Angles Magazine - St. John Fisher College

Welcome to Issue 1!

We are agog about sharing this first issue with you, dear readers. ANGLES is the revamped successor of St. John Fisher College’s longstanding but dormant literary magazine. When we decided to reimagine The Angle as an online lit mag that features works by college-aged writers, we let our love for language and the zeitgeist guide the way. It was a process that spanned over a year, and finally, the day is here: ANGLES is upon us! [Insert Frankenstein or Phoenix allusion here.]

We may be partial, but we think the end product is well worth the effort. The works in this issue reveal our aesthetic as they ask you to see, think, and feel. Meghan Jones self-exploration delves unflinchingly into the conventions of adolescent romance and Aakshi Sinha’s personal essay deploys striking imagery and innovative form. Youthful audacity hangs on every description Kalil Zender’s narrator gives of her mother, while Amanda Dettmann’s take on the importance of a dining room table teaches us to see again. Brief poetry from Lana Bella delivers thrilling language that demands attention, and Maddie Woda’s “Eulogy of a Snapback,” creates a modern twist on traditional forms of poetry by exposing those “peach fuzz boys” in “muscle tees and flip flops.”

If this collection of unique and thought provoking pieces doesn’t evoke some reaction from you, then you may be the one in need of a relaunch.

Enjoy the read… It’s Lit!

The Editors

Creative Nonfiction


Foundation seems like the place to start. The logic in the name seemed too obvious to ignore. Natural Buff, light to medium, Shade 03 is printed on the back. A glob of cool, slimy liquid snakes out of the bottle. My tentative first strokes gain more assurance as I contemplate the name.



My mother plays all night. Sometimes the lights shut off when the hotel is cheap, or when we are at home and she has not touched the electric bill since I put it on the kitchen table. But she keeps playing, impervious to the dark or the cold, the sound of her violin flooding the blackness, shaping it, filling it with her ghosts.



Your skin gave quirks of womanhood away, like yesterday's bees awoke at the far reaches so trim of flail and purr.