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The Pavan e Literary Magazine of Saint Peter’s University 2019
The Literary M
agazine of Saint Peter’s University
Saint Peter’s University2641 John F. Kennedy Boulevard
Jersey City, NJ 07306T
he Pavan2019 The Pavan The Literary Magazine of Saint Peter’s University
2019
The editorial staff would like to dedicate this issue to the memory of
Stephanie Jane Kuzminski (1983-2019), former Saint Peter’s
student, Fine Arts major, Pavan staff member, and daughter of Barbara
Kuzminski, beloved administrative assistant to the English Department.
Stephanie went through many trials in her brief life, but she always retained a great sense of humor and a love of art.
I N M E M O R Y O F Stephanie Jane Kuzminski
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Acknowledgements
Each year The Pavan proudly publishes the written and artistic talent of the Saint Peter’s University community. It is our goal to showcase the poetry, short stories, fan fiction, and visual art of the community.
The mission of Saint Peter’s is to educate a diverse community of learners, providing them with individual attention and a grounding in the liberal arts. It is only fair that as a community we are given the space and opportunity to express our creativity and thoughts, especially in this current time of turmoil in the world.
The ambitious and talented editorial staff has worked diligently in creating an issue that encompasses the talents of Saint Peter’s University. With guidance from our advisor, Dr. Rachel Wifall, whose dedication and work to The Pavan is greatly appreciated, we were able to create an issue that we are proud of.
However, this issue couldn’t have been created without the guidance of Professor Trish Gianakis and her Graphic Publishing class. This is Professor Gianakis’ first year teaching at Saint Peter’s and her visual eye and talent have given the issue a new look. The students in the class also contributed in creating the layout and the stunning visuals for the publication.
We are grateful that we have been given the opportunity from Saint Peter’s to showcase our creativity. We hope that this issue not only brings you, the reader, joy, but also stays true to the mission of the university. Even in the midst of dark times there is always a light shining through.
Kadira Johnson, Editor-in-Chief
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Table of Contents
Stories & PoemsThe Second Heaven by Sara Gonzalez ...................................................................................... 654 Journal Square by Ilona MacNamara ................................................................................. 7
My Dearest Love by Jonathan R. Rodriguez ............................................................................ 8
A Child Asks His Mother... by Lugo Alba .............................................................................. 10
3 A.M. by Nicholas Flores ......................................................................................................... 12
Anxiety by Tania Valez .............................................................................................................. 13
Drowning by Kadira Johnson................................................................................................... 14
To My Loving Grandfather by Mahreen Shahzadi ............................................................... 15
Pablo Escobar’s Hippos by Dr. Michael Walonen .................................................................. 16
My Rose by Nicholas Flores ...................................................................................................... 17
Photograph by Joseph Prandy .................................................................................................. 18
Catharsis by Marielis Rodriguez ..............................................................................................20
To My Love by Khawla Elharmouchi ...................................................................................... 21
Daddy’s Little Girl by Kadira Johnson ....................................................................................22
To Be Loved by Tania Velez ......................................................................................................23
Entelecheia (a Villanelle) by Marielis Rodriguez ...................................................................24
Fragments by Dr. Rachel Wifall ...............................................................................................25
Kalopsia by Marielis Rodriguez ...............................................................................................26
What is the Role of a Woman? by Mahreen Shahzadi ..........................................................28
For the Deceased Employees of Polypas by Lugo Alba .........................................................29
You by Tania Velez .....................................................................................................................30
What do you want to be? by Robert M. Donnelly ................................................................. 31
Bus Ride by Myah Renee ........................................................................................................... 32
Silence by Gina Nguyen ............................................................................................................. 332
But I Don’t Love Him by Rieyana Needham ..........................................................................34
I Feel Like Amy Winehouse by Joseph Prandy ...................................................................... 35
Fan FictionWith A Star to Steer By by Constance G.J. Wagner .......................................................37Head or Heart? by Dr. Rachel Wifall ............................................................................... 38Pagkawala by Athena Serrano .......................................................................................... 40Beauty Incarnate by J. August Quander ......................................................................... 42The Sorting by Elizabeth Demers ..................................................................................... 45
Artwork & PhotosBlurred Lines by Precious Braswell ........................................................................................48B Dub’s by Precious Braswell................................................................................................... 49Dream Machine by Precious Braswell .................................................................................... 50Bapples by Angelica Vasquez .................................................................................................. 51Cake and Fruits by Kimberly Jaramillo .................................................................................. 52Coffee in Spain by Kimberly Jaramillo ................................................................................... 53Filipino Carriage In The Jungle by Athena Serrano .............................................................. 54Filipino Farm by Athena Serrano ........................................................................................... 55Tree Collage by Kimberly Jaramillo ........................................................................................ 56Arctic Day by Dr. William Gutsch .......................................................................................... 57Train Track by Angelica Vasquez ........................................................................................... 58Reclining Buddha by Dr. William Gutsch .............................................................................. 59Rotaract of Saint Peter’s Universe by Alexander Daoud ................................................... 60Shutter Art by Alexander Daoud ........................................................................................... 61Ombre by Alexander Daoud ................................................................................................... 62
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Credits
Cover DesignKaren Estrada
Creative Design Angelica Vasquez
Graphic DesignAlexander Daoud Karen Estrada Samantha Felix Vanessa Gomez Kimberly Jaramillo Jennifer Peralta Eduardo Ramon Rachel Santos Villa Athena Serano Angelica Vasquez
ProductionKimberly Jaramillo Rachel Santos Villa Angelica Vasquez
Production ManagerRachel Santos Villa
Art AdvisorProfessor Trish Gianakis
Editor-in-ChiefKadira Johnson
Editorial StaffAmber Camacho Khawla Elharmouchi Sara Gonzalez Rieyana Needham Josemiguel Rodriguez Athena Serrano Mahreen Shahzadi Tania Velez
Editorial AdvisorDr. Rachel Wifall
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Stories Poems&
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Come, hold my hand. Let’s flee this dismal Earth
And place ourselves among heavenly spheres.
The usurped Sun bows; he can’t match your worth.
Your rays caress my face and dry my tears.
For that, on your head a halo I grace;
Or are you Jupiter with his red wrath?
To only you I show my cratered face
And may the three nymphs never cross my path.
Although to sink to your core allures me,
At orbit’s width you must hold me – I spin
About my axis, dazed, and Io’s sea
Of fiery geysers wears your patience thin.
If gravity chains us down, then where lies
Andromeda? Orion?
In your eyes.
The Second HeavenBy Sara Gonzalez ’20
Angelica Vasquez
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By Ilona MacNamara
Rac
hel J
oy S
anto
s Vill
a
Saved by volunteers The Loew’s Jersey Theatre Classic films survive.
54J o u r n a l S q u a r e
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She’s the path that leads me towards A trail of white roses Where the lions and lambs are friendsWhere love perpetuatesInto infinity and beyondWhere love is revealed in every light Where love is aliveAnd brighter than the sunWhere the stars radiate with lifeAnd eternity is imminent She guides me toward the truthWhere love truly lies She holds the keys of lightShe’s a luminous angel Sent down from heaven aboveAnd she entered my lifeLike a gentle doveShe reveals who I am With her immaculate presenceAs the heavens shower us with blessings
Jennifer Peralta
My Dearest LoveBy Jonathan R. Rodriguez ’20
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We are united by a bondThat is sealed by our loving GodA love that not even the darkest and malicious Snake can separateFor our love is a bond that is like a mustard seedThat has fallen on nurtured soil and has grown with nourishment Of love and care by God’s blessingThat love grewInto an enormous mustard tree That produced an infinite yield Of fruits and shelter for allThe living creatures of the landShe has a name And, when said, the trumpets of heaven produce a majestic symphony. Her name is light She is the light That helps me develop a clearVision of my lifeMy life’s direction Toward heaven. Amen.
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(The time is dusk in Tapachula, México. A pregnant, asylum-seeking mother and her firstborn, who is four years old, have fallen too ill. THE MOTHER and THE CHILD stay behind while other asylum-seekers march on. Some have offered help seeing the two sitting on the side of the road. And yet, THE MOTHER insists every time that they leave her. THE MOTHER holds THE CHILD on her lap. THE CHILD strikes up conversation).
THE CHILD— Mamá, what’s it like en el cielo?
THE MOTHER (wincing)— ¿Cómo?
THE CHILD (as excited as he can be in his illness)— ¡El cielo, mamá!
THE MOTHER (smiling)— Well, mi hijíto, I believe there’s a road to Heaven unlike any road. It’s of gold bricks, and there’s always water. A long river of (clears her throat) clean water stretches beside the road the whole way.
THE CHILD (tiredly)— Is it a long walk?
THE MOTHER— Somewhat, but it won’t leave you feeling tired.
THE CHILD— And when we get there…?
THE MOTHER— A gatekeeper stands before those wanting to go to Heaven. He looks real deep in their hearts, and—if they’re pure—the gate opens. Now, the gate itself is beautiful—unlike any gate you will ever see. It never rusts. This gate shines like a million stars.
THE CHILD— Is God the President?
THE MOTHER (laughing weakly)— God is the King. Pero, with all his might, he is the gentlest ruler you will ever know. He wants nothing more than to see his children.
By Lugo Alba, ’21
A Child Asks His Mother…
Rachel Joy Santos Villa
THE CHILD (sadly, hugging his mother)— But I’m your child, mamá…
THE CHILD cries. He feels death imminent.
THE MOTHER (coddling her son)— Señora, Santa Ana, Porque llora el niño, Por una manzana, Que se le ha perdido.
Ru-ru-ru-ya, Duérmase, niño, Duérmase, ya,
Señora, Santa Ana, Toca su jarana, Señor, San Joaquín, Toca su violín,
Ru-ru-ru-ya, Duérmase, niño, Duérmase, ya.
Este niño lindo se quiere dormir, Tiendele la cama en el toronjíl,
Ru-ru-ru-ya, Duérmase, niño, Duérmase, ya.
(Curtain falls. Curtain rises. The “caravan” by now long gone out of Tapachula, two Mexican soldiers drive their jeep through the
area and see the mother and the child lying on the roadside. The jeep stops. One of the soldiers jumps out and shines a flashlight on them. He turns off the flashlight. He understands).
THE SOLDIER IN THE JEEP— ¿Que pasó?
THE SOLDIER EXAMINING THE BODIES ON THE ROADSIDE (looking back at his comrade in the jeep)— Están caminando.
• FIN •
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By Nicholas Flores ’21
Angelica Vasquez
The moment that time startsYou no longer have control over your mindOver your decisionsYou become a victim to where your mind wanders toAlmost every moment you are awake at that timeYou think of your pastOf your futureOf what you wantAnd what you hadYou feel pain and a sense of enjoyment
And if you don’t
Reading this will make you 3 a.m. It is the only time you will be willingly honestTo what you force down
My chest squeezes as my heartbeat increases and I can hear it,Or maybe it’s the sound of my knee jerking against the desk, But I can feel it.It’s like a tornado crashing through your stomach; It’s the silence.
Kimbe
rly Ja
ram
illo
ANXIETYBy Tania Velez ’20
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I feel the pressure; The pressure is rising. Unable to breathe, unable to focus It is taking a hold of me. Why can’t I get my thoughts together? Why can’t I get be like her, normal?Always comparing myself to the next Batch of perfected sweetness Without realizing that I’m drowning in My own self-pity.
By Kadira Johnson, ‘19
Eduar
do R
amon
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To My Loving GrandfatherBy Mahreen Shahzadi ᾽19
I miss youI miss your smile
I miss your laughterI miss your love for politics and fishI miss your obsession for perfection
I miss your ambition to never give up or yieldAnd your determination
to stand up for your beliefsIf only time could go back Back to the summer days
When we would barbecue in the backyard,And teach you how to play cricket
Which I’ll admit now, you weren’t really good atOr the times where we would all gather around you in a circle
To hear your childhood storiesIf only I could go back in time nowI’ll know to cherish those moments
Because one day you’ll be gone And your memories will be all we have leftUnbeknown to most, that one day is today.
Karen Estrada
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Pablo Escobar’s HipposBy Michael Walonen
Christmas of ’85 I asked Santa for a hippopotamus – this wasn’t far-fetched to my mind, seeing as how we lived in Central Africa at the time.
Half a world away, Back in our erstwhile hemisphere,There lived a boy, child of farmer and teacher,Grown into man.
They say this man, open-eyed dreamer of the day,Raked in millions-upon-millions daily making magic powder traipse up the longitudinal lines of the globe – also that he made lots of folks disappear.
This boy-cum-man never lost his youthful fancy.He built himself a zoo stocked, among other things, with a pod of august, redoubtable hippos.
It’s the 21st century now and Pablo is dead,shot in the head when I was a freshman in high school –migrated again to the West.
But they say his hippos are thriving in the rivers of Antioquia,proximally distant in these Americas where the other large mammals were wiped out early in mankind’s continental encroachment.I can see them there in my mind’s eye, Resplendent river horses gliding lambent with mistIn the new day’s breaking dawn.
Karen Estrada
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My RoseBy Nicolas Flores ’21
Vanessa Gom
ez
You are my roseMy favorite type of flowerJust the sight of youGives me such a big smileThe smell that comes from youTakes me back to good memoriesBut as I go to pick you upI begin to bleed from all the thornsEach one that I am forced to pick out of my throbbing handStands for each lie you’ve ever toldAnd once I get through thatI remember how black your soul isJust like a black roseMy favorite type of flowerHow dangerous you areHow much pain you inflict on meBut it feels so good when I hold youI wonder if this is loveOr just my delusional mind.
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Lately my artistic vision has been enamored with the idea of the perfect still shot, A picture, Snapped so perfectly, So exquisitely, That the filter is not even necessary,
Thus the different poses, Thus the different angles,Thus the different styles of shots.
Yet I wonder why it is never the perfect picture I yearn for,With so many to choose from, Some loved by many, Rightfully gratified by likes and comments, And some that haven’t graced the eyes of those other than mine,
But on this night I realized that true reason my artistic vision is not fulfilled is that, The most perfect, The most brilliant, The most beautiful specimen I desire, Is not exhibited in my shots. How could I be so naive to think, That perfection could be achieved without perfection herself.
PhotographBy Joseph Prandy ’22
Kimberly Jaramillo
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So now, My new and true obsession is incorporating her perfection, Into something equally beautiful, Something so breathtaking, That no words are needed to express or describe the perfection depicted,
And here I lie fantasizing about the opportunity to snap her angles, To see the rays of light reflect off her already glowing and radiant skin, To capture the wholesome beauty and raw happiness of her smile, Since there nothing is more enticing than her, She is perfection in my eyes.
So to you it may seem like perfection is only a Click,Tap, And filter away,
But to me perfection is near,And she’s only a town over.
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I remember the hot globules of tears
that rolled down the bridge of my nose,
The comforting hand of you on my teres;
a searing burn, a heavy strain on my throes.
The heat of you suffocating my lungs interposed
because tears ran faster than gulps of air.
I wanted to recede into depths of cold;
the blanket of heat you bring I could not bear.
How you left my throat corded tight and shoaled
with the cries and slur of words untold—
you would not understand my despondent hum.
My body ached and my eyelids would wane,
but to sleep I could not succumb.
My mind still ran rampant with tears and pain
I could not drift into the false tranquility sleep sustains.
All due to the cruelty of chance and hope.
By Marielis Rodriguez ‘22
Sam
anth
a Fe
lix
20
Khawla Elharmouchi, ‘19
ou are like the unexpected chirping of birds on a cold winter day. It felt like it was not the right time for you to be here,building a nest in my heart. Taking
pieces of me and weaving them into a home, making a permanent mark somewhere I thought never would be truly touched. It was a strange time. I was evolving into someone who was learning to love herself through mistakes that turned into life lessons. I was taking pieces of my life and building my own nest. I took those mistakes and braided them into my hair. I tied in those lessons learned and made sure the foundation that I created for myself would not break, and if somehow it did, I was allowed to visit a river to shed my pain. How did I walk myself into a situation in which the birds chirped on a cold winter day? The chirping was persistent and undeniable. It was like I was sliding quickly down a flume, but it did not feel like rushing at all. It became an interlocking of people, an understanding of the construction constituting this blending. Two years have quickly gone by.
You are making my life way too enjoyable and I have grown to love so many things. I believed I was a soul impervious to the notion of love, when in reality, you have proven that love can be anything and everything. I stay up beside you at times watching the soft ebb of your chest rise and fall and your limbs flail about and somehow my anxiety is quelled like a deafening bong on a drum. It all seems silly with you. I grew to believe that life is irrevocably arbitrary, which to an extent, it is. But you gave it a new meaning and now, everything seems to glow when
I am around you. I used to be scared of the future. I was scared of the limitless and unbounded notion of things happening and at times I stifled my own dreams in fear of hoping too much of the world. Before you, I couldn’t express myself through spoken language. I was wound so tight within myself, my throat thick with words unsaid. I love the freedom I feel with you. Shackles within the mind are the most dangerous, and you have enabled a safe zone for me to cry, laugh, and even uncontrollably snort all ugly and stuff…. I want to live this life with you. I promise to continue to grow as a person. I promise to keep pushing you and supporting you.
Pinky swear. I love you. I will always love you.
Alexander D
aoud
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I knew you were my hero from the moment I can rememberYour swift style and determined attitude
You can capture attention with a quick smileI remember when I was young and being in your warm embrace
We would race each other in Liberty State Park and you would always let me think I’d wonWhenever you picked me up after school I was always excited to see you and proud to point
out that you were my dadThe nightmares I had at night were instantly gone with slow midnight drives in the backseat
with a pacifier in my mouthDaddy’s little girl is what I will always be
Even though I see you in a different light now and see your true colorsI still look for your comfort and your advice to get me out of trouble
Even though I never fully shown my appreciation nor do we say “I Love You” like we used toI still know I will always be Daddy’s little girl.
Kimberly Jaramillo
Daddy’s Little Girl By Kadira Johnson ’19
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It’s not hard yet it’s not simple;
Many can’t handle the love one gives.
It’s too much for them; It’s too fragile yet
everyone searches for it. It can only be found
when you’re lost; That’s the beauty of the
mystery.
Vanessa Gom
ez
To Be LovedBy Tania Velez ’20
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Angels are the paragon of virtueWith an unflawed and fully realized halo.
Sinful saints become Satan’s retinue;Their horns now vestigial circles hewed.
Blinded by heavenly light with halos aglow,Angels are the paragon of virtue
Who rely on God’s guidance—an ingenue.The aureoles like chains to their generalissimo,
Sinful saints become Satan’s retinueWhen jagged horns pierce God’s hands through
In obscure forms—to not encircle as they grow.Angels are the paragon of virtue,And prisoners of Plato’s cave in lieuOf their fallen brethren freed in throes.Sinful saints become Satan’s retinueWith sight restored and knowledge new,
Like Adam and Eve were once bestowed.Angels are the paragon of virtue.
Sinful saints become Satan’s retinue.
Alexander D
aoud
ENTELECHEIA (A Villanelle)
Alexander Daoud
By Marielis Rodriguez ’22
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Getting to know you,Learning the angles of your faceLearning how to see you,
The unfolding of your proportions, Your gaitThe way you laugh and chewAnd punctuate your sentences
Your gaze,The color of your eyes,Your favorite band
What you dreamed as a child,Who are the friends of your heart
Piecing together the sum of this new person,As if that were possible,And discovering what you mean to me
By Dr. Rachel Wifall Samantha Felix
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This is the blue flower, its petalsperiwinkle and frail, the brimstranslucent, this is the season of spring
with its velvet chestnut stemthat quivers in the wind, stamenthat curve towards the sunred-tinged, its leaves notched four on each side
No longer can it see its rootswhere it hears “Come, Come”from the withering foliage, patientand welcoming winter
This is the clover, leavesunited in threes, the veinsdiagonal and white, it will never be lucky
with its burnt umber stemthat reflects the sun’s rays, russetdeath corroding its edgesarrows run down its leaflets
By Marielis Rodriguez ‘22
Edua
rdo
Ram
on
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Now it is the fallen twigsthat scream “Die, Die”cushioned by clovers, bitterand shadowing light
This is the dandelion, its floretsfrayed and golden, the stamenhooked inward, awaiting summer change
with its spiked hunter green bladesdusted in milk, leavesreach out in thirdslobed, the teeth of a lion
flattened on its sidecrushed to death, a friendsurrounded in verdurescornful revenge
Clovers and flowersthrive, roots move overthinning leaves, trying to
breathe
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Jennifer Peralta
What is the role of a woman?a dutiful daughtera dutiful wifeor a dutiful motheralways yielding to her fatheralways submitting to her husbandalways giving in to her childrenHer life goes on and she’s compliant to everyone but never herselfuntil one day she’s notuntil one days she diesand they all mourn herthe father weeps for her the husband grieves for herand the children wail for herBut what right do they have to mourn herwhen they’re the ones who didn’t let her livewhen they’re the ones who always kept her shacklednever to be freenever to live just for herselfWhat right do they have to mourn herBecause for them after all,She was just a woman
What is the Role of a Woman?By Mahreen Shahzadi ’19
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By Lugo Alba ’21’
Laborer,What do you paint?
Is it money,Something more?
What do you paint?
Helper,What do you sculpt, tell me?
You tell me the future,That of your family,
And what else?
Friend,What supersedes these dreams,
“Nothing,” you tell me,That is, in value?
“Nothing.”
They seek you in the ashes,And you still shout—
“Nothing.” Your response persists, with more fury than the flames, “nothing.”
Never before has “nothing” meant everything.
Samantha Felix
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Jennifer Peralta
I would love to block you, Break up with you & hate you, But then I’ll be stuck realizing that Because of you I was able to do so much,Not because you made me,But the feelings & the attentions I was receiving Made me feel my best.
YouBy Tania Velez ’20
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BUSRIDEI can’t wrap my head around societal expectations.Ridiculous are the men and women of our nation.Women, wearing pants from their teensJust so men want to get in between.Legs that is. Yes legs.Women curving men so they will begDo you feel good my sister? Breaking egos of the misterThen again, are these even men?Relying on other men all because that one man left you at ten?Then again, that’s not all menSome still choose the streets to pretend Dear generation, I hate you allY’all are ready to be petty, kill, and cry every-time you fallAnnoying is an understatement You do nothing and want payment In this generation everyone can be replacedNo one is unique, what happened to the race?What’s the point of us all being the same?Why do we throw misfits in the flame?Are we intimidated?We weren’t made to be replicated!So the goals we see on Twitter and Instagram The goals that make their plan your plan doesn’t work.Stop forcing and playing victim when you end up hurtYou see there is no end to this end But then again these are society’s expectations.
By Myah Renee ’20
Samantha Felix
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XII’ ‘ ’ ‘ I ’ ‘ ’ ‘ II ’ ‘ ’ ‘ III ’ ‘ ’ ‘ IV ’ ‘ ’ ‘ V ’ ‘ ‘ ‘ VI ’ ‘ ’
‘ VII ’
‘ ’ ‘ V
III ’ ‘
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‘ X ’ ‘ ’ ‘ XI ’ ‘ ’ ‘
Sixty years is now the average number of years during which most college graduates work and then live their lives after work – 60 years!
Wow, that’s a long time. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to think about what you are going to do for the upcoming 525,600 hours of your life? How are you going to spend the 262,800 working hours, to financially provide for about another 262,800 hours of living comfortably in your life after working?
The sooner you can determine what you want to be and get started developing a career plan to be it, the greater your chances of success will be.
It’s a fact that most people do not have a life plan, a career plan, or a financial plan. Consequently, the majority of the population lives from week-to-week, collecting a paycheck from a job that is typically not personally fulfilling, not financially secure, and which does not allow for saving for a comfortable life for them in retirement, after working for about 30 years.
Advances in technology are now automating many jobs out of existence, thus reducing a large swath of jobs historically performed by people. Any job that requires a repetitive series of tasks by a human will probably be replaced in the coming years by a robot, algorithm, or artificial intelligence.
So, as you can see, it behooves you to seriously determine your unique skill set and persona so that you can invest the 262,800 hours that you have available over the next 30 years into doing what you do best and enjoy the most, so that you can live comfortably in the remaining 262,800 hours you will have in your life after work.
Remember…Nobody plans to fail. They just fail to plan.
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Kimberly Jaramillo
What do you want to be?By Professor Robert Donnelly
Vanessa Gomez
People say communication is key, and they’re right. Words can speak volumes. But when you can’t find the right words to fit your lingering thoughts, silence is your best friend. It is there to accompany you in a lonely room of people where faces and names are décor on walls and a conversation is just small talk. I crave for the way silence allows me to feel the wind brushing my sleeves. I crave for the
way silence allows me to hear unspoken words and heartbeats. Your voice can reach the horizons, but silence can reach unseen depths of the
ocean’s water. And that’s why I hate silence too. Because your silence can drown me with words I wish to hear. Their density is cratered into our eyes that could meet once and last a lifetime. It haunts me at night when unanswered questions creep into the
pillow where my head lies. I bleed faith, but I can’t tell you how much of it is left in me until I bleed dry.
You would think that a dictionary of words is more than enough, but the number of words can’t compare to the mass of what we feel.
Silence has a magical way of being loud; it’s a language within itself. It can speak a thousand words, yet make no sound.
By Gina Nguyen ’19
Vanessa Gomez 33
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But I Don’t Love Him By Rieyana Needham ᾽21
He talks to me as if I’m his long lost lover,But I don’t love him.
Despite my efforts he comes back for more,Even though I have nothing to give him.
He tells me, “teach me how to swim in your ocean,” “I’m willing to drown.”
“For you, I’ll go as deep as I can.”But I don’t love him.
He could swim out to sea 1000 times andLook out at the lighthouse for my distant figure.
But I won’t be there, and deep down he knows,Because I don’t love him,
Yet I wish I could.
Karen Estrada
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This is the mind of Amy WinehouseA brain hollowed and mined outSadly all her pain is mine nowAnd all my complaints are sighed outThis is the elephant in the room Talking about leaving his spawn in a womb Then leaving the baby to its doomThis is a snake inside a minefieldI slither around my problems, and wonder if my mind is mine stillToo bad I keep my mind sealed I’m in a orchard full of hoarders Whose issues slip over each other’s borders And slaughter any sense of family and niceness Cuz these forbidden fruits are ripe with vices And they serve as the perfect devicesTo destroy any mind only living for the things that entice themIt blinds them.
By Joseph Prandy ’22
Edua
rdo
Ram
on
I Feel Like Amy Winehouse
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Fan Fiction
The Pavan literary magazine challenged the university community to compose one shots of fan fiction, kept to a 500- word maximum. “One shots” are single-chapter works of prose featuring characters from a particular game, book, film, or television series.
For a chance to see your work in next year’s issue of The Pavan, email [email protected].
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Star Trek: Voyager Fan FictionBy Constance G.J. Wagner
The winds of space blow full and fair for those who know how to sail them. Bright winds and fresh. No starship needed. Only the skill and raw desire to spread yourself upon the currents and fly to anywhere and anywhen.
I am Kes – and I fly among the stars and the anywhen in between. I have known much love in many forms and seen much beauty, all of it wordless wonder to those who’ve yet to sail upon a star’s sweet breeze, a sun’s great gust.
It is a journey into the heart of everything – and out again. “For what purpose?” you may ask. And I answer, “None.” The journey is a thing in itself. Its own beginning. Its own end.
“Is it lonely?” you may ask. And I answer, “Never.” For I can flow through the fabric of anyone I’ve ever loved, even fling forward and see them safe home. Or sail backward to where it all began… and do more than remember. Yes, even live it all again!
And always, always, there is the glory of creation, where I am not alone. No solitary traveler upon the universal sea. Others sail with me in the great galactic whirlwind. Minds and lights and loves – so many souls who have found a way to go sailing!
Those with a star to steer by navigate the cosmos, fuel the universe with our energy, with our dreams. Blending and soaring – star-skipping! – we become truly ourselves – yet fuller, richer, deeper. We hear – and are – the fabled music of the spheres. Perfect harmony. Anywhere. Anywhen.
I am Kes. Still.
And my gift to you is Love.
The End
Athena S
erran
o
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When Elizabeth Bennet refused the hand of her odious cousin Mr. Collins,
her mother swore that she would never see her daughter again, even though she was
fully aware of the man’s dim intellect, his original affections for her eldest daughter
Jane, and his condescending proposal to help his poor cousins by marrying one of
them. Thankfully, Mr. Bennet countered his wife, claiming that he would never see
Lizzie again if she accepted her cousin’s offer. True, Mr. Collins was set to inherit their
home of Longbourn, there being no male heir in the Bennet line; however, Mr. Bennet
respected his daughter’s keen mind and free spirit and knew she’d rather be poor than
miserable after his own inevitable passing.
When she learned only three days later that her dear friend Charlotte Lucas
had encouraged Mr. Collins to transfer his affections from Elizabeth onto none other
than herself, and that the two were already engaged to marry, Lizzie was amazed.
“I am not romantic, you know; I never was,” Charlotte explained. “I ask only
for a comfortable home.” These were words which Mrs. Bennet yearned to hear from
one of her own daughters.
While Lizzie sincerely wished her friend well, she was not ignorant to the fact
that Charlotte would soon become family, but on decidedly unequal footing. Was
Charlotte’s encouragement and acceptance of Mr. Collins a sort of revenge on Lizzie
and her sister Jane, who were both considered more beautiful and charming than she?
No one ever truly knows what notions and passions lurk in the minds and hearts of
Head or Heart?
Alexander D
aoud
AN FICTION BASED ON JANE AUSTEN’S PRIDE AND PREJUDICEBY DR. RACHEL WIFALL
supposed friends. In the past, Charlotte had encouraged Jane’s affection for Mr. Bingley
and had noticed Mr. Darcy’s regard for Lizzie, even when her attentions were focused
instead on his rival Mr. Wickham. Did Charlotte have her friends’ best interests at
heart, encouraging them to follow their affections…or had she wanted to keep them
away from Mr. Collins all along? At this point, Lizzie worried whether Jane and Bingley
would ever be united and, as for herself, she was confused: should she believe in the
worthiness of either George Wickham or Fitzwilliam Darcy? Perhaps a young woman
in her position should not wait for her prince to come, but instead look toward her own
secure establishment.
The next time Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn, he brought Charlotte on his arm.
“May I present to you my future bride, and the originator of my deep felicity?” Lizzie
curtsied awkwardly. Charlotte smiled, but not with her accustomed warmth. As the new
couple entered the drawing room, they circled the space and commented on the charm-
ing settee, the window treatments, the ancestral portrait above the mantelpiece. Looking
askance, Charlotte absentmindedly ran her fingers along the gilded frame and Lizzie
could have sworn that she spied a crooked and deliberate smile.
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Hetalia: Axis Powers Fan FictionBy Athena Serrano ’21
This is a fan fiction of Hetalia: Axis Powers, an ongoing Japanese webcomic series depicting human personifications of real-life nations, regions, and micronations, with their personalities reflecting the positive and negative cultural stereotypes and the history of their lands. This story is the author’s interpretation of the personification of the Philippines, who is not yet an official character in the series. However, official characters such as Spain, America, and Japan will be mentioned.
Maria de la Cruz stood in front of Santo Niño Basilica in Cebu. There was no Mass happening at the time, but she had the urge to go inside.
She was surprised to find the church empty, for which she was grateful. It was known to be a popular place for tourists and pilgrims. There was an exquisitely gilded altar in the far back of the basilica, holding small statues of saints. Maria passed by the pews and walked to the other side of the basilica.
The church was known to hold a historical artifact, which is what named the basilica in the first place. Standing in front of the gated shrine that protected it, Maria stared at the Santo Niño statue. The one that Ferdinand Magellan had given to her people. She closed her eyes and wept.
There was a time she was not known as Maria de la Cruz. A time where she was not known as the Republika ng Pilipinas. Or the Philippines, as Alfred and the English-speaking nations would call her. For hundreds of years, her past life before the white men arrived was suppressed.
Ever since her memories of her days as Tondo began returning at the rise of the Philippine Revolution two centuries ago, she had avoided visiting Santo Niño. It symbolized the loss of her old life. A life in which she simply personified the many barangays, datus, rajahs, sultanates, and tribes living in harmony, honoring her grandmother Austronesia’s traditions.
Athena Serrano
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Three nations had invaded her, yet they were the three she cared for the most. Papa Espanya. Kuya Amerika. Ang dating kaibigan ay naging kaaway Hapon.
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Beauty IncarnateFan fiction based on Homer’s The IliadBy J. August Quander (Jonathan A. Brantley)
SPARTA, THE ACHAEAN KINGDOMS (ANCIENT GREECE), 13TH CENTURY BCE
This was the day; the palace had been at a standstill for weeks. King Tyndareus and his wife Queen Leda had been blessed with quadruplets, their twin sons Kastor and Polydeukes were betrothed to a set of Messenian princesses and Helene’s own sister Klytemnestra married the young King Agamemnon of Mycenae. They sent out his heralds across the kingdoms with the news that his daughter Helene would finally be allowed to marry. Leda would not have her daughter marry just any prince or pauper. Her suit-ors would have to fight to marry Helene and inherit the Spartan throne. Overnight it seemed the city was filled to the brim with men, mighty kings, princes and lesser sons of kings, wealthy lords, and mighty warlords, each carrying their best finery to display before the king and queen, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Helene. “I heard she is golden, dazzling like the sun,” one of the suitors was overheard saying. “Her eyes twinkle like the stars in the sky, to look upon her face is to see beauty incarnate.” But Helene detested sycophancy; the same men who would make such lofty pledges of un-dying love for her would be the same to take a concubine or royal mistress when her back was turned. But men were weeded out easily; there was a marriage contest. The suitors participated in a week-long competition of boxing, wrestling, discus throwing, and horse racing to make the the final rounds. Out of the hundreds who arrived, and on the seventh day, only forty remained. Helene, Klytemnestra, and their cousin Penelope watched the competition from the high grounds of the stadium. They remained veiled in public, so as not to distract the men. Now the time had come for the men to lay eyes on Helene. Her mother had been tireless in her daughter’s beauty regimens. Her mother’s instructions were clear: she would be naked while a mixture of oil and fresh honey was massaged onto her body. The palace slaves and servants drew her a hot bath filled with dried flowers and herbs. They then exfoliated her body with sea salts and olive oil.
Angelica Vasquez Helene rather felt like an animal being prepared to be roasted. Klytemnestra looked at her enviously; this amount of attention had never been placed on her for her wedding. “Why does Helene get to be treated like the golden child? You and father never fussed over me like this,” Klytemnestra asked. Queen Leda looked at her daughter through her mirror’s reflection, “Because my sweet daughter, we did not have the chance to. We caught you one morning with Agamemnon in the palace grain pantry. Had you father not been more understanding, your husband would have tied him to a tree in the forests for the lions and leopards.” Leda deftly placed kohl around Helene’s eyes, “Never forget that we are Laconian women. We are the ideal that every man dreams of.” She
pinched Helene’s cheeks to bring out a rosy complexion. “Do not sell yourself short; being queen matters.” Leda snapped her fingers, Penelope rushed to get the mulberry lip paint. Leda was truly an artist; she ensured each of the royal women looked the very image of princesses. She had the servants decorate them with heavy gold jewelry, braided red poppies into Klyemnestra’s diadem, and a scarf around Penelope’s arms. Their dresses were a rich onyx color, embel-lished with gold snakes and trim. Leda wore a similar dress, only hers was a deep purple to signify her as queen. A servant handed Leda her gilded fan which she used to direct the order of procession. “After your father and I have entered the throne room, Helene will be first, followed by Klytemnestra and Penelope behind her, then my darling sons’ wives, Phoebe and Hilaeira. Remember to be dazzling.” As Helene walked into the throne room, everything fell silent. She could feel hundreds of eyes leering at her. These men, kings, princes, and lords traveled from throughout the Achaeans for their chance to win Helene and the gilded throne that accompanied her. Helene was not so sure what the men desired more, her maidenhead or her kingdom. There was Achilles, said to the greatest man of his generation; he was handsome, if not pompous.
44 45
Her brother-in-law Agamemnon was there with his broth-er, Menelaus. They had both volunteered to save her when Theseus had abducted her. Others were just a sea of faces, some men old enough to be her grandfathers, others scarcely thirteen years old. Helene made her way in front of her parents’ thrones. Each man fully bowed in front of her, like the Egyptians do for their king. They presented her with amazing gifts of gold and ivory from Kush and Kemet, precious stones and jewelry from the Hittites, fine silks and footwear. Each man pledged his life for hers. “Prove it then,” a voice called from the end of the procession. It was that wily Odysseus, the newly-crowned king of Ithaca. What was he thinking? “Great King Tynda-reus, we are a room full of great men who would go to the underworld and fight Hades himself for your daughter’s hand. But there is also treachery afoot; who is to say that an unhappy suitor will not try to take the princess for himself? I suggest we have a treaty, that we will all respect whoever is chosen as Helene’s husband. And to defend her against any man who would try to take her.” King Tyndareus thought this over and nodded in agreement, but a cunning smile came upon his face. “On the condition that my daughter chooses her husband.” Helene’s heart felt like it had stopped beating. She had not planned for this. She saw the men nod their heads in agreement. “What say you, daughter?” Do not overthink this, say the first name that pops into your head. “Mene-laus.” Helene outstretched her hand to his. “I choose Menelaus.” There were gasps, yells of anger, and there stood Menelaus in a complete state of shock. Helene placed the crown of victory upon his auburn locks. This would be the marriage of the cen-tury; people will remember how Helene and Menelaus shared a love that was envied by the gods themselves.
THE END
Rachel Joy Santos Villa
Harry Potter Fan FictionBy Elizabeth Demers ’20
I first met Lily Evans at the park with her sister. She slid down the slide and said, “Hey, what’s your name? I’m Lily.”
Her cheerful nature and outgoing personality were a stark contrast to her sister Petunia’s dour demeanor. We quickly became friends and met up at the park every day after school. I showed her Lumos and other introductory spells, but she learned faster than I could teach. Pretty soon, we were on our way to Platform 9¾. I was so excited. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and I were going to the most prestigious wizardry school.
After boarding the Hogwarts Express, I spilled pumpkin juice all over my new robes. Lily just laughed but sat next to me anyway. I was relieved, but it was short lived. As students were called up, Lily and I stood next to each other, holding hands. They called my name first. In my stained robes, pulse pounding, and eternally messy hair, I felt like a slob, and now everyone’s eyes were on me.
“Hmm... surreptitious, quick wit and... clever... SLYTHERIN!” the Sorting Hat roared.
With wobbly legs, I made my way down the dais and quickly towards the green table cheering for me. Collapsing into the nearest seat, I quickly remembered Lily and turned around just in time to hear an unmistakable “Gryffindor!” echo across the hall. My heart dropped like a stone. Elated, she skipped to her new house, her enthusiasm and charisma already making her friends within Gryffindor.
Of course, we still kept in touch, but she didn’t seem to need me in her life as much as I needed her in mine.
Athena Serrano
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2019 The Pavan The Literary Magazine of Saint Peter’s University
2019
