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MAGIS Volume 3 Entire Volume

Le, Annika

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 11 
2020 
Looking for a Pen in My Mother's Purse 
Annika Le 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Le, Annika (2020) "Looking for a Pen in My Mother's Purse," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 11. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/11 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
Looking for a pen in my mother’s purse 
Annika Le 
 
 
There’s a butterscotch candy 
from the dry cleaner 
on Barnes road, 
It wears a layer 
of frothy dust. 
Buckled receipts 
with the imprints of 
my mother’s waxy lips 
(blot, blot) 
unfurl against 
leather insides. 
Forgotten toothpicks 
and scrawled lists 
pile up on a green 
powder compact. 
“I know it’s 
in there,” she says. 
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Le: Looking for a Pen in My Mother's Purse
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Looking for a Pen in My Mother\u27s Purse

Abassi, Jenna

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 13 
2020 
The Captain 
Jenna Abassi 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Abassi, Jenna (2020) "The Captain," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 13. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/13 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
The Captain 
Jenna Abassi 
 
 
Dementia’s favorite outfit is no pants 
Dementia looks me in the eyes before it decides to buy a new car 
Dementia makes people think it is just a mid-life crisis, 
sneaking up on the brain until 
it is too late 
Sitting on the floor of the hospital room 
in a black polka dotted dress while 
Dementia feasts on my father’s brain 
Captain Phillips plays on the TV and all I hear is 
Dementia saying, 
“I am the captain now.” 
Hands on the controls, 
sitting comfortably in a seat 
Dementia makes you forget you have a daughter even though 
she has not left your side for sixteen years 
Dementia will take those years away from you, 
chew them up and spit them out because 
Dementia does not give a fuck. 
Dementia delivers suffering before death 
making you forget everything but 
Dementia knows it is memorable 
and tornadoes through 
poking holes in a brain 
I used to admire 
walk into the house one day and realize 
I can’t remember what my father used to be like 
Dementia makes everyone forget. 
Plaguing brains and lives until all you remember 
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Abassi: The Captain
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2 
 
is the day you heard about the diagnosis 
and then Google tells you there isn’t much research and 
there is no cure 
and in the background 
I hear an echo 
“I am the captain now.” 
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Fragments, Vol. 62 [2020], Art. 13
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/13


The Captain

Hunley, Erin

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 19 
2020 
Sea Bream 
Erin Hunley 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Hunley, Erin (2020) "Sea Bream," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 19. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/19 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
Sea Bream 
Erin Hunley 
 
 
She is a hollow 
Log, pulled and pulled smooth by the 
Hands of the green sea. 
 
Gills feathered and still, 
Dusted with grit, clogged and burnt 
Raw red by low skies. 
 
She is small on the 
Beach crust, relinquished by the 
Hands of the green sea. 
 
The jelly film of 
Her skyward eye an egg yolk 
Ruptured by flies’ feet. 
 
Let me set you back 
Into those green hands, though they 
May again let go. 
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Hunley: Sea Bream
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Sea Bream

Compoverde, Mariel

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 26 
2020 
it's no rush at all! 
Mariel Compoverde 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Compoverde, Mariel (2020) "it's no rush at all!," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 26. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/26 
This Visual Art is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
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Compoverde: it's no rush at all!
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it\u27s no rush at all!

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 23 
2020 
Don't Mop the Floor 
Erin Hunley 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Hunley, Erin (2020) "Don't Mop the Floor," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 23. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/23 
This Visual Art is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
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Don\u27t Mop the Floor

Ferguson, Emma

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 2 
2022 
Tick. Tick. 
Emma Ferguson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Ferguson, Emma (2022) "Tick. Tick.," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 2. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/2 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
 1 
Tick. Tick.  
By Emma Ferguson 
 
The alarm starts blaring over the speakers at 9:37, waking up the students dozing off and 
startling me out of my day dream. “THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS IS A LOCK DOWN. THERE IS 
AN ACTIVE SHOOTER ON CAMPUS. POLICE ARE ON THE WAY. THIS IS A LOCK DOWN.” 
loops on the PA system overhead startling everybody into action.  
The lights are slammed off and the classroom is thrust into darkness as those closest to the 
doors and windows check that they are locked. All of this occurs within the blink of an eye as our 
bodies run on the muscle memory we’ve developed over the years, making use of the drills we’ve been 
practicing since kindergarten.  
I scamper to huddle under the window, snug against my classmates. I press my back to the wall 
tightly, wishing that I could melt into it. The feeling of the gravelly wall digging into my skin grounds 
me. My ears are still ringing as the alarm is cut off abruptly. My knees pressed to my chest, my arms 
circling around them tightly.  
I remember to breathe. In and out. In and out. I force myself to breathe in and out.  
Time slows as we sit on the cold and dirty ground of the classroom in the dark, the sunlight just 
barely breaching through the blinds pulled all the way closed on the windows. It is still in the room, 
everybody too scared to move. Too scared to think. I hear the furious tick, tick of the clock on the wall, 
seeming to move slower now that I've heard it.  
A sniffle from a girl to the left somewhere in the huddled mass makes me jump. Tick, tick. The 
boy sitting next to me grabs my shaking leg, stilling it. Tick, tick. We hold our breath waiting for the 
worst, anticipating. Tick, tick. What was this boy's name again? Justin…Trevor. Tick, tick. We hold 
each other’s arms, eyes wide, breath stolen from our lungs by fear, staring intensely at the round handle 
of the door. Tick, tick. My heart is beating so hard, I’m afraid it can be heard. Tick. I clap my hand over 
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 2 
my mouth hoping to muffle my labored breathing. Tick. The door handle jiggles. Tick. I clamp my eyes 
shut, still clinging to the boy next to me. Tick.  
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Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 2
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/2


Tick. Tick.

Teola, Brandon

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 4 
2022 
Written in The Disappointing Library 
Brandon Teola 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Teola, Brandon (2022) "Written in The Disappointing Library," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 4. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/4 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Written in The Disappointing Library 
Brandon Teola 
 
I guess I am considered a rising sophomore since my first year of college is almost over. 
As I rise there are several things that have caused me to get irritated, that make my cheeks feel 
hot and my eyes shake like my knee. Like “bad” grades and calendars and chairs and loud people 
and news and icebreakers and the smell of ramen and jackets that really aren’t weather-proof like 
they’re supposed to be. Some things have made my eyes wet. Like independence and confusion 
and tv show credits and the color purple and homesickness. But one thing that has made me stop 
writing, and walk slower, and click the “close” button five times on the elevator 
Is the disappointing library at this school. 
 
I am not angry or sad about it. I am disappointed. This library deserves the 
disappointment card. Why are there ninety different copies of literary criticism but not one Frog 
and Toad book? Why are there sixty different copies of the bible but not one copy of Amelia 
Bedelia? No Corduroy No The Rainbow Fish No Velveteen Rabbit No Fablehaven No Land of 
Stories. 
Why are there thirty encyclopedias? Why is everything in here from the real world? 
 
I don’t know if I would read all of those books that I read when I was a kid now in college, but it 
would be comforting to have them here. To remind me that I have only been in the world for 
eighteen years. That I have time. 
 
 
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Teola: Written in The Disappointing Library
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 Time to think about talking frogs and magic tree houses. 
 Time to read books with pictures and not figures. 
 Time to flip pages without thinking. 
 
Just thinking about the stories I encountered when I was shorter makes me think about 
the things in college that have exposed my megaphone of a laugh and made my lips curl up and 
reminded me how childish and immature and curious I could be.  
I am allowed to be. 
Like boba runs and fast-walking and rain and trees and flowers and fountains and apple 
fritters and leaves and breakfast burritos and concerts and phantoms and tangerine juice. 
 
But when I go into a library, a place that is supposed to be filled with stories and worlds 
and emotions that should excite me and I feel disappointed, it reminds me that I am 
A grown-up.  
 
It reminds me that I am gripping onto my childhood and tearing its dry skin. 
 
That’s why I don’t study in the library every week. That’s why “getting outside of your 
room” does not make me feel better. That’s why I like sitting in my room listening to music 
without headphones next to the shelf of books that I could barely fit into the box that barely fit 
into the car that got me here. That’s why I am taking the elevator to go back to my room.  
Bye disappointing library. 
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Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 4
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Written in The Disappointing Library

Golden, Eleanor

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 14 
2022 
Inheritance 
Eleanor Golden 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Golden, Eleanor (2022) "Inheritance," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 14. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/14 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
i n h e r i t a n c e 
 
jack of spades 
 
shufffffffle snap / drumroll with a siren cymbal crash 
my grandmother teaches me deal 
two to my opponents, sneak three to my partner 
bend the bridge until an obsidian river rushes underneath 
 
 
 
 
six of cups 
 
stained countertop fit for chipped nail polish queens 
honeybee swamp swarm hidden under lucky tumble feet 
wet, icy kisses on everforgiven teary cheeks 
she feeds me lemonade bitter praise and carves paths out of the mountain range 
 
 
 
ace of hearts 
 
heiress to genome atom bomb 
catch the barbed rope of succession only for threads  
to burn through my palms / skeletal surprise 
bloodline of ashen kisses, smoking gun remember 
 
 
 
7 of wands 
 
instead of brooches and rings 
i unwrap presents of breathless breastwear warns 
metal uterus songs clanging on carcinogen cellbars 
 
 
it was my mother's and hers before 
 
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Golden: Inheritance
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Inheritance

Zeve, Amelia

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 1 
2021 
Almost Never Dying 
Amelia Zeve 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Zeve, Amelia (2021) "Almost Never Dying," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 1. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/1 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Almost Never Dying
Amelia Zeve
1. In your dreams you are almost never dying. It has only happened three times. You always have
a hard time distinguishing what’s real from what’s a dream, and sometimes, trying to split the
difference, you ask the people in your life if they remember a moment you shared and they don’t.
You mark that memory as a dream.
2. You remember the dream-deaths like movies you used to watch at sleepovers, late at night
when all the other kids fell asleep and left you awake in eerie pools of dark: the first time you die
you fall off a moonlit cliff after eavesdropping on characters from PBS’ Arthur as they stood
muttering quiet ideas in the half-dark. You reach for the moon as you fall but it twists into a silk
and lace pillow your grandmother sewed. The fabric runs through your fingers like cream.
3. The second time you die, you are with a friend and you get run off the road by men who want
you dead. They shoot you both. For some reason, you are holding a baby in your arms, glowing
dewey pink, with tufts of hair sticking up like blades of wheat. They shoot the baby.
4. The third time you ever die in a dream, you are standing on top of a cliff overlooking the sea,
holding the hand of your best friend from childhood. Her fist feels so tiny, coiled up in your grip.
The sensations build like Legos around you: the salt air, thick and humid, curling around you; the
tiny beach, full of gritty pebbles and tangles of kelp; and the road, snaking sideways along the
beach, starting and ending in a curtain of fog. Your friend says something that doesn’t make
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sense and your feet tug you forward and suddenly you are leaping, cutting the distance between
you and the writhing breakwater. You die as you hit the water. The shock of it is almost rude.
5. When you die, time flows dark and murky and around you, pressing heavily into your limbs as
if you are steeping in a womb of gravel and gravity. You float in the dark space and think about
the clarity and color of the water until your alarm wakes you up. You are shaking. You don’t
quite know why.
6. In your dreams you are never dying, except for the times when you are. You don’t understand
the three times that you have. Sometimes you tell people that you never die in your dreams. You
have not died in a dream since you were eleven.
7. Sophomore year of high school, you go on a backpacking trip to the San Juan Islands with a
smattering of childhood friends. This is real, not a dream. You sit in the back of a
twelve-passenger van.
8. You drive down a winding road, somewhere in the San Juan Islands, somewhere you could
never find on a map. You stare forward, thinking of nothing, when every hair rises on your body
like a warning in braille. You look around.
9. A winding road, carving through the trees, flashes of the ocean off to your right. As the trees
break and the sky swings open you get a view of a tiny beach, gritty with pebbles and kelp, and
you see it: a cliff, stretching out over water that is both opaque and deep teal. Somehow you are
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Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 1
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here again. The last time you saw it you were dreaming and dying with your childhood best
friend— but she is here again too. Her left hand is coiled up in your own- a tiny bud of
corporeality, transferred from one mode of existence to the next. Your heart beats like it never
has before.
10. Once, years later, you tell a friend about this experience. Afterward, he asks what you think
would have happened if you would have jumped off the cliff again. He asks if you think you
finally would have woken up. You think of this from time to time. The shock of it is almost rude.
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Zeve: Almost Never Dying
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