Emily Federico

He is broken, slumped over in marbled pain.   His face is turned towards the base, eyes downcast and searching for any sign of hope among his despair.   Chiseled lines concave into folded flesh and his hand steadies him on the base, elbow bent in despondent resignation.   His beard grazes the inside of his chin, a collar of his shame.   A small wound bled from his folded chest, marbled blood spitting out of his sides and into his concaved stomach.   His torso is an emblem of defeat, folded and grotesque, the mark of a strong and athletic man diminished by the bending of flesh.   Scattered around him are marks of war, fragmented sword, and shields scattered around Gaul, emblems of a failed military conquest.   He pays no mind to the destruction surrounding him.   His gaze focuses on his hand, placed on his bent knee as if to steady himself from his fall from grace.   The surrounding statues stand in sharp contrast to Gaul, arms raised above ...

As we stepped out from the Spagna metro stop, the bustle of the Spanish steps overwhelmed my senses.   The stomping of horses mixed with the calls of vendors and the lingering whiff of perfume from nearby fashion houses was almost too much to handle.   It wasn’t until I stepped under the cool shade of the Keats-Shelley house and away from the masses that I started to feel a sense of peace.   When we entered the building, we were greeted by a young British woman; I felt a guilty sense of pleasure at hearing the familiar sounds of English.   The cramped spiral staircase and chipped paint reminded me of my school in London, an oasis among the clogged streets of Bloomsbury.   We entered the first room and automatically my inner writer went into geek mode.   Nestled amongst the shining mahogany were fragments of letters from Keats and Shelley as well as portraits of family members.   Books, their spines gilded and hidden behind a fortress of glass, begged...

            Her curls bob as she ducks and weave behind palm trees, their shadow casting over her small frame.   She calls out to her father who is wandering the square, a slight smile on his face.   Despite her young age, she is full of fire and grace, darting between dogs and scooters and striding past strangers marveling at her cuteness with a sassiness to rival Beyoncé’s.   A day in Piazza Cavour, cavorting among Italian government officials and student is a rare luxury for her.   She spends most of her days trapped between four walls, textbooks stacked higher than her torso and hands cramped from clutching a pencil for hours.   English conjugations are ingrained in her memory, mixed with European history and the Pythagorean Theorem.   Her eyes strain from looking at math problems and the tiny inch of blue sky peeking out of her window, a world she so desperately wants to explore but her father ...