Onism

ONISM
noun
the awareness of how little you will be able
to experience in a single lifetime
Life is a beautiful and brief experience.
Our time upon this Earth is finite, and we are bound to one
another.
One day, we will be gone, the people we know and love will
disappear, the mountains and trenches we never explored will
turn to dust.
However,
right now,
we are here.
Our eyes are open, and the world is waiting.
It is beyond our words, art, desks, computer screens, and front
doors. It is past the gates to airplanes that skate over oceans.
There are fields filled with flowers, cities where traffic never rests,
places where snow never melts, and all of these places are
changing.
What we witness today will be different tomorrow.
Today you are younger than tomorrow, and wiser than yesterday.
Delve into life and the pages of Sincerely Magazine: Volume Five.
I hope you enjoy our creation.
Kieran Rundle
Editor in Chief
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Table of Contents
Poetry
Rat a Tat Allie Humphery pg 4
Why I Don’t Date Writers Allie Humphery pg 6
His Kiss; The Riot Allie Humphery pg 8
Mute Daija Terry pg 18
The Writing of a Poem Mary Dwyer pg 19
Orbits Elizabeth Gibson pg 22
Seasonal Bliss Gabrielle LaFrank pg 24
Gold Elizabeth Gibson pg 25
At Flapping Wings Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli pg 26
The Jasmine Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli pg 27
Thursday Morning Contemplation Gabrielle LaFrank pg 28
Fate Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli pg 32
Drizzle Gabrielle LaFrank pg 34
Prose
Mailbox Emma Patterson pg 35
Lucky Emma Patterson pg 36
4,000 Minutes Marie Ungar pg 44
Waves Emma Patterson pg 48
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Art
In the Mirror Honey McDonald acrylic pg 5
Hips Don’t Lie Abby Treece watercolor pg 7
Bloubergstrand Andrea Corbett photography pg 11
Blaze Karin Turner photography pg 14
Wrapped Skull Sarah Hamilton watercolor pg 16
Unnamed One Sophie Smith photography pg 17
Up in Smoke Stella Swope photography pg 17
Unnamed Two Sophie Smith photography pg 20
Unnamed Three Sophie Smith photography pg 21
Unnamed Four Sophie Smith photography pg 21
Galaxy Sarah Hamilton watercolor pg 22
Something Borrowed Abby Treece mixed media pg 24
Der rot Ampelmann Claire Flores photography pg 29
Owl Abby Treece intaglio pg 30
Octopus Abby Treece linocut pg 30
Skull Emma Umberger charcoal pg 31
Charlie Abby Treece scratchboard pg 31
Festung
Hohensalzburg Claire Flores photography pg 33
Cup with Coral Sarah Hamilton colored pencil pg 33
Purple Morning Honey McDonald acrylic pg 34
Pleuvoir Anna Leach acrylic pg 35
Abstract Cat Sarah Hamilton watercolor pg 37
Apple Abby Treece collage pg 40
Hands Emma Umberger charcoal pg 47
Table Mountain Andrea Corbett photography pg 48
3

Rat a Tat
poetry
by Allie Humphery
Imagine yourself a galaxy of nebulous
celluloid, inky gelatinous nothingness and a fragile
abyss, a minor infinity of dim stars effervescent
in the tar-black ooze of midnight sludge and the remains
of yesterday’s gods tangled up in a cascade
of inconsequential debris and magnetized negatives
See, you’re telling me, internal bleeding throbbing
against an unfeeling cerebral cortex,
all we are is echoes, and I’m laughing at the minutiae
of your magnetism, your eyeslipshair electric and all I am
are footnotes, the background rhythm of a muted
symphony, the collateral damage of an underground
wreck, only there were no
bodies. I live in narrow margins, that crisp dry cycle
of a mustard laundromat , a caesura slicing poets
across their silver tongues, all cacophony and no bitethe
orchestra is tuning their wailing violins to the
sound of your voice, the blessings of a false prophet and
his luminous beings, wailing deicide, deicide, deicide -
-you bled on kitchen counters and called it poetry,
immortalized suffering in print and called it beauty because
the world had its claws in your back
(perhaps I am a better anecdote than human being).
See, I live with lions, you’re telling me, and I don’t
pull my punches, and I’m smiling because I live in
a polyphony of red and your prayers come with
teeth: the whispered apology of satin on my skin,
the unforgiving dirge of saffron taxicabs
on mornings when you aren’t
4 4

In the Mirror | Honey McDonald | acrylic
here. I have no time for your devotionals. I have
saints of my own, and I dance with them at
crisp October dusk when I remember the melody,
when you have not kissed away the ghost of a
body electric I once sang with swamp water and
radiant light.
( I came with open palms, sap-stained
longing, knowing that you are a fletchling aching
for flight; I am not holy enough to save you )
See, I am burning, you’re whispering through corrupted
lungs, and sooner or later I’ll burn you alive
and I thought, Rat-a-tat girl, you taste
like gunpowder and I have always loved
smoke.
5 5

Why I Don’t Date Writers
poetry
by Allie Humphery
I’m kissing a boy who reads Hemingway and his heartbeat sounds like
a gunshot wound. He tastes of menthol and cigarettes and wants to do
brutal things to my body, his hands/fingers/ragged breathing tearing at
my uneven skin. “He was the king of the Lost Generation, you know that?
The grandaddy of the beatniks.” “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
I’m with a boy in a run-down basement and he’s on his fifth glass of
cheap whiskey. He calls me Zelda and acts like it’s original, with his hand
up my shirt and his heavy breath on my neck. “Run away with me. We’ll
be Sal and Marylou. You’d like that, wouldn’t you baby?” He breathes, and
I think, I’d like that-but he’s drunk and fantasizing about women half his
age. He’s a car wreck, and I’m collateral. His hips on mine feel like internal
bleeding.
The next boy doesn’t read, and I am thankful for him. He is blind ambition
corked in a bottle of Tennessee whiskey, and when I am with him I
become a duller, looser, hemp-stained version of myself. We chain-smoke
clove cigarettes and my cherry-red lipstick melts in thick, waxy drips.
He listens to Green Day and fancies himself political; fuels himself with
gasoline and pinions and understands with all the clarity of blunt head
trauma what it means to suffer. I leave him when he asks me to define
‘dramatic irony’ and I realize I don’t know any more.
6
I meet the last boy in a bookstore, turning pages of Nabokov with an
overly eager hand. He owns a ‘72 Chevy and a ‘32 typewriter, but couldn’t
describe progress if you asked, carrying himself like Steinbeck without
California. He likes it when I drown myself in the bathtub because he
needs someone to hurt for him; calls me Sylvia and Virginia and never
understand why that damned mob of scribbling women was so intent
on harming themselves. I find myself living in his paragraphs the way I
never have; a manic pixie fueled on masochism and misogyny. “There’s
something so poetic about the suffering of women,” he tells me when he
leaves me. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

But I am not an ocean of choppy brine you can dehumanize with depictions
of the brutality of unchecked women. I am not a pitch-black night
of stars you can lay yourself against and pretend you are brave for loving
me. I have tried to dress myself in symbolism and black kohl, but for all
the metaphors I ascribe to my blood, it is never beautiful. It is red. They
call me Juliet when I pick roses and Ophelia when I cut myself on thorns,
and don’t call at all when I have outlived my use. I have kissed deliverance
from the tongues of men with moleskines enough to recognize the
warped marrow in my butterfly bones after they have grown bored of my
poeticism. I am projecting behind a curtain with a rapier thrust into my
gut, and as the ghosts watch me live above the theater, pressing fingers
to my cheeks.
Hips Don’t Lie | Abby Treece | watercolor
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His Kiss; The Riot
poetry
by Allie Humphery
8
i. there’s this girl.
there’s this girl, and she lives on an
island surrounded by miles of clear
blue waters that crash upon the
shore like the battalions of ships
of war and ring in her ears like the
beating of foreign drums. her father
is a shepherd and her mother
is less than a memory that returns
to the dust of her birth more with
each turn of a year and her brothers
crowd at her skirts and beg for
the sweet wine that she is so apt at
making.
nothing good comes from denying
a king, they say, but while she may
have been raised in the empires
of calluses and wool, her devotion
to her god is greater than that of
a moral man. and though she is
beautiful like david, her mind is
sharper than solomon’s. it is not
until mynes’ hands cradle hers and
he comes to her as a husband to his
wife that allows him to make her
his queen.
her name is briseis, sweet on the
tongue and bitter on the wind like
the call of the nightingale.
there is budding life inside her and
she is full, she is so full.
ii. she has heard whispers of a war
just over the horizon and she has
seen mynes’ white knuckles and
felt the cold press of the sheets on
a morning when war plans made
sleep inevitable. she has not been
a priestess of the golden-haired
god of prophecy in years but she
feels them coming, a tremor on the
wind. she is seventeen when they
come.
(they are thunder, they are the
clash of iron. her lungs fill with
smoke and she burns )
you are to come with us, they tell
her with glances exchanged over
her head, as if she is not woman
enough to comprehend the looks of
men. her heart is stuttering in her
chest and the blood of her forever
unborn child is a spot she will never
wash away. you belong to aristos
achaion now, they add a moment
later (as if it is a consolation that
she, at least, is prize enough to be
given to the best of them)

I am property of no man, she wants
to demand, but her voice breaks
before she can manage a single
syllable and she feels light-headed
with grief. oh apollo, oh zeus, oh
artemis, she thinks. oh athena. kill
me where I stand.
the gods do not answer her pleas.
she sails with them for troy at
morning’s light.
.
iii. it is not the best of the greeks
who finds her but the most glorious.
my name is patroclus, he tells
her in a voice the precise thunder
of the rain. I won’t hurt you. I
promise that.
he can promise her nothing, for his
promises are as empty as the lies
she’s constructed for herself out
of castles in the air and long-forgotten
dreams, but he speaks her
language and the bronze tint of his
skin is a familiar embrace and she
finds herself warming to the stocky
healer with the lines by his eyes
and the callused hands of a boy
who is anything but.
he loves this man who is the best
of the greeks, she soon learns with
the familiarity of a brother and the
ferocity of a lover. he never says
so, not explicitly, but the absence
of admission rings as loudly as an
abundance of it. it is in the the
light his eyes, it is in the curve of
his smile, it is in the way he pronounces
his name, with utmost
reverence as if was the ringing of
bells. a-chill-es, always the pronunciation
by a disciple of his messiah.
a part of briseis envies that love. a
part of her is unspeakably glad she
does not share it.
( for it is a cruel death to marry
your own destruction. )
have you ever loved? patroclus
asks her one foggy evening where
the cloud cover has momentarily
caused an armistice; whether
divine or not, she is no longer able
to say. the greeks have taken more
than her family from her.
no, she answers without a moment’s
hesitation.
iv. aristos achaion-achilles, he tells
her, you may call me achilles-the
warrior achilles is younger than
she had assumed from his title.
achilles is beautiful, beardless, with
a light in his eyes that has yet to
be extinguished by the cruelty of
war. he is fire and ice and rage and
grief and such fragile and painful
youth that she can’t look at him
but from the corner of her eye. he
is the dawn and the sun and he
burns at the center of the fray and
she is exhausted with the effort
of being his, trying to understand
the precise musicality of his divine
temper and his mortal heart without
tearing herself in two.
9

10
I can’t blame you if you hate me,
briseis, achilles says finally, after
months of war have plagued the
land. it is night, the stars above
providing light to rolling hills and
dry winds whispering across lands
watered with the blood of the dead.
she watches him by the dim light
of a dying candle, watching the way
his strong jaw clenches and the way
her flame casts shadows on his hair
the precise shade of starlight. ( he
is only a boy, she reminds herself,
in the same breath she has used to
claim she was only a girl. ) when
he speaks, his voice is cold. I can’t
blame you if you have dreamed of
my death a thousand times over.
she is a nightingale in a gilded cage.
her hair is like flax and her skin is
like ash but she is still a prize and
the blood in her mouth tastes like
silver.
I’ve brought you nothing but
bitterness, he continues in a voice
that shakes like the earth beneath
her feet. and it is true, through him
she has known all the world’s grief
and the bitterness of unanswered
prayers on her tongue. she keeps a
dagger beneath her mat, intended
for herself but his head on a spike
has crossed her mind with increasing
frequency.
you could have killed me, achilles
says after a long moment, and
watches briseis bristle at his knowledge.
why have you not done so?
she cannot give him an answer.
v. ( I wish you were a brute, she will
say to achilles with half-closed lids
and one arm across her bare stomach.
there is a strange vulnerability
in her voice and achilles is reminded
of the story of artemis, the virgin
goddess of the hunt, for while
her bare back is pressed to his side
she has never felt more distant
than she has in this moment.
achilles does not know briseis,
does not know the customs of
her land of the taste of ripe figs
in her mouth, does not know of
her except what she has elected
to show him under cover of darkness
beneath a sky of canvas. he
pretends not to notice when she
is silent for days at a time, when
she goes walking about the camp
and returns as rosy-fingered dawn
dances across the horizon. when
she ignores her wounds and laughs
while she bleeds.
I could hate a brute, briseis had
said, answering the questions he
has not asked, the words tripping
from her tongue before she had the
power to stop them—hate, she had
said, but perhaps her hatred would
save them both .)

vi. her, the commander of the army
says, when briseis emerges from
achilles’ tent the next afternoon
with the marks of their tryst at her
neck burning on her exposed skin.
she can feel eyes on her, appraising
her wild hair, her small form, the
bruises along her collarbone like
her father did his sheep. she will
do.
I will do for what? is the question
that she does not ask, for she has
seen the victories of men and has
not spent months as a spoil of war
to claim ignorance of their ways
with possible new life growing
within her. achilles stands sullen,
his golden light diminished-patroclus
says that he cares for her, but
he says so with the flippant innocence
of one who has never been
ripped from the only home he has
ever known. what can patroclus
know of love and loss?
(in his silence, briseis sees achilles
as naught but a terrified child. she
fights the urge to spit at his feet. )
lord agamemnon has lost his woman
to plague, achilles says in a hollow
voice. briseis remembers her,
chryseis was her name. she remembers
the eyes like those of artemis’
sacred deer, a quiet voice like the
Bloubergstrand | Andrea Corbett | photography

12
trill of a flute, the scent of leavened
bread and wet earth. she remembers
how chryseis shook with silent
screams the night of her arrival
and how her pale cheeks were
stained with tears the following
morning. she remembers chryseis
and her round belly swelling, she
remembers chryseis’ water breaking
on the hay and her desperate
cries I am not—no, I do not want
this, I—I am not, I cannot—
you are replacing her, achilles tells
briseis. she watches agamemnon
in lieu of an answer, taking in his
harsh gray eyes and the unquestioned
power he wields like it is a
sword. next to him, achilles seems
less than divine, perhaps even less
than mortal. briseis is reminded
of the blood at his jaw, the broken
sound of his ragged breathing
when he lies next to her on nights
when the moon is high in the sky,
the smiles he swallows rather
than gives. the commander of the
greeks, she thinks, will allow me to
see no such weakness.
briseis curses him then, the son
of thetis, and wishes more in that
instant than she ever has that she
had chosen to slash his pale throat
when she had the chance. she
tastes rust in her mouth and wishes
it was his half-divine blood. but
she is silent, muted by the ferocity
of her own screams dying on her
lips. it is a cold graveyard where she
buries her trust in men.
vii. this new tent is colder, somehow,
than the tent of achilles.
at night, agamemnon returns to
her—silent, always silent, bitter
curses mixed with sweet wine, destruction
on his breath and exhaustion
in his bones. in the day, he is
not achilles, achilles is concentrated
fury and agamemnon a halfmad
berserker of mindless wrath,
but by night the two may as well be
the gemini of ancient myth.
agamemnon does not touch her
with force. he does not touch her
at all. the one time he tries, a cold
night sharp with her dull screams
muffled by his kiss, he leaps back
as if burned. you have foul blood
within you, he spits, while you are
mine, you will bring the wrath of
the gods down upon our heads.
briseis does not comment. my untouchability
is divine, she wants to
scream. touch me and you’ll burn.
poor gods-touched achilles sulks
and pines for her in his tent, she
soon learns. but the war wages on.
the bodies still grow. there is more
than one way to bleed.
the war is never going well.
viii.( the next day, patroclus is
dead.
briseis has never known with

perfect clarity the sound of martyrdom,
but now martyrdom has
become enriched as deeply in her
skin as bruises and broken bonds.
achilles spends long hours with
the corpse, his warmth a divine
dichotomy to the eternal coldness
of mortals.
they say that hector’s body became
food for the dogs. in a past life,
perhaps she may have wept.
they say that the river scamander
runs red with blood. in a past life,
perhaps she may have wept.
they say that the war is almost
over. the greeks taste victory on
half-dead tongues.
in a past life, perhaps she may
have wept.
but briseis cannot bring herself to
care
the next day, patroclus is dead )
ix. the last time briseis sees achilles,
his skin is stained with blood.
his eyes are stars in the solar
system of an empty skull. there
is something not entirely human
about him; then, there never was.
his gaze is dull and coated in a
silver sheen. beneath it, briseis
swears she can still the brilliant
blue of her father’s oceans. but she
had always been fond of fancy.
achilles was once a gladiator before
the war, they whisper. but with the
sacrifices he has demanded on the
altar of his own ego, the same can’t
be said. now? now he is a god.
you shouldn’t be here. his lips,
cracked, lay buried beneath rivers
blood applied in haphazard strokes.
his knuckles, bruised, tense on the
hilt of his sword. briseis wonders if
he means to strike her down.
( do it- she dares him. strike me
down where I stand. I would like to
see you try-)
as if you could stop me. the first
words of defiance she has spoken
to a god. once a priestess, briseis
feels giddy; drunk on her own sacrilege,
a smirk crosses her cold lips.
but achilles does not take the bait.
behind him, briseis hears screaming.
they’re going to burn the city.
achilles is frantic; what can be
considered it, anyways. his pupils,
dilated, thrum with an unworldly
rhythm.
he’s intoxicated by the madness of
self-destruction, briseis realizes.
when the muses sing of him, they’ll
sing of his lust for blood. the cancer
growing on his spine. immortalizing
the sheer beauty of a man
tearing himself apart.
I don’t care, she whispers, and
13

to her shock finds it is true. for a
moment, they stare; death and the
maiden incarnate. smoke embraces
the air, a fiery symphony; an ode to
the waste of human lives and the
weakness of men. achilles is the
first to break the tentative silence.
I didn’t love you-he means it as a
jab, she realizes. in that instant,
she knows he never could.
so she nods, her dark hair cascading
down her pale back in tendrils
of blood and soot. her pregnant
belly swells against the confines of
her shift. within her, she feels the
stirrings of life amidst a bacchanal
for death.
I know. two syllables. a whisper.
her last confession to a self-appointed
priest of carnage.
there is so much she needs to tell
him, but the words bury themselves
in her heart and refuse to let
themselves be unearthed. achilles
stands in the ruins of troy a crusader;
to call him a father would be
a disservice to the both of them.
some secrets should take themselves
with their makers to the
grave.
goodbye, briseis. achilles looks like
he wants to say more. briseis does
not give him the chance.
goodbye, aristos achaion. this
brings a smile to his lips. he nods,
a mockery of a bow, and with the
Blaze | Karin Turner| Photography

mask of death surrounding him,
disappears into the fray.
briseis’ feet are soft as they touch
the bloodstained earth. with her
head held high, she disappears into
the cold night.
x. there’s this girl.
there’s this girl, and she’s survived
slaughter and genocide and the
spite of gods and the world is the
remnants of a baptism by fire,
but it is hers. her husband was a
king and the father of her child is
half-divine, immortalized by his
own deadly devotion to the gods of
the old religion and the life within
her stirs with the promise of a new
life, a better life, in a land where
the ocean is blue and the sky is full.
her son is small in her arms and his
soft skull fits in the palm over his
hand. his skin is slicked with blood
and briseis cries out with the sheer
beauty of it all. & her son is small
and his face is red, but when briseis
feels the stiffness of wool beneath
her back it reminds that despite
probability of the contrary, she’s
alive.
his name is anatoli, soft like morning
dew and warm on the skin like
the promise of the future to come.
when briseis looks at him, the whole
of the sky is inside her, and she is
full, she is so full.
her water breaks in the months
that follow and she gives a cry
that startles the crows above into
flight. I am not ready, she says, I
am not—no, I do not want this.
but she is alone, and there are none
to help her kneel; none with hands
that are cool and gentle and smell
of the roses of her old country.
the gods of the earth have abandoned
her, but she no longer feels
as though she needs them. she has
survived bringing death, surely she
can survive bringing life.
without them, she breathes; without
them, she is not afraid.
15

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Wrapped Skull | Sarah Hamilton| watercolor

Unnamed 1 | Sophie Smith | Photography
Up in Smoke | Stella Swope | Photography

Mute
poetry
by Daija Terry
Like a tumor, the unspoken words swell
They expand from the neurons and press against her skull,
begging
For a way out.
Silence, a cancer, grows
As the words bend her teeth and
shape them
Into serrated tools
Listentomelistentomewhycantyoujust
stop
And listen to the words I dare not speak,
She thinks as she takes another sip of
Suppression
The way her lips sew themselves together,
And barricade the onslaught of speech
suffocates her
So through her digits she may speak
Without a word.
Her arms tremor as the thoughts flow through them and
burst forth
From her fingertips
Until at long last relief rushes in and performs
Its own form of chemo on the
Tumor in her mind.
18

The Writing of a Poem
poetry
by Mary Dwyer
It begins as a tiny glow
somewhere deep inside your mind.
You don’t realize it now
but the glow is growing.
Sparking and sizzling and squirming
the idea forces its way
to the front of your brain,
battering against your skull.
A spark becomes a deadly fire
your head becomes an oven,
the idea burning at 600 degrees
demands to be released from its containment.
You put pen to paper and the idea
comes screaming onto the sheet.
Its strength is overwhelming,
driving ink through the next four pages
Letters, now words begin to slur together
your aching hand has never moved faster.
The idea burns into your heart
and passion bleeds through every pen stroke.
By the end of it all
you don’t know whether to laugh or cry
whether your creation is gold or garbage,
either way you don’t care.
You haven’t doused that fire,
only spread it.
19

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Unnamed 2 | Sophie Smith | photography

Unnamed 3 | Sophie Smith | photography
Unnamed 4| Sophie Smith | photography

Orbits
poetry
by Elizabeth Gibson
We have a plant in our front room. Yucca.
My mother called it Planet for as long as
I can remember. She saved him, she said;
he was just a dying twig that was going to
be thrown away and she poured life back
into him, nurtured him. Planet has always
been a “he”.
When another little green leafy creature
appeared I named it; I wanted to be the
one with that honour so I leapt on it right
away. Comet, I declared, and nobody
objected. Comet he was. Planet’s clone,
I guess. There are no other yucca plants
about to breed with.
Galaxy | Sarah Hamilton | watercolor
22

I started a club once. I wanted to belong
like any kid. I didn’t follow sports, didn’t
play Pokémon. I had no team. So I made
my own with my rabbit, my brother, my
friend and her brother. We had space club
names: I was Lightning, my brother Star,
my friend Comet.
She chose it; she probably didn’t know
it was the name of our beloved plant. She
kind of suited it. I made badges with foil.
I kept a club book. I would tell my brother
endless stories about the great things we
would do. Mainly we just talked. It was
good.
I’ve been playing a game recently where
you raise dragons. I name mine after stars.
My favorites are Suhail and Mirfak and
Shaula – I do love the Arabic names. The
Chinese call Mercury “water star”. They
call Venus “gold star”, Mars “fire star”.
I like that.
23

Something Borrowed | Abby Treece | mixed media
Seasonal Bliss
poetry
by Gabrielle LaFrank
24
Autumnal coziness fills even August
With an aura as warm as the pigments
That paint the late summer grasses and fall’s first trees.
Sunflower meadows spring forth from the earth,
Anticipating September’s harvest.
Well worn boots kick up the dusty farmland,
Until the first rains kiss it back to life.
October’s Hunter’s Moon peeks through the thinning
branches
Of oak and birch, dropping golden petals.
All life is now hushed in seasonal bliss.
But how many more days are there until
Winter’s stillness creeps out of the shadows?
Once a frozen blanket buries all
We will wait. We will wait for life’s return.

Tiny curly cat
white cream
just cut skimmed
off the milk
Gold
poetry
by Elizabeth Gibson
abrupt, heard something
birds singing
outside
in neverland
patches of green
light and dark
against bluewhite sky
whirring
motorcycle
distance
not here
don’t be afraid
cat washing
prim pink nose
smiling
smug
has a home
lucky cat
lucky cat
chinese
waving paw
gold
golden
golden cat
sparkling
creamygoldensparklycat.
25

At Flapping Wings
ΣΤΟ ΧΤΥΠΗΜΑ ΤΩΝ ΦΤΕΡΩΝ
poetry
by Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli
Τρεις άγγελοι με περίσσεια
γαλήνη
σε έναν παρθένο τρούλo
μιας απλοϊκής εκκλησιάς
κρέμονται
Λούλουδα μετρούν την
δύναμη τους
στις σχισμές της πέτρας
Οι άνθρωποι μεγαλώνουν
στην μοναξιά
διψούν για αγάπη
Οι δρόμοι έρημοι
κρατούν τον πυρωμένο
Ήλιο του καλοκαιριού
τα πουλιά περιμένουν
Στο μακρινό ταξίδι
η υπόσχεση ρίζες απλώνει
στο χτύπημα των φτερών
στις πόλεις του κόσμου
ξυπνούν τα χρώματα στο φως
Three angels with abundant
peacefulness
on one virgin dome
a simplistic church
hanging
Flowers measure
forces
on stone slits
The people grow
in loneliness
hungry for love
The deserted streets
Hold the calcined
sun of summer
birds waiting
In the long journey
promise roots stretching
at flapping wings
in the cities of the world
colors awaken to light
26

The Jasmine
ΤΟ ΓΙΑΣΕΜΑΚΙ
poetry
by Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli
Σήμερα στα πέτρινα σπίτια
τσάκισαν της τριανταφυλλιάς
οι ανθοί
Τα δάκρυα των ανθρώπων
την καρδιά προδίδουν
Η ψυχή το σώμα
τρυπά χύνεται στο φως
στο μεγάλο κάλεσμα
στον θρήνο του Αρχαγγέλου
και το μοιρολόι
Μα εγώ μεθώ με ένα
ανθάκι ,ένα γιασεμάκι
που η μυρωδιά του
ειναι μαγευτική
Ω! με της νιότης και
της Ανοιξης το τραγούδι
θα ερθεις εσύ,νέους ανθούς
να πλάσεις ....
δροσερές φωνές
ντυμένες με Ηλιο
Την πρώτη νιότη
θα καρφώσω στα χείλη
σαν φιλί
Θα ερθεις εσυ ...στο
καθαρό πατρικό μου
σπιτι ......που εκει σε
προσμένουμε ολοι
Today the stone houses
crushed of rosewood
the blossoms
The human tears
heart they betray
the soul, the body
pieces are poured
at light
the great calling
at lament the Archangel
and dirge
But I get drunk with a small
blossom, a jasmine
where the smell of
they are magnificent
Oh! with the youth
of Spring songs
you will come, young blossoms
to mold using ….
cool voices
dressed with Sun
First youth
will stab lips
like kiss
Will you come...
at my pure fatherly
house ...... for there
we accept all
27

Thursday Morning Contemplation
poetry
by Gabrielle LaFrank
From my window I watched dawn reveal the grey
infinity from which the rain poured down.
Yesterday evening through the morning,
a pitter-patter called from outsidebut
in my bedroom I was warm,
much unlike the rage-filled clouds
overhead. Steam burst from the coffee pot. A cloud
of moisture settled around the inner rim of the grey
mug as I gently stirred the last of the sugar into the warm
drink. Waiting on breakfast, I sat down
on the sofa and glanced outside.
What a quiet morning.
I was by myself once again this morning,
but as always my ever-wandering, cloudy
thoughts drifted back to you, as if you were waiting outside
just for me. When it rained you wore your grey
cable-knit sweater. I would envelop myself in a down
blanket and there we’d be- together and warm.
But I don’t need you today; I am my own warmth.
I often lose myself in the solitude of the morning,
hypnotized by the drizzle that falls perpetually down.
For hours I watch what looks like what long cloud
roll endlessly to the grey
horizon. Outside,
28

Der rote Ampelmann | Claire Flores | photography
the earth dampens, squishing underfoot. Outside,
the wind chill freezes all that is already far from warm.
Inside, the beige walls and grey
marble counter tops fill with the coziness of the morning.
Coffee’s steam the only cloud,
the revitalizing shower the only water pouring down.
But the beauty of the storm- rain sliding into the creek, flowing downstream.
The wind throwing October leaves everywhere outside...
It’s a much milder scene than the approaching black thunderclouds.
Those flying leaves the only warmth
of the storm. This morning
is smothered in whites and greys.
I wish I could soar with the grey clouds
in the warmth, freeze, and thaw of the outside.
On a morning like this, I would never come down.
29

Owl | Abby Treece | intaglio
Octupus | Abby Treece | linocut

Charlie | Abby Treece | scratchboard
Skull | Emma Umberger | charcoal

Fate
ΜΟΙΡΑ
poetry
by Dr. Eftichia Kapardeli
Η μοίρα πάντα
θα μας καρτερά
και όταν οι ψυχές
θα ταξιδεύουν
σε εκείνη την Άνοιξη
χωρίς σώμα
χωρίς Πατρίδα
μέσα στην φυγή
λυτρωμένες ,τριγυρισμένες
από ξενιτιά μέσα από
τους νέους βλαστούς ,τους
ροδανθούς και τα ανθισμένα
κλαριά
με φλόγες ανέγγιχτες
στην ομορφιά
θα λυγίσουν στην παράξενη
γιορτή των χρωμάτων
στα αρώματα των καρπών
θα μεθύσουν
προσμένοντας
Fate always
will wait for us
and the souls
traveling
in the spring
without body
without Fatherland
into the flight
the redeemed, surrounded
from foreign lands through
young shoots, the
blossom of roses and blooming
branches
untouched by flames
in beauty
will bend in strange
festivals of colors
the fruit aromas
be drunk
waiting
32

Festung Hohensalzburg | Claire Flores | photography
Cup With Coral | Sarah Hamilton | colored pencil

Drizzle
poetry
by Gabrielle LaFrank
Drizzle falls like static against the dark sky
plunging tiny splashes on the concrete,
a chain reaction of ripples on the
welcome mat, inviting winter
into our cozy little cottage.
The garden is green and
the sky is gray and
it is such a lovely
December day.
34
Purple Morning | Honey McDonald | acrylic

Mailbox
prose
by Emma Patterson
It stood sentinel for the idea
of a house turned into crumbled
concrete. Opaque mist swirled
around its motheaten base in an
attempt to conceal the wounded
earth. A weathered child curled
beneath, mouselike fingers clasped
as though around his father’s.
A cry echoed through the
silence on transparent thread. The
boy sat up; one trembling hand
reached to open his attic door.
A robin huddled in a ratty
nest.
The boy’s eyes softened.
“Hey.” He clumsily patted its
head.
The robin blinked at him,
mute.
“Pretty wrecked, huh? But it’s
okay; I’ll take care of you.”
Like Daddy took care of me.
Pleuvoir | Anna Leach | acrylic
35

Lucky
prose
by Emma Patterson
The afternoon sunlight woke
hordes of gnats from their miniscule
nests in the trees or grass or
wherever they slept at night; Mel
wasn’t sure. The only thing she was
sure of concerning these midgets
from H-E-Double-Toothpicks was
of their innate desire to spend their
entire short lives annoying her. Her
eyes almost shut from the glare, toes
curling into the overheated grass,
Mel waved her forearms wildly
through the air to ward off her
assailants.
“What are you doing?”
Mel turned, squinting into the
undiluted sunlight, somehow still
able to make out her babysitter’s
features. “I’m fighting the gnats!”
“That’s not how you fight
gnats.” Hanna crossed her arms,
checking her watch and letting out
a sigh.
“Then how do you?”
“You don’t.”
Mel paused, still squinting upward.
“But there has to be a way.”
“No there doesn’t. Not for
everything.”
“But there does!” Mel folded
her arms tightly like she’d seen Mom
do many times. After a few seconds
her expression grew shrewd. “You
don’t know how, do you?”
“What?”
“You don’t know how to fight
gnats! That’s why you said there
isn’t a way, because you don’t know
what it is!” She leaped suddenly into
the air, arms waving wildly again
like the eight legs of an adrenaline-drenched
octopus. “My way’s
right!” she crowed, dashing off
across the park.
Hanna watched Mel dart
ahead, her tiny, glitter-adorned
sneakers thumping against the
mulch. Sighing, she reluctantly
followed the seven-year-old as she
passed the halfway mark and shot
around back the way she’d come,
lips and fists white with concentration.
Realizing Mel would likely
keep going until she collapsed from
exhaustion, Hanna found a nearby
bench on which to wait.
Just as Mel lapped her, Hanna
felt her phone vibrate. Pulling it out
of her pocket, she opened Messenger
and skimmed Taylor’s most
recent text. Dude, get over here
right now.
Can’t, babysitting. What is it?
Hanna tapped back, before clicking
the Android to sleep and glancing
up to check on Mel. She’d paused
36

Abstract Cat | Sarah Hamilton | watercolor
beside the two-swing playset,
watching as the occupants swung
back and forth. All of a sudden, a
bony arm shot out and snatched at
the closer swing as it passed. “I want
a turn!” Mel’s petulant voice carried
easily across the sparsely occupied
playground.
Hanna groaned. Not this again.
There were endless other things Mel
could be doing: monkey bars, going
down the slide, climbing up the fireman’s
pole, or hanging upside down
from the gymnastics bars. Why did
she have to take the swings?
“Let go!” The curly-haired little
boy swatted at Mel’s hand.
“I want a turn!”
“I got here first! I’m not finished
yet!”
37

38
“I’ve been waiting for ages! It’s
my turn!”
Sensing the possibility of yet
another fight, Hanna figured it was
time to cut in. “Mel!”
She turned her freckles toward
Hanna. “But I want to swing!”
“Come over here. When those
boys leave you can go swing, okay?”
Grumbling to herself, Mel shot
one last glower at the swings before
stumping toward Hanna like her
legs had turned to wood. The crisis
averted, Hanna checked her phone
again.
I just found Robin’s youtube.
Hanna’s breath came in a
slight gasp. Robin had a youtube?
WHAT??? She waited impatiently
for a response, tapping her phone
case with her nails. She knew she
couldn’t watch her crush’s videos
now, not when she was being paid
to watch Mel. She’d have to wait
until she made it to Taylor’s house
later tonight.
Hanna didn’t look up from her
phone as Mel flopped down beside
her, her breathing slowing. After
roughly seventeen seconds, when
Mel decided there was no hope of
Hanna resurfacing anytime soon,
she log-rolled toward a patch of
weeds and began picking at them.
“Hey Hanna?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
“Have you ever found a fourleaf
clover?”
“I dunno.”
“How can you not know?”
“I forgot?”
Mel continued messing with
the plants for a moment. “I’ve never
found a four-leaf clover.”
“You’re young. You will someday.”
“That’s what Mom says,” Mel
sighed. Glancing up at Hanna again,
she added, “Oh and why are you
sitting on the Mom Bench?”
Hanna’s spine went stiffly vertical
at once. “The what bench?”
“The Mom Bench. It’s what everyone
calls it because that’s where
all the Moms sit.”
Hanna stood up quickly. Mel
wasn’t surprised; not one of her
babysitters had so far wanted to sit
there. According to Carlos, it’d be
better to compress his feet into twin
pancakes than sit there. To Mel’s
great excitement, Hanna settled herself
on the ground beside Mel.
“Are you going to help me find
a four-leaf clover?” Mel’s mouth
stretched into a smile, showing off
her lopsided teeth.
“Um…” Hanna checked her
phone to find no notifications.
“Sure. Yeah, I’ll help.”
“Yes!” Feet excitedly kicking
the ground, Mel returned to her
search. Hanna glanced over the
patch before checking her phone
again. Three seconds passed before
Mel again eyed Hanna. “Found
anything yet?”
“Umm, nope. But that just

means we’ll have to keep looking,
right?”
Mel mirrored Hanna’s smile,
though hers was genuine. “Yep!”
But though she tried to focus,
for some reason her mind kept
wandering and her eyes traveled
over the same few clovers again
and again. They all most definitely
had three leaves apiece. Finally, she
rolled onto her back with a loud
groan. “This isn’t working!”
“Maybe you’re not trying hard
enough.” Hanna continued texting a
friend, the muffled tapping sounds
attracting Mel’s attention.
“Can you braid my hair?”
“What?”
“Can you braid my hair?”
Hanna shrugged. “I suppose I
could. I’m not the best at it, though,
and you’d have to stay really still.”
“Okay!” Mel scooted around
into a seated position, her back
facing Hanna. To make it easier she
pushed every strand of dirty blonde
hair behind her shoulders.
Shoving her phone into her
pocket, Hanna sat criss-cross-applesauce
and pulled Mel into her lap.
Her fingers began combing bits of
grass and mulch out of her hair in
preparation for the braid. Through
her tight jeans, Hanna felt Taylor’s
next text arrive. It took all her willpower
to not answer, to keep focusing
on Mel.
“Can you braid flowers into my
hair?”
“Flowers?”
“Yeah! These ones!”
Leaning forward and ripping
her hair out of Hanna’s hands, Mel
uprooted a handful of white flowers
from the clover patch.
“I suppose I could.” Hanna
held out her hand for them, eying
the still-attached roots and lumps of
dirt warily. Mrs. McKinney would
definitely not want Mel coming
home with those in her hair.
“You have to keep them just
like that,” Mel insisted. “Don’t break
off the ends or anything. They
have to be long enough to stay put,
right?”
“R… right.” Maybe she could
surreptitiously snap off the worst
bits while Mel wasn’t looking.
Placing the slightly mangled
flowers on the ground beside her,
Hanna began working her fingers
through Mel’s tangles again. It was
really incredible how many there
were, such a contrast from Hanna’s
own straight black hair. Mel winced
at the particularly knotted bits and
Hanna mirrored her expression;
annoying as she was, Hanna hated
hurting the little girl. Though it was
hard to work with Mel’s continual
shifting.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“But I’m bored!”
“Then watch the clouds.”
“But that’s boring!”
“No it isn’t. You can find all the
shapes in them and make up stories
39

and things.”
“Really?”
“Try it!” Maybe then she would
finally shut up and sit still.
As Mel squinted upward,
Hanna separated her hair into three
mostly equal chunks. Picking up
a flower from the pile, she picked
off the end and wound it into Mel’s
curls. She began to twist the sections
into a braid.
“Hanna!”
“What?”
“You aren’t allowed to take off
the ends.”
Hanna eyed Mel’s pout and
narrowed eyebrows. If she got too
angry, she’d probably run off again
and bother the boys on the swings
again. She might even get into a
fight. If Mrs. McKinney found out
Mel had been in yet another one,
Apple | Abby Treece | magazine clippings
40

Hanna would be fired on the spot,
and though she would prefer not to
spend her afternoons running after
Mel, she couldn’t find another summer
job. Sighing, she began to twist
the other dirt-encrusted flowers
into Mel’s hair.
“Hanna!”
What now? “Yes?”
“I see a clover in the clouds!”
“Oh?”
“Yep! It’s all white and fluffy.”
“How many leaves does it
have?”
“Four.”
Hanna blinked skyward.
“Where is it?”
“There!” Mel pointed, but at
just the wrong angle for Hanna to
see.
“Oh. Yeah, I see it.” Hanna’s
attention returned to Mel’s crooked
braid, hoping the girl wouldn’t
notice her lie.
“Isn’t it cool? It’s like the clouds
knew I was just looking for one
down here.” She patted flat palms on
the ground.
“Mmhm.”
Mel glanced over her shoulder
at Hanna, jerking her hair out of
her grasp. Hanna made a sudden
grab and managed to recapture it
just before it came undone. “Does
this count as me finding a four-leaf
clover?”
“No, that one’s in the clouds.”
“But it’s shaped like a four-leaf
clover and I found it! Why doesn’t
that count?”
“Because it’ll blow away in a
minute. If you find an actual one
you can press it in a dictionary and
keep it forever.”
“Will it stay lucky forever?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Mel considered this for a moment.
“Well maybe the cloud clover
will give me enough luck to find an
actual one down here.”
She crawled forward out of
Hanna’s lap, the braid disintegrating
as it flopped against her back. Her
fingers brushed through the clover
patch, picking carelessly through.
Hanna brushed the worst of the
dirt from Mel’s hair before picking
up her phone again, hoping to find
Taylor’s reply.
“Got one!”
“What?”
“I got one! See?” Mel held up a
clover for Hanna’s scrutiny.
“Oh.” Hanna cupped her palm
and Mel obediently dropped it in.
“Mel, this isn’t a four-leaf one. It’s a
normal three-leaf; you just ripped a
leaf in half.”
“But it has four leaves!” Mel
pouted.
“But you ripped one. It didn’t
grow like that, you’re just pretending
it did. That’s cheating, Mel.”
Mel groaned, flopping onto her
back. “This is hard!”
“It’s supposed to be hard. It’s
why they’re lucky, see?” Mel didn’t
respond and Hanna crawled forward
to lie beside her, unconsciously
fingering the clover. “If everyone
41

had a four-leaf clover, they wouldn’t
be special.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mel grumbled.
“That’s what Mom always says.”
Hanna glanced back at her
phone as she and Mel fell silent.
There were two unread messages
from Taylor and her thumb hovered
above the notification, ready
to reply. Out of the corner of her
eye she saw Mel lying quietly in the
grass, staring up at the sky, her face
relaxed into a bored expression. She
looked so… not-Mel. It didn’t feel
right. Biting the inside of her lip,
Hanna dropped the phone onto the
ground.
“Hey Mel?”
“What?”
Hanna wriggled closer, tickling
Mel’s sides. Though the little girl
tried to keep her face expressionless,
it wasn’t long before she began
giggling. “If you can find a real fourleaf
clover, I promise we can stay
here for the entire afternoon.”
Mel’s eyes widened. “Really? I
don’t have to go back and clean my
room?”
“Nope. I’ll help you do that
tomorrow, how ‘bout?”
Mel grinned in place of a
“thank you” and immediately began
searching again. Smiling to herself,
Hanna began gently raking her fingers
through the weeds, helping Mel
look. Maybe with two pairs of eyes,
a four-leaf clover would surface
faster.
42
Searching was insanely boring.
Mel almost gave up several times,
but somehow managed to keep
going. Whenever she looked up at
Hanna, a new surge of resolve rose
inside her. Hanna was helping her,
actually helping her. Mel couldn’t
remember the last time she’d had
a moment like this with a babysitter;
Mom kept sending them away
before Mel could spend much time
with them. Mom always mentioned
something about Mel scraping her
knees or getting a bruise while
playing?
After about five minutes of
mostly silent work, something
caught Mel’s eye. It was Hanna’s
finger, patiently nudging a particular
clover.
“You found one!” Then Mel’s
face fell. “But does that mean I still
have to clean my room? Because it
wasn’t me who found it?”
“How about let’s change the
rules a little bit. If you pick a fourleaf
clover, we can stay here today.
Does that work for you?”
“Yes!” Mel’s hand shot forward
and she grabbed not only the clover
in question, but also a couple beside
it. Laughing, Hanna helped her separate
it from its average siblings.
“There you go. Your first ever
four-leaf clover.”
“Is it still lucky even if I didn’t
find it myself?”
Hanna shrugged. “We changed
the rules, remember?”

Mel grinned. Edging closer to
Hanna, she wrapped one thin arm
tightly around her neck.
“Not so hard!” Hanna complained,
but even when Mel refused
to let go she didn’t press it.
“Hanna?”
“Yes?”
“Will you play with me today?”
“Of course, if you want me to.”
“It really is lucky!” Mel
squeezed her clover, then shoved it
into her pocket and got clumsily to
her feet. “Come on!”
Hanna pushed herself into
a crouch, kneeling at Mel’s eye
level. Still bearing her wide grin,
Mel almost took off immediately,
but stumbled to a halt after only a
couple steps and glanced back at
Hanna.
“Are you okay? Did you stub
your toe?”
Mom’s words echoed in Mel’s
memory. Say thank you. She’d always
ignored the order before, but
maybe it would be good to be nice
to Hanna this time, since she was
playing with Mel. Mom had always
stressed the importance of being
nice to people, especially when they
were being nice to her.
“Thanks. For the four-leaf
clover and for playing with me and
everything.”
“No problem,” Hanna smiled.
“Now what are we going to play?”
Mel trotted back to her and
gave her another quick hug. “You’re
the best babysitter ever,” she whispered,
then darted off again. “I
want to play pirates! You be the sea
monster and try to eat me!”
Hanna smiled to herself. Even
though the clover was technically
Mel’s, it seemed some of the luck
had rubbed off on her. Maybe she
could have some fun this afternoon
after all, even if she had to babysit
Mel. Phone lying forgotten amongst
the clover, Hanna put on her best
sea monster face and stomped back
toward the playground.
43

4000 Minutes
prose
by Marie Ungar
The day after my world fragments,
the splinters don’t hurt, no
matter how much they should. It’s
supposed to hurt when you lose a
parent. It’s supposed to hurt like
hell, the kind of pain that keeps you
up at night, crying into your pillow
so the neighbors can’t hear you
through the walls. Well, I try. I try
so damn hard, but when my grandmother
finally comes to collect me,
I have to pinch my cheeks blue before
the tears come, so that the color
in the mirror matches the splotchy,
fading hues beneath my clothes. The
bathroom clock reads 6:56 am. It
has been 482 minutes.
I’m sorry, I say to my reflection,
I’m so, so sorry. The biggest lie
I’ve ever told.
The cops are parked on the
street outside our apartment building,
so their flashy production is
the first thing my grandmother sees
when she arrives. It seems to reassure
her.
“Don’t you worry Grace,” she
instructs, after the hello and the
tears and the hugs and the I’m sorry.
513 minutes; I am counting. My
grandmother grips my shoulder and
I wince instinctively. “You’re safe
now. Whoever did this, they’ll find
him. They’ll find who killed your
44
papa.”
I nod. She is wrong. If my
father has taught me anything, it
is the ease with which secrets stay
buried. All it takes is one thin layer
of fabric, a well-placed smile, and a
fistful of kind words.
***
2,863 minutes after my father’s
death, I am sitting in the passenger
seat of my grandmother’s car.
Her eyes flit between the road and
my face and she speaks in filtered
thoughts and sad smiles. I get it.
I am the traumatized child, and
she has to be careful what she says
around me. Words can hurt, words
can sting, and children need to be
sheltered from their pain. I used to
wonder how much she knew, and
now I have my answer: not a thing.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Pennsylvania.” Another smile.
“So that’s where you live?”
She nods. She looks like she
wants to say more, but she stops
herself.
Instead she tells me to call
her Grams, or Gran, or something
other than “Grandmother.” Like
she’s seen me even once in the past
eight years, like we aren’t complete

strangers. I don’t think we’ve talked
since my mother’s funeral, and that
was when I was a teary six-year-old
who couldn’t grasp the concept of
“she’s not coming back.” That was
the day I noticed my father’s face
had clouded over, like he didn’t
quite know who he was. That was
the day my eyes registered the way
he looked at the empty bottle in his
hand as an old friend he hadn’t seen
for years, even if my brain couldn’t
make the right connections. And
I iced the first bruises in silence
that day, because accidents happen,
right?
I stare out the window where
the countryside blurs past like
it’s running away. I am glad that
Grandmother doesn’t want to talk
because I didn’t sleep last night and
my eyelids drift open and closed on
their own accord. When she finally
speaks I don’t hear the words.
I am five again. I remember
this day. My father took me to
a baseball game at the park and
allowed me to run barefoot through
the grass, turning somersaults
beneath a glassy sky. Then we sat
and watched the players hitting
and throwing and running round
and round the field. In the nto the
stands. I don’t know what excited
me more: the thud when my hands
closed around the baseball or my
father’s “Good job, Grace,” as he
gently patted my shoulder. I didn’t
wince back then, just smiled.
Then he bought three bags cotton
candy and we stuffed ourselves
silly, laughing until our faces were
sticky pink, and we went home and
my mother had made his favorite
lasagna and we looked at each other
and mimed throwing up and there
was no whiskey in his laughter and
no bruises lining my spine.
We’re in the stands again. The
sky is smooth and white, and there
is wet grass sticking to my feet. The
baseball zooms toward my face, so
I reach out. Thud. My hands curl
around the leather, which feels good
and solid, something I can hang
onto. I turn to my father expectantly,
waiting for the good job, Grace,
but there is a knife protruding from
his neck and blood trickling down
his collarbone, soaking through his
shirt like an inkblot.
My father shatters into a million
pieces.
The baseball drops from my
grasp.
***
I lash out at Grandmother
when she shakes me awake, and my
left hand’s nail-bitten fingers snag
on her sweater. I open my mouth
to apologize profusely but then I
see the blood my other hand has
drawn on her arm, and I have to
bite back the apology as bile rises in
my throat. I can’t look away. Grandmother
wipes it away with the pad
of her thumb and tosses me a reassuring
smile.
45

“Here we are,” she says, gesturing
to the cookie-cutter two-story
suburban home. I smile back. I
have done it; I have finally done it. I
have escaped my father’s apartment
for good. I will never again stare
terrified into his cadaverous eyes
or taste his drunken breath as he
leans close to whisper honey-soaked
threats in my ear. 3,495 minutes.
Grandmother insists on
carrying my one small suitcase, so
I follow her empty-handed up the
driveway and through the front
door. The house smells like a stew
of lemon and mothballs, but I don’t
mind. I look around at the clean,
spacious foyer and the furniture
that is still intact and the carpets
that look like they were vacuumed
yesterday. I breath in the scent of
lemon mothballs. I relish it.
My room is on the second
floor, near Grandmother’s, with a
bathroom all to itself. At the other
end of the hall, a narrow set of stairs
leads up to an attic door, but Grandmother
says all that’s up there is just
storage. Once she leaves me in my
room, I drag my suitcase into the
closet and faceplant on the bed with
my shoes still on. There is a clock on
the opposite wall, but I don’t have to
read it. It has been 3,506 minutes.
All is quiet save for the faint
hum of the air conditioning and the
occasional clunk from the kitchen
downstairs. I squeeze my eyes shut
tight. You see, the story books don’t
mention that love is a twisted thing.
46
They don’t explain how it clings to
hatred and regret, worming its way
into places unwanted, hiding in the
corners until you think you’ve swept
it out the door, but it’s never gone,
not really.
3,523 minutes. I squeeze my
eyes shut tighter.
This house is already starting
to get on my nerves. There aren’t
any cluttered corners where where
my guilt can hide.
***
I sleep through dinner. I would
probably have slept through breakfast
too, but I jolt awake at four in
the morning, my mind high on
adrenaline. I heard a noise, I swear.
I lie still in bed, breathing heavy,
propped up on my elbows, listening
with every muscle in my body.
Nothing.
It takes me awhile to realize
that it is not what I hear, but what I
don’t hear. I don’t hear my father’s
truck pull faintly up outside, or his
heavy footsteps on the stairs. 4,607
minutes, and I don’t hear the apartment
door slam, his steps much
louder, now, as he stumbles to his
bed. I don’t hear the increasingly
frequent rap-tap-tap at my door,
each time he’s not as exhausted as
I pray he is. I lie awake in bed, my
eyes wide open, ears pricked with
not-hearing, as something cold and
clammy settles in my stomach.
Even here I cannot fully

escape my father. He has ingrained
himself into my circadian rhythms.
3,997 minutes. I want to
say that we are even now, but the
thought makes me sick.
3,998. Breathe in, breathe out.
Some things will hunt you wherever
you go, and you can do nothing but
ask: was it worth it?
3,999. My guilt crawls to the
corner and buries itself in the dust.
4,000 minutes. Yes. God, yes.
All it took was my father’s
old army knife and a bucket of false
tears.
I have shattered my world. I
would do it again.
Hands | Emma Umberger | charcoal
47

Waves
prose
by Emma Patterson
The rocking chair creaked like
his knees as he eased himself into a
seated position. He pushed himself
backward, then relaxed forward
again. Backward and forward.
Backward and forward. The movement
soothed him, reminding him
of his past home. As a child he’d
loved watching the waves wash in
and out, in and out.
Perhaps that was why he’d
moved to join the midwestern
branch of his family tree. Of
course, he would have preferred
to remain in his seaside home, but
his doctor insisted sixteen falls
was quite enough. The Great Plains
definitely weren’t the same, but the
sound reminded him of rushing
waves. It drew him backward into
his memories, back through the
undulations of time to his childhood.
Shutting his eyes, he summoned
a vision of the rocky hills
Table Mountain | Andrea Corbett | photography

he’d called cliffs. He’d sit there for
hours, scrawny legs dangling over
the edge, grinning as he warded off
attacks from sea spray, encrusting
his brown hair with granular salt.
He’d play games with his siblings,
daring each other nearer to the water
and trying to push each other
in. He fell every time, though most
often got revenge by bringing his
attacker down with him.
What would it be like to
return to that time, to get a second
chance at life? He’d be able to
graduate again, fall in love again,
spend his life with the woman of
his dreams again. He’d recapture
all the moments he’d lost by keeping
detailed journals for him to
peruse as an old man. Eighty-three
years and it seemed he could only
remember enough to fill five small
notebooks.
He heard a voice calling from
inside, asking him to come inside
for dinner. Opening his eyes,
he gazed out across the utterly
flat landscape through semicircle-shaped
holes. Grunting and
sighing his way to his feet, he
leaned heavily on his cane and
shuffled toward the door. It was
stupid to think about such things,
he decided. Time was time. He
couldn’t fight or subvert it, so what
was the point in trying? He had
one life, just like everyone else, and
shouldn’t ask for anything more.
49

Volume Five Staff Members
Editor In Chief: Kieran Rundle
Art Editor: Emma Umberger
Literature Editor: Emma Patterson
Design Editor: Kieran Rundle
Judging Helpers: Emma Umberger & Marie Ungar
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Cover Art
Hands | Sarah Hamilton | mixed media
51

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