A tale of two arcadias; or, what could yet be

Utopia 

(Arcadia University — Taylor’s Version)

As I strolled through the entryway of the newly renovated Taylor Hall, I couldn’t help but stop and smile. Skylights filtered sunshine into the atrium, nourishing the elegant displays of hanging and potted plants. In the center of the room, the coffee fountain burbled cheerfully as it pumped out caffeine for grateful students and faculty alike (though the bubble tea fountain on the second floor was more to my taste). Engraved in marble above one arch were the words: “Taylor Hall: For the Best and Brightest of Arcadia’s Bunch.” The other two archways designated the purpose of the space beyond: Education Wing and English Wing. I made to veer towards the English wing, then, on impulse, decided to head straight instead. Passing through the lounge, I spotted students curled on plush couches, enjoying the building’s central air and chatting about the latest developments in literary criticism. I hurried by the Quiddity Lab, waving quickly at Daniel as I did so. He was in the middle of a class, and I could tell by the goggles and protective gear the students were wearing that they were studying poetry. I finally ducked past the Interfaith Chapel, where Dr. Heitzman was kneeling before a small statue of what looked like Count Dracula. I left him in peace. 

The glass doors to the courtyard slid open as I approached, and I felt a wash of warm air as I stepped outside. If the atrium was full of greenery and light, the courtyard was a riot of colorful flowering plants, from enthusiastic dahlias to the rare beauty of cactus blooms. In the shallow pools, koi fish in a rainbow of colors bumped gently against lotus blossoms and water lilies. Dotted throughout the space were statues of English faculty, sculpted and posed to resemble ancient Greek heroes. Ambling past Dr. Matisoff slaying the hydra and Professor Schall stealing the Golden Fleece, I headed straight for my favorite spot on campus: the base of the tall oak tree planted in the center of the courtyard. Nestled up against its sturdy trunk, cool and comfortable in its shade, I drew from my bag the proof copy of my latest manuscript — my short story collection Bury My Heart in Sedimentary Rock. I had a good while to look it over and make any corrections; my next course, Frankenstein and Shakespeare and then some more Frankenstein, didn’t start for an hour. Sighing contentedly, with the chirp of cicadas and the faint gurgle of water around me, bathed in sunlight and shadow and exquisitely comfortable in the vast expanse of Taylor Hall, I opened my book and began to read. 

Dystopia 

(Darkadia University — Coryo’s Version) 

Each of the fuzzy camera screens around me held visions of carnage — yet I couldn’t seem to look away. It wasn’t just that my favorite professors were putting their lives, careers, and dignity on the line here — it was my future as a student too. The fate of all English majors — of every major — hung in the balance. 

The Budget Games went like this: in order to secure funding for a department, its faculty had to assert dominance in some way. The guidelines originally included no maiming, but once the Honors Program chucked a swarm of genetically engineered murder bees at Boyer Hall, nobody was really too invested in enforcing rules or penalties anyway. Adjuncts and full professors alike, locked and barricaded within their respective buildings, now battled one another for supremacy. Only the strong could survive. After all, whoever made it out of Taylor alive would have to face down representatives of Brubaker, Easton, and more in the ultimate Haber Green Quell. There were even rumors that some Boyer faculty had escaped the bee-pocalypse and were lurking in the outskirts of the Pit, plotting their revenge. In the meantime, however, the student body watched with gasps, cringes, and visceral horror as the rest of the games went on. 

Wrenching my eyes away from the Modern Language staff’s unlikely cross-cultural alliance (and their DIY guillotine), I glanced toward the screens for Taylor Hall. The vending machine had, of course, become crucial territory worth defending. It was currently protected by Professor Levine (a truly fearsome adversary with her combined knowledge of horror films and darts), Professor Derr, and Professor Schall, who was busily constructing a barricade of books around that end of the hallway. Several others, including Professors Pieczkolon, DePaul, and Matisoff, had convened a council of war on the second floor. They’d sent Dr. Weiner out on a reconnaissance mission the night before; bumping unexpectedly into Dan Schall, she’d been chased into the elevator and hadn’t been seen again. No one even knew where the elevator went. Somewhere, Dr. Heitzman was roaming, soulless, seeking to quench his thirst for blood. 

A commotion broke out on the third floor. The remaining Education staff had encountered a stray band of English adjuncts. I winced, repelled yet with too much at stake to avert my eyes. Then something caught my attention. In Taylor 208, Daniel Pieczkolon was standing on a table, directly facing the camera. He drew in a breath and began to recite. 

“By any measure, it was endless

          winter. Emulsions with

Then circled the lake like

This is it. This April will be

Inadequate sensitivity to green. I rose

early, erased for an hour

          Silk-brush and ax

I'd like to think I'm a different person

          latent image fading”

Around me, students stirred. Some were confused. Others began to weep. I checked my phone, typed in a quick google search. Yep: Ben Lerner. 

“around the edges and ears

          Overall a tighter face

now. Is it so hard for you to understand

From the drop-down menu

In a cluster of eight poems, I selected

sleep, but could not

          I decided to change everything

Composed entirely of stills

          or fade into the trees”

The rumblings around me grew louder. Suddenly, they swelled, until students were standing on their feet, throwing back chairs, grappling with administrators and racing for the door. The intention was clear: put an end to the fighting. Save the professors. End the Games. And then figure out the university’s finances, somehow. 

Daniel was still poem-ing. I shoved my phone in my pocket and joined the fray. Ben Lener wasn’t exactly the choice I would’ve picked to launch the revolution — but I guess in a dystopia, it’s the fire that matters. It’s not all that important who lights the match. 

About the Author

Julianna Reidell is a Junior English and French major at Arcadia University. Her work won Gold and Silver medals in the national Scholastic Art and Writing Awards competition during high school; her humor piece “Love with Romeo and Juliet: A Parody” was featured in the Scholastic publication Best Teen Writing of 2019. Her work can be found in two Moonstone Press anthologies, Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine, and former issues of Quiddity.