Ellipsis_2017_WEB_Final_Publish

SPRING 2017
ellipsis
apex high literary magazine
A spirited
collection of
poetry, fiction,
satire, and art.

ellipsis
Apex High Literary Magazine
VOLUME 1 • ISSUE 1 • SPRING 2017
©2017 Ellipsis: Apex High Literary Magazine
A publication of Creative Writing I Honors 2016-2017
Margaret Nordt, Faculty Advisor

ellipsis
apex high literary magazine
contents
6 Editor’s Note | Claire Helena Feasey
50 The Storm | Tori Plath
7 Honey | Una Holland
51 The Winter | Zari Wilson
8 Shipwreck at Dusk | Abigail Marshall
52 The War on Morons | Griffin Watson
10 Snow White | Alexa Ateshian
56 The Culinary Queen | Dawson Heinbaugh
12 Supermoon Vivarium | Addison Siemon
59 Kiss Me Goodnight | Kiersten Haverlock
15 I Hate Myself | Ashley Winefordner
60 Laughter and Sleep | Cameron Smailes
16 Bottled Memories | Cady Robinson
63 Bottled Up Bones | Lauren Bell
19 Learning | Lagni Pancholi
64 The Dream | Lily Martin
20 Cosmos | Emmaly Alba
65 Night Vale, Detail | Una Holland
21 A Day at the Beach | Savannah Laino
66 It’s Not About Dominance | Courtney Rowe
22 Dust Over Margaline | Emma Lynch
68 Dog’s Quality | Halle Landis
31 Clearing My Throat | Cady Robinson
68 Minute Man | Josh Thomas
32 Seasons | Logan Scott
69 Trips to Michigan | McKenna Landis
ellipsis magazine
apex high school
1501 laura duncan rd.
apex, nc 27502
33 Still Life with Dragonfruit | Lyra Feasey
34 Killing Two Birds | Naomi Rodriguez
36 Becoming a Successful Senior | Kate Baker
38 Good Day, Langston! | Brennan Cavaliero
39 The Path | Allison Crowley
40 Sunset Ponderings | Elie Rivera
71 Alicia the Alligator | Sunday Peoples
73 Shizukesa | Kyle Benton
75 How We Should Slaughter Animals | Logan Scott
77 Journal of a High School Junior | Danny Hazard
80 Ode to Charley | Claire Helena Feasey
82 Untitled | Adam Thornton
cover artwork
Yin and Yang
by Una Holland
tiny line artwork
by Claire Helena Feasey
supermoon vivarium
artwork
by Addison Siemon
41 Cinderella | Noelia Lopez-Navarro
84 Wyvern | Emma Lynch
42 Who’s Guilty? | Tierra Grant
85 Wings and a Clever Brain | Lyra Feasey
45 Cold | Anonymous
86 Refrigerator Poem | Claire Helena Feasey
46 The Nameless Cogs | Madison Coffin

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
editor’s note
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF | CLAIRE HELENA FEASEY
ellipsis staff
editor-in-chief
Claire Helena Feasey
copy editors
Emma Lynch
Addison Siemon
prose editor
Val Diaz
As the first Editor-in-Chief of Ellipsis Magazine, I
spent most of my “free” time thinking about what
to write for this Editor’s Note. But, naturally, I
waited until the last moment to actually write it.
This year was the final year that the original
campus of Apex High School was open, before it
was razed to the ground. We students were told to
express ourselves—through murals on every wall,
through newscasts in every homeroom, and through
courtyard celebrations—in honor of the old Apex
High building, and in preparation for the new one.
We were encouraged to take a trip “back to the
future.”
And so, Margaret Nordt, the Creative Writing
classes of 2016–2017, and I have worked diligently
to prepare a collection of prose, poetry, and art that
takes old concepts and transforms them into shiny,
modern ideas. Just like the spirit of this school will
always live on, all of these stories will continue on
in our hearts—with ellipses...
poetry editor
Kiersten Haverlock
art directors
Naomi Rodriguez
Una Holland
design production
Claire Helena Feasey
faculty advisor
Margaret Nordt
HONEY | UNA HOLLAND
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Abigail Marshall
shipwreck at dusk
FICTION | ABIGAIL MARSHALL
“Philip,” called a voice from behind the
ship’s wheel. “Reckon we’ll have good
weather this time ‘round?”
Philip searched the sky for clouds or
superstitious markings. “I suppose so,”
he replied, “but it’s probably too early
to tell.” He had been on the seas almost
three years, but had never quite gotten
the knack of predicting weather. All the
wind patterns and cloud formations just
went over his head. In a previous voyage,
he had been placed in charge of the
forecast, and led the crew into a violent
storm. Thank goodness, no one had
been hurt, but the near-death experience
had done a good number on his pride,
and his status as resident meteorologist.
Now a common cabin boy, he had little
responsibility over anything. Despite the
demotion, Philip still found satisfaction
in sailing the seas and smelling the salt as
it sprayed on his face.
After swabbing the deck, Philip
retired to his quarters to enjoy a wellearned
rest. As he approached the berth,
he felt a strong gust of wind. Gazing into
the horizon, he saw a large, looming cloud
in the distance. Unsure of his intuition, he
thought it best to disregard the sign and
return below deck.
The berth was a fairly relaxed place to
have a drink or two before going to bed.
Several men were there now, discussing
their lives back home, the weather, and
anything pertaining to food. Philip
struggled, wondering whether or not to
warn someone about the possible storm.
He decided against it in order to preserve
what little dignity he had left in the event
that he was wrong. After a few rounds of
Whist, he and several others settled down
for a rest.
Barely two hours had gone by when
everyone was awakened by shouts.
“All hands on deck!”
“Look alive, scallywags!”
Water was pouring down the stairs,
and thumping could be heard from the
footsteps of frenzied sailors. Philip ripped
off his tattered sheets and stumbled up the
stairs. He found himself surrounded by
all his shipmates, who were racing around
like ants in the presence of a boy bent on
crushing as many of them as possible.
The sky seemed to bow under the
weight of the torrential downpour. Drops
of water pierced the air like millions of
pieces of shrapnel. The sky, in the few
places it could be seen, was a blood red,
mocking the pain and fear of the sailors
below. Thunder bellowed in the distance, and Philip
wondered if somehow he could have prevented this.
His regret urged him to do as much as he could to
rectify the situation. Maybe, he thought, just maybe we
can make it out alive...
That was the last thought that ever crossed
Philip’s mind. As his hand reached for a rope to tie
down anything valuable, a powerful bolt of lightning
ripped through the ship snapping it in two. The
entire crew was either killed by lightning, or thrown
overboard to drown in frigid waters. Within the
hour, the storm dissolved almost as quickly as it had
appeared. Broken pieces of wreckage floated across
the sea to be found by unsuspecting civilians.
The sky above was still red with the blood of fallen
sailors. As the sun came to rest beyond the horizon,
the red faded out to orange. Clouds piled high above
the ocean, and rain began to fall; welcomed by some,
a foreboding menace to others.
. . .
That was the last
thought that ever
crossed Philip’s
mind.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Alexa Ateshian
snow white
POETRY | ALEXA ATESHIAN
Snow White was a beautiful princess
who wore a blue and yellow dress.
Her life was never a mess
until her evil stepmother, the queen,
decided to be really mean.
She sent for her huntsman to kill Snow.
When he found her, he couldn’t find it in him to do it,
so he told her to run away and promised that nobody would ever know.
The next day when the seven dwarves went off into the mines,
the queen had decided that it was now Snow’s time.
She came over to her window and offered her a red apple.
Snow took one bite
and fell to the floor without a fight.
The queen then gave a deep cackle.
The dwarfs came home and were not happy with the sight.
They watched over Snow as she slept day and night.
Things were no longer the same,
until finally Prince Charming came.
She soon came to a cottage to rest,
but the place was a mess and was filled with many pests,
so she tidied it up to make it look its best.
With true love’s kiss he broke the spell
and put the queen into hell.
In love Snow and the prince fell.
During her cleaning she came across seven little beds.
She grew tired and decided to lay down her head.
She woke to the sound of loud noises
and was surprised to hear seven little dwarf’s voices.
The seven little dwarfs made it their duty to protect Snow White,
and back in the kingdom the queen was disappointed to see she was still all right.
The queen was so mad
She disguised herself as an old hag.
For Snow, this was very bad.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Addison Siemon
supermoon vivarium
FICTION | ADDISON SIEMON
Excerpt from Supermoon Vivarium or, The New Adam.
Derelict
The final, dreaded dawn... leading nowhere, into
nothing: into the commitment.
When the Eidolon moved from his perch
on the grassy knoll, he picked a direction
away from where the prism suspended
in the sky, and began walking. For hours,
he meandered. The sun set, but the
stars were redressed by an alabaster
crescent. At a distance down his path, a
bleached glimmer concealed behind thick
overgrowth beckoned for the Eidolon’s
attention. Some time passed before he
reached his destination.
From the foliage emerged a perilous
pinnacle rising from murky Earth: a
metallic edifice, twisted and contorted
by time. This was no organic form—
no tree or stone—unlike most anything
the Eidolon had seen. Timidly, the
Eidolon made his way through the ruins,
overpassing a coruscating aureate bridge
leading into the structure. What were
these remains? What creatures had once
nested here, so far removed from the
paradise of the Vivarium?
The gilded behemoth, a golden
annular door of mammoth expanse,
stood bolted and secure. Its towering
presence dwarfed the Eidolon tenfold,
a cold wraith of quondam glories. His
eyes scanned the ominous borders of the
entrance. Titanic ivory vines stemming
from the primordial earth surrounding
the construction clambered up its surface,
radiating a dim light from their surface.
One such growth had erupted through
the margin of the door, leaving a cavity in
its wake. Forthwith the Eidolon moved.
Tightly, he gripped some fibers of the
creeping vegetation, and pulled himself
onto its crest, following its path beyond
the entryway. The narrow crevice in the
door allowed very little movement, but
with some effort, it was manageable.
As the Eidolon made his way inside,
the sound of rending metal tore from
high above the Earth. The Supermoon
hummed with an ominous, melancholy
tone. The Eidolon slipped through the
crack.
Within the facility, an antipode
environment revealed itself. Hoary
floors filled sweeping halls, trimmed with
intricate gold adornments and feeble
spotlights. Through the ceiling poured
moonbeams, illuminating the crystalline
vines, which scrambled from floor to
ceiling. They lacerated the walls, tearing
the ancient stones from their place. The
spectacular quiet was broken by a voice
secluded.
Through the ornate corridors, the
Eidolon’s pace echoed in resonance with
the distant murmur. As he approached, it
grew louder, more broken and distorted
with each step. He turned the corner.
Reverie
“We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty
build, But really build eidólons.”
—Walt Whitman
In the center of the room, at the base of
an overgrown planter, a gilded control
sparked as it was ripped apart by writhing
vines. From its shattered face, the voice
sang: a melodizing, repetitive “ah” sound
in differing notes and pitches. The
Eidolon drew closer.
When he touched the arcane controls,
the failing device flashed a series of
images on its splintered screen. The first
image was clear. There were others like
the Eidolon. They smiled, their gowns
and garbs floating in breezes long past,
over azure skies and emerald plains.
A second image replaced the first.
A cloaked figure stood on a balcony
overlooking a hazy sea of steel and glass.
Vast complexes of buildings spanned
across boundless distances. There was no
tree or shrub in sight. On the horizon sat
the Supermoon, but it was different. It
was whole, in a perfect prismatic form. Its
symmetry was pure.
A third image appeared. The cold and
gold hull was lined with seemingly endless
rows of chambers. Each contained a
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
specimen, some form of life preserved
in a sleep. One chamber in the distance,
barely visible, sat alone. A human form,
curled in figure, sat in stasis, preserved by
the Supermoon. It was the Eidolon.
The next image rapidly replaced its
predecessor. From the bottom of the
Supermoon ran a crimson beam. In its
wake lay flame and ruin, splitting the
horizon in a furious light.
Abruptly, the screen fizzled from
view. The vines creeping around it had
shattered its surface. What remained,
however, was a revelation. Man had
destroyed its Earthly mother. Their
Supermoon destroyed its creator, in turn.
Now the Eidolon faced the same cyclical
complication.
Verdict
The Eidolon scrambled from the derelict
hell-space, a link between past and future.
Tears welled in the corners of his warm
eyes, only to streak away as he skittered
through the jungle. Reaching the familiar
knoll, he collapsed in the cerulean sod.
He turned, facing the broken
Supermoon. It wasn’t just broken; the
creation was dying. Age had torn the prism
apart. The Supermoon had awakened the
Eidolon, a clone of a human, in hopes he
would save the prism from its demise.
Who was truly broken? The
Supermoon, shattered and split, helplessly
awaiting death amongst the stars;
Humanity, betrayed and eradicated by
their creation; or the Eidolon, forged by
despair, created to mend his creator, who
had destroyed its own?
In the dell, the larger craft returned.
Its doors opened, and from the sides of
the machine poured the smaller drones.
They set about monitoring the wildlife
while the Eidolon watched. He moved to
his feet, and hobbled towards the metallic
beast. The Eidolon hoisted himself inside
its cavity, and plopped himself towards
the center. When the drones were called
back, the doors closed, and the craft
parted from the Vivarium.
The Supermoon lay ahead.
. . .
All illustrations by Addison Siemon
I will not apologize for still loving her
If I could, I would
But I see her everywhere
And I haven’t felt this way in a long time,
Not since last year.
Now I just see her brown eyes in everything.
I wanted hot chocolate today
But the drink reminded me of her eyes
And the steam heated my cheeks like she used to
And I couldn’t stop crying.
I’m trying, I’m trying
She’s just so beautiful
And I dream every night of holding her hand.
Sometimes I hold my own
just to pretend for a second that it’s hers
But her hands are small and perfect
And mine can’t keep steady
and they could never keep her happy.
So really I just hate myself;
I hate myself for loving her.
i hate myself
POETRY | ASHLEY WINEFORDNER
I wanted hot
chocolate today
But the drink
reminded me of
her eyes...
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Cady Robinson
bottled memories
FICTION | CADY ROBINSON
I brushed my fingers over the rows of
glass bottles that sparkled like gems.
Millions of bottles lined the walls of the
small, shabby room.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” A
sweet, yet melancholy voice floated above
the rows of bottles. I turned quickly, scared
that I had been caught doing something
unforgivable. A woman was standing at the
top of the cellar stairs. At first glance you
could tell she was beautiful. She was pale
and slender, and her red lips turned down
into a frown. Her green eyes reflected a
certain air of sadness.
“No, no it’s fine.” She caught my
look of fear and her mouth curled into
a sorrowful smile. The woman’s fine
figure glided down the stairs and she
approached me.
“Who are you?” I asked. She looked
up at me and her eyes looked into mine.
Immediately, I stepped back.
Her face turned crestfallen. “Oh, it’s
quite alright, no one likes to stand too
close.”
“What are these?” I asked, bewildered
by the sparkling bottles.
She put her thin fingers on a dark
green bottle. “Memories.” She tore her
hand away like it caused pain, and turned
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to look at the other wall. “Who are you?”
the woman asked.
“Giovanna,” I answered timidly.
“Ah.” She raised her eyebrows. “The
Royal Lady?”
I straightened my spine. “Yes. Might I
ask who you are?”
“No one of importance.”
“Everyone is of importance.”
“Would you like to go into a memory,
my lady?” she asked with a slight smile,
ignoring me and plucking a bottle off the
wall.
I was skeptical of what she meant, but
nodded my head, indicating that I did want
to go. The Woman of No Importance took
the cork out of a pink-colored bottle, and
the room was swallowed in fog.
* * *
When the fog cleared, I was lying on the
ground. I was no longer in the bottle room.
The room was draped in red velvet, and
lovely scents wafted through the air. Nobles
were dressed in their best finery, and they
laughed and mingled throughout the room.
I stood up and almost bumped into a
lord. “Sorry,” I murmured. He didn’t look
at me.
“He can’t see or hear you. No one
can,” a voice said from above.
I nodded. Of course not. It was
merely a memory. I walked through the
crowd and pushed my way to the center
of the room. At the front of the room
on a dais covered in gold and velvet
was… me. It was my coronation day,
how could I forget? I had a certain fear
in my eyes that I tried to conceal with
laughter. Suddenly, a fog flooded the
scene before me, and once again I saw
the bottle-lined room. The mysterious
woman set another bottle in my hand,
and I saw another scene.
This one was not familiar. I was
standing in a green meadow. The sun beat
down on my neck and it felt beautiful
outside. A girl danced barefoot in the soft
grass. Her white dress swayed around
her ankles, and the flowers in her ginger
hair shook loose. People danced around
her to the sound of a violin. A young
man ducked beneath the linked arms of
others gathered around in a circle, and
grabbed the girl’s hands, leading her into
another dance at the center of the ring.
He twirled the girl, and then gave her a
kiss on the lips. Smiling people shouted
something in unison. It was in a language
I didn’t recognize, but soon realized that
it was an expression of congratulations.
I was at a wedding!
A fog crept into the meadow, and I
was flung into another memory. A spray
of cold water hit my face, and I gasped,
opening my eyes wide. It was extremely
dark, and I could feel the sway of a boat
beneath my feet. A flash of lightning
illuminated a frantic crew, struggling to
secure the sails of a sloop. A large wave
cascaded over our heads and crashed
down, soaking my dress and pulling the
pins out of my hair.
“Take down the flag!” yelled a man
from another part of the ship, his voice
nearly drowned out by the angry wind
and relentless rain.
I looked up to the top of the mast,
through the thick sheet of hail pouring
down, and saw a black flag with white
print flying from the post.
This was a pirate ship.
I ran across the deck and got a
closer look at the crew. They weren’t
stereotypical pirates, in fact many of
them were quite handsome.
I didn’t realize that the fog had
returned until I was actually back in the
original room filled with bottles. The
Woman of No Importance was smiling
genuinely this time.
“Now you see?” she asked.
“See what?” I replied, confused, still
wrapped up in the sheer wonder of what
I’d seen. I wanted to see more and more
of those beautiful colors and people.
“Nevermind,” the woman said softly.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Slowly, I came back to reality, like
after drinking heavy wine. “Why do you
seem so sad when you have all of these
wonderful memories at your disposal?” I
asked. I couldn’t imagine being depressed
when I could open a bottle and be
transported into a different world entirely.
“Because of the faults in human
logic,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. “Once, I went into a
memory and fell in love. The person
couldn’t see me or hear me, and I was
slowly driven insane by this human desire
to love and be loved. I tried everything
I could possibly imagine to be with that
person but nothing worked.” She started
to turn around and touch the bottles
again. “I finally decided to get help, but
the person I’d turned to, my best friend,
someone I trusted, betrayed me by telling
others about the bottles. So, I had to get
rid of them. No one could get in the way
of my bottles and me.”
“You killed your friend?” I started
to move closer and closer to the door. I
couldn’t be in here.
She turned around, and I noticed a
carnal glint in her eyes. “Yes! They would
have smashed my precious bottles and
destroyed my love if I hadn’t! I couldn’t let
that happen! I will find a way for us to be
together! Even if it’s the last thing I do.” At
this point her eyes were furious and she
was almost foaming at the mouth like a
rabid beast.
My hands were hovering over the
bottle that was on the wall at my back,
just in case she tried something. I had
no idea how I would get back home if it
accidentally transported me to a memory,
but it was a better alternative than murder.
“How about we go back to the main castle
and I can give you a meal?” I asked the
woman. My mind started to race. She
didn’t want a meal, she wanted blood.
This woman was going to kill me, and my
remains would never be found.
“No, I can’t let you tell anyone about the
bottles!” the woman screeched hysterically.
“They will take them from me!”
“No one will take the bottles. This will
be our little secret. No one needs to know,”
I assured her in a soothing tone. “I will just
take you to the castle.”
The woman’s hand disappeared into
her pocket. “How do I know that I can
trust you?”
Fearing she was reaching for a
weapon, I tightened my grip around the
bottle I now held in my hand. She took a
step forward, and in one swift motion, I
smashed the bottle against her head.
. . .
One day, several young elephants were
approached by the elder elephants of
the herd. It was tradition that the young
ones learn the elders’ rituals, or they
would not be allowed to stay with herd,
and would have to live on their own.
The elder elephants would teach the
younger generation certain things such
as predicting weather and studying other
animals instead of hunting, gathering, or
other necessary life skills.
The elder elephants emphasized
a critical exam that would be taken
near adulthood that would ultimately
determine their existence in the herd,
even though they were already part of it
for many years. To prepare for this critical
exam, the elders gave many exams like
it. While some young elephants did well,
many others failed. But many elephants
found ways to pass the onslaught of
tests, eventually leading up to critical
exam.
About half of the young elephants
passed the exam. The other half failed
and were exiled from the herd. In protest,
the young elephants that passed exiled
themselves and created a herd of their
own. They soon realized how unprepared
the elders had made them. They knew
learning
FICTION | LAGNI PANCHOLI
nothing about survival and what may
be harmful for them. The elephants had
to experiment to survive. They had to
make sacrifices. They had to do this for
the good of future generations so they
would not get stuck in this unfair system.
Eventually, the elephants that survived
created a fair system. A system that taught
necessary life skills. A system that was not
based on stressful tests. A system based
on character, rather than trivia.
. . .
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
cosmos
POETRY | EMMALY ALBA
a day at the beach
POETRY | SAVANNAH LAINO
She was prancing through the lace of the queen’s dress,
with soft pillowed daisies growing without stress.
Dandelions floated off as her legs kicked up high,
creating great clouds in the pale blue sky.
Cosmos loomed over her head,
shadowing the ivory flower bed.
A river of royal blue,
flowed from her dress in a brilliant hue.
Her hair was golden and bright,
smiling upon the flowers and giving them light.
If she cried out of happiness or sadness
Her tears turned into diamonds that drove them to madness.
They collected her tears and hoarded them for themselves,
Tore at her now muddy dress and left nothing else.
They grabbed at her hair and pulled her down,
Cutting the gold strands that will never be crowned.
On the last day of summer,
I traveled in a bright, blue hummer.
Making a spontaneous beach trip with my friends.
My beach day began with the blistering sun on my cool skin,
and a breathtaking scenic view of the amazing aquamarine water.
From a distance I saw a father and daughter,
enjoying a perfect beach getaway.
Setting up Tommy Bahama beach chairs,
and feeling the salt go through my hair.
My friends and I set up a beach volleyball net,
then we started to play a friendly set.
As the bright blue sky faded to a sunset orange,
and the pelicans swooped offshore.
My tranquil and relaxed beach day;
came to an end and summer dripped away.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Emma Lynch
dust over margaline
FICTION | EMMA LYNCH
The power lines were down along Route
54. An hour ago, the air conditioner had
whirred, spitting out the final dregs of
coolant, before sputtering to a stop. Noe
lay in the resulting stillness, sweat beading
on his forehead, the rough twill of the
couch pressing lines into the back of his
neck, the back of his legs.
He’d broken down and pulled on
nylon shorts this morning when the radio
predicted lows in the high 90’s.
In the kitchen, the radio still hummed.
Weather reports flickered on after golden
oldies, the steady buzz of static filling up
all the empty space.
On the living room floor, Jane played
Chutes and Ladders against herself, her
quiet narration nearly inaudible beneath
the noise of the radio. A full glass of
chocolate milk sat next to her on a coaster.
All perishables must go.
Outside, the sky was lazy. Clouds
drifted through the saturated blue with
eyes at half mast, barely mustering the
energy to shade the ground below them.
The whole world slowed, then stalled, in
the mid-July heat.
Noe peeled himself from the couch
and stood up, stretching his arms up, up
towards the ceiling. “It’s hot, Janey-bee,”
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he said, and his sister looked at him.
She was only seven, with these
horrible bangs that she gave herself, and
her hair in braided pigtails. Her face was
chubby in all the right places, and her
nose reminded Noe of a raspberry. She
was going to be killer when she grew up.
Not that she didn’t get everything she
wanted now.
“I know, Noe,” she said, so impatient
with him she didn’t even comment on her
favorite pun, “I’m afraid Barbie’s head will
melt.”
“Barbie’s head won’t melt,” Noe
promised. He’d grown this summer, just
in the month and a half since they’d left
school, and the new shortness of his shirts
surprised him. He pulled the hem down
and tucked it into his elastic waistband.
“And if it does, we’ll pop it out again and
put her into the freezer when the power
turns back on.”
Jane studied her brother, and then
picked up her glass of milk. Her chin and
nose were already covered in chocolate,
because she refused to use a small-person
cup. She drank out of a coffee mug, the
rim of the cup touching her eyebrows as
she tilted it, both small hands wrapped
around it.
Noe went into the kitchen. He went
to the fridge and traced his fingers over
the magnets. Don Henley cried about
deadheads and bumper stickers. Noe
couldn’t open the fridge, couldn’t let
the cold air out. Other than what was
trapped in the fridge, slowly heating, there
was no place for the vegetables, for the
milk, for the meat. The yogurt. Dinner
and breakfast and lunch for the rest of
the week. As Don Henley wound down,
promising his love for the rest of forever,
the batteries on the radio died with a pop.
The house was silent. No pulse, no
heartbeat, just Jane humming into the
cavern of her cup. Noe arranged the
magnetic alphabet on the fridge, one
primary colored letter after the other.
H O T D A M N
Sweat dripped through his collar,
down the underside of his arms. The shirt
was going to be gross, it was going to be
stained. He took it off over his head, and
threw it over the kitchen table.
“Hey, Jane,” his voice sounded
strange, big and echoey, “let’s get out of
here.”
* * *
Jane insisted on stripping off her Dora
shirt, too, leaving her in an undershirt
and too-bright shorts. She brought Barbie
along for the ride, tying the doll by the
neck to the handlebars. Noe ignored
the macabre picture and pulled his own
helmet on, shoving six water bottles into
his backpack. He sprayed Jane all over
with sunscreen, and then himself too, not
even bothering to rub it in.
Jane buckled her helmet, her pigtails
sticking out like twigs on either side of
her head. “Will Ms. Cado’s freezer be out
too?” she asked, too innocent.
Noe laughed. “Let’s go ask her.”
Perched at the top of the driveway, he
looked back at his sister, her tiny feet still
finding her tiny pedals. Ms. Cado sold
ice cream from industrial-sized freezers
in the back of Cado’s—the convenience
store—mecca for power-out opportunists
everywhere. He let her coast down the
slope first, her sandals dragging over the
hot pavement.
And then he followed, careful not to
get too far ahead of her.
Cado’s was just three blocks away,
past two blocks of houses and Main
Street. Margaline was a flat town: all flat
roads and flat-roofed houses, flat desert,
Joshua trees with flattened profiles and
flattened needles.
The wind wasn’t blowing, and Noe
couldn’t hear any birds. The whole town
had stopped breathing.
23

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Emma Lynch
Jane raced ahead, as fast as she could
go, her pigtails dragging through the wet
air. Pink and white streamers attached to
her handlebars flashed in the sunlight.
Her undershirt was soaked through.
The parking lot at Cado’s was empty.
Just the Cado family’s Fiesta in the lot,
dull in the dust. Noe dumped his helmet
and his bike next to the brick wall, and
Jane laid hers right by it, carefully. “You
gotta be nice to your things,” she scolded,
taking her helmet off and buckling it tight
again, “so that you can keep them for a
long time.”
“I know, Janey-bee.” Noe wiped his
forehead and his chest. God, he was so
gross. The whole day was so gross. “Let’s
just get some ice cream and then go
home.”
Jane nodded decisively, and led the
way into the store. The bell on the door
jingled as the siblings stepped inside, a
cheery sound that seemed out of place in
the dark interior of Cado’s.
Usually, there were florescent lights
and the buzz that accompanied them, but
the power outage left the store dark. Not
silent, though.
Ms. Cado stood pressed against the
counter, her knuckles white on the edge as
she listened. A black rectangle of a police
scanner stood lopsided on the counter,
leaking noise around the edges. She didn’t
even look as Jane walked inside, her tired
eyes fixed on the antenna.
If Noe had thought about it hard
enough, it would have been the moment
when he knew.
But he didn’t think about it hard
enough, and Jane walked up to the counter.
The counter’s wood edge crossed just in
front of her eyes, but she turned her chin
up and placed her palms flat down on the
lacquer. “Do you have free ice cream?”
Jane’s voice was young and sweet, and
Ms. Cado looked up, intensity bleeding
out of her. “Of course, dear,” she replied,
touching at her eyes with perfectly
manicured nails. “Just in the back. And
who are you,” she said, turning to Noe, “to
go teaching your sister to take advantage
of others?” She swatted at him playfully,
but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Jane raced off towards the back,
towards the dark freezers, her light-up
shoes reflecting off the tile floors.
Noe’s mother Nina, had grown up
in Margaline, and knew everybody. She’d
grown up two blocks down from their
current house. She’d gone to the same
school in the same building, taught by the
same teachers as her own children.
She could have left, like their Uncle
Joseph. She was smart enough, and had
the grades. But she’d gone to the Police
Academy instead, learned how to fight
and then how not to fight, and then she’d
come back. She’d bought the house down
the road from her parents. She’d introduced
her children to the same people who’d
known her as she’d grown up. Including
Ms. Cado.
Noe watched Jane while Nina was
at work, though. Especially during the
summer. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like
there was anything else to do in Margaline.
Mostly teenagers would hang out on the
damn, or behind the old factory off of
Main. Nina said it was drugs, but Noe
thought it was adrenaline. A different sort
of junkie.
He played with the pages of People,
letting the magazine’s slick pages brush
against the tips of his fingers. “Sorry, Ms.
Cado.” He tried to be as sheepish as he
could, but she laughed him off, pausing to
turn up the volume on the scanner.
The hiss of static sounded like gas.
Ms. Cado cleared her throat and talked
over the noise, almost masking it. “I saw
your mother not an hour ago.” In the back,
Jane dropped something heavy. It hit the
ground with a finality, and Noe swallowed.
“Sorry!” she called, and Ms. Cado
laughed again. There was a nervous energy
to her voice, to the way she moved her
hands.
Noe chose to ignore it and pressed
on. “My mother?”
“Oh, of course,” she muttered to
herself and fiddled nervously with the
scanner, turning the antenna one way, and
then the other. “She came by and made
sure this,” said Ms. Cado, gesturing to the
scanner, “was all set up. Then she went
down to sort out that hullabaloo on Route
54. There was a collision, or something?”
She shook her head and made a small
sound of disapproval.
Noe couldn’t tell if the disapproval
was of the collision, the hullabaloo, or the
production of it all, but he felt his heart
clench. He knew Ms. Cado sensed that his
mother was lying. No collision on Route
54 could have taken the power down.
The lines were entrenched in girders,
great steel beams to the sky. There was
something else going on down there.
“Right,” he said, because he didn’t
want to call her on it. There was no point
in voicing what he already knew. He took
a plastic spoon from a bin, and wrapped
his fingers around the smooth curved
part. “Jane and I better get going. Are you
ready, Bee?”
“I’m ready,” Jane said, her arms
wrapped tightly around an entire carton
of chocolate ice cream. She was staring
at Ms. Cado, too. Noe didn’t know how
much of the conversation she’d heard.
“We’ll talk to you later,” Noe said,
handing Jane the spoon.
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25

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Emma Lynch
“Of course, dears,” Ms. Cado replied,
but couldn’t look them in the eye as she
said it, her attention straying back to the
scanner, leaving only static and the sad
farewell of bells to accompany them to
the threshold.
Noe had forgotten how oppressive
the full brunt of the heat was. He swiped
at the sweat beading on his hairline and
looked down at his sister. She’d worked the
plastic wrap off the top of the carton with
the handle of the spoon and was digging
in, the ice cream already melted and soft.
Noe stuck his finger in the top and
licked the chocolate off. “That’s so gross,”
he told her, but she just smiled, chocolate
staining the tip of her nose and the spaces
between her teeth.
“I like it,” she said, taking another
bite. “Are we going to visit Mommy?”
Noe nodded, unable to swallow the
uneasy feeling that stuck in his throat like
a burr. “Yeah, let’s go see if she wants to
steal a bite of your dessert.”
“I won’t let her!” Jane announced,
but she let Noe put the carton in his
backpack, all sealed up. He didn’t even
bother to wipe the sugar off her face. And
he let her leave the parking lot ahead of
him. There were no cars on the road, not
in either direction. Holding his breath he
pushed off after her, the heat from the hot
asphalt radiating up through his sandals.
Route 54 was a dead-end highway that
came from nowhere and led to nowhere,
but it was the only way in and out of
town. The high-voltage power lines that
ran along it had always had a menacing
stance, like giants from another planet.
They rose out of the desert too quickly,
and disappeared back into nothing again.
“They’re guards,” Nina would always
say, her voice quiet as they drove back into
town.“Watching over us.”
But Noe kept his own watch—over
his mother, over his sister, over the whole
flat town.
Dust had settled over Margaline.
* * *
“She wasn’t exaggerating,” Noe said, taking
a water bottle from his backpack. The cap
bit into his palm as he twisted it open. The
water tasted plastic and stale and a little
warm, but it was better than nothing. He
offered it to Jane, but she refused.
She’d dropped her bike a ways away
from the fence separating the fields from
the highway. “There are a lot of people
here.”
Power company trucks were parked
next to fire trucks, which were tucked in
right next to police cars. Everyone had
their lights on, reds and blues and yellows
splashed across the noon landscape. The
sirens were off. Everything was eerily still.
Even the people. They were standing,
about twenty in all, with their arms crossed,
roughly in a semi-circle. Noe couldn’t see
what they were gathered around, though.
The heat shimmered between their legs,
a mirage of heat rising in front of them.
Noe squinted, but he still couldn’t make
out what they were doing.
“Let’s go see?” Jane asked.
“Right, sure.” Noe dropped his
backpack and pulled out her ice cream.
“You better finish this off before it melts.”
“Thanks.” She opened it up with her
sticky fingers, already coated in chocolate
up to her knuckle, and threw the lid on
the ground. “What?” she said when she
caught Noe looking at her.“It’s not like
I’m going to be needing it again.”
Noe shrugged and walked through
the brush. There was a stretch of lowlying
shrubs, and then a fence, and then
a shoulder, and then the road. And then
the cars and the people and then the
power lines. Noe could just make out his
mother’s silhouette, her hair pulled up
into a tight bun above her scalp.
“Do you need help getting over the
fence?” he asked his sister.
“Just hold this.” Jane handed him
the ice cream and her spoon. She pulled
herself—her orange-and-pink striped
pants, her light-up sneakers, her pigtails
hanging dully over the straps of her
undershirt—over the wooden slats. Noe
tucked his fingers against his palm, tight,
to keep from reaching out and touching
the top of her head. She hated that.
Once on the other side, she held out
her arms for her ice cream expectantly.
“Your turn!”
It was less of a production for Noe.
He had ten years and several feet on her.
They crossed the street together.
As they got closer, the object of their
attention clarified itself. It wasn’t a
mirage—a trick of the heat—but an
object with the properties of a mirage.
It was big, a giant water droplet almost,
distorting the land and the power lines
behind it. The people—their mother, the
fire chief, the police chief, the deputy, Mr.
Dawson—were gathered around its base,
looking up.
None of them had moved a muscle.
“What is it?” Jane asked. Her voice
sounded boxy and echoey in the wideopen
space, but none of the adults turned
their head.
Noe swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe
we should let Mom tell us about it at
dinner tonight.”
Jane looked up at him, her bangs
almost covering the tops of her eyes. “It
just looks like a big bunch of water.” She
dragged her palm across her face, pushing
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27

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Emma Lynch
her bangs out of her eyes. A big smear of
chocolate demarcated the top line of her
nose. “Like a pool, but in the air!”
“Janey-Bee, we should probably be
going.” Noe made to grab her hand, but
she pulled away, running towards their
mother.
“Mommy!” she shouted, and this
time everyone startled, turning around to
look at her.“What is that?”
Nina dropped her arms, and bent
down to scoop up her daughter, looking
at Noe with fear painted across her face.
“We don’t know yet, honey,” she said, her
voice low. “But we’re going to find out.”
Noe stepped closer. He put his arm
around his mother’s shoulder, his hand on
his sister’s back, but Jane shrugged him off.
“No,” she said, her eyes focused
intently on his. She stuck her spoon in her
mouth and bit down on it. “Watch.”
Behind her, the orb of water began
to rumble, the hypnotic bass reverberating
off the ground, tearing through Noe’s rib
cage. Nina stumbled back, her arms still
around her daughter, and Noe almost fell,
tripping over his own feet in an attempt to
get farther away, farther away. Someone was
screaming, high-pitched and confused, both
pitches caught in devastating harmony.
The orb began to shake, dragging the
power lines around it, warping the world
from one way to the other. Noe held his
breath as everything began to warp, tilting
upwards, upwards, towards the inside of
another globe. Noe scrambled to his feet.
Safety, his family, his home, was the other
way.
It was the other way.
It was the other way.
He pulled himself across the street
with his fingertips and willpower.
He heard his mother scream, the
tearing of the road, and how the metal
warped. Throwing himself around he
saw the world bend, pulling itself up, up,
up into a prism of water and refracted
light—shreds of cars, scraps of people—
pulling away from the earth’s surface and
collapsing in on itself.
Terror gripped Noe from the inside
out as he saw his mother, one of those
people, the shreds of her jacket and the
soles of her shoes, and the top of her
head with her perfect bun and her perfect
smile, bending, fading into the sphere.
And then it began to bubble.
Heat coursed off its side, the globe
itself becoming opaque as the contents
inside dissolved and roiled.
Noe felt sick to his stomach, the
smell of burning flesh and melted metal
mingling in the acidic steam. He screamed,
his voice tearing out of the back of his
throat, but he couldn’t hear himself over
the low grind of the bubble.
When it was done, it shrank back
down to its original size, clear and pristine.
Save for the jagged bite it had taken out
of the landscape around it, for the people
it had swallowed up, Noe wouldn’t have
been able to tell that anything had ever
been amiss. He pushed himself up to his
feet and staggered forward, heaviness in
his feet, in the tips of his fingers.
His mother, his sister. This was a
dream, just a dream. He was going to
wake up, peel himself off of his couch.
He was going to go to the refrigerator. He
was going to say “Hey Jane,” and then he
was going to say “Let’s get out of here,”
but they wouldn’t go to Cado’s, they would
go up to Charlie’s and jump into his pool,
fully clothed and innocent.
And alive. She couldn’t be dead, could
she? They both couldn’t be gone?
He fell on his knees at the edge of
the crater, the gaping half-bodies of cars
leering at him. Jane was sitting quietly right
against the curve of the bubble, still eating.
She looked up at Noe and smiled. Relief
hit him like a garbage truck, bowling him
over, and he sat down hard. “I’m coming
down to get you,” he said, when he had his
voice back. “Just hang on.”
She laughed. Her voice was still
young, but she sounded so, so much
older. “Run away, Noe. Run away as fast
as you can.”
“I know, honey. We’ll run away
together.” He turned to lower himself
down the dirt slope to her, his feet, in
flip-flops, sliding on loose gravel and
loose stone.
“That’s not what I meant.” He heard
her below him, heard her stand up and
throw herself at the steep walls of the
pit. He looked down, to see her tiny
chocolate-and-dirt streaked face looking
back up at him. Her teeth were bared in a
facsimile of a smile. “Do you know how
happy I am, that Mommy was one of the
first? That she was Chosen to power our
Mother? Our real Mother.”
Noe swallowed, his blood going cold
in his veins. “What are you talking about?”
Jane threw herself against the wall
again, but Noe wasn’t sure if he could call
her Jane anymore. Her tiny teeth bit into
her bottom lip, and she snarled, her lips
turning up at the sides. “You better run,
Noe. We’re coming to get you.”
And the globe shrieked in response,
dozens of small child-like forms pushing
their way out of the membrane. Distended
limbs and too-smooth heads, Noe didn’t
hang around to see anymore. He pulled
himself out of the crater and ran for the
other side of the road, nausea heavy on
the back of his tongue, tears burning the
bottom of his eyes. The heat didn’t touch
him anymore, numbness settling into his
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29

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
skin, his joints, down, down deeper. He fumbled
over the fence, grabbed his bike. He didn’t look at
Jane’s, he didn’t look at Jane’s. He didn’t look behind
him. He knelt and vomited into the bushes.
The sun seemed too bright when he finally opened
his eyes and pulled himself onto his bicycle. He still
could hear them—the things behind him, the things
that had killed his mother and his sister—he could
hear them screaming as they tried to pull themselves
free, composed of everything they’d destroyed.
He could hear them, but he wouldn’t listen.
With eyes half-closed, he pedaled to Cado’s. And
the dust settled over Margaline.
. . .
My mouth feels coated
with all the talking I’ve done.
All the words I have used,
blocking my throat from the things I need.
Because of all these words
swirling around my head,
I’m trying to make sentences.
Sentences that will determine life or death.
They’re just meaningless letters,
put into meaningless groups,
just marks on a paper that everyone pretends to understand.
Because there are so many words,
and I don’t understand any of them.
Much less which ones to use,
Because none of them can quite describe you.
So I went into the woods,
Surrounded by trees
And screamed so many things
to rid from my collection.
Off my tongue
Only came the things I knew,
But none of them quite described you.
They’re just meaningless letters,
formed into meaningless groups,
just marks on a paper that no one understands.
clearing my throat
POETRY | CADY ROBINSON
Off my tongue
Only came the
things I knew,
But none of
them quite
described you.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
seasons
POETRY | LOGAN SCOTT
The green grass meets its first frost, changing into brown.
Coats and mittens come out of the closet, ready to keep us snug.
Warm breath clouds the air as I exhale the cold.
Children gambol with the promise of endowments.
Fir trees shine from top to bottom bringing delight.
Snow covers homes and sidewalks.
People crawl into planes escaping to somewhere warm.
Trees loose their foliage becoming bare.
Animals creep into their cages for a long rest.
Storms and rain showers ring in the season.
Spring comes in whispers and then all at once.
Vibrant green trees line the sidewalk.
Birds chirp loudly, fluttering between them.
Poppies and tulips wake from their winter slumber,
opening to welcome pollinating bees.
Iridescent sun brings tranquil thoughts
with the lullaby of crickets showing off.
The heat creeps in; beaches crowd.
Freedom and anticipation builds in the atmosphere.
School bells ring for a final time;
children rejoice in happiness.
Adventures and excitement imminent for those of all ages.
Pool toys and towels spread around the yard.
Leaves begin to fall; the grass begins to brown;
Concert season begins to slow,
Young people return to school.
Mountains with rolling hills become the supreme destination.
The air turns crisp,
with the first breath of winter swirling in the air.
STILL LIFE WITH DRAGONFRUIT | LYRA FEASEY
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33

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Naomi Rodriguez
killing two birds with one stone
FICTION | NAOMI RODRIGUEZ
Nasir sat on the ledge at the window,
and gazed out towards the magnificent
kingdom. Osleland was a kingdom made
out of iron and glass, and when the
position of the sun was just right, its
appearance enhanced significantly. Nasir
noticed children no older than him down
on the ground, discussing something. He
assumed their conversation was about
the ritual in which he would have to take
part in the foreseen future. The ritual was
to prove whether he was ready to be an
adult. He would have to kill two birds
with one stone.
“Nasir, you must come and eat,”
his mother called. He swiftly got onto
his feet and walked towards the kitchen.
He quietly walked past his mother, who
faced the counter and cleaned remaining
batter from a pan, and sat on his chair.
The table was covered with a selection of
multi-colored, aromatic dishes that his
father shoved into his mouth.
“Na-Oh! You’re here. You’re as quiet
as a mouse.” His mother turned to face
him. Nasir nodded, silently agreeing with
his mother. Like her, he had eye-catching
ginger hair and bright eyes, similar to
gold. However, he had his father’s Roman
nose, thick lips, and cheekbones.
34
“Nasir is going to perform the ritual
with flying colors!” The words came from
his father’s mouth, which brought Nasir
out of his thoughts.
Nasir watched his father with lifeless
eyes, as if the body he possessed was just
an empty vessel. He thought about how
different he was compared to his parents;
they were cursed with fear, anger, sorrow,
and hatred. Yet, they were gifted with
hope, joy, and love.
He had never understood the reason
for the ritual his parents were so excited
about. He was nowhere near excited about
the pointless killing of two rare birds. Still,
the two birds he would kill were nowhere
near extinction. They were the only type
of birds left to have never been caged.
They weren’t even native to these lands.
These birds only came to the outskirts of
the kingdom, where the wildlife gathered
freely, to mate during spring and fall.
During the spring, the bird’s feathers were
full of life and painted with an artist’s
palette, making them breathtakingly
beautiful. During the winter, it was as
though the bird’s were finally washed
from God’s coloring.
After dinner, Nasir walked to his
room, wishing to work on what he had
to make for the ritual. At the makeshift
workshop near his large bedroom window,
he used a slightly rusted silver knife,
clipping away as much wood as possible,
to make the shaft of an arrow. He had to
make sure it was as straight as possible, as
it would affect the arrow’s ability to do its
job. Next, he would attach the stone head
to the top of the arrow, then finally, add
weight on the other side.
The preparations had been going
on for weeks now. The harsh, freezing
temperatures had become increasingly
worse, and it had slowed him down. He
quickened his pace to get ready for the
birthday ritual.
* * *
The ground was covered with a thick
sheet of snow. Nasir was crouching down
as close as possible to the ground, each
exhale visible to the forsaken forest. The
only sound heard was each step Nasir
took, which created a crushing noise.
Instead of using his hands for warm, he
kept his bow within his fingertips, ready
to use at any moment.
Nasir, bundled in his white furred
coat, froze once his ear picked up the
sounds of the bird calls he’d studied for
years. Looking around the tree, Nasir saw
his target.
Two white birds he had to kill.
Nasir carefully grabbed his arrow
from its quiver. Lifting his bow, he aimed
the arrow towards the two birds, who did
not know death had set its sights on them.
Something alien inside of Nasir
woke up; his heart quickened, adrenaline
pumped through his veins.
However, Nasir’s heart stopped once
he let the arrow go, causing red to paint
the snow where the two lively bird used to
be. He hastily stood up, running towards
the murder scene.
Why did I do that? Why?!
As his eyes began to water, he gently
let his fingertips caress one bird’s neck.
The bright red painted his hands, and guilt
rushed inside the young boy. He wanted
to scream; he wanted to wake up from
this nightmare. Yet, he knew he would be
forever stuck in this place. He would be
forever haunted by this moment.
. . .
35

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Kate Baker
becoming a successful senior
NON-FICTION SATIRE | KATE BAKER
Congratulations! You have finally made
it to the top of the high school totem
pole. You’ll soon learn that this means
absolutely nothing, but hold on tight for
now because you totally rule the school,
dude! Follow the guidelines below to
the exact T and you will be guaranteed
to ace your last year in your cockroachinfested,
moldy, old establishment, and
breeze straight into your freshman year
of college.
The first thing to consider when
preparing yourself for senior year is
how often you plan to attend your
classes. You are going to want to make
an appearance in all of your classes at
least three times a week. Choose your
days carefully! Don’t miss any tests or
quizzes, unless of course you didn’t
study the night before because you
definitely don’t have to, given that you
know everything and will get a 100%.
Gentlemen, you know you will have a
dime doing your coursework for you in
college because you’re going to lead her
to believe that you want a relationship
from her, so go ahead and skip as many
Discrete Math classes as you want.
Ladies, plan to take your days off based
around sales that your favorite stores are
having. You wouldn’t want to miss the
opportunity to spend that fifty dollars
your parents gave you (to put gas in your
2016 cars and grab lunch off campus,
duh) on a forty-seven dollar romper
that you can wear, one time only, and
for picture purposes, to one of those
catastrophic, underage-drinking-filled,
social gatherings that we love (country
concerts).
This brings me to my next point:
post anything and everything on all of
your social media sites! You got so turnt
at that party after prom in your best
friend’s basement, well, put it out there.
Tweet about your accomplishment!
Everyone who follows you from school
reserves the right to know everything
you are doing and exactly what’s on your
mind at all times. Don’t be shy either.
If you think for even one second that
you will get backlash over a picture
you want to put on Instagram because
maybe your cigarette or red solo cup is
visible, don’t even think twice about it.
Post your picture and own it! I promise,
what you put out there won’t follow you
for the rest of your life. I mean, you’ve
already been accepted to your number
one college choice, so who cares? Live it
up and share that ish, they won’t take your
acceptance back.
The third step to your success is
to make sure you are extremely rude
to anyone you come in contact with,
especially if they cross you wrong.
Someone parked in your parking spot?
Leave them a nice, little hate note
reminding them who you are and to get
the heck out of here because you have
earned this spot and you know they’re
only a sophomore. A teacher gives you
a bad grade? Might as well go ahead and
tell her off because you know she has
had it out for you through your entire
high school career and doesn’t care
about your success whatsoever. You are
out of here, buddy, it doesn’t matter
how you treat people now, you’re in the
fast lane to graduation. Act as entitled
and obnoxious as possible, society is
expecting that from you.
The final step to success is to do
absolutely nothing to actually prepare
yourself for college! Spend as much
time as possible worrying about your
prom dress and after prom plans, and
what shoes you will wear with your black
or navy graduation dress or pants. Do
whatever you want after graduation and
leave the college planning and shopping
to your under-worked moms. These are
the things that really matter, folks. College
kids can’t wait to hear about all the things
you did in high school or how you were
so cool. Don’t forget that it’s really cool
not to spend any time with your family the
summer before moving into your dorms.
You will be far too busy stressing out
(about what frat party you’re going to that
night, or how you’ll get drinks downtown
without a fake ID and wristband), to even
miss them. Whats more, will your family
even have time to miss you since you’ll
make sure to call your parents whenever
you need more money to indulge in your
hungover Cookout adventures?
Following these steps will guide you to
becoming a successful high school senior.
If you need a simpler version, remember
this; be lazy, be mean, don’t worry about
your grades or what other people think
of you, and do whatever your little heart
desires. There is no way you won’t be
totally prepared for college by the end of
the summer.
Seize the day, my friend! You’ll be
such a successful senior in high school,
there is no possible way you will fail in
college.
. . .
36
37

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
good day, langston!
POETRY | BRENNAN CAVALIERO
the path
POETRY | ALLISON CROWLEY
Good day, Langston!
I went up to the airport,
I bought a ticket and waited.
I tried to smile but couldn’t,
And I screamed as sounds faded.
I stood up once and shrieked!
I stood up twice and yelped!
If that plane hadn’t a-been so high
I might’ve fallen and died.
But it was
High on that plane!
It was high!
I took the parachute
Sixteen stories higher than ground.
I thought about my worries
I worried about my thoughts
And decided I would jump down.
So right now since I’m breathing,
I guess I will continue.
I could’ve jumped for fear—
But, I’m breathing, yelping,
shrieking, thinking, and worrying;
That’s just living fine
Though you may hear me shriek,
And you may see me yelp—
I’ll be dumbfounded, sweet baby,
If you gonna witness me die.
Life is fine!
Fine as wine!
Life is fine!
Thank you, Langston Hughes.
There is a path along the river
That I walk upon at night.
In the cold I start to shiver,
But I’m calm as he holds me tight.
We reminisce about the good and the bad
and laugh about everything funny.
We look into each other’s eyes
and I get butterflies in my tummy.
Our bond is as pure as a turtle dove
and he means everything to me.
I realize he is my one true love
as he gets down on one knee.
I stood there and I shrieked!
I stood there and I yelped!
If it hadn’t a-been over water,
I might’ve jumped on kelp.
But it was
Wet down there!
It was wet!
38
39

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
sunset ponderings
POETRY | ELIE RIVERA
cinderella
POETRY | NOELIA LOPEZ-NAVARRO
While I’m walking through the woods
Alone at night,
I come to a conclusion that
Shakes me and releases me
What if I don’t matter?
Who am I really?
The quiet of this sky is
Eternally peaceful,
Can the stars hear me breathing?
Of course they can’t, I’m too
Far off,
I’ll be dead before my carbon
Is realized by them.
I’ll never have the grace of
The trees as they become
The subtle foreground of the
Evening.
I’ll never master the artistry
Hidden in the soft tufts of
Clouds, tiny communities
Of frosty water droplets
Huddled together for warmth.
My heart beats too red,
Too hot,
My blood’s a chemically-tainted
Thing
Which I somehow rely on
Entirely for my own survival.
What if instead I could run
On cool stream water?
Or how about the memories
That hang in the air?
Why must I be so
Imperfect a being
Which relies on fluids and
Sparks and chemicals
To function in life?
I’ve got plenty of love,
Isn’t that enough?
Why must I be so formulaic?
Oh, but see,
These questions aren’t for me
To answer
Or understand
For I am just a man,
And I just sit at the
Kid’s table.
Cinderella lived a very unhappy and lonely life
Her only friends were the birds in the trees and the rats in the walls
With two mean stepsisters and one awful mum
She did all the chores from sun up to sun down
They gave her no praise and certainly no raise.
The sisters were rude—they were cheap, mean, and crude.
But, Cinderella, she stood for all that was good.
She cleaned and she cleaned, even worked from dusk to dawn
Still, no one cheered; she felt, left out, abhorred.
The stepsisters teased her, and the rest just ignored
She wore rags and walked in wooden shoes.
Her stepsisters and stepmother wore the silky dresses and beautiful heels
She was the one who wasn’t supposed to be born
She cried herself to sleep every night
Wishing she wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow to see another day
Or at least wishing her life would change
She didn’t want to live in that misery
But finally her prayers were answered the day of the ball
She didn’t wake up
She could finally sleep forever
Nothing lasts forever
Happiness does not last forever
Sadness does not last forever
40
41

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Tierra Grant
who’s guilty?
FICTION | TIERRA GRANT
It was a dark black night, and the moon
glistened on the dark blue lake. There was
a small, one-story, white house sitting in
a residential neighborhood. All forms of
life were sleeping and, there was a distinct
noise of bull frogs croaking in the starry
night. Deeper inside the house was a darkskinned
man with long dreadlocks that
fell to his lower back. Ron was a typical,
average person. Like many other people
on this gloomy night, he was sleeping in
bed peacefully while quiet filled his home.
BAM. A black, glistening Volvo
rammed head-on into the side of Ron’s
house. Debris floated down on the
carpeted floors and pieces of wood were
everywhere. The car was inches away
from crushing Ron. Swoosh. Ron escaped
his bed quickly, edging his way toward
the kitchen phone, barely mustering the
muscle to move. Every part of his body
had stiffened from the unexpected visitor
arriving at his home. Ron’s heart pounded
harder and harder against his chest.
Slowly, the driver’s seat door opened,
and Ron became even more horrified as
he stumbled to his feet trying to make his
way to his phone. His arm stretched out
a few inches away from the phone, but,
POW, a sharp-edged bullet pierced the
top of his right hand. The blood gushed
out quickly, and he lost his hold on the
phone. Instantly he felt dizzy, and his
surroundings blurred as he attempted to
grab a drawer for stability; but, his hands
missed the handle and Ron fell to the floor.
For a moment, everything went black.
As soon as his vision cleared, he
could see his black phone a few feet away.
He glanced up to see no one around.
The house was completely silent with
no ruckus or disturbance. It seemed safe
enough to make it to the phone, although
his arms still felt like spaghetti. Finally,
Ron regained some muscle strength that
allowed him to edge his way off the
cold wooden floor. His body still wasn’t
fully recovered from the hard fall, but he
gradually groped his way to the phone and
dialed 911.
A muffled voice on the other end
of the line answered saying “911. What’s
your emergency?”
Ron replied, “There was a break—”
WHACK, the criminal inside the house
cracked Ron upside the head with a frying
pan. Again, the phone smashed to the
floor with a loud crack. Little black plastic
pieces spread across the floor surrounding
Ron where he lay unconscious.
After a while, Ron came to, only
to see a shadowy figure in the far-left
corner of his kitchen. The figure was
motionless, as if it weren’t real. Ron
squinted his eyes to get a better view, and
with each second his anxiety increased.
Taking a deep gulp, afraid for his life
and of the still shadow near him, he
tried to get up and leave. However, he
knew he didn’t have the power or will to
move. He had to think, and he had to
think quickly before the figure decided
to become active. He hurriedly searched
the room for any form of weapon to use,
but saw nothing. Ron knew he had to
come up with another plan, but while he
was thinking, the dark black silhouette
slowly rose. The figure grew taller and
more terrifying to Ron. It crept up to
him. With each step it became more
frightening, and Ron felt more and more
helpless on the floor.
As the figure approached, Ron made
out the mysterious character. He was a
short man with a scruffy beard. His face
was covered in wrinkles, and his eyes
were wild with an unpleasant, dreary,
red look. The man had unkempt, greasy
blonde hair while Ron, not knowing what
to do, just stared, appalled at the sight.
The man didn’t say a word. Instead, he
pulled out a small black handgun and
pointed it directly at Ron.
Thinking it would end at any second,
Ron watched his life flash before his eyes.
BANG. The small white door to
Ron’s house flew open. The scruffy old
man looked away from Ron, and once
he was distracted, Ron saw his chance
to escape. He swung his foot with a
powerful force to the man’s lower leg.
They both tumbled to the ground and
the man lost his grip on the handgun,
which then slid across the room. Ron
tried to crawl toward the gun, but the
man dragged him back with a tight hold
on Ron’s foot. Next, the man lifted his
elbow and pounded directly into Ron’s
knee cap. Hearing and feeling the snap of
his bones, Ron howled but was somehow
able to find the strength to snatch the
frying pan. With one powerful blow, Ron
hit the man and crawled towards the gun
again.
“FREEZE.” The word echoed in
Ron’s ear, and he looked up to see a large
number of cops surrounding him. He
was so relieved to see them. Finally, he
thought, he was safe from that hooligan
criminal who had broken into his house.
“Don’t move!” an officer exclaimed.
Ron was baffled.
“Why are the police talking to me like
that?” he wondered. Ron tried to get up to
explain, but instead the police insisted he
remain on the floor with his hands up.
42
43

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Ron continuously
tried to explain
his side of the
story, but
to deaf ears.
He tried to explain, “You are mistaken; this is my
house and I’m the one who called 91—,” but he was
interrupted by the man who’d just tried to kill him.
To confuse the police, the cunning, short man sat
there pretending to be innocent. Seeing the police’s
automatic sympathy towards him, he continued and
informed them that Ron had pointed a gun at him after
running his car into the house to steal his precious
belongings. Ron was furious and tried to explain to
the police. However, instead of helping Ron up, the
officers forcefully pushed Ron back to the floor and
held him down. Ron continuously tried to explain his
side of the story, but to deaf ears. Instead, one police
officer handcuffed Ron, and read him his Miranda
rights while the guilty man watched.
The police guided Ron out of his own house.
Ron glared at the guilty man. There was nothing else
he could do at the time. For his safety, Ron willingly
went with the police as the man quietly slithered away.
He also knew he would be able to provide proof, as
well as file a lawsuit afterwards.
This was how it ended.
Be careful in different situations, for the outcome
is never predictable. Just when you think you have
everything figured out, you’re wrong.
. . .
We are quite the pair, aren’t we?
We both share the same excitement for the lamest of things
And both have our little quirks that make us unique.
We complement each other quite nicely actually.
When we laugh, it is in hushed giggles at inopportune moments
When we should be paying attention,
Or it is in a loud guffaw which concerns those around.
But we never worried.
And when we watch sad movies,
It never rains, it pours.
The tears of our empathy run like rivers until
Our sad smiles and squeezed hands eventually chase them away.
I wonder what it is like to watch us bake.
You are helpless at following directions and I burn everything I touch.
I always end up with flour in my hair or icing on my face
When it was previously in your hands.
And when we speak, it is as if nothing else exists.
We grow so silent listening to the other I bet you could hear a pin drop.
And despite my dysfunctional ears and your soft voice,
I always hear everything you say.
But when we walk,
When we walk we are so distant.
The space between us could carve valleys into mountains.
Our sides may be cold and our hands may be empty,
But we are safe from those who may see.
cold
POETRY | ANONYMOUS
Why does safe feel so cold?
44
45

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Madison Coffin
the nameless cogs in the machine
FICTION | MADISON COFFIN
He didn’t stick out. He didn’t want to.
He went to school every day and did his
work like he was supposed to. He liked
mowing the lawn more than the average
person because of the sense of pride and
accomplishment that followed. He felt like
Hercules whenever he started the mower
with only one tug. Concerts scared him
with the booming speakers and all the
people packed together like sardines. He
hated sardines. He was a skinny guy but his
speed made up for it and earned him a spot
as starting safety on the school football
team. Not because he liked it, but in
hopes that he’d be awarded a scholarship.
He had a tendency to bite his bottom lip.
He scribbled down his random ideas and
observations in barely legible writing that
was almost never looked back on or used
for anything. He had friends per say, but
they never noticed when he was there
physically or mentally. He didn’t mind that.
He preferred it. No matter how many ear
infections he got, he could never swallow
even the tiniest of pills. He was an honor
student, but wasn’t outstandingly brilliant.
He was fascinated with science and the
way things worked. He didn’t know what
he wanted to do with his life. His sarcastic
thoughts hardly ever escaped his mind,
but when they did they often went over
people’s heads. His mom’s tattered classic
novels that he loved like nothing else in the
world contributed to his rather outdated
vocabulary. He never believed in perfect.
He thought perfection was relative. Maybe
he was right.
He walked into English and sat down
quietly, scanning the room and taking
mental notes about the behavior of his
peers. He looked at all the girls paired
together talking with an intensity in their
eyes that made him wonder what was so
important. They were mainly the skinny
girls squeezed into the tightest jeans
possible like they were a second layer of
skin. He silently scoffed at all the boys
congregated in the corner acting like they
were in third grade as opposed to juniors
in high school.
His attention grazed over a girl with
earbuds in, sitting at her desk, furiously
writing in a notebook. He wondered about
her sometimes. He didn’t think that she
was who everyone thought she was. For
some reason, despite her display of being
“normal,” he didn’t think she was as okay
as she seemed. Some days she looked like
she would crawl out of her skin and hide
under her desk if it wouldn’t draw so much
attention to her. Today was one of those
days. He glanced at the girls who talked to
her when group projects were assigned.
They were nice girls, but too oblivious to
even notice that she wasn’t quite the happy
girl they thought; so oblivious that it struck
him with a sense of familiarity. It reminded
him of so many days at lunch when he sat
there a galaxy away while his friends ate
their lunches, never bothering to bring
him back to Earth. He didn’t mind it, but
something told him she did.
He didn’t know her name and she
probably didn’t know his. He had always
been horrible with names. He opened his
pocket-sized notebook that resided in his
back pocket and scribbled in it, biting his
lip in an attempt to get all the thoughts
flooding his mind onto the paper before
anyone could distract him.
The bell rang and the teacher stormed
into the room, still earlier than her typical
tardiness. As class normally began, the
teacher rambled on about current events
and her own sarcastic opinions about
them. Everyone laughed.
He looked back at the girl. Still writing.
Just like he wanted to know how the world
worked, he wanted to know how her
brain worked—even more so. He knew it
wouldn’t be a simple task, considering he
couldn’t even figure out how his own mind
worked. He liked to think no psychologist
with a PhD, from any ivy league school,
with however many years of experience,
could solve that mystery.
She finished what she was writing but
he could tell her mind was still elsewhere,
her eyes glassy and glued to her lap. He
saw the brokenness in them and wanted
nothing more but to fix it. He didn’t know
how he was going to fix a problem he
knew nothing about, but he was going
to do it. The new confidence he found in
himself caught him off guard. He wasn’t
necessarily insecure, but he was never
willing to put himself out there like that.
He didn’t know what it was that drew him
to her like a moth to a porch light. She was
a mystery. One he could only dream of
solving. Or so he thought.
Class ended sooner than later, but
he couldn’t focus at all in AP Biology,
which was unusual considering it was his
favorite class. He barely heard the teacher
talk about all the cell organelles working
together with every microscopic part
fitting together, and working together in
a way hard to imagine. Even the tiniest
of the tiny parts were essential to the
survival of the organism. This naturally
amazed him.
Lunch rolled around and she hadn’t
yet escaped his mind. He saw his friends
huddled together, about to go inside the
cafeteria to eat. The sight of them and the
46
47

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Madison Coffin
thought of going along was too much.
He ducked into the library and plopped
down onto the end of a small couch
residing in the corner with other furniture.
Sometimes students would come to read
or do an assignment and use the area, but
at the moment there was no one there.
Within a few minutes, students started
filling in the chairs surrounding him and
the couch opposite of him. They were
mainly in groups of two or three, laughing
about God knows what. He was busy
looking over his notes from class, which
he had written in such a frenzy that the
words blended together until the page
resembled alphabet soup.
He was too focused to notice anything
going on around him, but eventually a
voice brought him back to reality.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
It was her. He shook his head and
scooted even closer to the arm of the
couch. He didn’t know what to say. What
was there to say? Suddenly he felt a breath
on his neck, and when he looked to his
right he saw her leaning over his shoulder
looking at his notepad.
“Jesus, I can’t make out a single word,”
she said. Apparently, she had recovered
from whatever it was that was weighing
her down in third period. “Mind if I look
through?” She reached for the notebook,
as if he had already granted her permission.
He had no response. He was
surprised that she had come off so
strong, when just hours earlier, he had
seen her practically crippled.
He handed her the notebook without
even looking at her. He didn’t know why
he had done it. In a moment of urgency
and panic, he forgot what was in there.
“Is… is that me?” she asked, startled
by the sketch that his notebook was
opened to. He shook his head violently. In
the sketch, a girl was bent over a notebook,
her pencil hovering above the page. “Are
you mute or something?” she asked.
He started to shake his head, and
then decided against it. “No, I just, uh—”
he began, not knowing how to end his
sentence. She was now looking into her
lap, unsure of what to say. He felt his face
get redder than it had ever been, the heat
positively unbearable.
“It’s really good, I mean, I have a
few questions... but it’s amazing,” she
said, mesmerized by the shading and
precision. “It’s a lot better than whatever
you were trying to write on that other
page,” she continued, laughing at her
own joke. He could tell it was more of a
nervous laugh than a genuine one, but he
couldn’t blame her.
He finally piped up, surprising
even himself. “You went through my
notebook, so I get to go through yours,”
he proclaimed. She looked confused.
“The one you’re writing in,” he explained,
pointing to the open page in the notebook,
“in the picture.”
“Oh no, you don’t want to do that.
Really, you don’t,” she told him.
But, he didn’t listen. He stuck out his
hand in the same manner as she had done
to him. She opened her backpack and
pulled her notebook out slowly. So, so,
slowly. He took the notebook and opened
it to the latest entry.
Written on the page, in handwriting
only slightly more legible than his own,
was a poem. It wasn’t just a poem. It was
one of the greatest poems he had ever
read. (Now, he wasn’t one to exaggerate.
He always thought that it was best to
tell things how they were.) There was
something so raw about it. It was rough
around the edges and straight to the point.,
like her thoughts were just put down in
this interesting web. It all fit together
and made sense, but still left room for
interpretation. He was able to see a piece
of her that she’d probably never revealed
to anyone. The poem was about a button
that fell off someone’s shirt. It was on the
closet floor, ultimately forgotten about. It
was crying for help, but ended up being
sucked up by a vacuum.
He went through the rest of the
notebook and found jealousy to be a
pretty common theme, as well as not being
able to find a place in this hectic world,
people stabbing you in the back, diving
into things way too fast and regretting it.
When he got home from school, he
went straight to his room and plopped
down at his desk, reaching for his colored
pencils before his butt hit the chair. He
opened his notebook and scavenged for
just the right red to color her hair. But,
no matter how much blending of red,
orange, brown, and yellow, he couldn’t do
it justice.
After hours of trying to make it shine
the way hers did, and make her flyaways
fall just right, he gave up. He wanted so
badly to rush to the craft store to buy just
the right shades of all the brilliant colors
cascading from her head—but he fought
the urge.
In class the next day, a project was
assigned that required partners. He
wanted to work with her more than
anything, but he thought she might be
embarrassed if he asked. Despite his
bashfulness, his wish was granted when
she waltzed over to the empty seat beside
him. They wordlessly began the project.
She flashed an amazing smile at him every
once in a while, and he was worried he
might fall out of his chair.
. . .
48
49

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
the storm
POETRY | TORI PLATH
the winter
POETRY | ZARI WILSON
The wind swaying back and forth,
Clouds rolling in from the North,
People scurrying off the sand,
Waiting for the rain to advance,
Across the open sliver of shore.
Rain pounding the rooftops,
Bouncing off the foamy waves,
How long will it continue, I wonder,
As I spend my day watching from my window.
The thunder rolling in,
The lightning striking twice,
Illuminating people’s homes,
Making it difficult to sleep,
As the flashing force of light keeps me awake.
In the morning I awaken—
To the cool sea breeze air,
To calm tides once again,
Lying in bed and reminiscing about the fresh smell of rain.
People now swarming the sand,
Sea life skittering across the sand crystals,
Tourists collecting seashells,
Washed up from the storm.
On this new sunny day,
All are forgetting about yesterday’s storm,
Enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays,
Bringing comfort and joy to the small town again.
I was in the winter of my life,
The sun didn’t shine as bright as it could,
And a lot of things went misunderstood.
Cold frost tended to cover my bones.
I prayed to God,
Hoping that this feeling wasn’t set in stone.
I knew one day a ray of sunshine
Would come through,
Pushing away the clouds,
Turning my skies blue.
What I am saying is true,
Because it was the day I met you.
The sun didn’t
shine as bright
as it could,
And a lot of
things went
misunderstood.
50
51

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Griffin Watson
the war on morons
SCREENPLAY | GRIFFIN WATSON
Screenwriter’s Note: This is a scene that I’ve had in my head for a year or so now, it’s
something I plan on including in a film that I want to make one day. The movie is
about two characters—Langly, a dreadlocked, edge-lord female, and March, a college
girl the same age as Langly—bonding over similar views of the feminist movement at
their university, and how they devise a reactionary movement called the U.I.M (United.
Ideals. Movement), which garners international attention on social media. Over the
course of the film, March starts to doubt that Langly wants the movement to have
the same effect as she does. The pair’s relationship hits its breaking point when March
and Langly put together a debate between their movement and the most prominent
feminists in the country, and Langly volunteers to announce the event to media outlets.
March writes a script for her to follow during the speech, but Langly “improvises.” This
scene takes place immediately after the speech, when the two meet up backstage.
INT. BACKSTAGE EVENING
LANGLY walks down from a set of stairs, crowds can be heard at the
top of them. Men and women with headsets, clipboards, and other crew
equipment walk about the backstage hallway attending to their tasks.
She sees MARCH walking down the hall.
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
Invited?
Yeah.
(Chuckling) Invited. That’s funny. I can
see the headlines now. Buzzpost is gonna
have a field day.
Who even reads Buzzpost?
People.
SJWs do.
Why did you say, “You feminists need to learn
that the world doesn’t revolve around you?”
Because that’s what we believe.
That’s what you believe. You should’ve said,
“We want to create equality as well. We are
just asking for you to hear other people’s opinions.”
You want me to be politically correct?
LANGLY
Eh? Eh? What did ya think?
March facepalms.
MARCH
LANGLY
It’ll get people to go.
I’ll take that as another way of saying
job well done. Wanna get some lunch?
LANGLY
You think I wasn’t nice enough? What ever
happened to talking like adults and giving
it to them bluntly? Calling a spade a spade?
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
No, I want to talk about that speech.
Alright.
Do you think you were at all... confrontational?
MARCH
If a university wants you to apply,
they send a brochure telling you you’re
capable of anything and they can help
you do it. They don’t draft you and
threaten you with arrest.
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
I added some panache. You know, to really get
the outlets chattering.
So you were trying to rabble rouse?
I announced what our coalition wanted.
I invited feminists to the debate.
LANGLY
MARCH
‘The hell does that mean?
We’re trying to show them the nuances
they’re not seeing. We’re not trying to
force them to think exactly like us!
52
53

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Griffin Watson
LANGLY
MARCH
I gave them a bit of reality. Everyone
thinks they’re doing what’s best for the world.
And you are?
LANGLY
MARCH
Third wave, yeah.
(Dryly) So women shouldn’t be equal
to men?
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
I’m doing the same thing as you. I’m
giving the feminists the chance to
explain their position.
And then when they’re done, what are you
going to do? You’re gonna take the stage
and ‘destory’ them, right?
That’s what you wanted. I got us the
attention from national news to finally
have our first strike as a coalition.
First strike? This isn’t a war, Langly!
Then why are there sides?! You said you
wanted to get people on our side.
You know what I meant. You just turned what
I wanted to be a PEACE OFFERING into a DARE.
You dared feminists to come prove you wrong.
You turned it into a WWE match when what I
wanted was Appomattox Courthouse!
People need to know who’s wrong and what
bad priorities look like. And I know that
going toe to toe with the most ravenous
feminists in the country will maybe
set the record straight for most people.
(Putting her foot down) At the end of the
day, it’s two groups of people thinking
that they’re helping society when at end
of the day they’re just POWNING EACH OTHER!!!
Yes! Whatever term you want to use for it,
I prefer defeating, but I am doing exactly
that. That’s how society has grown and
evolved, getting through Civil Rights,
Gay Rights, and Racism. It was people in
the mainstream accepting they were wrong!
You’re gonna prove feminists wrong?
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
You’re going to play the interpretation
game with me again?
It’s how they’re gonna see it. You’re
gonna get the men that work with us
called misogynists and woman haters.
You as well.
No, you’re not.
Langly’s eyebrows knot up.
MARCH
LANGLY
MARCH
I’m not gonna be one of you. You
remember that story you told me about
your art teacher?
Where she asked me if I was a feminist?
Yeah. You said no. You said you
believed in women’s rights all the same.
You didn’t say that to get away from the
label, you said that because you didn’t
want THAT label. I told Montgomery that
I’m not a feminist because I didn’t want
a label. I’m above the squabbling that
people like you incite and I’m done
being a part of Feminist PWN compilations.
I’m pulling my questions from the debate.
You’re not gonna read words that I write.
March turns away, walks toward the door.
LANGLY
MARCH
LANGLY
You’re on the wrong side of history.
Gosh, where have I heard that before?
I’m on the right side.
March stops, takes a breath, and exits.
54
55

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Dawson Heinbaugh
the culinary queen
FICTION | DAWSON HEINBAUGH
Editor’s Note: Some dialog contains words in Farsi, which
have been italicized. See glossary on page 58 for translations.
My name is Sheila Arshad, and I am here
to tell you the story of my life. The hardest
thing about writing an autobiography is
trying to convince the reader that my story
differs from any others.
I am the Culinary Queen. I believe
that I am the best female cook that has
ever lived. I have been a part of three
different five-star restaurants, and served
food to the Shah of Iran in 1977. Anyhow,
let’s get to the real story.
I was born in 1959, in a village called
Rashid. Rashid is in Iran, with a population
of over two hundred people. Everyone
knew each other. The reason there were
so few people at the time was because
Rashid was one of the last places that the
Persians of Ariary (a rough translation for
Arian) lived. We allowed no one to enter,
and allowed no one to leave. Our village
was sacred to us all. Mind you, the Persians
who lived there were completely unmixed.
Most other Persians in Iran additionally
had Arab or Turkish blood. Growing up as
one of the few Arian Persians, I was very
prideful of where I came from. However,
this did not stop me from leaving.
56
We lived and breathed Islam. Anyone
who spoke against it would be shunned
or disowned by family and friends.
Unfortunately, we lived and breathed
tradition as well. Women were treated
horribly in my village. We had no say and
no rights; we were practically owned by the
men there. Most of Iran at the time was
not forced to follow these outdated rules.
For the last seventy years, Islam had not
been forced onto others. To keep our little
town strictly Islam, we kept the outsiders
out of Rashid.
I was thirteen when I ran away.
My father would go off to town to
get supplies for the family twice a month. I
was small (and still am), so I was able to fit
into the back of the car and stay completely
hidden. On one such day, I secretly slipped
into the car and waited until he went into
the store. Then, I popped my head out and
saw the lights, and people walking down the
street. Never before had I seen such beauty.
That was when I ran away from the car, and
that was the last I ever saw of my father.
After hours of wandering and watching,
it occurred to me that I would need a place to
stay, but another distraction came up. I saw a
sign on a building that said “HAIRCUTS.”
I opened the store’s door and a ding-ding
sound startled me. I jumped and bumped
into a man by accident.
“What is wrong?” he shouted. I stood
there in silence with a frowning face and
sad eyes, wondering what he was going to
say or do next. Then, he took a closer look
at me. “Your—your hair!” he exclaimed.
“What is wrong with my hair?” I
asked, confused by his stunned reaction.
My hair had never been cut before,
perhaps that was not the norm.
“May I please cut your hair? I will pay
well!” the man replied. I didn’t know what
he was going to pay me, or what that even
meant, but I let him cut it.
Afterwards, he handed me my
payment and said, “Give this to your
father, wherever he is. Let him know how
well I cut your hair!”
I felt my head and was astonished—
all my hair was gone. Eyes down, I walked
out of the store with what I now know
is money. I saw a woman in an elegant
dress with her head held high, and timidly
approached her.
“Where is your daddy, koochooloo?” the
woman asked when she saw me looking
puzzled and confused.
“I have no daddy,” I lied.
The woman gasped, grabbed my
hand, and took me to a tall man with
short hair and a big beard. “Look, daee
Hosaine! This little girl is walking around
with money in her hand, no hair, and no
daddy.”
“You little scab,” he yelled. “Who did
you steal that from?”
“Ah—a man cut my hair and gave me
these metal things. I don’t know what they
are.” He stood still, amazed, and put his
hand on his beard as he calmed himself.
“I am sorry, joonam. You are just a
lost girl. When was the last time you saw
your father?”
Because I’d just run away, I had to
lie. I started to cry and gave him some
sob story. I don’t remember what I said
exactly, as I was frightened and tired.
(So, what do you think of my story
so far? I apologize if you came for a story
about just culinary. This is my story about
how I became a great cook, and of course
cooking involves more than just cooking.)
The people brought me into their
home. It was big and very high class.
“Welcome to my house, little girl.
What is your name?” the man asked.
“My name is Sheila.” I said. I couldn’t
give him my real name, but I chose a name
that sounded special and unique.
“What a beautiful name! My name is
Hosaine Arshad, my sweet. And, this is
Neda, my niece,” he said, gesturing to the
elegantly-dressed woman.
“Pleased to meet you, Sheila,” said
Neda, smiling.
57

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
I felt warm and welcomed, so I went
up to Hosaine and hugged him tightly.
“Settle down, joonam!” he laughed.
“Bebakhshid, Hosaine,” I replied. “I
haven’t felt welcome before. You barely
know me, and you’ve taken me in.”
He smiled in response. “God has a
plan for you,” he said, kneeling down
on one knee and putting his hand on
my shoulder. “I suppose you are not a
Christian?”
“A Christian?”
“Yes, my dear.” He then went on
to explain what it was to be a Christian,
sharing his belief for what seemed like
hours. I was captivated by the stories
he told, and then very happy when he
started to explain what it would take to
live in his household.
He asked if I could cook, clean, and
keep house. I told him that I had been
able to do these things from the time
I was a little girl. He showed me his
kitchen. It was magnificent!
Cast iron stove, marble flooring, and
a really big sink. I could not believe my
good luck.
The next day as I rose from my new
bed, I wanted to show how happy I was,
so I decided to make a feast for Hosaine
when he returned home from work. His
niece, who also seemed very nice—and
in fact would become like a sister to me
58
as time went on—could be of great help
with the preparations.
“Neda,” I called out to her. “I would
love to make a feast for you and your
uncle. Would you mind helping me?”
When she agreed, I was again so
pleased. I laughed, smiled, and took her
into the kitchen where she would help and
I would teach, for Neda knew nothing
about cooking. Within four hours we had
made Polo and Ghormeh Sabzi. When Nada
taste it, her eyes widened.
“Oh, my God! This is wonderful,
Sheila! I have never had Ghormeh Sabzi
like this before!” she exclaimed.
From then on, she started taking
cooking advice from me. I taught her the
Rashid style of food preparation, even
though it was forbidden to share those
culinary secrets. That life was behind me
now, as were the people. Not very many
thirteen-year-olds would have been able
to do what I’d done, I knew.
For the next few years, I stayed with
Hosaine. I served him, and he gave me
a place that I could call home, until one
day changed my life forever...
koochooloo: small or little girl
daee: maternal uncle
joonam: my life, my breath.
bebakhshid: sorry (for a mistake)
Polo and Ghormeh Sabzi: traditional Iranian dish
Kiss me goodnight,
Hold me so tight
It could only be right,
On this lonely night.
Kiss me goodnight
Kiss me goodnight,
My love, I promise I won’t bite.
It’s just that you might,
Find a new beautiful sight.
So I’m extra lonely on this night.
And living without you gives me a fright.
So my love, please just kiss me goodnight
And make it all right,
As I lay here all alone tonight.
kiss me goodnight
POETRY | KIERSTEN HAVERLOCK
It could only be
right, on this
lonely night.
59

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Cameron Smailes
laughter and sleep
FICTION | CAMERON SMAILES
“A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best
cures for anything.” —Irish Proverb
“Uggh,” Connor moaned as the sun light
blasted through his bedroom window.
He rolled over and jumped out of his
bed when he saw the time.
Connor was going to be late for
work. He stumbled around as he dressed
rapidly, his head pounding from the
night before. Connor was presentable in
a span of ten minutes, and walked to his
job, arriving with two minutes to spare.
Connor got to his desk and sat down
with a sigh of relief. Riley, Connor’s
friend, turned to him with a grin on his
face. “Rough morning?”
“You don’t know the half of it,”
Connor replied. Riley turned back
around as their boss walked up and gave
both of them tasks to do.
As Connor was working, he thought
about the night before and of ways to
cure his hangover.
The rest of the week went by at a
slow crawl. All throughout the week,
Connor continued to think up ways
to cure his hangovers. He decided to
experiment that coming weekend.
Friday finally came. Connor left work
60
with Riley, his quiet sidekick, who kept
stride with Connor as they made plans
for that night. The two decided to go to
a local bar and celebrate a week of hard
work with a couple of drinks.
Once home, Connor got ready for the
night; he looked at his list of cures for his
hangover, so he could wake up without
regretting how much he’d had to drink
the night before.
Connor went downstairs and saw
Riley leaning against the rail of the
stairway. When Connor ruffled Riley’s
blonde hair, Riley turned around with a
smirk on his face and said, “You ready
to celebrate?”
“You know I am,” said Connor.
Connor and Riley arrived at the
rambunctious bar around eight o’clock.
Riley’s girlfriend, Ciara, was there waiting
for both of them.
Ciara got up from her booth seat,
her brunette hair bobbing as she gave
Riley a kiss. Then, she turned to Connor
and gave him a hug. All three of them
sat down in the booth and ordered
drinks. While they waited for their
drinks, they talked about life and work.
When the drinks arrived, they
downed them immediately. After four
beers, Connor started to get tipsy, and
that’s when he decided to order shots for
the table. When the three shot glasses
appeared, they each grabbed their glasses,
and Connor made a toast.
“Here’s to the nights we’ll never
remember with the friends we’ll never
forget.” Riley and Ciara raised their glasses
to the toast, and all three of them downed
their drinks.
After that shot, the group went to the
dance floor. While Connor was dancing,
he met a beautiful blonde woman. Her
name was Rachel.
The next two hours were lost in a blur
of drinking and dancing, and at the end
of the evening, Connor returned home
with Rachel.
The next morning, Connor woke up
with his head pounding. He looked over
at his list of cures on the bedside table.
He decided to try them out.
The first cure was a good breakfast.
So, Connor got dressed, and he and
Rachel met up with Ciara and Riley at his
favorite breakfast spot. Connor ordered
an omelette with all of the fixings, Riley
got a breakfast sandwich, and both of the
ladies got pancakes with whipped cream.
When all of them were done eating,
Connor didn’t feel any better. After
breakfast, Riley and Ciara went home, and
so did Rachel.
Connor returned home and promptly
crossed a good breakfast off the cure list.
He considered number two on the list,
take a long, hot shower.
Connor hopped into the shower,
in hopes of fixing his hangover. Twenty
minutes later, Connor still didn’t feel any
better. He dried off, and continued down
the list of cures.
By Saturday night, Connor still hadn’t
found the cure to his ailment. However,
he still had two cures yet to try on his
list. He decided to test those cures out
on Monday morning, since he and Riley
would be going out again on Sunday night.
Connor woke up on Sunday morning
feeling better. He got up, took a shower,
and ate breakfast. Riley came over a
couple of hours later, and they hung out
and watched TV for a bit before they went
out for the night.
The pair left Connor’s house around
eight o’clock and went to a local bar
around the corner. As they were walking,
Connor pulled out his list of cures and
looked at the last two on the list: a long
sleep and a good laugh.
When Connor and Riley arrived at the
bar, they saw some of their other work
friends. They decided to join them.
The rest of the night was spent
talking of work and life; Connor enjoyed
this peaceful night out with the boys.
61

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Connor burst out
laughing, and his
headache went
away completely.
After they finished their drinks and dinner, they
all parted ways.
Connor and Riley walked back to Connor’s
house. When they got home, Riley crashed on the
couch, and Connor fell asleep on his bed.
When Connor woke up the next day, his
headache wasn’t as bad as usual. He reached over to
his list and put a check-mark next to a long sleep. Yet,
there was still one more cure on his list.
Right as he was looking at the cure, Riley walked
into the room. “You look like hell. I’m surprised
Rachel didn’t scream when she saw you the other
morning.”
Connor burst out laughing, and his headache
went away completely.
As Connor made his way to the bathroom, he
bit back his retort, but gave Riley a quick gesture that
involved his middle finger. Closing the door, Connor
heard Riley chuckle.
Riley and Connor got ready for work, and were
sitting at their desks thirty minutes later. While they
were working, Riley rubbed his temples and asked,
“Your head hurt like mine?”
Connor responded with a quick, “Nope.”
“What’s your cure for headaches?”
Connor grinned and said, “A good laugh and a
long sleep are the two best cures for anything.”
Riley chuckled and said, “I’ll make sure to try
that the next time we drink.”
Connor laughed.
. . .
Closet spaces, big enough for bones,
hiding behind an anxious mind,
fighting all night to break through the zones
of the relationships we call close.
A quiet mouth speaks out more than before,
wondering, “Was I not good enough after all?”
The subtle taste of rose champagne
never came close to the way you looked that night.
Softly, the taste of the one before me
creeps into my mind and drives me away.
If only the thoughts of me and you could mean
more than anything they ever did for you.
Now we’re back to where we were before,
pretending none of this matters.
In between here and there asking,
“When did I become just another last thought?”
After everyone’s gone and left you sore,
Your lips mouth the words, “I love you…”
I guess you took too long, I don’t care anymore.
bottled up bones
POETRY | LAUREN BELL
62
63

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
the dream
POETRY | LILY MARTIN
Do you ever have a dream
That you think is completely real?
As you jolt awake with a scream,
You just don’t know how to feel.
Was that creature really chasing me,
Or was that just my mind?
Are all my friends replacing me
By leaving me behind?
You lie awake and contemplate
Before realizing it was just a dream.
Then you take time to appreciate
That those things weren’t as real as they seemed.
Next time you find yourself in a cold sweat
And are overcome with fear and confusion,
Just remember your dreams are of no threat
And that they were all one big illusion.
Was that creature
really chasing me,
Or was that just
my mind?
NIGHT VALE, DETAIL | UNA HOLLAND
64
65

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Courtney Rowe
it’s not about dominance
NON-FICTION | COURTNEY ROWE
In recent years, a certain TV personality,
Cesar Millan, has attempted to educate the
public on canine behavior modification
and psychology through his numerous TV
shows on National Geographic and Nat
Geo Wild such as “The Dog Whisperer”
and “Cesar 911.” He adamantly preaches
about the use of verbal and physical
reprimands to correct a dog’s “bad”
behavior, and stresses that humans must be
the “dominant” individual or “pack leader”
when caring for a canine companion.
Millan believes that dogs must walk
behind their “pack leaders” when out for
a stroll, and that any undesirable behavior
is an attempt by the dog to dominate their
handlers. However, many scientific studies
dating back to the twentieth century
have proved that this outdated theory is
absolutely incorrect.
The noted psychologist B.F.
Skinner first introduced the idea that
animals develop behaviors based on
positive and negative consequences
during his experiments with rewards
and punishments using rats and doves.
He believed that by pairing a behavior
with a positive or negative consequence,
you can teach the animal to perform a
desirable behavior. Many psychologists,
66
both human and canine specialists, have
furthered this theory, and have found it to
be both scientifically correct and effective
in altering an animal’s actions. This belief
has been calculated and cemented into a
theory known as operant conditioning,
utilizing four quadrants of consequences.
The four quadrants of learning theory
are known as positive reinforcement, negative
reinforcement, positive punishment, and negative
punishment, each unique in its actions and
results. Contrary to common belief, the
use of the words “positive” and “negative”
in this sense do not directly translate to
“reward” and “punishment.” Positive means
that something is being added to a situation,
whether it be a reward or a punishment.
Negative means that something is being
taken away from the situation, and it can
also be either a reward or punishment.
Reinforcement is defined as something that
causes a behavior to increase in frequency,
while punishment causes the behavior to
decrease in frequency.
Therefore, Positive Reinforcement is
when something is added to the situation
to cause a behavior to increase in frequency.
Negative Reinforcement is when something
is taken away from the situation to cause a
behavior to increase in frequency. Positive
Punishment is when something is added to
the situation to cause a behavior to decrease
in frequency. Negative Punishment is
when something is taken away to cause a
behavior to decrease in frequency.
So how does this apply to training
dogs? These studies prove that dogs
perform specific behaviors because they
are somehow being reinforced or punished
for said behavior, instead of choosing to
perform the behavior as a spiteful attack
against their handlers. Dogs do what
works; it’s as simple as that. By managing
the dog’s environment and using these
quadrants, we can alter behavior in a
scientific manner and do it effectively.
Although these fancy words may sound
quite complicated, the application of
these quadrants is fairly simple.
Positive reinforcement is used in the
form of rewarding your dog for performing
a desirable behavior. Rewards include but
are not limited to: treats, toys, physical
affection, verbal praise, and environmental
rewards (allowing the dog to continue
on a walk after it sits in response to your
cue). The reward must be given as soon
as the dog performs the correct behavior,
otherwise it will fail in its effectiveness.
Negative punishment is used by taking
away a reward from your dog for not
performing the correct behavior. You do
not give the dog a treat if it does not “Sit”
in response to your cue. There is no pain,
discomfort, or fear; the dog is simply not
getting “paid” for the behavior.
Negative reinforcement removes an
aversive stimulus from the dog to cause
a behavior to increase in frequency. This
is most often used with shock collars, in
which the trainer holds down the button on
the remote, continually shocking the dog
until it perform the correct behavior. Once
the dog has obeyed, the shock is removed,
thus is used as a reward.
Positive punishment is very common
in dog training and is usually demonstrated
by physically punishing the dog for not
obeying a cue. If a dog refuses to “Sit,” it
is shocked with an e-collar or is jerked by
the leash as punishment for disobedience.
Although all the quadrants can
be used in training animals, leading
behaviorists and veterinarians denounce
the use of positive punishment and
negative reinforcement, claiming that
it causes behavioral side effects such as
fear, learned helplessness, and redirected
aggression. The safest way to train your
dog without these side effects is to use
force-free methods, which only utilize
positive reinforcement and negative
punishment. Treat your companion like
the family member they are; choose to
train without pain.
. . .
67

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
dog’s quality
POETRY | HALLE LANDIS
trips to michigan
FICTION | MCKENNA LANDIS
The gleam in their eyes when you arrive,
The pout they get when you leave—
In the eyes of dogs, Humans are everything.
Selflessness
The fierce protectiveness
The innocence in their eyes
Happy wagging tails
Police dogs, Army dogs, blindly protecting
Their humans.
Those they look up to,
Those they love with all their heart—
Love without motive,
Love in its purest form.
68
minute man
POETRY | JOSH THOMAS
My time in life is counting down.
There’s no time to wait!
This is the life of a Minute Man.
Family may be left behind with children left to stay;
I will learn how hard life is today
You have to sacrifice to be Number One
Even if it means leaving all you love.
My time in life is counting down;
This is the life of the Minute Man
I honor human dignity; I honor honor itself.
I will feel the power of my soul.
They will feel the power of my soul;
This is the life of the Minute Man.
Author’s Note: As we grow older, it gets harder to find joy
in simple things compared to when were little and naive. But
our memories are powerful things, and can’t be taken from
us as we grow older. Everything from our past—whether
good or bad—influences us and our future, which means
our memories become part of our identities. This particular
memory might not be glamorous, but it’s a treasure to have in
my life, and I am thankful to have such a wonderful family.
Waking up hours before dawn,
sleepwalking with my blanket and pillow.
Following in the steps of my siblings
towards the car, dragging my feet along
the cold hard pavement with my shoes in
hand. Exhaustion weighing down
my eyelids as I crawl into the car to
immediately fall back asleep.
Seeing Mom chug coffee before
starting our 13-hour journey as the
engine starts. The calming sound of the
car lulling me back to sleep until midmorning.
Waking up to the sun’s rays
gleaming through the windows. Waking
up in a fog, hoping to have slept through
the entire ride, but knowing that we still
have a long way to go. Staring out the
window to see nothing but trees and
road signs.
The only relief is playing with
my siblings, but they are still sleeping.
Boredom is eating at my composure as
I eagerly wait for my brother or sister to
wake up.
Hours passing along with two states
while we watch movies, play car games,
and drive Mom insane. Arriving in Ohio,
but having to stop for a stretch break at
the gas station. Pouring out of the station
wagon with relief as we stretch our legs in
the parking lot. My hair pulled back in a
messy ponytail. Large t-shirt and shorts, I
am the image of someone on a long trip.
Five hours crammed into the back seat
takes its toll.
Repeatedly asking Mom how much
longer, and she replies every time with,
“We’ll get there when we get there.” Time
seems to slow whenever we are forced
back into the car. What feels like one hour
in the real world, feels like five hours in
our car.
Buying snacks and drinks and piling
back into our cramped nest of blankets
and pillows that was once the back seat
of our car. Hearing the crinkle of chip
bags and smelling coffee Mom would
always buy from each gas station when
we stopped. Being sandwiched into
the middle, between my brother and
sister, them messing with me—I was the
69

Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Rolling the
windows down,
the fresh air
brings a moment
of nostalgia...
70
smallest. The weight of them crushing my little body
as they both leaned on me.
Rolling the windows down, the fresh air brings
a moment of nostalgia, which is a nice change from
my stinky brother. My mother listening to books on
tape to keep her occupied, not having much company
because we kids only want to watch movies.
There is always a special moment when we drive
through the mountains, and we all love it. Shouting and
hooting, we drive through the tunnel. The only lights
are yellow and fluorescent—dim and dirty, like the
ones in horror movies. The lights flickering overhead,
creating a light show for our adolescent minds.
But for my mom, it was just annoying.
. . .
Once upon a time, in an animal kingdom
far, far away, there was a spoiled alligator
known as Alicia. She was very selfabsorbed.
All she cared about was being
the cruelest and fiercest beast in the
vicinity. Despite her young age, Alicia was
already a barbaric hunter. Not a single
mammal or fish was safe. Even among the
other gators, she was infamous. She was
unkind and bad-tempered. She treated all
other reptiles as if they were pathetic.
One day while hunting, she cut her
foot on a tin can. It didn’t really hurt
her (since she was so tough), but it was
irritating. She watched the other gators
cry out when they, too, were cut by this
human waste. There was always garbage
floating in the swamp. Sometimes it
would get stuck to her scales. She used
her strong teeth to rip whatever it was
off, and would continue on with her day.
Other gators didn’t ignore the trash like
she did. Other gators were afraid. They
had seen the damage that could be done
if a gator accidentally swallowed the
cast-off monstrosities! Unfortunately,
the other gators couldn’t do anything
about it.
As Alicia glided through the mucky
water, she happened upon a duck with
alicia the alligator
FICTION | SUNDAY PEOPLES
a circle of plastic stuck around his neck.
Being aloof and uncaring, she was going
to mind her own business and swim
away. Suddenly, the duck let out a loud
squawk of distress. Alicia couldn’t ignore
this obvious plea for help. She decided
to use her great power for good, just
this one time. Alicia gingerly bit into the
plastic, snapping it into pieces. The duck
was free. He thanked Alicia profusely
and introduced himself. He was called
Daniel Duck.
After Alicia freed Daniel from the
dreaded plastic, he followed her around
saying he owed her his life. Daniel was
eternally grateful, and Alicia enjoyed her
adoring fan. Ever since that one good
deed, Alicia felt she could do more.
Daniel made her want to become less
selfish. She knew she needed to find a way
to help the whole swamp. Maybe if she
and Daniel worked together, they could
clear the swamp of all the pollution.
Over the next couple of days, Alicia
and Daniel ground out various ideas.
They could do their best at cleaning the
swamp up and clearing away the garbage,
but that wouldn’t stop the evil humans
from continuing to pollute. Alicia wanted
so badly to save the swamp and to help
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others. What could she do? Daniel joked around
about using Alicia’s strength and fierceness to go into
the human areas and scare them. This inspired Alicia.
She decided to head into town the next morning.
Alicia stomped into town hissing at every
human she saw. People were running and screaming
in terror. Soon, news vans were surrounding Alicia.
She snarled at them and knocked over some trash
cans. She trampled the trash with the intent of
sending a message. Once she felt like she’d made her
point, she headed back to her swamp. Some humans
leaped out of her way, but many got into their cars
to follow her. When the humans saw her swamp,
they were appalled by the filth. Soon, humans were
all around the swamp cleaning it up and sanitizing it.
The humans looked so proud of themselves—
proud that they’d fixed a bit of the environment. Alicia
and Daniel both agreed that humans always seemed
to cause problems, and when they solved them, they
acted like heroes. Alicia decided it didn’t matter that
the humans had done this for an ego boost. As long as
she saved the swamp and her friends, she was happy.
. . .
Two brothers separated by hatred
From a precious, innocent, brotherly childhood relationship
To one now deflated.
The demise of a father,
No, not natural causes,
No, not cancer,
But slaughter.
A spark of anger lit up.
There was no progression,
As if being stuck in syrup.
One day the brothers weren’t getting along,
It wasn’t right,
They were complete opposites,
Like black and white
People who let anger take control over them,
Start to rush and lose ambition,
Like an animal with no intuition,
But there was always one thing that produced tranquility…
Water
The wise men once told his daughter,
“Adversity is sadness, you need to let it flow like water.”
shizukesa
POETRY | KYLE BENTON
The brothers cross each other once again
At lake Zen.
The legend tells that it will bring peace
Amongst bad relationships.
The brothers come in eye contact, it’s an intense stare.
It was silent… so silent,
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That the quietest room in the world couldn’t compare.
The brother on the left is wearing black,
And the other is wearing white, something wasn’t right.
how we should
slaughter animals
NON-FICTION SATIRE | LOGAN SCOTT
Instead of yelling, they looked at the water and let emotion flow.
The great koi fish swims up stream because it is strong,
The brothers didn’t care what was right or wrong.
As the brothers start interacting and smile at each other,
Two koi fish, black and white, were getting closer together.
This is peace, this is yin and yang.
All was forgiven, but the white brother said,
“But why would you do such a thing?”
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Meat Industry Editorial
Far away in a mystical land animal
slaughter is humane, and the animals live
without suffering up until their deaths.
The little chickens that litter the hen house
peck, as the cow’s graze on grass and moo
contently. Baby calves are born and raised
by their mothers (the way they do when
they’re not on a one-stop trip from the
“farm” to your plate). I feel like you get
what I’m trying to say here: Somewhere
that isn’t here, animals are raised for
human consumption, but are not treated
unjustly in the process.
I’m not here to tell you my personal
feelings about the meat industry, although
I can’t promise this report isn’t going to
be biased (because it definitely is). I am
here to inform you about an industry that
would rather you not know what they’re
really doing.
Imagine, if you would, being stuffed
in a cage twenty-four hours a day, only
being fed the feces of a fellow animal. Yes,
feces. Cows are fed chicken manure, which
their biology is not made to support—so
surprising, am I right?
A cow, as everyone with an
elementary school education should
know, is a herbivore. Herbivores eat
plants, and last time I checked, chicken
manure isn’t listed on any Wikipedia site
as a plant. You could fact check me on
that one, but I’m not sure how successful
of an endeavor that would be.
Along with being fed feces, cows in
slaughterhouses are almost constantly
pregnant. Ask any woman who’s carried
a child, I’m sure she would let you know
how impossible producing one child after
another, after another, would be. Not to
mention the toll that would take on one’s
body. The calves that are born by these
exhausted mother cows are immediately
taken away, their lives set for doom.
Every time you’ve gone to pick up that
chicken breast from the market, a genetically
modified chicken was slaughtered for your
personal consumption. Today, chicken
breasts are 80% larger than the average
breast in 1960, and I don’t think Mother
Nature had any say in it. I’ll tell you, as a
woman, life would be impossible with
breasts taking up 80% of my body. I also
am not sure that having your lips cut off, as
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
chickens beaks are, would be pleasurable—
although I cannot speak from experience
on this topic.
I personally think that the meat
industry shouldn’t be supported until
there are changes to the way animals are
treated. I think all beings should be given
a fair chance at life. Humans aren’t born
and raised for other species’ consumption
(at least not yet), so why should defenseless
animals be?
As a source of protein, is why most
people insist they just have to buy that
piece of rotting flesh. News flash, there
are plenty of plant protein sources that
do not involve a cow getting sliced down
the middle. Quinoa, chia seeds, and the
combination of rice and beans are all
amazing sources of plant proteins. Meat
in general is crazy unhealthy, but we live
in a society that made us believe we need
animal products to be healthy. However,
meat is really just killing us.
So, by now, you’re probably skeptical
of my claims and are looking for some
more details about my whole “meat sucks
and is going to kill us” slur. So, brace
yourself and try eating your burger tonight
while not thinking about what you’re about
to learn.
In 2015, The World Health
Organization made national headlines,
declaring processed meat carcinogenic. As
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in, cancerous. So that juicy sirloin might
taste good while you’re eating it, but you
can’t really eat when you’re dead, now can
you? Along with cancer, meat also increases
your risk of food-borne illness more than
anything else you ingest. The USDA
(United States Department of Agriculture)
reports that 70% of food poisoning is
caused by animal flesh. I don’t know about
you, but the thought of contracting food
poisoning scares the hell out of me.
For my last point, let’s refer back
to when I talked about the genetically
modified chicken (yuck). To make these
chickens even bigger, they’re injected with
hormones. Therefore, when we eat these
animals, we are also ingesting whatever
hormones were put into them. Just in case
you were wondering what kinds of extra
hormones, testosterone, estrogen, and
progesterone are just a few.
I hope that after reading my short
piece on a not-so-short subject, you better
understand a small portion of what is
happening in the meat industry, and why
we really shouldn’t be eating meat. I know
you would have liked to go through the rest
of your day disgust-free, able to eat that
hotdog after you go out with your friends
tonight.
As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss,
or is it really?
. . .
journal of a high school junior
September 15th, 2014
They say that high school is supposed
to be the best years of your life, but I’m
half way through, and it seems like hell so
far. This is supposed to be the time when
you find all these great friends who last a
lifetime, fall in love, and live your life as
if every day were your last. Nothing is
supposed to matter to us.
Maybe I’m just different, I don’t know,
but I miss the way things used to be. Back
when I was a little kid playing around.
When the girl down the block was just a
friend, not a crush, and we would sit in
my tree house and talk. We’d talk about
becoming astronauts and flying to Mars,
and about all the different types of pets we
wanted to own—like a dog or a zebra—
and she would always bring up getting
married and moving to Sea World.
But now that girl from down the block
is older and wears make up. She walks down
the hall, and it kills me to see her holding
another boy’s hand. Everyone says, “High
school will be the best four years of your
life.” At this point I find that very hard to
believe.
September 20th, 2014
There is a new girl in my math class, and
FICTION | DANNY HAZARD
because the only open seat was next to
me, that’s where she sits. She’s pretty. She
moved down here from Chicago; she still
has the accent, too. Her name is Isabell.
There is something about her that I just
can’t explain. I’ll have to get back to you
on that. Hopefully she isn’t like the other
kids, no one else talks to me. She seems
different, like she doesn’t want to be like
everyone else.
October 1st, 2014
Isabell talked to me in math class today.
She asked me what song I was listening
to, so I told her, “Amen by Bon Jovi.”
It’s my favorite song right now. She told
me I should go listen to some song called
“Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley.
At lunch, I went to the back of the
lunchroom like I always do, sat alone just
like always, and put my headphones on.
“Hallelujah” is amazing; it made me cry
and smile. Tomorrow in class I’m going
to give her a couple of songs to listen to,
since her song made me smile for the first
time in a while.
October 10th, 2014
Izzy (that’s what she told me her friends
call her) and I have been talking a lot
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Danny Hazard
lately! She calls me every night to talk
about the math homework, but most of
the time we talk about music, not math.
She has amazing taste; she told me to listen
to “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen.
The song is beautiful, just like her. I
love it, and every time I listen to it, I think
of her. I finally have a real friend in school!
All through Freshman and Sophomore
year I was the weird kid who no one really
talked to; it took me until Junior year, but I
finally have a real friend, and it feels great.
October 20th, 2014
Izzy invited me over to her house for
Halloween. I know it’s still like two weeks
out, but I’m actually excited. This is going
to be the first time we’ve ever hung out
other than in school. Plus, it’s a Friday night
so I can stay out late. I’m really excited, as
cheesy as that sounds. She said we’re gonna
watch all these scary movies. Usually she
hates them, but since it’s Halloween she
is gonna venture out. I love scary movies,
so she asked me to give her a list of
the 5 best scary movies, and she would
pick some. This is what I came up with:
1. The Exorcist
2. Silence of the Lambs
3. Psycho
4. The Shining
5. Children of the Corn
Hopefully she likes them.
November 1st, 2014
I know it’s been a while since I wrote
here in my journal, but nothing really
all that important happened. I just
went through school as I normally do.
Last night, however, was AMAZING.
Izzy and I watched The Shining and The
Exorcist. After that, we went out and
scared her little brother and his friends.
They went inside at like 11:00 though,
but we weren’t tired yet, so we went to
the park and hung out. We sat there in
the dark playing on the swings and the
slide, we just talked and it was absolutely
amazing.
I’ve never had that much fun just
talking to someone.
We laid in the grass and stared at
the stars, talking about the future and
everything we want to do with our
lives. She told me how she wants to be
a scientist and find the cure for cancer.
Rather embarrassed, I told her how I
want to join the Peace Corps and become
a history teacher. I asked her why she
wanted to find the cure for cancer, and
she told me how her mom got really sick
when she was little.
When Izzy was 10, her mom ended
up dying and it devastated her. Ryan
(her brother) was only 6. I started crying
when she told me how she wants to find
the cure for breast cancer, since that is
what her mother died of. When we were sitting
there talking, she told me how back in Chicago she
didn’t have many friends, and didn’t have anyone she
could talk to about stuff. Izzy told me how happy
she is that we met and how she’s really happy to
finally have someone to talk to, then she leaned in
and kissed me! She’s the first girl I’ve ever kissed,
I think I’m gonna ask her out soon. Hopefully she
says yes.
November 10th, 2014
I asked Izzy out a few days ago, and tonight is our
first date! I’m really excited, we are gonna go out
to dinner at her favorite restaurant and then go see
a movie. I met her family the other night; they are
really nice and sweet. They all seem to really miss
her mom though. Everyone says Izzy is just like her,
so I bet she was really sweet and caring.
I really like Izzy, she’s so insanely wonderful. I
think she likes me too, which is insane because I
started off this school year the same way I started
off every year—as the loner kid no one wanted to
talk to. But now I’m really happy! They say that high
school is the best four years of your life, I finally
understand why.
. . .
She told me
how she wants
to be a scientist
and find the cure
for cancer.
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
Claire Helena Feasey
ode to charley
POETRY | CLAIRE HELENA FEASEY
I gaze at you through glass with narrowed eyes
And I think about miles.
If I had to swim a mile in your scales,
I’d feign a sprained fin,
provide a doctor’s note,
Anything to avoid the distance,
Because a mile for me is an eternity for you,
And lately I’ve been admiring inches,
So maybe I’d swim an inch,
or even a foot,
But a mile is just too far.
Oh, by the way,
Do you like the new recipe?
I thought I’d switch it up this time,
Try something a little fresher,
But I think I forgot to ask you
about changing it first,
and now I feel a little guilty.
I would get you a bigger place,
But I hear your kind can double,
Triple in size if given enough room.
I know you might want a bigger body
For that big personality of yours,
But if you grow, you might not stop,
And I didn’t ask for a whale
at the shop where I first saw you,
Blowing bubbles and swimming circles.
See, you’re basically a kaleidoscope,
With colors and dances that
you practice everyday,
Effortless to you, but priceless to me,
And even though I get lost
in the moments of my days,
I seem to always find myself in yours.
Maybe it’s because we’ve been
Friends for so long,
But I feel selfish for keeping you,
Because you know nothing of
Real life and nothing of the outside.
As the theory goes, you see
the rocks below you and the
Castle behind you and my bedroom—
Blue and wide—but what you don’t see,
And I’m so sorry for this,
Is the glass that contains you,
The bowl that holds you captive,
But I can’t see my bowl either,
So maybe, just maybe.
We can be here,
Obliviously imprisoned together.
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Adam Thornton
untitled
FICTION | ADAM THORNTON
All around me was death. No family, no
love, just death. There were gravestones
as far as the eye could see, but out of the
thousands of them, only two of them
were truly important to me. This was the
Jahns Family Cemetery, a place of misery
and remembrance, as if my family’s carcass
was on display.
I’d walked down every row and seen
every name engraved on each tablet of
stone, from ancestors that fought in the
Revolutionary War to cousins that fought
in the War on Terror, giving their lives to
protect the ones they love.
Today was different, though. I was
now poor in the value of family, and
scared of what was to come. My knees
dug into the soil of my father’s grave
and I hugged the last remnants of his
existence: the tombstone. His death had
come too early for me to prepare to
let go, to be ready to give up. First my
mother, and now him, oh how the times
can’t get any worse.
There was no doubt in my mind that
I loved him and missed him already, but
somewhere deep down was the truth. A
brutally honest truth prying at my fingers,
telling me that I had to let go; so I did. My
tear-filled eyes read the blurry words:
Derek Jahns
Born June 8, 1980
Died October 4, 2020
A Man of Honor and Strength
A Father of Love and Will
“Your old man always had good
intentions.” To my left, stood a welldressed
man. He was bald, had a stubbled
chin, and kept his hands in his pockets.
I clenched my fists, the longing
forming into anger. “How would you
know? A father who kills himself doesn’t
care how it affects his children.”
“I’m Chicago’s DA, Zach Taylor,”
said the man as he walked along the grass,
inching closer to me. “I knew your father
once, we were partners in several homicide
cases back in the day.” Mr. Taylor scratched
his forehead momentarily. “Once he
met your mother, though, we became
disconnected and didn’t talk much after
that. Simply put, I think I knew Derek
Jahns a lot better than you did.”
I stopped sobbing and wiped the tears
from my face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if
you did. He kept a lot of secrets from
me.”
Mr. Taylor crouched next to my weak
body. “You are young, too inexperienced
to understand what struggles your father
and I went through, so don’t blame him.”
I scowled at his remark. “Whatever
good things you saw in my dad, whatever
greatness that was within him…was not
passed down to me.” I looked into the
man’s bright, joyful ocean-blue eyes. “Why
are you here, Mr. Taylor?”
“I wanted to personally take you to
your new home, so you can learn to live
a new life.” He gave me a warm smile and
got up from his crouched position.
“With you?” I asked, puzzled as to
why he wanted to take me.
“Hell no! No offense, Jordan, but
I’ve already raised four boys and I’m not
looking to raise another.” He grabbed my
hand and pulled me up onto my feet.
“Then who out there is willing to?” I
moped sadly.
“C’mon,” he replied, motioning his
hand towards the car, “I’ll tell you on the
way.”
I walked next to him along the row of
the buried. “I know you’ll like your new
home if you give it a chance.”
“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” I said
in response.
Mr. Taylor’s face grew dark, and his
soft smile disappeared. “I had a case this
morning, grown-up stuff you wouldn’t
understand.”
“Oh, I forgot,” I replied with sarcasm.
“I’m too immature, is that it?”
“Exactly,” he said, opening the driver’s
door while I walked around to the other
side of the car. “I can’t deny that you learn
quickly, though.”
Once Mr. Taylor turned the key in the
ignition, he turned his head toward me.
“Look, if I made it out that your father
was savior, he’s most definitely not. He was
often misunderstood, though, and I’m not
going to let that go unnoticed.”
I shook my head, realizing that a friend
of my father’s would be biased. “My father
was far from the worst—” Mr. Taylor
interrupted me by rolling his eyes and
scowling, but I continued. “Just listen. My
father was far from the worst, but he was
still abusive. He hit my mom and held us
back from realizing our full potential. Yet
to you, he had no issues. I don’t understand
how that’d be misunderstood, Mr. Taylor.”
He nodded with a straight face.
“Perhaps you have a point,” he said, his
hand floating to the handbrake lever and
releasing it, allowing the vehicle to press
forward. “Just perhaps.”
. . .
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wyvern
POETRY | EMMA LYNCH
Hit and miss she’s
Green and blue and black
And scales. All over.
Claws in the dirt, stripes
Lacerations. Her eyes flicker
as she watches, one of them and then
The other. Her domain a
Patchouli patchwork of pines and
Broken sticks, fragmentation
Of a mountain side. It’s not as if
She doesn’t have a name doesn’t
Have a tail, wings, any measure of
Getting up and leaving. This is a place,
her place, rotted woods and
Rotted sticks, the extra bits and pieces
Of a thrown away metaphor.
Wings and a clever brain, clever
Configuration, she moves, quick and lithe
Over lichen and lost souls, little
Ants crushed between her bulk. She’s
Everything they’re afraid of everything
They emulated and they fought her as such.
For gold, maybe, lost treasures. Yesterday
Their purpose seemed so noble but before her
Their words lose the gleam of truth.
Have you ever donned a tin can and rode
Up a mountain on a gelding,
The medieval answer to the McLaren,
to lance the heart of a reptile you’d never even met?
They didn’t. Their helmets tumble
down the hill hollowly as she passes.
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WINGS AND A CLEVER BRAIN | LYRA FEASEY
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Ellipsis | Spring 2017
REFRIGERATOR POEM | CLAIRE HELENA FEASEY
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