Sei sulla pagina 1di 36

The Literary and Art Magazine

of Seton Hill University

Eye Contact
Order & Chaos
" all disorder
a secret order."
Carl Jung
Eye Contact
Volume 31 Issue 1 Fall 2017

Copyright 2017 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.
Madeleine Robbins
Madison Wilson Cover Art
Fallen by Bianca Socci
Art Editor
Devina Colon Web Editor
Marisa Valotta
Literary Editor
Alexandra Gipson Business Manager
Zachery Odenthal
Layout Editor
Bianca Socci Staff
Jennifer Bergman
Assistant Layout Editor Morgan Bergman
Rebecca Scassellati Tasha Brownfield
Sadye Eisenhauer
Chynna El Ayazra
PR Manager Jacob Meager
Evan Vissat
Camila do Nascimento
Kemaura Vance
Faculty Advisor
Dr. Michael Arnzen

Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Destruction by Alexandra Gipson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Internal Storm by Danielle Hegyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Zephyrus Fooled by Madison Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Hands of Fate by Madison Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
In the Silence by Mariah Betz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Picture Imperfect by Stephanie Malley . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Primary Motivation by Colleen Malley . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
The Path by Bradlee Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
: a cylinder... by Kaitlyn Culpepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Curious by Rhonda Gibson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Eden's Decay by Megan Smoulder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Imagination by Jordan Mayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Mortality by Bradlee Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Almond Blossoms by Rhonda Gibson . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Milky Watcher by Michael Arnzen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Out of Season by Sam Gray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
The Almond Tree by Rebecca Scassellati . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Locked in a Gaze by Evan Vissat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Partial Eclipse by Albert Wendland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Shower by Kaitlyn Culpepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Mother & Son by Nicholas Dormihal . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Patrons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

The theme of order and chaos is a venture into the relationship between
usual and unusual, normal and weird, conventional and strange. In
different ways, order and chaos both explore reality, experience, ideas and
beauty. I am proud to present a magazine that contains all that and more.
From scribbled ideas back in June to our first draft of this issue, the
semester has been a hypercaffeinated extravaganza of creativity and
learning. Thank you to my co-editor in chief, Madison, for communication
and patience, and to our editors for exciting ideas and commitment to our
work. To the entire staff, thank you for devoting time and energy to the
magazine. Your effort resulted in a record number of submissions and a
magazine you should be proud of as our own collaborative work of art.
Thank you also to our incredible advisor, Dr. Mike Arnzen, for guidance
and hilarity, and for teaching me to recognize the power of art and literature.
To our patrons, contributors and readers, thank you for supporting our
creative endeavor. Let this issue of Eye Contact remind you to notice order
and chaos in the world.

Madeleine Robbins

For the Fall 2017 issue of Eye Contact we continued the previous
semesters idea of proposing a theme for our contributors. We saw
astounding levels of ingenuity, imagination, and talent in our submissions
that allowed us to create the high-quality magazine that we strive for.
There is something deeply relatable about this theme and the way that
contributors granted us a tiny piece of their world, with the faith that we
would care for it. This issue shows the variety and familiarity in both order
and chaos, and I hope you see yourself in our work, as I certainly have.
As this is the first issue I have published as Editor-in-Chief, I owe
abundant gratitude to those who make this magazine a possibility. Thank
you to Maddie Robbins, my co Editor-in-Chief for serving as a mentor and
friend. Thank you to Dr. Arnzen, our advisor, for his continuous support,
opinions, and hilarity. Thank you to our staff for their commitment and
creativity. Thank you to our patrons for contributing to the arts and seeing
their importance. Finally, thank you to the reader for giving our piece of art
a home. I hope you find a home in it too.
Madison Wilson
Alexandra Gipson

Crack open the sky.

Scratch the blue until it bleeds;

azure droplets sprinkle down,
false rain
not to be caught on the tongue.
Hammer until the clouds crumble
then listen for the brontide:
heavy boulders tumbling down a mountain,
watch as lightning blazes across the split sky
dancing like madmen,
spastic and spirited.

The sun and the moon,

reunited lovers possessing fresh
hatred; they cannot exist in the sky together.
Rage and jealousy fuels the fire,
a fight for dominance ownership superiority,
stars shoot downward instead of horizontally.
Conflagrant birds plummet, nothing but ash
meets the ground, hurling asteroids
create craters in the earths crust.
All simply collateral damage
in the battle of time.

Crack open the sky

and watch the world explode

Danielle Hegyes

Madison Wilson

As order succumbs to storms of chaos,

You rode on the tail of a sunny day
Lightning crackling, cackling, paradise lost
Mama said, Twisters always come that way.
Your sky, shades I was taught to spot in school
The salient chartreuse of an old bruise
Acidic raindrops descending misrule
Nocent intent, a fresh town to abuse
How do I rebuild my homes splintered barn?
Innards strewn across fields my parents grew
The familiar torn, shorn, tangled like yarn
Wind-battered, I wander lands I once knew
After eras of hunting, my gaze lands
On a discarded chair, my own hearts kin
In ancient leather, like my fathers hands
He cradles my weary limbs, I begin
To rely on a force thats not my own
In his warm embrace, I make my new home

Hands of Fate
Madison Wilson
photography, digital

In the
Mariah Betz
I lay in a meadow, arms behind my head. Soaking in the sun, I
breathed in and out slowly. Birds chased each other through the
air, singing as they went. A light breeze rustled the leaves in the
surrounding trees. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment, for I
knew I couldnt be here long.
A slight chill pervaded my skin. Where did that come from? The
wind started to become colder, sharper. I opened my eyes. The once
clear sky was now speckled with clouds. The suns heat had weakened. I
stood up in dismay as the wind continued to pick up. I hugged myself.
Itll be alright, itll be alright.
Whirlwinds spun around me. It was as if I were standing in the middle
of a tornado. Whipping, tearing hair, limbs, skin in a race to reach
nowhere in particular. They spun and swirled around me-- and I was
stuck in the center. I tried to walk a few steps into the chaos, braving it,
but was ripped and tripped and pulled back into the middle. All I could
do was stand, every effort going into that one act, and scream. Scream
until my voice screeched into oblivion. I stood, alone, helpless.
Silence. I sat in a room full of students studying, reading. The clicks
of keyboards resounded off the blank walls. A pair of friends chatted in
the corner. I grinned as they laughed at something, but I was left out of
the joke. Sighing, I returned my eyes to my computer screen. Time for

Stephanie Malley

You position us
like paper cutouts
propped up on shadow-stands:
a little left, more to the right,
back a tad, a tad further,
now a little more left.

Always you are surprised

by our drooping smiles
and sun-shuttered eyes.
When will it click,
the impossibility of condensing
to a snapshot
that fits perfectly
into a slot in your wallet?

Even as you slide us in,

you leave the mark
of your own fingerprints.

Colleen Malley
oil paint

The Path
Bradlee Allen
There are tales as old as time about why we shouldnt stray from the
path. From Little Red Riding Hood to the wendigo, leaving the order of
civilization always leads to creatures of savagery. Just take the leash off
your dog and see how easy they are to control. But let me guess: You dont
believe in those stories? Id never cared for those superstitions either, but I
did pride myself on my efficiency. Paths are pointless if they dont take the
quickest route, Id told myself. Even when I took a weekend trip into the
wooded hills of Appalachia, I decided that there was no need to follow the
path up the mountains when I could just cut straight up into them, right?
It had been so hard to find a secluded area of the forest where logging,
housing, nor people were anywhere in sight, but sure enough the inspiration
that had inspired so many before me would be mine. Night fell more quickly
than Id anticipated, so I began to tie my hammock between a set of trees
and tied my bag amidst the branches above. I hadnt realized just how
thick the air on campus was until Id gotten into the woods and breathed in
the scent of nature. Id always been a rather heavy sleeper, so imagine my
surprise when I woke in a nervous sweat.
Almost like it knew something was wrong, my body was tense. I was in
fight or flight mode, and I had no idea why. The stars above were ample
light, but still I got the sense that something was lurking in the trees, just
outside of my vision. Dammit Lisa, I cursed under my breath as I rolled
over in my hammock, putting her words out of mind. She and her horror
films could screw right the hell off, even with that snapping twig behind the
tree line. Just a deer, I assured myself.
The next morning, I gathered my stuff and started up the mountainside
once more, biting into one of my granola bars. I ended up finding a pond
about half-way up the hill, a large majority of it covered in algae. All
afternoon, I could feel Emersons spirit flowing through me as I wrote there
at the edge of the pond, but I nearly dropped my journal into the water
when there was a gigantic splash. I looked, but nothing was there.
I sighed as the waters calmed and put my pen back to the paper, noting
my surroundings with quick, lyrical lines to be formed into a poem later.
Before I realized it I was gasping for breath; something had pulled me off
my rock by the ankle. I cursed myself for worrying about the poems and
notes lost when my journal fell from my hands and struggled to get free.
The water was too murky to see whatever it was, but the piercing pain in
my ankle was enough to aim near with my other foot. It took a few tries,
but I was freed and swam as fast as I could for the light above.
Hurriedly, I shambled out of the water, grabbed my bag, and started
to run. I didnt realize that I was bleeding until I had been running for
several minutes and the adrenaline wore off, leaving me hobbling. I had
to have been running (read: hobbling) for a solid hour, up and down
slopes, hurrying around trees. Eventually my left foot just gave out and
I let myself sit there, but even as I started catching my breath I tore my
first aid kit out of my backpack to pour antiseptic on my cuts and start
wrapping my ankle in bandages, too out of breath to scream as the
wound burnt anew with its cleansing. I ate a few granola bars and drank
one of the wine coolers Id brought with me; I deserved alcohol. I began
setting up camp; this time I started a fire. I also climbed the trees several
yards before setting up my hammock.
I dried off by the flame and ate some of my jerky before climbing
nearly slipping several times into my hammock. I didnt fall asleep for
hours. I just stared off into the darkness, afraid of what lurked just outside
of my fires light. I was too panicked from the attack to even consider the
fact that Id had no sense of direction when I fled the water. I didnt have
any idea how to get back to my last campsite, let alone civilization.
A chill shot down my spine before I even opened my eyes the following
morning. I could feel a gaze upon me, but I assured myself it was just my
own mind playing tricks on me as I started to climb down the trees, working
to untie my hammock. I quickly started packing up my journal and tools
from around the camp and started walking down the hill, hoping if I went
down itd lead to something or someone helpful. I decided Id catalogue my
experiences so that, if something happened to me, others might find my
journal and know how to get to
I dropped the book and quickly looked back, turned to stare into the
forest. I could feel sweat beading as my body froze in sheer terror as
the water stained pages of the journal Id lost in the lake fell to my feet.
Whoever whatever had attacked me followed me. It brought my
journal and left it there. It was just sitting there, amongst my things. I
didnt even notice. I grab it every morning out of habit; I didnt even realize
anything was out of place.
I tore my pocket knife from my pants and flicked it open, looking around
in paranoia as I watched for my assailant from the day before. Thoughts
were being replaced by new ones as fast as they could form, but the only
coherent one I could form was the realization that it was toying with me.
The understanding that it had sadistic, intelligent traits. Everything else was
drowned out by my subconscious trying to take control.
Survive, survive, survive, survive, it was shouting.
All I could really focus on was getting out of there and doing it alive.
I have to go slowly, if its smart enough to taunt me, its probably smart
enough to lay traps I thought to myself. I was nave though, because it
didnt need a trap, and even if I had been right, I didnt get the chance to
be cautious. The full weight of someone slammed me to the ground and I
heard a sickening crack rip through the air from my chest, drowning out
the crumpling of leaves below me. Claws sank into my back and teeth my
shoulder as I struggled to get on my back so I could fight my assailant off.
Finally, though, I did manage to get a forceful knee into its gut, which
seemed to knock the air out of the humanoid shape. I panicked and held
my knife defensively as I watched it double over to regain its breath. Slowly
it stood into a crouch, its massive shoulders heaving with its labored
breathing as its lungs tried to refill themselves.
There she stood, her dirty, ratty, auburn hair long and disheveled as it
hung down her back. Her face was obviously that of a human, but just as
clearly not. Her pupils were small, as if they caught light more easily, and
her eyes themselves held a distinct air of savagery. Her lips were curled back
into a snarl, exposing her mouthful of fanged teeth. Her hand gripped at
her abdomen which was coated in scars, much like the rest of her body. I
could see that her nails were grown out, not only long but thick and sharp.
They had begun to coat over her fingertips, almost consuming the rounded
points as they began to resemble claws. She growled before bolting off. Even
her movements were different she ran on the balls of her feet, her legs
outstretching naturally.
The moment she disappeared into the woods I panicked again and started
in the opposite direction. I had to put distance between usunfortunately
that meant going back up instead of down. Did she do that on purpose? It
didnt matter. At least now I knew what I was contending with. It didnt take
long before I was out of breath, though. It was barely noon by my watch,
which had somehow survived if you take anything from this story it should
be to buy a Relic watch and I was already exhausted. I didnt think Id find
much downhill, but I knew nothing was up the slope. Even by retreating, she
had essentially trapped me here on this mountain. Something told me she
could find me anytime she wanted, too.
It went on like that for days, maybe weeks. I kept trying to find a way
down the mountain, but she kept blocking my route. Sometimes shed
be standing there in my way and just watch me turn around, others she
attacked. Each time I barely escaped with my life and I could only thank
my knife for the fact that I hadnt been turned into her lunch. One time
while we were struggling she managed to bite off my right ring finger and I
watched in horror as she chewed it bones crunching in her maw before
swallowing my flesh. Blood dripped down her mouth as she pushed harder,
getting hungrier.
I had to rely on the forest for my food, but she didnt always leave me
time to cook. Perhaps the most horrifying point of this whole experience
was the time I realized I was eating a deers leg raw and I hadnt seen her
in nearly a day. I had plenty of time to cook it, but Id grown so out of the
habit. Some supplies I abandoned to move faster, others I lost in struggles
with her or animals around the forest.
I realized my bodyand my mind were changing. I didnt care
though. That voice was screaming louder and louder the longer I was
in the forest. Survive, survive, survive! it shouted, and I was willing to
do anything it told me to. My fingernails were growing longer, my teeth
were sharpening themselves on the bones of my prey, and my hair was
growing more unwieldy.
I dont know how I did it, but I managed to find my way to the very same
pond where she first attacked me. I leapt at first because when I looked
into the water, I thought it was her waiting to leap out at me; it was my
reflection. I could feel myself slipping. Id come here to study the world, but
I was stooping to some sort of creature. Just like her.
Thats when I heard them: Voices were coming out of the forest. A man
was speaking to his son. They were carrying fishing poles. I lurched behind
one of the stones that littered the ponds shore and waited. What if they were
like her? What if they took me back? Wait, wasnt that what I wanted? Dont
I want to go home? I froze and my body tensed as I heard the screams. I
turned to see her tearing into the father, blood splashing into the water as the
son tried to peel her off, screaming angrily for his fathers safety.
I bolted from my shelter; I had to help! The screams grew louder and I
was upset by how eerily quickly I ran to the trio. My heart rate rose, my
hand gripped the knife tightly, not that I felt I really needed it anymore.
There was no way I could get to the father, not now, but the boy? He had to
be at least nineteen, and I still had a chance to get to him. I wasnt sure Id
make it, I thought shed get to him first. But I made it in time.
My knife met flesh first, followed by the rest of my weight as blood went
spurting. As our bodies fell to the ground, her screams of anger and rage
tore into the sky. My teeth sank into the younger mans throat as his warm
blood slipped down my throat and, I ate hungrily. I looked up, watching
her warily as we ate our fill. She glared at me for having stolen her second
meal, but I didnt care.
I was hungry.

: a cylinder containing
a narcotic, herbs, or a
medicated substance
for smoking
Kaitlyn Culpepper

The first one dangles loosely between plush lips,

painted cherry-red to complement smoky eyes.
Excitement, peace, and cool between rolling paper.

Months later theyre shaken out of a pack and handed over,

friend to friend. They huddle together, sitting on benches
or leaning against buildings, bonding over their bad habit.

Years later some of the best ones shes had are also the worst ones
shes had because she lights them when shes desperate,
meant to be an exception when theyve already become the rule.

Now theyre often fumbled out of their pack by shaking hands,

lit with a lighter that feels like 20 lbs of guilt in her jacket pocket
when she sneaks out of the house for a quick one away from her kid.

At night shes haunted by the image of one

dangling from cracked lips
split from the coughing, perpetually parted
to help with the breathing
being enjoyed by a woman who she wishes wasnt so familiar.

Rhonda Gibson
acrylic on wood

Eden's Decay
Megan Smoulder
The wind rustles the leaves,
emeralds sparkling in the summer sun,
while birds whistle on their perches
proclaiming peace
as small critters
dash across crinkling foliage.
The forest of life
by roaring trucks and humans
who hack the oxygen-makers
and homes
of the animals who cannot protest.

The gently waving grasses

mix with dandelions, clover, and thistle,
where spotted fawns dance
as a doe stands guard.
The insects rush hour,
searching for pollen, smaller insects, or friends,
a vivacious ecosystem
now home
to diesel engines
and an array of human waste
overfilling a crater,
pop cans, bottles, boxes, couches, bags,
every color layered
with slime, sewage,
and maggots enjoying dinner.

The endless palette

of colorful coral
that hides beneath the iridescent
indigo waves,
fish of every species dancing
with no danger or care,
then Earth loses its sunscreen,
turning coral into a graveyard
where bleached bones
reach up from the ground,
color faded,
a place no fish will enter.

The ice sculptures

glisten in the daylight, flaunting their sapphire hues
while they stand rigid and tenacious
against the crisp
blasts of blizzards,
but they are defenseless
against the scorching ball of fire
which slowly flays
their skin, exposing entrails,
tears slide,
mixing with
polar bears and penguins whose ground
beneath them

Crystalized beaches
luminous in summer heat,
families lounge, smiles stretch on sunburned faces,
pia colada condensation,
the repetition of waves
that keep coming and never go.
Water climbs the slope,
reaching footholds
of steel towers,
creating cement rivers
and unfamiliar lakes.
Land and people retreat,
new cities of Atlantis form.

Jordan Mayers

Bradlee Allen

Under the dark sky

the lights pass by
From side to side
the wheel turns
as does the world
The moon shines down on the road
I can feel my eyes growing heavier
Its too hot or too cold
theres no winning with this car
Cracking the window and turning up the heat
The radios broken
I missed the exit
Headlights from oncoming traffic
Beating against my already tired eyes
Its alright though
Ive only got an hour to go
Rumble rumble rumble CRAP rumble rumble
Jerking to the side, focusing on the road
I can do this
Im almost home
Just have to stay
a little bit
What happened?
Why is it so cold...?

Rhonda Gibson
acrylic on canvas

Michael Arnzen

purple eye
of corrupt alabaster

red veins jagged

in marbling shattershock

the orb jiggles wet

between lids blackened

with scab mascara

it twitches

so much atrophied light

yawning a chaotic chasm of

the pupil is a universe

snuffed and reborn

in a blink

Out of Season
Sam Gray

When the snow seemed ten feet high,

and I believed that I would never
see the world under that thick white
crust again, my mother spun me
my very own cocoon. Carefully robed
in white woolen sheets and soft down
felt like heaven, but something took
over me. I would kick and thrash once
the lights were off, untucking carefully
folded hotel corners, haphazardly
wrinkling the smooth sea of warm
waters from around me. Until at last,
my body found solace from that
incubation bundle, and all there was

to see were

two sets of toes

out in the cold:

Butterflies out of season.

The Almond
Rebecca Scassellati
marker, digital

in a Gaze
Evan Vissat

I cant help but think that one must have a mind of water.
While others have that of,
a terrain most vapid,
each word exchanged,
a footstep that cracks the mud...

Your thoughts are Great waves,

thundering and frothing as they thrash upon one another,
yet quietly nestled behind your eyes.

Such is the nature of water, one of extremes,

an eternal polarity.

One instance, devoid of sound.

Wrapping one in a deep caress, yet they do not drown.

As the gale returns,
passion, the moon,
pulls the tides towards the sky,

and through your eyes, I see this happen.

They are my windows to this ocean,
Depths without end.

I can almost dip in my toes as goosebumps flood my skin.

Albert Wendland

Kaitlyn Culpepper
The world shrinks to white knuckles between teeth
I see blood in my reflection in the metal faucet
before I feel any pain. A scream is scraping
at my insides. I want to wail, and see
what the sleek, white walls
do with the sound.

I stand,
head bowed,
wet hair framing my face
like thick moss curtains
a waterfall of tears leaking from my caved-in eyes.
Everything flows
making me wish that I too
could disappear into the piping
I dip a pruned toe into the drain below.
If only I could wrap myself
in the plastic curtain that protects
the outside world
from my mess

form a chrysalis.
Although, if I
emerge again,
what can I do
with wings
that are
Mother & Son
Nicholas Dormihal

Today, she dusts, whistling

as she occupies herself with
busy work.
She knows that, in a few days, He finds a tunnel in the hole.
he will come back home It makes him smile,
and everything should be tidy because he thinks its a way out.
before then. He crawls, pants,
keeps looking for a light,
Today, he sits, huddled but the earth shakes,
in a dark hole as, just above him, the roof buckles,
bullets fly and people shout. and there is only darkness.
Rockets burst and homes crumble,
but he has no way out. Everythings clean and neat.
Help wont come for an hour She cant wait to see him.
and he must wait The clock ticks on
until then. and she keeps waiting.
She rocks in her chair,
She finds his old catchers mitt. sips her tea and thinks
It makes her smile, Hell be home soon
because it reminds her as she looks out the window
of when he was small toward the light.
and he would beg to go to
the ball game.
Hell like to see it,
but she must wash it off
before then.

Bradlee Allen
is a senior psychology major and family studies minor who loves
writing in most forms.
Dr. Michael Arnzen
has taught in SHU's Writing Popular Fiction and English
programs since 1999.

Mariah Betz
is a sophomore creative writing major with a Spanish minor and
dreams of dragons, magic, and deerstalkers.

Kaitlyn Culpepper
is a junior at Seton Hill studying creative writing and psychology.

Nicholas Dormihal
is an English major at Seton Hill University, and a long-time
practitioner of creative writing.

Rhonda Gibson
currently works as an art teacher and creates artwork based on
where she lives.

Alexandra Gipson
is a junior English - creative writing major and Spanish minor
who drinks unhealthy amounts of coffee and writes healthy
amounts of poetry and prose.

Sam Gray
is a student of English literature at Seton Hill University who lost
herself in the pages of a book once and hasnt left since.

Danielle Hegyes
is an art education major and aspiring photographer from
Perryopolis, Pensylvania.
Colleen Malley
is a junior theatre performance major and freelance makeup artist
who spends her free time plotting world domination.
Stephanie Malley
a SHU parent, is an occasional poet who especially enjoys writing
light verse.
Jordan Mayers
is a sophomore graphic design major who prefers having dessert
before dinner and fills her day with as many cat pictures and as
much Netflix as possible.

Rebecca Scassellati
is a cartoonist whose head is full of Broadway lyrics, cleverly
disguised as a serious student.

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
Excuse me while I step in, make a picture, and write some

Albert Wendland
teaches English and Writing Popular Fiction at Seton Hill

Madison Wilson
is a sociology and psychology student at Seton Hill
University who uses art and writing to express the necessity
for feminism, intersectionality, and social justice.

Mike Arnzen
Bill Black
Daniel Casebeer
Ted DiSanti
Dana Elmendorf
Debra Faszer-McMahon
Dennis Jerz
Laura Patterson
Nicole Peeler
Kim Pennesi
Judith Reyna
Beth Runquist
Charmaine Strong
Tamara Swank
John and Fides Scassellati
Maureen Vissat
David Von Schlichten
Albert Wendland
Emily Wierszewski

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