Eye Contact

The Literary and Art Magazine of Seton Hill University

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 "The past beats inside
me like a second heart."
– John Banville
 Eye Contact
Vintage
Volume 31 • Issue 2 • Spring 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Eye Contact. After publication of this issue, all

rights revert to the original artists. Eye Contact is published in the
fall and spring semesters by Seton Hill University students. The ideas
herein are not necessarily those of the university or the student body.
Printed by Seton Hill University Xerox Copy Center.
 Staff
Editors-in-Chief
Madeleine Robbins
Madison Wilson Cover Art
Eye Can't See by Bianca Socci
Art Editor
Devina Colón Web Editor
Marisa Valotta
Literary Editor
Alexandra Gipson Business Manager
Zachery Odenthal
Layout Editor
Bianca Socci Staff
Morgan Bergman
Assistant Layout Editor Tasha Brownfield
Rebecca Scassellati Jacob Meager
Kemaura Vance
PR Manager
Evan Vissat

Faculty Advisory
Dr. Michael Arnzen

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 Contents
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Destined to Return . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
The Most Vintage of Days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
To Wine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Chamber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
A Woman's Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Woman by the River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Slave Gravesite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Peace in Pieces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
On Overusing Greek Mythology as Metaphor . . . . . . . 15
Unlucky Seven . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
What I Discovered in the Attic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Permanence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Ballet Movement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Out of Tune . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
The Factory Boy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Court Painter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
The Virginian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Vintage Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Virulent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Worms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Insert Eye Pun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Senior Page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Patrons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
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 Foreword
I would like to say that this semester’s theme applied smoothly, lovely and neat,
like a classic floral wallpaper. At staff meetings, we might have smiled over tea,
confident that our magazine’s quality would continue to increase. In reality, we
had quite a bit of uneasiness about what “vintage” means, but I think that this issue
celebrates the concept and all that it encompasses.
As usual, our submitters did a great deal of artistic work, from which we have
created an art piece of our own. On behalf of the staff, I thank the artists and
writers who submitted their work and our patrons for their support. Thank you to
our dedicated staff – my co-editor in chief, Madison; Ali and Devina, Bianca and
Rebecca, Zach, Evan and Marisa, and all staff members – whose commitment to
vision and willingness to try new things keeps our magazine fresh and lively. Thank
you especially to Dr. Arnzen, for trustworthy guidance.
The vintage theme permits an enchanting fascination with the past, and although
“vintage” can invite mere nostalgia, I hope that the pieces in this small collection
encourage readers to celebrate the past and leave something beautiful for artists in
the future.
Madeleine Robbins
For the Spring 2018 issue of Eye Contact, we selected a theme that would pair
with Seton Hill’s Centennial Year Celebration. Although our magazine has not been
present for all of these past 100 years, our sentiment of creativity and originality is at
the heart of Seton Hill’s educational mission. We seek to honor and appreciate our
university and our predecessors through this theme selection. Through “Vintage,”
we enjoy the warmth of nostalgia, celebrate our past, and revel in our current
progress and progresses yet to come.
I would be remiss to not acknowledge the brilliant minds who make our art
possible. Thank you to our staff for your devotion to cultivating our magazine.
Thank you to Dr. Arnzen for your humor, experience, and intellect. Thank you to
Maddie Robbins, my co Editor-in-Chief, for guiding me on my creative journey.
You have helped this magazine beyond measure, and I know that, after you graduate
from these halls, you will continue to teach others as you have me. Thank you to our
patrons for valuing and believing in the arts. Finally, thank you to our contributors
and readers. You are the essence of this magazine, past and present, and allow our
art to survive and thrive.
Madison Wilson
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 Destined to Return Victoria Hrach

stagnant air holds the musty scent

of books whose pages have long been painted
in the yellow of old age
vanilla-tinged lignin lingering
throughout the empty halls

a while ago
decades ago, years ago, even –
they weren’t so empty
the sound of footsteps against their hard wood a steady rumble
shoulders bumping and doors creaking
secrets borne by every drop of ink across each inch of paper

smooth, wrinkled, large, small

sought out like prize money to fill wallets

like food with the nutrients needed to sustain life –
or maybe more like dollar bills spilling out of wallets,
those extra slices of bread left over in a basket

empty is not yet gone, though,

as slender blades of moonlight pierce through the blinds,
highlighting creased spines and bent pages amidst dust
like dandelion seeds or pillow stuffing,
illuminating the place to which one day we will return

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 The Most Vintage
of Days David von Schlichten

Rain pounded on the roof.

We sat facing each other, joined our wrinkled hands across the
table. We wore matching bracelets of purple beads. Your silver hair
framed your sweet, creased face and dark, glistening eyes.
“This rain reminds me of that glorious day,” you whispered.
“I relive it over and over,” I whispered back. “Our wild vineyard,
our scandalous sanctuary.”
“The smell of the grapes.”
“The music of the rain. Much softer than today.”
“Lying heartbeat to heartbeat.”
“Skin to skin.”
“The most vintage of days.”
“Like the finest of wines.”
“Eternally intoxicating.”
“Breathlessly holy.”
I leapt up, kissed you on the mouth. Long. Warm.
You pulled away. “Where’s your husband?”
“Probably passed out drunk somewhere.”
Your eyes blazed. “When the rain stops, let’s run away.”
O, I should have said yes.
But I thought I couldn’t leave my sons. True, they were adults, but
I was still their mother, their one merciful parent. And their wives had
become daughters to me.

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 And I was unable to envision how two old women could survive on
their own. My imagination was so timid then.
The door flew open. My husband rushed in with our three sons.
“No stowaways!” he thundered.
I stood in front of you. “She’s just one person, Noah!”
“Only our family and the animals. Everyone else is wicked.
Especially her, this woman who lies with other women like a man. I
must throw her overboard!”
My husband and Ham grabbed you. Shem and Japheth held me
down, even as I cursed and punched and bit.
As they carried you away, you screamed my name.

Many months later, as we finally stand on dry ground and everyone

stares skyward, I slip away. Leave them all.
I refuse to look at the bow.
Refuse to worship.
I will live alone or gladly die.
Do penance every day.
With no one to absolve me.

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 To Wine Stephanie Malley

“Wine is bottled poetry.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

Location, certainly, is key, from soil

To sunlight, rainfall to humidity.
Strong stock, of course (weak vine, weak wine). And toil—
Relentless pruning—shear monotony!—
A must, the clusters harvested by hand.
Equipment matters. Cleanliness. Some skill;
More luck. The finest wine cannot be planned,
Fermenting in the dark, a mystery still
When bottled. Length of aging, vintage years,
Like labels, merely hint. By chance, by choice,
You fill your glass: distinctions disappear:
All nature, nurture, science, art one voice
And you a poet, though you never write
A word and simply sit and drink all night.

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Chamber Madison Wilson
watercolor on book page

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 A Woman's Day Julia Natalia

1958
Wake up. Tea, Honey.
Breakfast. Pancakes, Sausage, Eggs.
His key on the hook.

1978
Wake up. Fruit Water.
The craft of Good Housekeeping.
Curtains, Pillows, Hats.

1998
Wake up. Coffee, Black.
Take kids to practice on time.
Try new recipes.

2018
Wake up. Iced Coffee.
Out the door and off to work.
Empowered self-love.

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Woman by the River
MaKenzie Mueller
colored pencil

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 Slave Gravesite Joe Carter
photography

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 Peace in Pieces Megan Smoulder

Jailed between trees, record player’s

teal Volkswagen bus
immovable
after cement blocks
replaced wheels.
Fused with foliage,
amber grass ascends,
grasps windows
where Bob Dylan’s
voice wove with laughter,
strums on guitar, and grey wisps
mingling with azure sky.
Jimi Hendrix sang his banner
when a flag first stood on the
moon,
now some kneel
during anthems
as thousands recline
on couches,
staring as believers protest
the same battles
M.L.K. sacrificed
his life to.
ceaseless song,
no official will flip.
An expanding chasm
with one link–
a frayed
rope bridge.
No builders
or tightrope walkers
embrace challenge.
Blood splatters classrooms,
4 dead at Kent State,
killed by protectors;
17 dead in Parkland,
AR-15s in backpacks.
Teachers the new soldiers
killed in line of duty.
The bus still stands
speckled in peace signs,
crimson with rust.

A nonviolent
savage rivalry
between two zoo animals,

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 Centuries Colleen Malley
body paint, make-up

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 On Overusing Greek
Mythology as Metaphor Colleen Malley

My sister bought a pomegranate yesterday, and I think we all know how this story goes;
I eat the seeds, doom the world to six months of winter, and my family goes out to
dinner to a nice little place called hell. Well, it doesn’t have to be hell – you could call it
white middle class suburbia and that’s pretty much the same thing, right?

(Except, in this version, I don’t turn anyone to stone, but I still can’t meet their eyes,
carve your vision from my shoulder and pretend I’m alive)

Grow some wings and head off the sun, listen to cautions, but always with a grain of salt
and I have to ask, when it comes down to it – will I turn to softness or to savagery?

(Cut off my head and two hearts will grow in its place – cut out my heart and my head
will finally shut up)

These days they’re finding magic in high school parking lots and endless strips of
tarmac where kids create their own gods to believe in, and the gods continue to create
their own worst enemies.

(Fuck it, man, chain me to the rock, eat my liver out for all I care, so long as it means
I’ve actually done something important enough to be punished for)

I think what I’m getting at here is that I am not the hero of this story and my monsters
do not come from the center of the earth but from somewhere hard beneath my
sternum. That holding up the sky and rolling boulders up hills is not something to leave
your day job for. That sometimes family can drive you down to hell.

(So yes, I eat the pomegranate, yes, I doom the world to darkness and get carried away,
but does anybody bother asking why I was so hungry in the first place? Maybe it tasted
sweet.

Maybe I was under a spell. Or maybe, I knew the consequences, and just wanted to be
anywhere else but here)

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 Unlucky Seven

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 Andrew Fecik
woodblock print

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 What I Discovered
in the Attic Julia Natalia

I climb up through the narrow attic steps. A glimmer of light creeps

though the window, shining on what appears to be an old record
player. Once I get closer, what I’m looking at becomes clearer. Old
albums are stacked up against a shelf overstuffed with books. So
many of the greats appear in front of me – Steinbeck, Hemingway,
Bowie, Dylan and more. I can barely contain my excitement. I attack
the shelves, holding a record in my left and a thick novel in my right. I
breathe in and exhale with all of my might. The dust sparkles as it fades
away in the light. I find an outlet and plug in the record player – it still
works. I sit up there for what seems like hours, hearing my favorite
songs and reading my favorite words. I can barely breathe. I reach the
last page of the chapter and wait for the song to end. Before I realize it,
my eyes are bloodshot. I’m crying. I feel elated. I put the albums away
for another day, but I take my book with me. As I climb down the attic,
my mother hears my sniffles. She asks me what is wrong. “You hate
reading,” she comments, seeing the book in my hand. I remark that I
am just happy and overcome with emotion. She gives me a look that
only mothers can, telling me that I have gotten it all wrong. I look at
her, puzzled, as I wipe away tears. This is the day I learn that I am just
allergic to dust.

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 Permanence Victoria Hrach

A lush voice lingering over gauzy melodies

of keys and strings,
the fraying nylon at the seam
of a faded yellow backpack,
a swift streak of color across plump lips –
the memory lasts forever,
and with it, the images.

A cotton sundress draped over shapely legs,

bare feet poking out from its bottom –

it’s getting cold outside,

but not too cold,
not just yet,

and as those slender fingers dance across the piano,

notes echoing around the empty room,
she wonders how it’ll ever be too cold
for this.

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 Ballet Movement Sonny Bahe
film on fiber base paper

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 Out of Tune Alexandra Gipson

The once-grand piano sits in the garage, amidst storage boxes, junk,
and other forgotten relics. On the piece of wood directly above the keys
the name of its creator is printed in black. Now almost illegible, its clarity
fades like a poorly-done tattoo. Neglected by humans, dust covers it,
acting like a thin, wool blanket that provides warmth during cold winter
days and nights. Mice that have found their way into the garage have
gnawed on it to dull their teeth, adding to the ever-growing inventory
of scratches and dents on its wooden body. Spiders have adopted it as a
home, their webs stretching from the back corner of the instrument to
the front leg of the stool. But even those are old and wispy, remnants of
what once was and might never be again.
It longs to breathe its music into the surrounding air once again, to
return to its former owners who would fill a room with its melodies and
harmonies. Calloused fingers would glide with elegance across ivory and
ebony keys, soft and smooth like porcelain. Now they are chipped like
plates of fine China, and too rough a stroke would slice open the skin
of fingertips. A mouth missing teeth, the instrument is embarrassed to
open its mouth, to expose the gaps in its once-perfect smile. The keys,
no longer the polished, untouched white of their youth, are dull and grey
at the top, like roots of human hair losing color with age. Miraculously,
only one is permanently out of tune, past the point of being fixed. If you
attempt to play a song, you might close your eyes and forget the world as
the music floats around and through you. That is, until you would press
the broken key. Your eyes would then open and you would cringe, like
cold ice cream just struck a sensitive tooth. The dream-like moments of
bliss, of peace, are interrupted and over. You might then be left with the
reminder that not everything is perfect, that everything is subject to time
and will someday deteriorate.

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 The Factory Boy Rebecca Scassellati

Every Friday when the grubby

envelopes were parceled out she shoved
the meager wad down tattered
stockings pressed against her inner thigh
and then across the cobblestones
her footsteps clopped like engines
plunking off a belt because those boots
outweighed their harlequin
at least by half a pound.

At night the boots would lay deserted

by the broken Wurlitzer and tangled
ringlets would cascade as the asbestos
curtain rose and she would catch the pennies
dead men spiraled at her through the smoke.

It had rained today.

Clammy soot on rouge on liar.

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Court Painter Rebecca Scassellati
charcoal, colored digitally

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 The Virginian
Jacob Meager
etching

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 Vintage Man Madison Wilson

You were my vintage man

Old Camaro, ride or die
A menthol perched on your lip
And vinyl records piled high

Honey whiskey love, it bit

You said I should drink it straight
To drown your backseat deceit
When your Camaro’s out late

You danced my accusations

With swiftness of Fred Astaire
Your swing dance left me steaming
Cool, poisoned smoke filled my air

But this new era’s changing

As sisters, we march goodbye
Time is up, Mr. Johnson
Your records are piling high

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 Virulent Evan Vissat
digital photography

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 Worms Matthew Boyer

The ground was slick for such a beautiful day

Man and woman coming together to stay
The nephews got restless and the woman’s brother took them outside
The two eldest spoke, as the youngest chased worms

Worms that came to the sidewalk during the rain

Worms that the uncle told the boys could grow again once slain
Worms will remain

The sun came out and the worms went away

Years pass, and the brother went away
Months pass, and the uncle went away
But the worms remain

All that’s left of the three

The youngest now walks alone in the rain
Swapping one for another
Worms are all that remain

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 Insert Eye PunBianca Socci
digital collage

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 At Clanmacnoise Madeleine Robbins

Off the highway past the bog,

brown sandstone walls, green with Congratulations to our
moss  May 2018 graduate. Maddie
joined Eye Contact as a
and dotted with purple flowers,
freshman staff member and
stand watchful and vigilant  later worked as art editor,
like rugged ascetic monks  prose editor and finally, co-
at midday prayer.  editor-in-chief. Her poem “At
Down the road, buses line up Clanmacnoise” was created
outside a gift shop where tourists for this themed issue.
cower from the rain. 
The nearby River Shannon, steady 
and unhurried, makes its way
from Cavan to the Atlantic. 
The river flows and wind ripples
the long grass - a woman laughs
and a cell phone rings. 
Across the churchyard 
stands the crumbling cathedral 
whose walls open to the sky,
misty near the end of May. 

With a cap of yellowed, brittle lace,

enter beneath the whispering arch
as it echoes the voices of centuries,
“bless me, Father,” 
into beauty ever ancient, 
ever new. 

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 Contributors
Sonny Bahe
is a third-year computer science major who aspires to be a
cinematographer.

Matthew Boyer
is a junior in the creative writing program at the University of
Pittsburgh at Greensburg, originally from Shanksville, PA.

Joe Carter
is a junior at California University of Pennsylvania with a major
in studio art with a concentration in ceramics, and a minor in
environmental studies.

Andrew Fecik
is a visual arts and ceramics teacher at BVAHS and a mixed media
sculptor/illustrator, making personal art with figures and imaginary
creatures and using found objects such as rusty metal, cactus pieces,
plastic, or whatever else he is inspired by.

Alexandra Gipson
is a writer and poet who enjoys petting dogs and drinking coffee.

Victoria Hrach
is a biology major with a Spanish minor and a member of the SHU
Honors Program.

Colleen Malley
is a junior theatre performance major with a penchant for gluing
sparkly things to her face and playing with words.

Stephanie Malley
a SHU parent, is not a wine drinker, but she does enjoy writing poems
about poetry and couldn’t resist the R.L. Stevenson quote (though she
did resist titling the poem “Rhyme in a Bottle”).
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Jacob Meager
is an art education student with interests expanding into traveling,
creative writing, and the fine arts.

MaKenzie Mueller
is a student at Belle Vernon Area High School, exploring a range of art
styles and/or media. 

Julia Natalia
is a junior English literature major who is passionate about social
justice, the human spirit, and avocados.
Rebecca Scassellati
steals art from trash cans and can play the ukulele while walking her cat.

Megan Smoulder
is a junior creative writing major with a secondary teaching certificate
at Seton Hill University.

Bianca Socci
will attend the function if it means free pizza.

Evan Vissat
makes art, writes poetry, and talks too much.

David von Schlichten

is an assistant professor of religious studies at Seton Hill, the
coordinator of the Gender and Women’s Studies Program, and a
student in the MFA program in Writing Popular Fiction.

Madison Wilson
is a psychology, sociology, and gender studies student at Seton Hill
University.

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 Patrons
Daniel Casebeer
Judith Reyna
Christine Cusick
Beth Runquist
Dana Elmendorf
David von Schlichten
Dennis Jerz
Charmaine Strong
Jen Jones
Tamara Swank
Karissa Kilgore
Maureen Vissat Kochanek
Corey Niles
C.T. Wansor
Laura Patterson
Emily Wierszewski
Kim Pennesi

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 Look to our website for
information about the
Fall 2018 issue.

blogs.setonhill.edu/eyecontact

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 Indiscreet
Public
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Statements