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 ...

            The scent of orange trees reaches me on the slight wind and intermingles with jasmine and clover.   The drip of rainwater onto gravel paths collects with the blossoms and washes away the gas and cigarette clouds commonly found on Roman streets. The screech of young children, along with the linguistically confused rants of a man on the corner wall, combine to form a sense of chaos among the orchard, the pesky sounds of human existence among tranquil nature.   The click of the camera shutters and the occasional blare of car horns from the nearby street only reinforces the immense presence of human life on the hill.   My back stiffens as I hear the crunching of footsteps coming towards my solitary perch but quickly pass by for a view of the city.   Even amongst the noise, I can still hear the muted gasps of those admiring the skyline and the wincing of elbows being thrown for the perfect Instagram shot...

             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 s...

Giornale #2             As I walked along the street, the marble façade and saint figures, arms outstretched towards the heavens, loomed in the distance.   Its green doors yawned into the cavernous space beyond, beckoning me away from the rush of Vespas and the cries of young Italian soccer players in the courtyard.   Once I passed through the doors, the cacophony of noise faded away, replaced by the mutterings of an Italian mass and the hushed quiet of tourists milling about.   The priest’s calls to remember the works of St. Paul and the importance of baptism as a way of spreading Jesus’s message reverberated throughout the cave-like ceilings.   Throughout the service, several worshippers nodded as the glasses-clad and bean-pole priest spoke with a calm but authoritative reminder to remember the Gospel.   These words stuck with me as I wandered the church’s aisles.   Decorated frescoes of Mary holdi...

Her skirt swishes against the cobblestone and her habit trails behind her as she sways toward the basilica entrance, hands folded in prayer.  Despite the glaring sunlight, she wraps her fleece tighter around her willow frame as she continues her solo trek to the basilica.  Her cross glints against her periwinkle cloth, her divine armor against the secular world.  She strides across the piazza, oblivious to the chattering tourists surrounding her with iPhones and tour guides.  She is determined to see her bridegroom and savior and command plow through the crowds with the strength only her faith gives her.  The life of a Roman nun never appealed to her as a teenager.  She used to scoff at the sandal-clad women walking by as she drank full bottles of wine, slumped in the streets or vomiting in a back alley while her friends passed wrapped papers of whatever the street offered to them that day.  She found shallow pleasure in kissing random strangers in p...

The clink of selfie sticks and the squelch of plastic pigs flopping onto the pavement invade the serene trickle of the Four Rivers Fountain.  Lilting Italian, coupled with sprinklings of Mandarin, English and French, cumulate together in the square.  Americans pass by with thick, brash accents while the lyrical flows of Italian bring a slight smile to my face.   Wafts of fresh pesto or Bolognese pasta from surrounding restaurants entice me from my seat but the cool splash of the fountain water is too soothing on my warm shoulders.  It feels good to sit.  In the distance, I hear the clang of an ambulance racing down the too narrow streets and the honk of Vespas.  I’m grateful I don’t have to dodge those metallic death traps for even a few minutes.  The soft brush of trash against the cobblestones is a soothing 21st-century juxtaposition to the commotion lying just beyond the square.  Passing by my perch on the Four Rivers Fountain, the di...

On April 6 th , I ventured to New York’s administrative capital Albany along with nineteen other students and two professors.   The drive into the Capital revealed the quiet of the city on a Sunday afternoon; streets were deserted save for a few people huddled on stoops and the occasional whoosh of hot air from passing buses.   Many of the buildings seemed to be in the early stages of neglect with paint peeling off the sides and cracked sidewalks revealing weeds and cigarette butts.   Our car, once joking about the monstrous size of Druther’s burgers and Fun Day, fell silent as we soaked in the atmosphere of a city on pause.   Groups of people stood outside the liquor stores whose bright neon signs advertised sales on half liters of Budweiser and Sam Adams and the smell of fried chicken wafted through the car windows.               It was only when we neared the top of the hill that a sense of Albany’s b...

She rises out of the brown wrapper; a goddess incarnates from sugar and chocolate.  Her bottom half is hidden away by a plastic shield.  She is the biblical apple, tantalizing and sweet, her precious fruit disguised from prying eyes.  Remnants of her shield taunt the viewers with blue words emblazoned across her feminine prize.  ‘ICKERS’ is her cloak of virginity.  Her hips sway in a silent song as she poses.  Only the indentation of her belly button disrupts her flat porcelain slab of skin She is erect, tall in her blooming plastic flower.  She refuses to let your stares cripple her straightened spine.  She places a hand on her bare shoulder, careful to reveal an uncovered bit of breast to her audience.  Her nipples protrude from her naked chest, plump mounds of flesh sticking out in proud defiance.  She stares with a look that could melt caramel and chocolate, gray eyes straining to see more outside of her framed prison.  She too ...

Her bright orange jacket glides across the snow and the skis swish through the icy powder.  She came for the crunch of snow under her skis and the rush of the frostbitten wind against her cheeks.  The pompom bobbles with every step of her skis and her breath condenses in the mountain air.  She doesn’t falter in her step; instead she rushes past me without a single word.  The scent of lilac drifts behind me.  The mountain is her escape, the place where she can unwind and escape the madness of her hectic life as a publisher in New York City.   She comes for the solitude of the pines and the quiet, a sweet relief from the bustle and chaos of New York.  Here the maddening din of taxis and pedestrians late for their 9-5 jobs are replaced by nylon skiers, content to swish by with a passive nod, and the soft creak of the aging ski lift.  She comes to drink hot chocolate in a lodge decked in Budwesier signs and wood paneling, instead of the glass prison ...

Momentary Blindness   The sound of bodies hitting walls and shoes scuffing on plastic rocks reverberates in the cavernous room.  My harness clinks against the flesh of my backpack with each step and the sole of my shoes poke against the fabric, a physical nudge to start climbing. The sweet scent of magnesium carbonate hits my nose as I place my hand inside the chalk bag.  The powder is smooth against my fingers, soft against the blisters rupturing across my knuckles.  My feet bounce on the landing pad as I walk up towards the wall.  I can hear the shouts of my friends as they encourage each other further up, their voices blending together into a medley of support and trust.  One of my friends has started to panic about the height of her ascent, her panicked voice carrying a hint of shrillness and stifled laughter.  I can hear the snickering of the front desk person as she continues to contemplate her doom and the soft click of an ever-presen...