterm and wondering if I’ll ever be ready for what’s next. I’m finding out that even keeping up with friendships takes more effort now; I’ve never had to plan time with my friends—our get-togethers used to just magically happen. At nineteen, some days feel like I'm one step away from it all slipping through my fingers. But yet, somehow, nineteen is when you had me.

I’m working hard here at college— keeping my grades up, serving the community, and trying to build a future for myself. Trying to make you proud. You say you’re proud of me- that I’m accomplishing so much and that you couldn’t have asked for a better son. The truth is, I’ve accomplished nothing compared to you. You gave nineteen years of your life so I could have the chance to figure mine out. Your sacrifices are the only reason I’m here in the first place—no matter how tragic or stressful raising two kids alone became, you’re the one who’s been behind everything, quietly holding us all together.

I think a lot about what you gave up to get me here. About how you continue to choose family over yourself over and over again. I‘m privileged enough to go to college and embark on my own journey of self-discovery because you chose to build a life for both of us. That’s something I’ll never take for granted. Despite the distance between us this year, I feel closer to you than ever—like I only now am able to understand who you were and how hard it must have really been.

I used to think you had it all figured out when you were young. You made it look easy. But now I'm left wondering if you were as scared, confused, and lost as I am now—simply masquerading as someone who has it all together. Did you worry like I do everyday if you’d be enough? Did you worry about whether you were doing the right thing, or if you were ready? If you did, you hid it well. You didn’t just teach me—you showed me what resilience looks like. You continue to show me love, patience, and strength in ways I’m only beginning to understand and appreciate now. You’re the reason I keep going. I may not be with you to relax to the sweet scent of your signature birthday cinnamon apple pies filling the house, or to feel the warmth of your gentle hugs, but your love still reaches me, guiding every step I take.

Today, at nineteen, I can say with certainty that I couldn’t do now what you did then. I’m not as selfless, brave, or strong as you were forced to be—I haven’t been put in a situation where I’ve had to choose between my future and someone else's. Despite all you’ve taught me, I don’t think I’ll ever be as resilient, resourceful, or loving as you’ve always been for me. I’ll never be able to repay you— never. My debt is too deep. But I hope you know that no matter the distance between us or how many birthdays pass, I’ll continue to carry everything you’ve taught me, always.

With all my love,
Bryce