Spire 2020

Layout & Design

Literary Editors

Joe Doody

Parker Forest Olson

Grace Wiggins

Maribel Turcan

Faculty Advisors

Dr. Christina Marrocco

Creative Advisor

Ben Shaw

Blue Ox Design Studio

blueoxdesignstudio.com

CONTENT

Florence B. Palmer Award

Art, Photography and Design Winners

Ink Wash ....................... Caroline Gendron .................... 6

Blooming in Self Love ... Fabiola Lopez ................................. 7

Good Advice ..................... Teri St. John ................................. 8


Non-Fiction Winners

Arboretum .................... Rylee Boldog ............................ 9

Cardboard Sword .......... Isabella Maguigad .................... 12

Beauty ........................... Elizabeth Howells ..................... 14


Poetry

An Elegy for Isabelle ..... Sean Hargadon ........................ 17

Off White ...................... Joe Doody ............................ 22

Rewind .......................... Natalie Bierdz .......................... 23


Fiction Winners

Naught but a Wave ....... Jessica Patrick ......................... 24

The Eye on

the Mountain ................ Joelle Shewan ......................... 28

She Called her Passion... Crystal Kresch ......................... 33

LITERARY CONTENTS

Padre Nuestro (Our Father) .............. Jonathan Fonseca.................................. 40

Almond Butter ................................. Desiree Oliveros ................................... 42

Who Am I To Stand Tall .................. David Howle ....................................... 46

I Miss Dancing ................................. Jessica Patrick ...................................... 49

Broken ............................................. Kylee Backer ........................................ 50

Waffles ............................................. Hadley Corbett .................................... 52

“Mi corazón” .................................... Maryana Nava .................................... 55

Cleave unto Charity ......................... Parker Forest Olson .............................. 58

The Domino Effect .......................... Madelyn Lakeman ............................... 66

The Concertmaster ........................... Natalie Bierdz ..................................... 68

Daddy Issues:

Bitter is an Understatement .............. April Ramangkoun ............................... 70

A Storm is Coming .......................... Jessica Patrick ...................................... 75

Amy ................................................. Kylee Backer ........................................ 76

Exit Wounds .................................... Brenda Law ......................................... 81

Grief ................................................. Desiree Oliveros ................................... 82

Touching .......................................... Daniel Klim ........................................ 86

Pine .................................................. Parker Forest Olson .............................. 89

Unsatisfaction .................................. Cara Thomas ........................................90

Apostasy of a Coffee Snob ................ Parker Forest Olson............................... 96

Infidelity .......................................... Sarah Dell’ Aringa ............................. 103

If Only ............................................. Joe Doody .......................................... 104

Forgotten Playground ....................... Joelle Shewan .................................... 106

No Turning Back .............................. Grace Wiggins .................................... 108

Soldier .............................................. Samantha de Souza ............................ 119

ART, PHOTOGRAPHY & DESIGN CONTENTS

Violin ............................................... Caroline Gendron ................................ 38

Sedona, Arizona ............................... Karol Krogh ......................................... 39

In a Box ........................................... Archer Seaborn .................................... 41

Vegetable and Flowers ...................... Karol Krogh ......................................... 44

I’m Always Here ............................... Salma Armenta .................................... 45

Fragments ........................................ Jobella Vongsomchith............................. 47

Self Portrait ...................................... Caroline Gendron................................. 48

Dreaming of Red .............................. Fabiola Lopez ...................................... 51

Night in Milwaukee ......................... Maxine Stewart.................................... 54

Submerge ......................................... Salma Armenta .................................... 56

Untitled (Still Life) ........................... Daniel Haffner .................................... 57

Psychadelic 2 .................................... Daniel Haffner .................................... 65

Monster in Kinky Boots ................... Archer Seaborn..................................... 67

Epiphany .......................................... Jobella Vongsomchith ............................ 69

Skull and Snakes ............................... Caroline Gendron ................................ 74

Fall Nights ........................................ Maxine Stewart ................................... 79

Echos................................................ Jobella Vongsomchith .............................80

Furry Donkey ................................... Karol Krogh ......................................... 84

Cow ................................................. Karol Krogh ..........................................85

Owl Eyes .......................................... Joshua Selvig ........................................ 87

Scenery 2 .......................................... Daniel Haffner .................................... 88

Untitled (Bowl) ................................ Ian Floetl ............................................. 95

Gone Fishing .................................... Maxine Stewart ................................. 102

Venomia............................................ Justin Drake ...................................... 105

Deadpool Poster ............................... Linda Fidler ...................................... 107

Audition ........................................... Archer Seaborn .................................. 117

Wintere ............................................ Justin Drake ...................................... 118

Sock Monkey.................................... Justin Drake ...................................... 120

Florence B. Palmer Award Winner - First Place

Art, Photography and Design

Florence B. Palmer Award Winner - Second Place


Ink Wash

Caroline Gendron

Blooming in Self Love

Fabiola Lopez

6 Spire 2020 Elgin Community College 7

Florence B. Palmer Award Winner - Third Place



Non-Fiction

Arboretum

by Rylee Boldog

Good Advice

Teri St. John

Most things here are white: the walls and cloudy windows,

the ceilings and vinyl floors, even the eternally-unlocked doors are

the same shade of empty. Here, colors come in people: faces and

eyes, kaleidoscopic socks, scars in all their shades of healing. There

are coloring markers and chunky crayons in a bucket. There is an

eclectic rainbow of shelved spines and a half-finished puzzle on the

long table in the center of a room.

There is a girl with green arms and greener eyes. “Hey, May,

we’re goin’ to breakfast. You coming?” She stands in the doorway,

looking at the girl curled under the sheets. “Oh,” she says when I sit

up. “You’re not May. You new?” The green in her irises is so close to

translucent that they look iced over.

“Uh, yeah.” My voice cracks, sounding hollow in the large

room. “I got here last night.”

“I’m Ronnie.” Her voice is soft, a lisp kissing the edges of

her consonants.

“Rylee.”

“You’ll meet May, she’s probably just in the bathroom or

somethin’. We’re all linin’ up in the hallway if you wanna come

with.” She smiles when she talks, and as she waits for me to

respond, her tongue slips in and out of the space where her front

teeth should be. “I think May’s sick,” Ronnie offers in response to

my silence. “She got here yesterday, before you, but she won’t eat

with us.”

“Maybe she’s not hungry?” Unlikely.

Ronnie shrugs her shoulders. “I ‘on know, but they gon’

make her come eat. They watch out for that,” she says as she

leaves the room.

There is an actual tree growing in the hallway before the

cafeteria, so out of place, it looks fake. Everywhere else the ceilings

are oppressive, but here they stretch and breathe. Even so, I am sure

it seems mocking to one uprooted from a green canopy.


The walk here was like preschoolers crossing the road: a bubble

of space between each person, nurses acting as pilot and caboose.

Hands to yourself. Stand and wait patiently at the foot of the tree.

Someone will open the door for you. “It’s real,” Ronnie whispers

when she sees me staring. “Innit pretty?”

Yes, it’s the only living thing in this building. Frosted windows

suffocate every room, but this tree reaches up to a skylight. Its arms

are outstretched in prayer or plea, and I think that those under its

branches know a thing or two about what it means to be cut off

from the sun- what it means when a lifetime of reaching is stopped

by an inch of glass. And I wonder if this tree will ever find it. The

pilot nurse holds the door for us, counting each person who turns

her back on the tree.

The cafeteria turns out to be a free-for-all, every person

scattering to a fridge or pantry and digging for buried treasure.

I pull my sleeves over my fists and wait for the others to start

eating before looking for a place to sit. I move to the table in the

center of the room when I see Ronnie sit down. Her grin is all the

invitation I need to pull out my own plastic blue chair. I watch the

green girl’s plastic knife as she cuts a pancake into messy squares.

“It’s my last day here, ya know.” Ronnie spears a piece of pancake

into her mouth. “I gedda see my baby today. Haven’t seen him in a

coupl’a weeks ‘cause of bein’ in here.”

“What’s his name?”

Ronnie gives me her sweet smile as she coos, “Draco.” She

scoops up another piece of pancake. “I named him that ‘cause I really

like Harry Potter.” For emphasis, she lifts up her sleeve to show off

her wizard ink. Underneath it is the word “TWIZTED” in faded

green. “They said I couldn’t see him again ‘til I stayed sober for a

while, so I did- I been sober for a while an’ now I gedda see my

baby. I can’t wait to give him cuddles.”

“I’m sorry, that must’ve been hard not getting to see him.”

“Mhm,” Ronnie munches. Her tongue slides out from

between her gums, licking syrup off of her lips. “But it’s good- like,

weed really messes me up. And now I’m off it so I gedda see my

baby again. They tol’ me I could see him when I was sober.”

I nod, twisting my sleeves in my hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re

doing better.”

“Yeah. And I think Draco will be happy too.”

I reciprocate her smile this time.

There is a woman at the head of the long table. She is

colored in with crayons from the outside world: wind-bitten

cheeks, a jacket slung over her chair, a pair of running shoes.

“Why don’t we go around and say something we’re thankful for

today? Who’d like to start?” Because I am the newest member of

the group, I only roll my eyes internally. Ronnie, however, raises

her hand, waiting to be called on.

“I’m thankful for my baby Draco. I’m goin’ home to him

today- I can’t wait to give him so many cuddles.” She imitates the

hug, swiveling slightly in her chair as she looks across the table at

each of us.

“Thank you, Ronnie. I think I speak for everyone in the group

when I say that I’m so excited for you two to be reunited.” The

woman, with her shoes and their dangerous shoelaces, looks along

the rest of the table. “Now, who would like to go next?”

I cannot remember what lie I offered up as thankfulness.

Probably a second chance at breath in my lungs. What I do

remember is watching Ronnie while the others shared. She saw

each person, echoed their thankfulness with fluorescent eyes. She

took each of our morsels of thanks and offered up a slice of her own

infectious happiness. She was getting out; she was going home.

In the bedroom, I see Ronnie doing her hair in front of the

mirror. “I gotta put my hair up before I see Draco,” she explains,

tying a portion of hair into a limp ponytail at her forehead. “He’s at

the stage where he likes to pull hair.” She ties off another chunk at

the base of her neck, eyes assessing her work in the reflection.

“Um,” I offer, standing in the doorway. “Can I help? I know

how to do french braids.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “We can

sit on my bed,” I add. I am rewarded with her brightest grin, her

eyes a pair of twinkling, green lights.

Now, I must confess: I am not the best at braiding hair. But

I sit, weaving plaits into her dark hair and looking in the mirror to

catch the way her eyes shine as she tells me more about her son.

How he is only three months old and so chubby. More about how

she wants to give him cuddles. And most of all, she tells me she

loves him. In her soft voice and frosted eyes, she lays her heart

before me- it beats to her son’s name. I think back to the tree

growing in the hallway, which, I decide, is not the only thing living.

And I know that it will find the sun.



Non-Fiction

Cardboard Sword

by Isabella Maguigad

I believed that every knight needed a trusted blade, a special

sword made just for their handling. A weapon forged by the mighty

and infused with the blessing of the saints that represent their faith

and courage and utmost loyalty to doing the right thing.

Put simply: a knight without his sword is like a bird

without wings.

I was chosen to be her knight. So I chose to forge my own blade.

It’s an amalgamation of recyclables and trash, made with a

toilet paper roll for the hilt, thick cardboard for the blade’s base, and

cut up remnants of thinner Peach Crush boxes to mimic the center

ridge. Each piece was cut with a cheap boxcutter in my own shaky

hand while I listened to the soundtracks from my favorite video

games, every song renewing my passion for the project and the idea

of adventure. The sword stands at about the same length as the

lower half of my body, a design choice I made so that it wouldn’t be

awkward for me to hold, but ultimately a decision I had no choice in

because I had limited resources and limited time.

The white paint is too thick in some places and too thin

in others, revealing the makeshift paper mâché husk of outdated

insurance advice from Filipino newspapers beneath it. My cousin

and I failed to notice our work was poor, as we were too focused

on watching Barbie and her twelve dancing sisters rather than our

inaccuracy in measuring the ratio of glue to water. The original

cardboard skeleton ended up warped beneath the soggy strips of

newspaper, making the blade sit at a slight angle no matter how

many times I pressured it to stand tall.

The rain-guard is composed of two sets of angel wings,

their cardboard feather tips a touch too sharp compared to my

original design, but in the end, I found it oddly fitting. It felt like the

seraphim themselves deemed me their champion and would fight

along with me, giving aid in any way they could to ensure that I

would be victorious at the end of every battle. As I diligently layered

each feather to create the illusion of wings, one feather atop another

or caught in between, I smiled to myself with excitement.

Truthfully, the work was grueling and painfully slow and I

clearly was not a master swordsmith.

And yet every night before I went to bed, I would document

my progress in my journal, just for my own amusement, pretending

that I was a knight in training and writing a letter to someone who

knew of my struggle. I went on for pages and pages, deep into the

night and guided only by the light of the moon, writing about a

fictitious rite of passage I had to fulfill in order to become a fullfledged

knight. I spoke of a pilgrimage to another dimension to

forge a weapon by my own hand and skill in order to prove that I

would be worthy of protecting my kingdom, its values, and all its

citizens; I had dived deep into the mysterious origins of my sword

that even though I was exhausted and frustrated with the project at

times, it never ceased to be an adventure.

I would fall asleep afterward, allowing myself to dream of

obtaining my knighthood in another dimension for the night while

still looking forward to the continuous work waiting for me by the day.

I had toiled on that project for a month because I wanted to

be the princess’ knight. To be there for her, no matter what perils lay

ahead, and prove myself worthy of such a title. She promised me,

smile warm and eyes wide, and I so willingly believed.

So focused on all that I had gained through forging my blade,

I lost sight of that original task.

We promised and so I had believed. I pledged my body, mind,

and soul to properly fulfill the role and make her proud. I believed

that I was important to her and that my place was guaranteed at

her side.

But in the end, there was no promise. There never was.

I realize that I was a fool to think I mattered more, to begin

with. I was not the valiant knight I saw myself as, the knight who

was adored by the princess and seen as an equal in her eyes. I was

but a simple guardsman who confused his daydreams of higher

standing for reality.

No, I was just a kid with a cardboard sword.



Non-Fiction

Beauty

by Elizabeth Howells

I sought out an appointment with a social worker for advice

about an ADHD-related issue. It wasn’t anything major, but it was

bothering me and had the potential to affect my school work, so I

sat down in the waiting room and started to fill out the sheet for

new patients. The form had lots of questions relating to self-image,

past destructive behavior, and overall inquiries into my mental

health. I didn’t give it much thought. I filled out the paper honestly.

Yeah, I had been bullied as a kid; yeah, I had a depressive thing

Junior year, etc. I marked all the corresponding boxes for the 1-5

scales in pencil and stood up when my name was called.

The woman was nice enough, and as soon as I sat down in

her office she gave the form a once over. I tried to explain that I was

having bouts of extreme, unbearable boredom, and bad executive

dysfunction. Instead of listening, she started to address the pencil

marks I’d left.

“Why don’t you think you’re beautiful?” she asked.

I was at a loss for words. I stammered for a second and

looked down at my lap. My left foot was propped up on my right

knee, and my hands were absentmindedly fiddling with the

shoelaces on my boot. I remembered which of the two boxes I had

checked on the sheet, but I didn’t have any concise explanation as to

why. I also didn’t have much time to give one, as she continued on.

“Of course you’re beautiful, everyone’s beautiful.”

That rubbed me the wrong way and wrapped around me in

such a tight, bitter grip. It felt like borrowing someone else’s toosmall

gym uniform. Something about that phrase just made me

madder than it was reasonable to be. Afterward, she began to ask

questions like, “Could this stem from your history of being bullied?”

Of course, my answer to that was “No.” I’m sure people bullied

me because I looked weird, but they were mean to me because I was

gross, and I picked my nose and other reasons regarding nonsense

fourth-grade social hierarchies. I don’t hate myself as a college

student because eleven-year-olds called me names on the playground.

I didn’t like how she dug into all the things on my sheet

like my life was some interconnected conspiracy theorist’s web.

It wasn’t until hours later that I realized why I hated the phrase

“Everyone is beautiful.”

I need to write this so I never lose the words again like I did

in her cramped office.

I’m not beautiful. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see

someone who’s beautiful, or stunning, or sometimes even decent

enough to be seen in Target. I know it can be hard to get past one’s

own flaws, but even besides those, I don’t really think I have a great

appearance. I’m not going to stand here and call myself a disgusting

whale, deserving of a life in solitude in some secluded underwater

cave. This isn’t my high school diary. I’m not beautiful, to the point

where saying “Of course you’re beautiful, everyone’s beautiful” feels

like when people tell me I’m not fat. How can people look at me and

my 250lbs+ of matter and say that I’m not fat? Even men’s clothing

recognizes that I’m extra-large, so I think well-meaning friends

should be able to accept that as a fact and not a perception of my

self-worth.

The reason I feel so strongly about this is that I say “I’m not

beautiful” often with the same emotion as I state that I’m fat. It’s just

true to me. I know the two statements are different for important

reasons. Being fat is something that’s measurable, and while that

threshold can sometimes shift depending on a clothing brand,

medical diagnosis, or social perception, beauty can’t be measured

in the same way. It will always be subjective. Because “beauty is in

the eye of the beholder,” and certain people have different tastes,

it means that hypothetically everyone has someone out there who

will find them attractive in some way.

What this argument ignores is that beauty is not only

subjective but also relative. Just like light and dark, good and evil,

for beauty to exist, it must be contrasted to ugliness. Of course,

everyone has their own preferences, but they also have their own

dislikes. Thanks to society, what people will like or dislike line up

more often than not. Representation in media, the beauty industry,

and all of Instagram can change what most people will find

attractive and what is valued in society.

The self-worth problems that this causes can be addressed

through two main options: You can reassure people that, no, don’t

worry, you’ll find those who value you one day. This helps in the


moment, but it fixes the symptoms, not the cause. The real issue is

that most people can’t have all the attributes that society values, and

this results in feeling like they don’t have worth. The real solution is

to put less value on beauty altogether.

When I was deeply depressed my junior year of high school,

I hated how I looked more than I think I ever had. It didn’t help

that I didn’t have the energy to take care of myself as I usually

would, nor the confidence to just shave my head and keep things

low maintenance. I remember standing half-dressed in the gym

locker room, wishing I was anyone else. I could feel my gym

uniform getting tighter as I gained weight, and I resented every

cell of my body for organizing themselves in my shape. I couldn’t

remember if I had ever believed I was beautiful, but I certainly

didn’t then. The only thing that made the self hate better was

telling myself “You’re not here to be pretty.” My reasoning was that

I didn’t have to be beautiful. I didn’t have to like myself. I came to

school every day to take notes, tests, and get stuff done. Worrying

about my appearance was only hurting me, and it wasn’t even

something important.

Before that appointment, when I marked an X for “False”

beneath the statement “I believe I am beautiful,” it wasn’t because

I still hated myself like I did then. It’s more complex than that.

For me, beauty and love have no correlation. My body is

just something that I live in. It’s organic, it has mass and volume,

and it’s human. It’s imperfect and sometimes uncomfortable, but

it’s the only body I’ll ever have. It doesn’t fit into my standards of

beauty but it never had to. All it ever had to do was get me from

place to place and keep me safe, and I think it’s done a great job

so far. I may not be able to look at myself and see beauty, but that

doesn’t deny me personhood.


Poetry

An Elegy for Isabelle

by Sean Hargadon

1

wednesday, may 3, 3:29pm

sixty seconds and the sun goes down

then it all comes around

like a monolith of memories

as time seems to stand still

she’s breathing, but barely

a machine holds her together fairly

as we make our way to the edge

of her time, the end of her will

83 years and counting and now

there is no anger regretting

all these memories, trapped until

you can’t move beyond the moment

but it’s okay to take this reverie

and let go of all that is ill

2

it’s been three years since I let her go

she passed away quietly, which was unusual

for this daughter, born from Italian immigrants

who could swear without a care

to the mamaluke, the stunad, and the kattso

all while smiling the smile of Machiavelli

she’s gone, but like a ghost

lingers in the mind, and stays through the days


3

this isn’t a haunting

though there is still a faint smell

from the blanket she wore

on that day she died

there are still all those sympathies

cards never opened, tucked away

beneath the fray, collecting dust

4

for some reason - can’t do it

the rubber bands that wrap a-

round the bundle

have started to break from age

they are stretched beyond use

she was stretched beyond use

5

there is an urn

that’s where she lives now

that’s where ashes pile now

that’s where darkness resides now

it’s still in the house

we paid to have her buried

in a Catholic cemetery

but that hasn’t happened yet

dying, she left no instructions

so the details were a construction

of navigating the Church and its mess

6

i don’t dream about my Mother

is that strange?

my wife’s Mother died

and she sees her almost every day

i don’t dream about Mother

is that odd?

she doesn’t visit me

i don’t get the nod

i see her in memories

in memories that’s where she lives

where she lives, looking a lot like Ruth Bader Ginsberg

like RBG, her head tilted forward, a hawk

a bird-like figure, but with only one eye

we called her Dizzy Aunt Izzy

(she didn’t like that)

laughs were seldom

she was a serious woman

she had to be

7

raised by an abusive father, that did not deter her

married to an alcoholic husband, that did not stop her

breaking her neck in a snap, that did not restrain her

diagnosed with cancer

that did kill her

it was advanced, moving into the brain

before flooding the lungs, drowning the patient alive

when she heard the news, she got down

shrugged her shoulders, then quickly recovered

this was her way, going against the tide

when the talk turned to treatment

they said “you’ll lose your hair”

“not doing that,” she dared

and in that brief moment, less than a second

she decided she wouldn’t give in to it

“keep on doing what I can ‘til things change”

this

this attitude

this attitude was all hers

forged from a tough Napule family or

shaped from marrying the menacing Irishman

and perfected living in a world perpetrated by men


8

she knew how to navigate

how to maneuver when things didn’t go her way


could play the game, this little lady, smiling the smile of Machiavelli


saying “oh yes” when told “no” and then just doing what she wanted

anyway


she knew how to forget

she knew how to survive

she knew how to evade the net

of drugs, alcohol, beatings, beratings, adultery, ancestry, cruelty,

cunning

when it served her purpose


9

standing, like a child on a good day

now she wasn’t standing at all

stuck in a chair, this woman wants to go

she can’t move

skin like paper mache, with a neck

bent over, hands left gnarled

from years of use, years of decay

she can’t try

watching Dick Cavett, recalling the past

coughing up fragments, pieces on the floor

“oh yes” and “who was that?” no “he’s dead”

she can’t breath

taking in visitors when they come to call

wearing glasses that don’t work at all

“who is this one?”

she can’t see

sitting next to me,

quiet for the first time,

trapped inside

nods of knowing,

mumbles of sound

I can’t do anything

she keeps looking around

and around

and around

gestures of frustration

grunts of confusion,

she can’t talk

she can’t

she

10

the night passed quietly

she hasn’t spoken for days

she’ll never speak again

now she’s going away

wednesday may 3 3:30pm

sixty seconds and the sun is gone

they pulled the plug and shut it down

that didn’t take long, her heart was gone already

and there is nothing so cold as a body this still

she breathes no more, like a mannequin

misplaced, taking up the wrong space

83 years and change and now

she’s done

must move beyond the moment

to take this reverie

and let go of all that is



Poetry

Off White

by Joe Doody


Poetry

Rewind

by Natalie Bierdz

I could not get this jar to open

Its lid would not twist or give, so

I put it back--again. Where else,

but on that milk stained shelf?

Walled off by hot sauce and

sauerkraut and uncapped whipped cream,

this mayonnaise jar is the centerpiece

of the lasting disaster that is my fridge.

Untouched,

that mayonnaise awaits

to be slathered and spread,

or to wither and wasteturn

sour instead.

Sweet brown eyes

Grinding on my teeth like sugar

Painting honey on my lips

With that barely boyish scruff

A smile so deadly

It forced your eyes

To make room

For your cheeks

Happiness is so blinding

There’s more to do than climbing

For you have forgone

The mountains you’re ignoring

And now I’m here

Brushing the cavities you left behind

And now I’m here

A slave to the rewind

When the time comes

to try to open it again

I can grip and twist,

and pull until

my knuckles turn white

as the contents inside,

or maybe I’ll find

someone else who’ll try

to open this jar...



Fiction

Naught but a Wave

by Jessica Patrick

The mirror was an old one, blackened with time, but she

could still make out her face, lined with the ripples of a life lived

well. She examined wrinkled skin around her eyes, and imagined

the crest and crashing of the laughter and tears that marked the

pages of her story, like the highlighting in her old textbooks from

university. The mirror was one of the few things she had from her

life before the war, before the separation, before the losses, and

before crossing an ocean for safety. The waves of time crashed, as

she closed her eyes and was swept into the memory.

She was nineteen when the bombs first fell on France,

and her Father had decided she could stay no longer. There

was a university accepting exchange students in America, and

she was to attend there and study to become a nurse. How, she

wondered, would her father have reacted when she surpassed every

expectation. Receiving her board certification to become a trauma

surgeon was what she had longed for since she lost her father to

the war. Only the absence of letters raised suspicion that he was no

more, and years passed before the official letter from the French

Military arrived. The envelope was covered in stamps, evidence of

a long journey to find her. It was no surprise, only a finality to the

thing. The tears had been seldom that day. Her father would never

know what she had become.

She swiped rouge over her cheeks with a scratchy angled

brush and pulled out a bright red lipstick she hadn’t used since her

college alumni ball a few years prior, celebrating 50 years since

graduation. Her last intern had passed her boards, and she had

completed her journey. A lifetime career, complete. The celebration

of her retirement was today. She pulled out a dress from her

armoire, a bright fraise to match her lipstick. Her husband had died

years before, and she had never been able to bear children. She was

alone in the end, but she had not wasted a second of her life.

On her graduation day, her late husband had proposed, and

her life truly began. She worked as a full-time surgeon and came

home to a loving husband. Their years together had been full of joy,

and his presence in her life made all the losses worth it. Their nights

together breathed of a warmth and closeness. He was a carpenter,

with strong arms and a firm torso. His smile had a softness to it

that contrasted with his body... his smile was what she lived for.

He crafted puzzle pieces for each anniversary, creating a wooden

masterpiece that commemorated their years together.

She slipped on the dress thinking of that day, and her

strawberry rouge lips reached for her ears in a smile. This was a

good day. Life is a mix of all shades of good and bad, and the bad

does not outshine the good. The loss does not outshine the gift, the

death does not outshine the light. As she stepped into her silvery

flats with pointed toes, a memory engulfed her of the clickety heels

she wore all through her medical training. They were impractical

then, and impractical now; the plight of the glass ceiling every

woman had to accommodate with such stupidities. She moved the

hangers in the armoire, one by one, and reached for her husband’s

suit jacket. Carefully removing it from the protective plastic, she

lifted it to her nose, hoping to experience his smell, but it wasn’t

there. She retrieved his cologne, almost empty, from the drawer in

his nightstand, and spritzed it onto the jacket. She slipped it on,

over her dress, and sat on their soft mattress. She gazed through

the yellowed lace drapes out the window, onto the beautiful

neighborhood that had grown up around them over the years.

They had chosen, together, to stop the chemo before he lost

his remaining days to the retching and emaciation. Together in their

bedroom, their home built on love, he handed her a box. Inside

were the corner pieces, the end of their story. She spent hours in

his arms that night, and thought back to when they were strong,

now shriveled in his illness. She cried, and he comforted her. She

should have been the strong one, but she was not. He held her until

he passed later that evening, clutching the love he left behind. She

attached one corner piece that night, and then she would add them

one by one, slowly, but surely, letting him go.

Today would be a good day. All of the women she had

trained, reaching the hundreds at this stage in her life, had planned

this night to honor her. This was her legacy. This was all she had

worked to become. She took off the suit jacket and laid it gently

over the aged cotton duvet on edge of the bed on her side. That

would never change, this would always be her side of the bed.


His side was there, and sometimes she even slept in it, remembering

nights when they were young and in love, but it was his side even

still. The jacket would be there for her when she got home, still

smelling of his cologne, if not exactly like the smell of him. She

stepped outside, and into the limousine that had been ordered for

her. A kindly gentleman opened her door, she thanked him and

stepped inside. Today would be a good day.

His funeral had been heartbreaking, but his life had been

well-lived, and she knew that was all one could ask for. She prayed

he would have a safe journey to whatever was beyond, whatever

came next, and prayed that one day they would cross paths again,

beyond this world. The struggle in her life paled in comparison to

some, she knew, but she would not belittle the pain she felt. She knew

better than that now, and the tears from all of the years flowed like

a brook of release. Her life was not over, but her love was beyond

reach. After the funeral, she returned home and gazed at his carved

representation of their love. She added another corner piece.

She almost jumped out of the limo before it stopped,

overwhelmed with excitement. She walked up the lawn with the

lovely driver’s assistance, and into the castle-like mansion. Entering

the ballroom, she was stunned. The chandeliers hung from the

ceiling, giving enough dim light for dinner, while the waiters

scurried around with platters and the live jazz band played in the

background. Oh, how she loved jazz. She embraced the women for

these were no longer her students, but her peers.

Their first dance at their wedding so long ago was with

a jazz record. She had yet to climb up the ladder in the medical

world and made very little money, and carpentry was hardly a

profession you pursued for financial stability. The record player was

a wedding gift, and the record was one she hadn’t heard before,

but it was beautiful. That is the wonder in jazz, isn’t it? You can

hear a song once or hundreds of times, but it is always new and

enlightened. She remembered holding him close, his strong arms

under her nimble fingers. His soft smile crashed into hers, and the

guests cheered at the kiss. Some teased that they were masters

of the French kiss, a nod to her heritage and a bit of a crude joke

in goodheartedness. Their new bed in their new apartment was

warmed that night with a love that would last

The celebration went late into the night. She was delighted

to find one of her coworkers knew the steps to a more complicated

dance pattern she had learned as a girl in France. But after she had

seen and spoken to those she wished to and enjoyed food and drink

until her heart and stomach were full, she grew tired. She sat and

watched for a while, the younger people glowing with youth and

champagne. She remembered being that age and was pleased that

they were living instead of worrying, at least for tonight. If she had

anything to say to the next generation, it was to leave your worries

behind. They won’t help you in the struggle; they only steal your joy.

She had not been the first female surgeon, but she had spent

her career ensuring she wouldn’t be the last. From presentations at

high schools and training interns in the hospital, she had honored the

legacy of the women who had paved her path, and she hoped she had

made the path a little wider for the women who would follow her.

She signaled the gentleman who would drive her home, said

her goodbyes, and walked around the room once more, overwhelmed

with emotion that the culmination of her hard work has led to so

many young women becoming successful surgeons. It would no

longer be the men’s territory. Outside, she looked at the stars and

smiled. Indeed, a good life she had built. At the root, her legacy was

the love she shared with those around her, and the love she shared

with her husband.

At home, she looked once more in the mirror. Wiping the

pink stains from her face with a cloth, she saw the truth. She had

lived, loved, and lost, and to her, that was what it meant to be

human. She would not be remembered in history, but she changed

the world around her. She was naught but another nameless

soul, lost to time; another wave cresting and crashing, the water

returning home to the sea.



Fiction

The Eye on the Mountain

by Joelle Shewan

The late afternoon was awash in a post-rain sky of yellow

and green. It announced autumn’s return like a quiet child pulling at

their parent’s sleeve. Old man Isaac brushed off his cloak from the

damp ground and took in his blurring sight of the mountainside. He

blinked his failing sole eye a couple of times and brushed the long,

bristly eyebrow hairs away from his line of vision. Ever since his

wife Gladys had died, he had no one to trim them and he refused to

use scissors after an incident involving a pair occurred a few years

prior. He had accidentally lost an eye after using the shabby ones

that his wife had kept for so many years. When they had first got

married, Gladys told him they were her mother’s and she would

not part with them, unusable as they were. Now the blades were

barely even sharp enough to cut into the thick clouds that hung low

over his cottage. When he went out he kept them in a velvety, black

pouch by his chest.

The wooded area was just beginning to show its new colors

to the world as he trudged along slowly. Nowadays Isaac rarely left

the short distance around his home, but an occasional townsperson

would come up and supplement his homegrown veggies with a

grain or protein. His ability to grant wishes had brought much

prosperity to the town and they gave back to him whenever they

could. Nearing his cottage, he could barely make out a small figure

sitting on the porch due to the thick cloud cover, but he was tired

and continued at his current pace. As he got closer he could see

that the figure was a little girl, one he had often seen playing near

the town’s lavaworks. He knew her parents had passed away in

the spring of this year, and that she was now living with her older

sister and husband. He felt a pang in his heart about being so

selfish. She was a shy child and would not have come here easily,

especially alone. He picked up his pace and stood in front of her.

Upon seeing him approach, she slowly rose, looking distraught.

Leaves and small twigs poked out of her two long, brown Dutch

braids. Her cheeks were rosy from sitting in the cold.

“What’s the matter, child?” the old man said. She either

did not know where to start or she was too anxious to begin the

conversation herself. At his words she snapped her eyes up to his

and let out a whimper, starting to cry. The old man took this as his

cue to calm her and give her a drink. He ushered the girl into the

house and chose a small brown, pottery cup, filling it with turnip

juice. She was seated by the table running her finger across the

grains in the deep, dark wood when he came back out. He placed

the cup in front of her and took the seat opposite of where she sat.

She said thank you quietly and sipped on the juice.

“Start when you feel like it,” he said in a tone trying to show

her that she need not be nervous. The two sat together at the table,

the setting sun peeked through the clouds, casting blades of golden

light into the room.

“My older sister, Ara, is ill,” she finally managed to squeak

out, “I heard you are able to grant wishes if you look at a person…

is that true, sir?”

He chuckled a bit and placed a hand over his good eye. The

girl was right, but she must not have heard that his powers were

now failing along with his eyesight. He discovered his abilities

when he was quite young, and ended up surviving many hardships

because of it. People are not always so kind when you give them

what they want and it turns out to be different than what they had

imagined. Nonetheless, he hated the thought of not being able to

help when the time came. He rubbed the left side of his chest feeling

the pouch holding the scissors. Isaac took it out and laid it on the

table, his posture straightening a bit now that the heavy item was

no longer holding his neck down. He was becoming more and more

unsure of his abilities as everything weakened. He decided at the

very least he would try to help the girl.

“What’s your name?” he said at last.

“Melanie,” she responded. Unbeknownst to him, she was not

able to gauge his reactions. She thought he did not seem as scary as

some of the other children had made him out to be, but she still was

in a state of unease. Although maybe it was the uncertainty about

her future that kept her rigid.

“Melanie. I will try, child. Although you will have to wait till

tomorrow. I do not have it in me to go back down the mountain

today.” She nodded with relief, and he rose from the table, walking

back to the pantry to get her a bit of bread to eat on the way back


home. He turned to come back and saw her hovering by the door.

An odd look was in her eye. He thought she must be anxious to go

back to her sister. Handing her the crust of bread, he led her to the

door where she gave a curt bow of the head and then proceeded to

run down the path. Isaac chuckled and walked inside—he hoped

and prayed he would be able to help the next day.

Upon waking up, Isaac found his eyesight to be quite

blurred. He blinked a few times and it seemed to return to normal.

The old man picked out a black, wool cloak because of the chill

that was descending upon the mountain. He smoothed his hair and

went to the other side of the room to take his wife’s scissors only

to find them gone. This was odd, he never misplaced them. While

retracing his steps from the day before, his head started to hurt

and his vision blurred again. It struck him that he left the pouch on

the table last night and that Melanie had left in a rush. Could she

have taken it? Annoyance gripped him and he burst into the front

room confirming that the table was empty. He sloppily drank some

turnip juice and left it on the table instead of putting it away like

he usually would have.

He moved fast down the path, almost tripping over the trees’

angry roots curling under him, and their gnarly branches like fingers

pointed ahead of him. He undid the front of his cloak, the anger

and fast pace causing him to be quite warm despite the weather.

He looked akin to a raven, the cloak flying behind him like wings

as he pushed forward with more energy than he had felt in a long

time. He slowed down as he saw the lavaworks at the edge of the

forest, the lava river rushed and moved the wheel violently. The heat

radiated from it and Isaac grew even warmer.

Speeding through the town as an angry black whirlwind, he

passed the residents who were unfamiliar with such a sight. Isaac

was usually an amicable man despite his appearance. They were

unsure what to do other than stay out of his way as he seemed to

search the roads. Finally, he came to the opposite edge of town,

right where the vast prairieland began. The vegetation here was still

oddly bright, much unlike the fading mountainside that he was so

used to. The clouds were wispy like feathers, so different from the

cotton puffs that hung so low amid the cottage. He felt a calming

presence on him as he looked at the lively plants. A faint crying

sound brought him back to his senses. He followed it and came to a

shabby cottage where Melanie was sitting on a large boulder.

He saw that her once beautiful, long hair had been badly hacked to

various lengths.

“Child, what is the meaning of this?” he said, stopping a

couple of feet in front of her.

“Sir, Isaac, sir, I stole your scissors, it was me,” she hiccuped

and continued on, “My sister had told me that you would not help

because of your old age, but I went to you anyway. Then you said

you would come tomorrow, but I thought I might be able to take

something of yours and get money to buy medicine. I looked in your

pouch and found the scissors and took it even though you were nice

to me and gave me bread and turnip juice. I’m so sorry.”

She looked so undone that he could not bring himself to be

too angry. “That does not explain your hair,” he said softly settling

onto the green lawn. Her hand found its way to the chopped strands.

“No one wanted the scissors, but a mean-looking lady in

black said she would give me medicine if I gave her my hair. She

didn’t have a mirror, so I cut my braids off using my reflection in

a basin of water. Her medicine turned out to be oil, and my sister

might be worse from whatever it was that woman gave me. I am

sorry,” Melanie stopped before saying the last part, then started to

cry again once she had laid everything out. Isaac thought about how

those scissors never did any good.

“Take me to your sister, child,” he said. Melanie led the old

man into the house—it was old and musty smelling, unlike the fresh

scent of the outdoors. In the meagerly furnished bedroom, Melanie’s

sister was settled on a rickety wood frame bed. He came to her side

and the young woman turned towards him. Her big eyes showed

some familiarity with the old man, but she was so pale and her lips

had such a sickly purple tinge to them. He was unsure if she could

even speak.

“Ara, I brought Isaac with me. He came, he said he would

help,” Melanie said softly, kneeling down beside the bed. Ara’s face

showed little expression. A deep sadness had been lingering over

her since her parents’ passing which in turn had become a physical

ailment. She truly loved Melanie, but even that did not give her

enough will to respond. Isaac was looking at her expectantly, but she

turned away.

“Look at me,” Isaac told her. Slowly she turned back, sitting

up slightly. His eye locked on hers and he kept steady, but his head

started to hurt soon after. Ara laid back down. Isaac sighed, he did


not think it was Melanie’s sister’s wish to get better. He knew he

could not leave the child without a guardian, not so soon after her

parents had left her. Turning he beckoned Melanie to look at him.

He looked into her eyes, they were bloodshot from the crying and he

was sad to see her pretty hair in tatters.

“If this is the last wish I grant that would be okay, just let

me help this child,” he thought, that would be enough for him. His

head started to pulse with pain, but he continued to look with his

single eye. Melanie’s own face was tired and afraid. It felt like it was

taking too long and his head was slowly devolving into a throbbing

heap, this cannot be the end of it all. A cold hand met his own and

he looked over. Ara was sitting upright, her color was coming back

and she gave Isaac a small smile. He stayed with the two girls for

a few more hours until Melanie’s brother-in-law came home. He

practically collapsed on the floor at the sight of his wife well again.

At last, Isaac decided to leave, he bid them farewell and walked out

the front door. He was nearing the edge of town and dreading the

thought of walking all the way back up.

“Isaac, sir, wait,” Melanie was running towards him.

“Is there something wrong?” he looked back and asked her.

His eye traveled to her hand and saw that she was holding the black

pouch. He smiled at her, “Keep the scissors, your sister can fix your

hair with them.”

“Thank you, sir!” she said. He nodded and started on his way.

The walk felt much longer than usual today but he also felt much

lighter than usual. He was just now realizing the weight that had

come with those scissors.


Fiction

She Called Her Passion

by Crystal Kresch

I always thought that I was poisoned from a young age.

I used to write these stories, ones with pictures that came

with them. Usually, it was stories of places and people I wanted to

be. I had this idea, a seed embedded in me, that I would never

truly have anything happen in my little life. My life was the same

every day, full of consistencies, and these stories compensated

every part of that.

The basement was empty when I came to find these stories.

My aunt would read them, sometimes write little notes to the words

she held closer to herself. The finale of her life had passed at this

point, and these boxes laid as body parts she had forgotten to take

with her.

My hands fiddled in one box, mindless, mostly in this trance

of grief, but my mind started to work again when a picture slipped

out of a folder.

There was a faint print of 1993 on the bottom of the picture.

Two girls. One held the camera, faces filled most of the photo. Big

smiles, sunrise in the background, a large shore.

I was younger in the photo, my long strawberry blonde hair

glowed in the sun. My skin was tanner, and deep in my eyes, I could

see the twinkle I had lost. The girl beside me had black, short hair.

She had dimples, ones that demanded to be seen. She had green

eyes with the same twinkle. Did she lose it, too?

I met her during the summer. I was 13 at that point and it

was a lonely year for me. I didn’t really talk to anyone, maybe it

was because some part of me didn’t know how to. I rested at my

aunt’s summer house alone and somewhat sick from the dinner

I consumed the night before. I was slowly, and achingly, walking

down the rigid patio and down the lopsided stairs, my skin colliding

with the sand beneath me.

I could see from afar that there was only one other person that

day- black hair. I remember seeing her black hair twirl in the wind.

She was facing the sun, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin.


I remember thinking about the way the sun kissed her skin.

I remember wanting to kiss it.

She had noticed my stare and glanced at me with chilling

eyes. I could feel the cold of her stare and in an attempt to build up

warmth, I looked back at the sun.

I heard a sound, or perhaps I had just felt it and looked over

to see her standing up.

“I’ve never seen you before.” She said suddenly. I jumped,

not expecting her sudden words. My body felt completely frozen so

I looked at the sun once more.

She walked over, an awkward silence following her, and

lazily sat beside me. She laid down after a moment, the thump of

her body catching my attention. She laid there with closed eyes.

She continued, “I always see the same people. My mom told

me that I would find someone new, but I’ve only seen old people.

I never really believed her.”

“Oh.” Is all I could come up with.

“-but maybe I’m wrong.” Her eyes opened, catching mine

in a blaze.

It started like that. I’d meet her every morning. She’d talk

most of the time we had together. We’d bring some blankets so that

the harsh cold of the shore wouldn’t bother us, and then she would

tell me of, what she called, “her little life”.

Divorced parents. She thought I was lucky for not having

divorced parents. Her dad wanted custody, but she liked her mom

more. She thought that possibly her mom only tolerated her. That

hurt her. She was popular in school, but she didn’t have many friends.

She liked sports- basketball, I think. She loved the sun. Why? Because

it always comes back. She liked the stars the most, though.

We’d sit among the less than visible stars, watching the way

the universe finds its way back to the sun. She told me about the

stars and what they meant. Her mom had taught her, and it was

the one, maybe the only thing they had in common. I thought that

I would let her speak of the stars all the time, even if it tired me

out. I would listen with tender ears because it mattered.

She was laying with me, at the same spot as every morning,

her blanket becoming damp from the shore water, the stars starting

to faint as the coming sun caught our hair.

“My favorite is the big dipper,” I confessed to her. I had been

staring at her from the corner of my eye. Something in me, courage

maybe, had started to grow. So I looked back at her. Her eyes darted

as if she felt intimidated- or maybe she just felt the same kinetic

energy that rushed through my chest.

“Why?” She was speaking as if she were tired.

“It’s the starting point to the universe. It’s always visible.”

She looked away, but I had stared just a little longer. She

looked warm and comforting, but she had this look in her eye that

was strong as if she knew even at the age of 14 who she was meant

to be. I stared often, thinking about how she looked like passion.

I did this day by day, stealing glimpses of her whenever she

wasn’t looking. My cheeks would have this burning sensation that

was so unbearable at times that I forced myself to look away. When

I think back on it, she had probably noticed.

I told her about the way she reminded me of passion many

nights later. We were back on the sand, but closer to the shore as we

looked up into the sky. It was cloudy. Our conversation, this time,

didn’t rely on the stars. It rained the night before so we had these

bulky raincoats on that hindered our eyesight as we laid.

It was quiet but comfortable, and then she told me how I

looked like passion too, how she thought passion should’ve been

my name. I remember her smile the most, her big dimples. I closed

my eyes when she told me this, the rasp of her voice electrifying me,

and I imagined her smiling.

The meet-ups were unspoken about. My aunt would be in

the kitchen, placing plates of food for me. I would make sure to

wake up at the same time every day, an hour earlier than 6 am

so that she would cook faster. I’d run through, grab my plate and

roughly shove pieces of fruits down my esophagus. She looked at

me warily, but she wouldn’t say much. She’d tell me to have fun

and watch me race out the door.

Passion at this point would wait for me by my aunt’s house.

She’d duck down, hiding in the bushes that surrounded the patio,

and would peak carefully whenever she heard the squeak of the

backyard door.

One early morning, she peaked in a brave manner. She

jumped up, I remember hearing my aunt scream so I ran out. I tried

to explain but she couldn’t understand the secrecy. I remember she

pulled me in. I gripped on the door. She yanked hard. Passion was

crying. My fingernails broke. They were bloody. I remember picking

at it days later.


My aunt had me in the room, her face was beet red and I

remember my heart was going to explode. She screamed, for what

felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been. I thought it was because

she wanted to spend more time with me but the shouting came from

somewhere deeper. It sounded fearful, even remorseful as if she didn’t

want to speak but the words were just now forcing their way out.

“You don’t sneak out with girls! Don’t you understand how

wrong that looks?” She shouted.

“She’s my friend! Auntie, I swear. I swear.” Tears were

starting to build. I taught myself to never cry.

“I’ll find you dead if you ever acted as anything more!”

It was that sentence that caused the tears to spill out. Her

words filled me up. I felt disgust start to rip me apart. I felt wrong.

The worst part, through it all, was that I had let it. I allowed it.

My aunt was sitting down, the red of her face turning into this

pale pink. She sighed, her body was older, she must’ve been tired.

“And I’ll never recover if I did,” She said finally, “I can’t.”

Silence. Aching silence.

The next morning, I had missed our meeting for the first

time. There was a sudden numbness in me. It was deep in my chest,

laying with me in the same bed. It stared at me, I could feel the icy

glare. It looked like Passion, but sometimes it looked like me.

I spent most of the time looking through books after the

numbness had left, and watching the ceiling fan spin weakly. I was

laying in my summer room, one night specifically, my eyes darting

the sky. I thought of the stars, the big dipper most of all, and if she

was looking at the same sky at this moment.

Passion came around to the house, only sometimes. It was

always eager. Hopeful, even. She’d knock on my window and I

could hear her breathing start to deepen. Nervous.

I would ignore it, the thumping of my heart so loud that

I thought she could hear it. Moments later, minutes if she was

more desperate, she’d leave. Traces of her would linger in my

mind, piling.

I felt insufferable at some point, so I opened the window for

her after a week of saying nothing. I remember she came by, the

hitch of her throat sounded much like the thump in my chest, and

she slowly came in.

We had sat on my bed, she told me more about the stars and

a little more about the way she had missed me.

“I hope we see each other again.” She was saying. There was

a sad tone under her breath. I told her that we would when my aunt

cooled off. Her hand hesitantly lifted up to my cheek. She grazed it

with her thumb, and I thought for a moment she had leaned in, only

for her to take her hand away from my pulsing, hot skin.

I asked her to come back. She said she would, just like the sun.

I left the window open the next morning, only for her never

to appear. I tried again, again, and again. I tried even when I felt

stung with bitterness. I watched the stars align, wondering if she

were looking at them too, if she still missed me, and if I could let

myself fully miss her.

I felt sick for weeks, and it was only then I thought that

I was poisoned.

Not with a disease, sickness, nor illness. With passion, maybe.

The kind that sticks with you, that matters though you wish it didn’t.

The picture of us, Passion and I, glowed in the dark of the

basement and I was being filled with that darkness. She had been

right. Just as the sun, she came back as memories, memories that

gripped me so tightly it left marks of heartache. Only now, years

later, I would start to feel it ripple in me.

I thought, for one last time:

I remember you, Passion.

Somewhere, wherever you are, even if you no longer miss me,

even if it’s just a little bit...

Maybe you remember me too.


Violin

Caroline Gendron

Sedona, Arizona

Karol Krogh


Skyway Conference - Third Place

Poetry

Padre Nuestro (Our Father)

by Jonathan Fonseca

Mi madre said, “Ponte a rezar.” (Go pray)

She’s taught me just about every prayer.

She said, “Antes de que te vayas a dormir, (Before you go to sleep, pray)

Ponte a rezar.”

And I do. Every night before bed

I pray.

She doesn’t tell me to pray anymore,

And I don’t really think she can.

She’s spent the last weeks in the living room,

On her knees with a rosary in hand,

Crying and begging god for help.

I leave her be, looking out the window,

Waiting for my dad to pull up in his camioneta de trabajar.

(a white beat-up work truck with

Home Depot paint buckets

full of tools and a thrifted ladder)

Mi tía says he’s not coming home,

I heard her talking about immigración (the ICE trucks that

sit at the corner of

my neighborhood and

outside convenience stores)

She says words my mom would ground me for saying.

My tía does not tell me to pray, she says “cuidate mijo, (be careful son)

if you come home and no one’s here call me.”

She thinks

whoever arrested my dad will come to get us next.

We lock the doors every night, and right before bed

I think about my dad

Y me pongo a rezar. (I begin to pray.)

In a Box

Archer Seaborn


Almond Butter

by Desiree Oliveros

Today, peanut allergies are one of the most common food

allergies. It occurs quite often, with most of those affected being

children. Roughly 1 out of every 50 children have this allergy, me

being one of them. People teased me about my allergy for reasons

I will never truly understand, but I will admit sometimes it was

funny. The very cliché innuendo about how my future boyfriend

will be sad that I cannot have nuts always gets me. If you do not

get it, you are probably too young.

Besides the jokes, I did always feel singled out due to my

allergy. Ever since preschool, I felt embarrassed when the teacher

would ask if anyone had allergies and I always had to raise my

hand. My classmates had moms who wanted to bring peanut

butter cookies, PB&J’s, or whatnot for their child’s birthday and

I had to ruin the party.

My ramble about peanut allergies is more relevant than

you think. I agree the topic is not the most climactic. What is

interesting though, is a realization I stumbled upon recently. For

sixteen years of my life, I always assumed since I was allergic

to peanuts, I was allergic to all nuts. That includes almonds,

cashews, hazelnuts, and all that good stuff. For the majority of

my life so far, I always longed for all these desserts and candies

that looked so good but avoided due to the fact I have an allergy.

I was lucky that even though I have a peanut allergy, I do not

have severe reactions if I do accidentally eat some. My tongue

would swell and I would itch, but I did not need an EpiPen and

wouldn’t react to the smell of peanuts.

One day my friend brought in brownies to my swim practice.

With me having a ridiculous sweet tooth, I shoved three big

brownies down my throat before practice. Besides the fact that

eating that much sugar before swimming for two hours would never

be a good idea, I felt fine after. Then after practice, some of my

friends who also had brownies asked what the ingredients were.

As I was listening, there was one ingredient that rang in my ears.

Nutella. I knew Nutella had hazelnut in it and at that moment I was

so confused. Even my friends who knew about my allergy looked at

me. I was fine. No reactions whatsoever. So then I began to think,

maybe I was not allergic to all nuts. I was so excited thinking about

the idea of being able to eat so many new, amazing foods if I was

not allergic to all nuts. My imagination ran wild.

This realization led to me starting some experimentation. My

first dip into my experimentation was mostly failures.

I believe the reason I failed was because of the placebo effect. The

fact that I spent sixteen years of my life thinking I was allergic to

all nuts and would have some sort of slight allergic reaction made

my first attempts of trying to eat a nut twist my head. When I tried

for the first time to eat one almond on purpose, I thought my throat

was getting itchy and my throat was swelling. Minutes after, I would

take my allergy pills because I genuinely thought I was reacting.

It was not until a few months later that I figured out it was all in

my head. I went into eating the almond believing I would itch

and all that, so due to the placebo effect, I was wasting my allergy

pills because my mind was playing games with me. I was super

discouraged for months thinking that my friend was wrong about

her brownies and there was no Nutella. My dreams of all the foods

I could try were crushed.

Then one day when I was seventeen, I had the most

random urge to try almond butter. Keep in mind it had been

months since I tried forcing myself to eat nuts, but this time was

different than all my past attempts. I just jumped into it and even

if there were risks of reaction, I did not care anymore. I did not

think about all the possibilities of something bad happening.

I was just excited to experiment. This time I was not eating one

singular, nasty raw almond. I ate a spoonful of almond butter.

Let me just say, almond butter is really good. So when I ate the

spoonful I completely forgot it had a nut that I thought I was

allergic to and I just appreciated it. Minutes later I noticed that

I was fine. Hours passed and I still did not react. Finally one of

my experiments worked.

When you grow up restricting yourself with an allergy, but find

out it was all a lie, it makes your mind run wild. For months, I ate

so many jars of almond butter. I put it on my bananas or would even

just eat spoons of it. In my head, the fact that I could have it when

I thought I could not, made me want it so much more. Thankfully

my weird obsession with almond butter died down, but now I have

tried so many new candies and desserts with all kinds of nuts,

besides peanuts, that I have wanted to try for so long.


Many of us grow up following what our parents feed into

our heads like certain ideals and we end up believing these things

for a large portion of our lives. Yet it takes one situation to change

perspectives. In my case, it took the one instance of me eating

my friend’s brownies to completely rethink what I believed my

whole life. Now when it comes to this transition of mentality, there

will always be roadblocks. The placebo effect is so powerful and

truly shows how strong our minds can be. Just by thinking you

feel some way makes your body react. I am here to tell you that

those roadblocks could and should be passed. If I did not keep

experimenting and change my mentality when trying almond

butter for the first time, to this day I would still be missing out on

so many foods. Do not miss out on the endless possibilities that

life has in store. Take that leap of faith, break out of your comfort

zone, and the results can be quite satisfying or at least tasty.

Vegetable and Flowers

Karol Krogh

I’m Always Here

Salma Armenta


Who Am I To Stand Tall

by David Howle

Who am I to stand tall?

Should I shudder and hide?

I let out a barbaric call.

I swallow my pride.

Should I shudder and hide?

I have courageous thoughts.

I swallow my pride.

This is not what was I taught.

I have courageous thoughts.

I never speak my mind.

This is not what was I taught.

I am a lost soul in humankind.

I never speak my mind.

I stand still like a flower on a wall.

I am a lost soul in humankind.

Who am I to stand tall?

Fragments

Jobella Vongsomchith


I Miss Dancing

by Jessica Patrick

I miss dancing.

When my life was yet unstained

All the unrestrained romancing

Across the room, two souls entrancing

They approach, entertained

I miss dancing.

They keep going, advancing

The desire they’ve maintained


They meet, heartbeats prancing

Fingers interlacing, unconstrained

I miss dancing.

They don’t know what they’re chancing

Or when a heart is drained


Now I sit, trancing

To this wheelchair, I’m now trained

I miss dancing;


Self Portrait

Caroline Gendron


Broken

by Kylee Backer

She pulls her bottom jaw to the left

as her teeth clench her bottom lip.

Her eyes gently let out a tear

like the last few drops of a tea kettle.

Her nose shrivels up

as she closes her eyes.

She stretched her soft hands over her face

covering the pain seeping from her body.

Her hair falls over her face

sticking to the tears starting to bury.

Her body collapses into the ground

hitting a pillow stuffed with rock.

She is in pain.

Her body is hurt.

Her heart is broken.

Dreaming of Red

Fabiola Lopez


Waffles

by Hadley Corbett

You never liked the guys I brought over. You’d make sure I knew

that after they left in the morning. I’d advise you to mind your own

business and you’d say I was being too ironic for this early. You never

talked about anyone, but I knew something was up when you started

making smoothies on Saturday mornings instead of waffles. A few

weeks later you were meeting a guy friend for coffee all the time.

It was official when you switched your shower playlist. I had mixed

feelings about the ordeal of you falling in love, I was glad to see

Niel Diamond get buried —I mean you played him all the time—but

I missed the waffles. When I asked when I would get to meet him,

you said when the time was right. I asked what that meant, and you

told me not to be so obnoxious and that I knew, but I didn’t know.

We cut each other’s hair the night your dad died and I held

my breath when I looked in the mirror because your hands were

shaking. In the morning you took our rubbish Prius and did the

drive back home. I didn’t think you could lose track of people

nowadays with all this technology, but I almost resorted to putting

ads in the paper when you didn’t respond to any of my texts.

I called my brother, Carter, who I knew had gone home for a few

weeks from the city, and told him I wanted him to check on you.

He said he felt bad that he hadn’t told me sooner. I hung up.

I told you it wasn’t worth getting tangled up in his bad

behavior when we met at school and you said you thought he was

cute from a picture. When you came back, I told you to break up

with him. You said you couldn’t believe I missed the funeral.

I explained I would have driven out, but you took the car. The train

horn in the distance made you frown and you went to your room.

We didn’t talk for a few days, which wasn’t super unusual

given our schedules: you had taken night shifts at the bar and

it was almost Christmas so deliveries were way up at the office.

When the weekend rolled around I thought we would go out

together for drinks per usual, but I didn’t want to ask. I almost had

resigned myself to knock on your door when you came out of your

room and said my brother was taking you to a club with some of

his friends. I asked if it was worth messing up your life for another

guy. You pretended you didn’t hear me.

You came in at 3 am and asked what time classes started the

next morning. I asked who took you home: of course, it was Carter.

I had no sympathy when I reminded you not to think so highly of

yourself, that you’d dropped out of school. You cried so hard I got

scared about something I couldn’t quite name.

Monday morning you informed me that I only stayed at my job

because I was afraid to do anything useful. I bemoaned how much that

hurt my feelings and asked how many drinks guys had spilled on you at

your job last week. You rolled your eyes and turned the blender on.

I was optimistic about the weekend at your parent’s cabin.

Just the two of us and the woods, like old times. When our car

puttered around the bend of the road and I saw the hole in the

screen door I remembered the first time we came out here together.

We sat next to each other in ecology freshman year and were so

confused by the same things–that is the class–it was inescapable that

we would study together. When you learned I had never been out of

the city before, you took it upon yourself to be the one to introduce

me to the wilderness. I told you I’d been outdoors before. You

insisted I didn’t understand what I was missing and you were right.

After we got our stuff unpacked and settled in a bit we

agreed to go out on the water. The river was much deeper than

I remembered. It’s those beavers, you uttered. After launching

our kayaks I got anxious about the depth. I looked down and

couldn’t see the bottom. You said Carter also got nervous with

the water. I stared at you. I said you needed to end it with him.

You ignored me. I repeated myself and added that I thought we

couldn’t be friends if you stayed with him. Your face got red.

If you’re so scared…, you yelled before trailing off. Just watch,

you said and you intentionally flipped your haul to show that if you,

as weak as you are, could flip it back up then I could too if I had to.

We both laughed when you came back up and seaweed

covered your forehead. I thought back again to that first weekend.

I didn’t say anything when I saw you shiver and reach to touch the

back of your head. We kept laughing until your hand came in front

of your face, covered in blood.

When you woke up at the hospital I remarked that Carter

wasn’t there yet and continued to complain to you that they should

have a sign that informs you how deceivingly shallow the lake is.

You said I needed one of those too. You stayed with your mom until

the lease on our place ran out.


“Mi corazón”

by Maryana Nava

Mi tempestad es más fuerte y libre que el viento.

Mi corazón se hunde en desesperación,

Al no saber que hacer con tanta emoción.

Mi corazon se hunde en lágrimas de sal y alcohol.

Mi corazón se hunde en desesperación,

Este secreto es mi perdición.

Mi corazón se hunde en lágrimas de sal y alcohol,

Ya que este secreto es mi estrangulación.

Este secreto es mi perdición,

Mi tempestad es más fuerte y libre que el viento,

Ya que este secreto es mi estrangulación,

Al no saber que hacer con tanta emoción.

My Heart

This storm is greater than the wind,

My heart is drowning in despair

Overwhelmed with such agony

My heart dances in tears of whiskey and salt

Night in Milwaukee

Maxine Stewart

My heart is drowning in despair

For this secret is my doom

My heart dances in tears of whiskey and salt

My heart is a dark room

For this secret is my doom

This storm is greater than the wind

My heart is a dark room

Overwhelmed with such agony


Submerge

Salma Armenta

Untitled (Still Life)

Daniel Haffner


Skyway Conference - Second Place

Fiction

Cleave unto Charity

by Parker Forest Olson

Some people never know the feeling of being poor, and that

astounds me. Some people always have their own room, their own bed;

there’s always a box spring under their mattress. Some people never had

the moment of seeing their mom slouched in a wooden chair with the

crook of her hand on her forehead to hide any sign of sorrow from anyone

that might enter the room.

And you think, “Oh, I did that.” And you’re not just a daughter, at

that moment. You’re a burden. That moment.

Bills on the vinyl, tacky-print tablecloth. She lifts her eyes and sees

you and flips the switch back to the mom you recognize.

“Mija, you should be in bed.”

Some people never get that, and when I say ‘some people,’ I’m mostly

talking about a name that comes and goes in our house like a curse word:

Elder Christensen.

“We would have never had to meet someone like Elder

Christiansen if we didn’t have to depend on neighbors for food. What if

the government gave us basic necessities of living. Y’know, if we have to

work to eat, is it a choice? If we have no choice... Are we free? That’s what

Karl Marx is all about.”

My sister Marina raises her eyebrows like she does whenever she

spews her communism garbage. This time, I’m equipped to argue back.

I don’t care either way, so with no conviction, I hit her with, “Karl Marx

hated Jewish people.”

Her jaw unhinges. Noises come out of her throat, “uh, ugh, uh, uh.

No, he didn’t.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Yes, he was antisemitic.”

Antisemitic, I learned English before my mom, but from how far I’d

seen her come, it’s exhilarating to hear my mom use bigger, adult-book words.

“Well... uh... I don’t know if I believe that.” Marina takes her stupid

ass out of the room.

Every time I hear Elder Christiansen’s name I try to stop my eyes

from darting to my mom. I need to stop myself from saying ‘sorry’ again

and again and again. “What’s anti-sim-tic?” Ivan butts in.

“It means you don’t like Jewish people, because they’re Jewish.”

“Is Elder Christensen anti-sim-tic?”

Marina chortles from the doorway that she has reoccupied,

“Probably. He was definitely racist.” My mom huffs, “He had good

intentions, he probably wasn’t raised around many Puerto Ricans.” “You

remember Elder Christensen, don’t you?” Marina steamrolls over Mom’s

‘everyone’s a good person’ spiel, walking to the chair next to Ivan. “He had

grey hair and like this... pear-shaped head.”

I jump in, “Always wore a hat and polo and he had this huge gut.”

The caricature is fun to paint together.

“Beady eyes like a mole and he was always mad about something.”

“He had glasses.”

“He didn’t have glasses.”

“Yes, he did. I swear he did.”

“No,” Mom chimes, “he didn’t. He was always squinting at things

like he needed glasses. I asked once, ‘do you need glasses’ and he got so

offended. How dare you suggest that my vision isn’t perfect-,” catching

herself, “He was a good man. He wanted to help.”

“You know those old white guys that play golf? That’s Elder

Christensen.”

“People playing golf,” the point wasn’t landing with Ivan.

“You remember going to church, don’t you? Going to Primary?”

“Yeah!” Ivan beams, “I loved the songs! I hope they call me on a

mission when I have grown a foot or two.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

Marina scoffs, “propaganda shit.”

“Language, Mari!” Mom slaps her bicep.

My whole family used to flock to church every Sunday and hear the

familiar, “Good morning, Sister Lecuona.” And the old, white (always old

and always white) people say, “Hola, Sister Lecuona! Buenas dias, Sister

Lecuona!” One time, I corrected them, “Buen-OS dias,” and they smiled

thinking I was just saying it back. ‘Crap, now they’re going to say it all the

time,’ I thought.

The whole ward knew we were a poor family. They weren’t even

subtle, I had a friend turn to me in Sunday School once and say,


“We can ride together to the cookout. You don’t have to take the bus.”

We had a Toyota Sienna.

Elder Christensen was from that world of adobe-style houses

that all looked the same with lawns and big decorative rocks and

neighborhoods called ‘Foothills of the Canyon’ or ‘Village on the Heights.’

Then, there was us.

We lived in ‘Mountainview Apartments’ and my mom worked

at Walmart. There was one other family from our complex that went

to church, everyone else that lived there were heathens. Tattoos and

cigarettes. You see them at the same time that you hear the sound of

empty beer cans on concrete, crunching under car tires. Ugly people

that filed to the laundromat every week. And us.

Elder Christensen entered our life through the Bishop, descending

on our Mom in Relief Society, asking her to step out into the hallway.

When she came back, I couldn’t tell what was different about her.

Something happened to her shoulders or her eyebrows. It could have been

a lower pride, or a higher sense of relief, or both, or neither. The next

Saturday, we were going to Albertson’s with Elder Christensen, someone

from the Elder’s Quorum that wanted to help.

It was just a normal grocery shopping trip, but with an old dude

sulking two feet behind us at all times, watching every item leave the

shelf and enter the cart. Then, at the end, he plopped his way in front of

us and pulled his brown leather wallet out of his pocket.

“Find everything alright?”

“They found more than enough.”

That was weird.

Elder Christensen picked up a pack of butter and scoffed, “They

didn’t have this in store brand? Geez.” He dropped it back on the belt.

I was the only kid on that first trip. Marina was at home watching

Ivan. I was going to bring up his remark to my mom later, but the way

Ivan danced when he saw us unbag the fruit snacks in his goofy way,

only wearing a t-shirt and a diaper. It didn’t really matter, those little

remarks. What mattered was that we had food. That’s probably what

kept my mom from saying something.

What I thought would be a one-time thing, happened every month.

Elder Christensen would blow on his car horn until my mom and one of

her daughters filed out of the house to go to the store, while the other

daughter stayed home with Ivan. We used to disregard the twenty-cent

difference and buy name-brand, superior products, but soon everything

in our house was Great Value, Signature Select, or Kroger. We rotated the

stores we went to depending on coupons. Walmart, Albertson’s, Smith’s,

Never Target.

I laughed until I peed when Marina poured herself a bowl of, not

from-a-box Lucky Charms, from-a-bag Marshmallow Mateys, poured the

milk, took a bite, and sighed.

“Tastes like sawdust, but okay.”

It was funny because it was true. Elder Christensen became a joke

to my sister and me. We were always mocking the things we heard him

say, “She’s probably happy because she’s not paying for it,” “I’ve never

spent this much at one store,” “Oh my heck! You could write a novel on

the back of that receipt.” I had to make sure no one was forcing him to buy

us food. My mom said, “No, he volunteered.” “Are you sure this isn’t Prison

Labor?” Marina seemed to think that he was a convict and the way he had

to repay his community was by buying groceries for the poor, Hispanic

family.

Hispanic was the first thing he saw when he saw us. It was there,

in the space between his slow, over-articulated words. He rarely spoke to

us, but when he did, it was with the weight of assumptions he had about

our family.

He asked me, “Are you doing well in school?”

“Yeah.”

He grunted in disbelief, “I hope so. Maybe one day you can pay

me back for all of this?” It always came back to the money. He never

talked to us without mentioning the money. We laughed about him

when we were together, but when it was just me, my mom, and him, it

was always “yes, sir,” “thank-you, sir.” But, one week, my Tío Cesar was

in town, and Marina and I both went to Walmart with them, while Tío

watched Ivan. We took our van and followed Elder Christiansen’s BMW

to the store.

It started with a pack of generic-brand Cookie Creme Sandwiches.

I didn’t want Oreos unless they were the real deal. Name-brand, bluepackage,

Oreos. I figured both would be fine and I snuck the Oreos in the

side of the basket behind a box of diapers. Marina was the only one who

saw and her eyes widened as she snorted. The audacity of wanting real

Oreos! That’s when the game began. Put as many things as we could in the

basket. Things we would never want normally. The end of aisle items like


ice cream scoops and bubble wands. One of us would toss an item to the

other sister and she would sneak it into the basket. Whatever we could get

away with while neither of the adults were looking.

I’m the one who took it too far. I took a container of Paprika and,

rather than putting it in the cart, I snuck it into Elder Christensen’s brown,

leather jacket pocket. Marina clenched her mouth to keep from screaming.

I don’t think she had ever seen me this reckless before. I was always the

conforming daughter, this rebellious streak was new.

Then, we went up to the check-out lane, and three things

happened, in this order:

1. My mom held up an oven mitt that was at the bottom of the

cart. Marina and I chuckled under our breaths. Off of the Elder’s confused

look, my mom said, “My daughters thought they were being funny.”

2. Elder Christensen patted at his coat pockets, looking for his wallet.

3. He pulled out of his pocket, not his wallet, but the container

of Paprika, looked at Marina, and said, in a grim, angry, deep voice,

“Where is my wallet?”

Hell if we knew. Marina shot a look over at me. I get it, I’m the

one that put the Paprika in his pocket, but that look was read as an

answer to his question. He shifted to me. “Where is my wallet?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“So did my wallet magically turn into Paprika?”

“Mija, did you touch his wallet at all?” The question stung a little bit.

“No, I put the Paprika in his pocket, but I didn’t take his wallet.

I was just being stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Bullshit!”

Elder Christensen was loud now, calling attention from the

adjacent lanes. My mom winced and, in desperation to soothe this conflict,

she said, “I’ll pay. It’s okay, I’ll pay.” Elder Christensen scoffed, “ungrateful,

good-for-nothing kids,” and stormed off towards the exit, leaving my mom

to put forty on one card and the rest on another card.

When we sat down in the car, I was in the front seat. Marina and

I always fought for shotgun, but this time, she hopped in the back before

I had a chance to. Up front, with my mom, I kept my eyes locked to the

glove box. From my peripherals, I knew she was holding something and

when I snuck a look, I saw that it was an ice cream scoop.

In a weak voice of defense, I said, “I didn’t steal his wallet.”

“I know,” my mom spoke quietly, “You know why I’m upset.”

We got home and I ducked past Tío and Ivan, into my bedroom,

trying to vanish. I spent that afternoon doing homework, cleaning,

reading, never leaving my room, and never making a noise. When ten

o’clock rolled around my stomach called me to the kitchen that I thought

would be vacant. That’s when I saw my mom, at the dimly lit table with

the flimsy blinds closed behind her. That’s when the world changed for

me from the way a kid experiences it to something that I was no longer

entitled to. Poverty felt like a pit, at that moment. A pit that my mom

didn’t deserve to be in but she was kept down, despite her hard work, by

her ungrateful daughter that just ruined an avenue for a little bit- just a

tiny bit of relief.

She tried to pretend like nothing was wrong and she had forgotten

the events of the day when she said, “Mija, you should be in bed.”

I said, “I’m sorry,” and ran back down the hall. Sleep would be my

dinner. I thought I would have to get used to that since Elder Christensen

was undoubtedly done helping my family.

“You can’t blame him though, because he’s just a product of

Capitalism.” This is what our family game of describing Elder Christensen

to Ivan has turned into. Another one of Marina’s idiotic rants.

Something clicks for Ivan at that second, “Oh! Is Elder Christensen

the guy you yelled at that one time?” Marina and I follow Ivan’s line of

sight, in disbelief, to my mom.

“Uh, yes.”

“What?” I guffaw. “What? Wait, what? When?”

“I never told you about...”

She trails off, looking for something to curve this interrogation,

but both Marina and I are hooked.

“Mamí!”

“Yeah, so he came, two days after that last shopping trip and he

said that he had left his wallet in the car.”

Marina gasps, “So, he knew right when he got to the car that we

didn’t take his wallet! But, he waited two days to tell you!”

“Mamí!”

“Well, he didn’t say ‘sorry.’ He said, ‘do you want to go again

next week.’ And I declined. And I... mentioned that he shouldn’t call my

kids ‘good-for-nothing,’ because you are both intelligent, hard-working,

wonderful young women.”

“She called him an asshole.”

“Ivan!”


“You were only three, how do you remember this?”

Ivan scuffs his feet on the tylon flooring. “I don’t know.”

I can’t even imagine it- my mom, at that moment, gathering all

of her hurt pride and all of her broken English to tell him off. The thought

made my heart race. What exactly could she have said to him?

After that shopping trip, our food didn’t come from grocery stores

for a few months. They came from the Bishop’s food pantry, a shed built

by the church with shelves of canned foods and bags of pancake flour and

evaporated milk. Change was gradual in our house. At some point, Ivan

was out of diapers, Marina was in high school. Two years later, I was in

high school. My mom started taking classes online and got an associate’s.

Then, one day, without warning, she was going to work in scrubs instead

of a blue vest and khakis.

I thought about all of this because I was zoned out for a second,

thinking about what my mom could have said to Elder Christensen.

When I came back to Earth, I realized I was looking at a box of Lucky

Charms that was left out on the counter.

Psychadelic 2

Daniel Haffner


The Domino Effect

by Madelyn Lakeman

I count the lies in my head

And watch them perforate up ahead

I spew them out as if I believe them

But discreetly know I shouldn’t keep them.

I count the lies in my head

And the very few truths I’ve said.

I see right through your severed eyes

Knowing all too well the lies you’ve fed.

You count the lies in your head.

The ones you’ve told over and over again.

If you repeat them to yourself,

Do you too believe their wealth?

You count the lies in your head.

They’re merely words twisted with thread.

It doesn’t matter how many you’ve said...

As long as they believe what they have read.

We count the lies in our heads.

We tell them over and over again.

Until the world cannot function--

Without manipulative corruption.

We count the lies in our heads.

Are our lives just a whim?

What do we fear will come out of this?

Is it hearing words of acknowledgment?

I count the lies in my head.

You are much aware of my deceitful dread.

Yet I reel you in with all their promises,

A wall preparing to be demolished.

The news will hit you all too soon.

It will tear you down just like before.

Leaving you alone in that familiar pit.

Forcing you to question why you always give in...

To the stories that are full of capricious bliss.

Monster in Kinky Boots

Archer Seaborn


The Concertmaster

by Natalie Bierdz

It wouldn’t be long

Before the needle would drag

In the canyons of the vinyl

And become a tired

Predictable song.

Not any less beautiful

Not half as special

But it would be the same.

The same look

The same smile

The same melody

The same, while

The concertmaster got bored,

And took her sheet music

Someplace else.

For a record can only

Offer a few rounds on

The turntable before

It ends and

What a shame

For potential has no place

In those who run in circles

Epiphany



Daddy Issues:

Bitter is an Understatement

by April Ramangkoun

I have tried my entire life to be unbiased towards gender roles

and the whole stigma about deadbeat fathers, but you know what

they say, “men ain’t shit”. My mother always taught me to see the

good in people and that nothing is more important than your own

happiness. My parents divorced in 1997 when I was only five years

old. My mom always preached that living the single life is the

most carefree and best life to live. However, I did not want that for

myself. I wanted to break our generational “curse” of single mothers.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning…

My mother has been and will always be my biggest

motivation and my greatest hero. I can honestly write an entire book

on all of the hardships she has endured that she never deserved to

go through. Long story short, my mom went through hell and back

to get to where she is today. Her biological father left her mother

before she was born. When she was thirteen, my grandmother sent

her off on her own and was expected to be the sole provider for her,

her stepfather, and four siblings. She escaped Laos during a time

of war and went through trials and tribulations immigrating from

there to America where she eventually earned her citizenship and

sponsorship rights to bring the rest of her family over. My mother’s

whole life has been dedicated to working in order to help others.

I am 28 years old and I have always chosen to respect

my mom’s private life. I have asked general questions about my

parent’s divorce, but I never truly wanted to dig deep into it. I heard

different stories, reasons, excuses, etc. about why they divorced, but

it honestly did not matter in the end to me. All that mattered was

what happened afterward. Their divorce did not affect me until I

was old enough to realize that my father was no longer in my life…

by choice. Weekly visitations slowly grew into only phone calls here

and there and then eventually, it was just nothing at all.

In elementary school, I remember making excuses for my

father to try to justify his actions, or should I say, lack of action.

By the time I was in middle school, I grew so much resentment

towards him. Of course, it was the angsty adolescent years, but my

reasonings were valid. He only lived a few blocks away from me

but never made an effort to be in our lives. My resentment for my

father subsided during high school and I learned to eventually let

it go, but I still continued to grow up always questioning why I was

never good enough for him. Regardless of the reason for divorce, he

left my mom to raise me and my older brother by herself knowing

very well she has to support her immigrant parents too. My mom

worked her ass off, and even to this day, I have never heard her

once complain nor has she ever spoken ill of my father. We saw/see

him occasionally, maybe once or twice a year for holidays because

our families are still very close, but they always act very cordially

towards each other.

This brings me to why I never wanted the single mother

life for myself. Whether she admits it or not, I have witnessed

firsthand how much my mother struggled and continues to struggle

as a single mother. I have witnessed firsthand how growing up

in a “broken” family caused both my father and brother to turn

into alcoholics. I have witnessed firsthand what it is like to feel

abandoned and question your worth. There have been so many

moments I felt like I was worthless as a child or I felt too much of a

burden because my mom did not deserve to work so hard in order

to support me. A lot of my childhood was a blur, but all I knew was

that I did not want to be a single mother nor be a part of the statistic

of a divorce. I remember always hearing that children of divorce are

more likely to end up in a divorce themselves. I wanted to beat that

statistic. I refused to be that statistic. So badly...

I wanted to break the curse. I fought so hard just to lose in the

end. The statistic won, and I ultimately became a part of it.

I met Matthew in 2011 when we were 19 years old. I was

in the Army at the time and I came home to visit. I threw a house

party and he came with a mutual friend. We joke that he crashed

my party uninvited and “slid into my DMs”, which technically, is

what happened. He told me about his interest in joining the Army

too, and a year later, he did. We were stationed in separate states

and deployed to Afghanistan around the same time. Over the years,

we grew to become best friends. We talked about anything and

everything. We went through so many ups and downs together and

this platonic friendship went on for nearly five years. After failed

long-term relationships from both sides, we randomly took a leap of

faith and trusted each other to give it a shot since we literally knew


everything about each other. All of our family and friends knew each

other and were honestly waiting for the day it finally happened. In

a perfect world, that is the ideal relationship, because what’s better

than marrying your best friend, right? It all happened so quickly and

we got married in 2015 at the age of 23. We discussed our dreams,

our goals, and basically the rest of our lives. We were each other’s

better halves, or so I thought.

For me, I grew up always wanting to follow the traditional

route of getting married first, spend a couple of years together as

a married couple then start having children after being financially,

emotionally, mentally stable. One of my life goals was to become

a mother, but I knew I had to be smart about it. For as long I can

remember, I was on birth control. I even got the IUD inserted to

ensure absolute effectiveness because I did not want my “baby

fever” to blind me. My entire life, I have always made sure to

protect myself.

In 2017, we mutually agreed to start trying to conceive.

If I am being honest, I was in shock because a month after removing

my IUD, I was pregnant. I heard horror stories of not being able to

conceive so I felt so relieved that we were able to conceive and on

the very first try. Unfortunately, I had an early miscarriage soon

after, but that is for another story.

We took a pause on baby-making due to obvious reasons, but

also, Matthew and I started to fall apart. Without going into details,

I just remember there were a lot of emotions and many different

things happening all at once. We contemplated divorce, but we

somehow worked through it. We were happy again and discussed if

we wanted to continue to try for a baby again knowing what we had

just gone through. I recall myself constantly repeating that I needed

to be sure and that I refuse to bring a child into this world just to be

raised in a broken family. As my best friend, he knew everything

I went through and how I felt. He also grew up in a divorced family

so we absolutely did not want the same for our future child, but

I needed reassurance that we were in fact okay, and would always

be okay. Matthew reassured me… over and over again. He lied.

I gave birth to our son, Khamryn, on September 28, 2019.

I finally understood a mother’s unconditional love. I finally

understood this amazing feeling of creating a child for nine months

and then being able to physically hold him in my arms for the first

time, and for the rest of my life. Everything was perfect until it wasn’t.

I have always had a very strong work ethic because of my

mother. The past couple of years, I stayed unemployed because he

didn’t want me to work. He said his income was enough to support

us, and we agreed that me staying home would be the better

option for several reasons. I guess I became the typical stay-athome

housewife/mom. During this time, I decided to continue my

education and finally try to complete my Associate’s degree.

I learned that I had enough transfer credits to be able to graduate

by the end of 2020 if I decided to grind the next two semesters fulltime.

I couldn’t help but imagine walking across that stage in my cap

and gown while looking out into the crowd to see my family. I just

kept envisioning myself rushing outside to see my mom’s proud face

and then running to the arms of my husband and son for the biggest

hug. I shared my thoughts with him, and he told me how proud he

was and couldn’t wait for that day to happen. He lied.

On March 17th, when Khamryn was barely five months old,

Matthew decided to unexpectedly walk out on us and asked for

a divorce with no explanation. I am ashamed to say that I cried,

prayed, and even begged for him to stay. I fought so hard for our

marriage, but there was no getting through to him. He wanted

nothing to do with me but reassured me that he wanted to be in

our son’s life as much as possible. He lied.

I will never be able to put into exact words the emotions

I have felt these past several months besides that it has all been

bullshit. He practically left me with nothing. I was blindsided with

no warning at all and had no time to even begin to prepare my

life as a single mother. I had no plans to start working until after

graduation because he told me not to work. He told me he would

support us. He told me he would never leave. I have held back a lot

of my true feelings because what I say or feel doesn’t matter. He

knows exactly what he has done to me and both of our families.

Both our mothers are heartbroken and now have to pick up the

pieces he left to make sure their grandson is taken care of.

To say that I am bitter is an understatement. Men get away

with far too much without any consequences and women are left

to fill the void. He knew what my biggest fear was and he served it

to me on a silver platter. So yeah, men ain’t shit.


A Storm is Coming My Way

by Jessica Patrick

A storm

Is coming quickly

A storm

Is coming sickly

I’m old now, I know now

A storm is coming

A chair

In the woods- a great place to die

A chair

In the woods- through which I might fly


A storm is coming

Beyond

This world- summer is gone

Beyond

This world- I will also be gone


A storm is coming

A storm

Is coming quicker than ever

A storm

Is coming I’m sicker than ever


A storm is coming

Skull and Snakes

Caroline Gendron


Amy

by Kylee Backer

Life is filled with death.

Death that cannot be resuscitated.

Death that takes over a family

My family.

Losing someone who you relate to most

a best friend

a role model

a mother

a person that can’t come back.

No machines

No meds

No doctors.

No miracles

Not for my wedding,

For my graduation,

my DMV test,

my first child,

my first job,

my first drink,

my soccer games,

my concerts,

a phone call,

or even a wave.

A mother that was once there for laughs and giggles,

lies 6 feet under for our sighs and cries.

A mom that was once able to cheer you on courts and fields,

Leaves with an empty crowd.

A mom that once went with to get her ruby red nail polish on acrylic

nails,

has left me with the smell of new nail polish stuck in my head

A mothers bold voice like MLK’s behind every video camera,

now is silent and still in a chestnut coffin surrounded by dirt.

A mother that was an attribute to the community in all she did

leaves the people around me with just her 15 letter name.

The pictures of a family all put together like jigsaw puzzle,

suddenly just holds the memories we once had.

The nightly scratches on my back to get rid of the tickles I had

Left to be filled by no one as I lay in my bed

A mothers hug or kiss that can make your day

Now is lost beneath the tragedy of that one day

The day everything changed.

Waking up to a yell from my dad,

To run and see my mommy on her back

To see my brother doing CPR on her, practically breaking her ribs in half

To see my dad in tears as EMTs dressed in dark navy uniforms run in.

I see her being put on the stretcher

As my eyes formed tears that resembled my dads

Rushing to the hospital with my 2 brothers and my dad we all hoped

we could just go back.

Back to the memories

back to the night before at a cougars baseball game with my light up

wand my mommy bought me.

later in a hospital bed that held my mommy I looked around to see

hulky pumps on her feet

needles in her hands

and about 20 machines to keep her with me

Because her heart had failed

And it wouldn’t keep beating on its own.

She was unresponsive

Unconscious

And In a coma

I would sit in her hospital bed praying

Praying to not see her eyes rolling back

Praying that she could braid my hair one more time

Praying that she could give me one more kiss

that she could scratch my back one more time

that her heart would keep beating

And the oxygen would keep flowing

And Praying that the support could be unplugged and mommy

would wake up.

I made deals with the devil in hell.

And I made plans with god in heaven.

And instead of the sky being filled with sunshine from the sun and

warmth from god

We were brought rain of tears and an ugly day.

Before this day I dreamt the end of summer being filled with laughter


But then there was nothing but silence after that day.

I was a soldier on a desert field with an empty canister for my water

to make me last.

August 17th we were told that my mommy was gone.

And that even though my brother brought her back for 4 more days

There was a lack in the world to carry her home

Home to her family

Home to me.

Never would she see me grow up

Never would she be there when I needed her most

Mommywhy

can’t you come back?

Why can’t you be here for me?

Life is hard without you

and even though I have a family that is there for me

I am missing a piece of my heart.

Just know that I love you

And that I will miss you today

and the next

and everyday after that.

Fall Nights

Maxine Stewart


Exit Wounds

by Brenda Law

I loved his quirky, crooked smile, that gave his face a twist,

hearing the giggles from fashioned bubbles blown from his hand-made fist.

His pristine and inappropriate jokes, lingered, like drunkard’s piss.

He falls on his ass, in a belly roll laugh, as if the cares of the world didn’t exist.

Closer than a brother’s love, his smile as long as the Nile.

He knew no stranger, human or alien, a smothered hug and kiss, his lifestyle.

The scent of Bleu that channels through his favorite biking gear,

The exit wounds of gone too soon still drain a sobbing tear.

Echos



Grief

by Desiree Oliveros

The seven stages of grief have always seemed so absurd to me.

In my head, I thought grief just involved sadness and remorse. It was

not until I had to live through grief myself that these stages became

prevalent in my life. Now I know these stages are not like a staircase.

I am not just going to go through these stages step by step and then

one day finally reach the end where I am thrilled and joyful. I see these

stages as more of a carousel. Grief makes you rotate through each stage

over and over, day by day until slowly reaching acceptance and peace.

To better understand grief, here is a concept we all know too well: the

COVID-19 pandemic. On January 10, 2021, I lost my grandpa to the

virus. He was gone far too early. As my way of grieving, I want to share

my family’s story and make sure we are heard. My grandpa’s legacy

will not die with him.

The first stage of grief is the initial disbelief and shock. It still

does not feel real that my grandpa is gone. He was one of the strongest

people I knew. Sure he had underlying conditions, but to hear that

the virus destroyed him so severely was unbelievable. Until his very

last breath, he was fighting. They pumped the maximum amount of

oxygen a machine could supply through his lungs while medication

flowed through his bloodstream. His body eventually just could not

take it anymore. His organs slowly shut down until there was nothing

left he could give. The cries and screeches of pain my family released,

when receiving the news of his death, was earth-shattering. The sounds

continue to blast through my ears over and over so clearly, it feels like I

am constantly reliving the moment. With COVID-19 being contagious, we

could not even say goodbye to him in person. We were just left in shock.

Then comes the stage of denial. Some call it ‘hope’ while others

just refuse the truth. Hours before my grandpa’s death, we were warned

of his critical condition. We knew it was only a matter of time until he

would lose this fight, yet we all were hopeful. We kept telling ourselves

that there would be some sort of miracle. That out of nowhere his body

would respond to treatment and he would be home soon. We would

even pretend to talk to him as if he were with us in our homes trying to

encourage him to stay strong. So when he finally passed, some of us did

not want to accept it. There was no way he could be gone. He still had

so much he wanted to do. He wanted to travel, see his many grandkids

grow up, grow his construction hobby, and much more. Denial is what

I believe to be one of the hardest stages of grief. It must be the stage

that hurts the most. What hurts was admitting we were being in denial.

No one wants to admit that their hopes and desires were shattered.

Hanging on to that small sliver of hope always hurts to let go of at first,

but then those who grieve learn to slowly move on to the next stage.

Coming to one’s senses and breaking out of that sense of denial

brings overwhelming feelings of guilt and pain which is the third stage.

When my family began to understand that my grandpa was gone

from this earth and there was no coming back, we all fell apart. Tears

streamed down for hours. We would each be okay for a few hours,

maybe even joke around to use humor to hide our pain. Then out

of nowhere, feelings would flood through our bodies and we would

crumble once again. We began to reflect on memories, despite the pain

of knowing that my grandpa would not be around to make new ones.

The process of reflecting made one thing very clear. How much someone

means to you is not clear until they are gone. It is painful that it was not

until my grandpa was no longer here to fully see how much he meant

to not only me but to everyone in his life. It makes us feel guilty for not

expressing this compassion earlier. Guilt goes hand in hand with pain

and these feelings will accompany my family for a lifetime.

I have not experienced the fourth stage, rather I’ve skipped to the

fifth stage of grief: anger. I speak on behalf of the millions of people who

have lost a loved one due to COVID-19. It has stripped so many innocent

lives from this world. If only the pandemic was better handled, lives

would have been saved. If this virus did not take the world by storm,

my grandpa would still be here today. My parents and I were so angry

we began to yell out of nowhere. We screamed out our frustrations and

were enraged by the ignorance of people’s actions. When people claim

the virus is 99% survivable, they forget the 1%. That 1% is not a number

or statistic, that 1% are real people with real families and real lives that

they were supposed to go back to. To think that my grandpa had to be

part of that slim chance of death due to this virus was upsetting.

I have yet to experience the remaining three stages of grief:

bargaining, depression, and acceptance as I am still grieving. Who knows

what the future holds for my family and me or how we will learn to cope

with my grandpa no longer here. With that being said, I do know one

thing: my grandpa will not be forgotten. He was not a celebrity or

a Nobel prize-winning scientist, but he will always be remembered

as the strong, loving man I proudly was able to call my grandpa.


Furry Donkey

Karol Krogh

Cow

Karol Krogh


Touching

by Daniel Klim

No amount of counsel has the power to erase

the cancerous contact that changes a face.

A grownup glowing with false warmth.

Open arms have a sparkly charm.

No warning of upcoming harm.

A demon disguised as a dream that can rise

with your past issues; you don’t get to choose.

Redefining “different” and “special.”

Only come close to crossing the threshold.

You can’t take back that kind of swipe.

Can’t clean the stain or be the same.

Won’t be transparent; if I make it, it’s magic.

My psyche’s as clear as static.

What do you do when more people

believe in bigfoot than real predator evil?

A church with no steeple. Police with no promise.

A community that ignores it and tries to be honest.

How about a set of wings to fly with the kings

and queens that live normal with dreams

and chocolates and bad boy gossip.

Instead I’m delivered disease that eats away quicker

than a dependency stripping my liver.

Spill champagne and I’ll leave.

Can’t spell shame without me.

A lamb alone. Pass and surpass

memories of “Sir, pass the glass.”

Swearing at God or whoever’s in charge.

For a brand-new beat so I can march.

Forgetting a debt that’s never repaid.

Or getting upset in every which way.

All strength held by me, can’t be taken.

Someday the sleepers will surely awaken.

Until then it’s a constant midnight

of melodies that don’t flow right with light.

A shine that was missing won’t end up dismissing

a cursed wife that won’t know his business.

He still has a job, family, money, and friends.

This can’t be how it ends.

Owl Eyes

Joshua Selvig


Pine


My branches

cannot reach the handle of

The door your broken body sleeps behind.

You crashed your car into my trunk, my love,

And, ever since, I’ve had you on my mind.

I wish my leaves could brush against your face,

If shattered glass did not stand in our way.

Your forehead hit the wheel with charm and grace.

Your lips are fruitful as the month of May.

Our treasured time together felt short-lived

Before the flashing red

lights whisked you off,

But still I’m thankful

for this precious gift,

Being the tree to see

your limbs go soft.

Scenery 2

Daniel Haffner

A friend of ours left tears upon my soot,

And placed, for me, your picture at my root.


Unsatisfaction

by Cara Thomas

Before the sun even has the chance to peek above the horizon,

I am forced to be ready and prepared for the day. My eyes are

swollen, my face feels numb, and my body is longing to climb back

under the covers and sleep for eternity. Not today. Not most days.

Work needs to be done and money needs to be made.

Pulling on the outfit that I wear every day reminds me of

the ordinary life I live; dirty jeans with several rips, thick socks to

keep the morning dew from freezing my toes, a bland button-down

flannel for the chill, a plain cotton t-shirt for when it warms up, and

my work boots, plastered with mud and manure from the fields. My

baseball hat that has seen too many days molds to my head perfectly

after resting there for so long.

After facing the reality that this is going to be another ordinary

day, I pick myself up and head to the kitchen. Dad is sitting at the

table, reading the paper, with a cup of coffee to his lips and a plate

of food in front of him. Nothing remarkable about it. Scrambled

eggs, assorted fruits, and a piece of buttery toast. I help myself to

the same.

“Jose won’t be coming in today, Dean,” my dad says over the

paper. “ICE took him last night.” He has a sadder tone than usual,

and I don’t think it’s about ICE.

“Is anyone going to cover his duties?” I ask with hope that it

won’t be me.

“We don’t have anyone else to. You’ll have to stand in till we

find someone new.”

That was the thing. There was no one else. No self-respecting

American was willingly going to work on a cow farm, whether it

be the milking, herding, or slaughtering. Our workers were slowly

being depleted by ICE, and there was no one who could replace

them. More and more responsibilities were being placed on the

shoulders of our already overworked employees. And more and

more was being placed on me. It was exhausting.

Our workers, while mostly Latino, were some of our

hardest workers. And while we didn’t like filling jobs that other

people needed, no one was stepping up to the plate, so we had to

give these people jobs. They were willing to work hard and never

asked for a lot of money. The whole thing made me disgusted.

People in town complained about there being no jobs available

when we have been constantly asking for more help around the

farm, so the only willing souls took those jobs.

Realizing I had a lot of work that needed to be done today,

I ate pretty quickly then headed out the door. I made my way

down to the cow feed shed, grabbed several bags of grain on a

wheelbarrow, then headed out toward the tractor shed. No one

was there to help me with this, so I had to make several trips back

and forth to get enough grain for all the cows. Some would say

that it would be easier to drive the tractor up to the feed shed

instead of going back and forth, but the shed was located in the

trees on a hill, and the tractor would never make it up there. The

farm truck was under repair, so the wheelbarrow was the next

best thing. So a lot of tasks were on foot, which added so much

unnecessary time to the already long day. Filling the back end of

the tractor with enough grain for the whole herd, I made my way

out towards the pens.

Driving up to the fields of hundreds of cows, I could tell

they were hungry. They followed me as I came around to the

feeding troughs and started filling the empty barrels. As I went

to grab some more water for them, I could hear the grain being

scarfed down by any animal who could reach, which was weird

since there was plenty to go around, but I guess since they didn’t

graze all day anymore, this one meal was all they had.

Switching over to grain rather than having the cows eat grass

and hay, many aspects of the farm were affected. Ever since we

were forced to grain-feed our cows rather than pasture feed them,

costs have soared and work has become tedious. There were more

steps involved for the farmers, especially the ones with a depleted

workforce, so it didn’t save us time or money. The company buying

our meat wanted fatter cows, not good quality meat, and they set

the standards since they were paying us. We were told the transition

stage was hard and could hurt us for a little bit but would pick us

soon enough and sales would soar. We would change buyers, but

there was no one looking to buy meat from a farm in transition,

and if there was anyone, they were expecting the same thing.

And the small market wasn’t making enough profit, so grain was

our best option.


I started to realize the cows like pasture-feeding just as

much as we did. All we had to do was herd them into the next

pasture each day, and let them graze. They were much healthier

then, too. Our cows were still fat and lean now, but it was a much

different fat and lean.

“Good morning, Dean. How are the cattle looking today?”

Diego, one of the cattle hands, met me at the water pump.

“Alright, still not used to one big meal a day. I’m sure within

a couple of weeks it’ll be good.” Diego started helping me drag the

hose over to the water trough.

“Well, this is gonna be their last meal because they don’t get

a couple more weeks. The big guys want our shipment by the end of

the week, which is in a few days. They are being brought up to the

slaughterhouse this afternoon.”

“Wait. That wasn’t nearly enough time for them to fully

develop and bulk up. The new calves only just came in yesterday, and

their time usually overlaps with the old ones. That can’t be right.”

“It is,” he started counting the number of old cows that

were headed out today. “With the new food system, they get fat

faster, and that’s what they want.”

I hated that. It wasn’t real meat. Cows aren’t meant to have

grain, they were designed to consume grass. But for the money, I

guess it didn’t really matter.

“Dean, you’ll have to help herd them up there, slaughter, and

carve today.” My stomach dropped. I hated working the slaughter

stalls. “We don’t have enough people to fill all those spots, and you

are one of the old ones who know how to do that. And we have to

start soon because it’s gonna take a little longer.”

So the migration of the herd toward the slaughterhouse

began. The treacherous walk took longer than it normally does

without another person to help guide them through the fenced-in

paths. There were only the two of us, so the rate of a misshapen

was pretty high.

About halfway to the slaughterhouse, a bull flipped out and

broke through the barrier. It was far enough away from me or Diego

to stop it so more cows freaked out and ran in all directions. It was

pure chaos. The feeling of not being able to do anything fell over

me. I watched the diffusion of cows as they spread over the adjacent

fields as Diego and I ran to try and corral them back to the trail.

While some seemed to get the hint to go back, others ran further

out. With just two guys trying to pull together the whole herd, it

seemed nearly impossible. Running around, yelling and pushing

the cows back toward the trail, I thought we had fixed this little

situation, but a mischievous fat cow psyched me out and ran back

into the open. I cursed real loud. I ran in a half circle making my

way behind this guy. He seemed to like this little game he invented.

He was a brown spotted young bull with a black spot over half of his

face, not having his horns yet. Sadly he’d never get them. He bucked

and danced, having the time of his life. I could see Diego in the

distance just barely herding the uneasy cattle all by himself.

“All right, that’s enough. Get back in there!” As much as I

wanted to have fun too, I needed to help my farmhand and we

needed to get this done. The young bull seemed to get the picture, so

he danced his way back in line, excited for the trip that awaited him.

When it finally made it to our destination, the large herd was

shoved into a tight funneled fence, then a small hallway as they

waited for their doom. I walked around to our human entrance,

ready to take my place in a stall. As the several of us took up our

spots, we nodded and prepared for the first wave of cows, as they

spilled in. My cow, the same playful, brown spotted guy with one

black spot over its face, was slipping all over the place, nervous,

unsure of what was happening. Guess he wasn’t excited anymore.

I steadied his head, looking into a pair of eyes full of fear.

“It’s alright, you are gonna be fine. Calm down buddy, you’ll

be outta here in no time.”

I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the cow or myself, but either

way, I was lying. But for the moment, we both felt at ease.

I guided the animal into the stall and pulled out the captivebolt

gun which stunned the animal. They say this makes the cow

immune to the pain that is about to follow. I tried not to hesitate

as the cow shifted around. I pulled the trigger as I aimed right in

between the eyes. The cow’s eyes glazed over slightly, and I knew

it was time. I grab the knife that is used to plunge into the heart

and push into the skin, not looking to try and shield my eyes from

this horrible sight. Blood covers the floor, and I push the corpse

through the chute that leads to the carving room. My next cow

comes in, and the horrible, nauseating cycle begins.

Through all the shooting of the guns and mooing and

whimpering of the cows echoing through the warehouse, Diego

talked as if he wasn’t doing this awful task.


“From this batch of meat, we all get a good share to take

home for dinner tonight. Your pops mentioned that benefit with

the new deal we made.”

My back, neck, arms ached. “Oh yeah? Is that because more

meat is being produced so they ‘giving back to their workers?’”

“Yeah, something like that. I’m just happy we get some

fresh meat.”

I guess you could call it that. Sure it was fresh, but was

it quality?

After several rounds of this process, I was sent over to

the carving rooms. I took my place at a table. I grabbed my

gloves, apron, mask, and hairnet and got to work. I didn’t like

this job either. Blood and guts get everywhere, and the feeling

of raw meat is never-ending. Cows come in hanging from a

conveyor belt, and we sliced from there. My first few cows went

fast, cutting the skin, fat, and bones out. But one task can start

to strain the body. All of my muscles were screaming at me for

doing the same motions with lots of weight, over and over again.

But I couldn’t stop. I kept hacking away.

I waited for another cow, and this next one was spotted

brown, with one black spot over its face. Its eyes were still open.

I could see the fear plastered in them as it was killed, staring into

my soul. It was haunting. I took that feeling of hatred for my job

and shoved it deep down, ignoring its conviction.

Cows were killed, meat was sliced, and specimens packaged

for shipment. The whole process only took all day. By the time it

was done, it was time for everyone to head home.

I made my way back to the house on foot and tried to push

the day from my mind. I didn’t like the new process, but that was

how big money was made. I felt bad for all of the small, local

people who just wanted some food, but couldn’t find the good stuff

in all of the corporate industry world. It made my heart sink.

None of it felt honest.

Back home, dinner was being made from some of the

meat that was cut today. I thought it best to shower off the

blood and sweat that was stuck on my skin before I dared to

assist. I scrubbed away the guilt and anger with soap as if that

was going to be much help. I got out just in time to help at the

end of dinner. Dad still seemed a little down.

“It doesn’t feel good, Dean. The locals don’t like it and I don’t

like it. But there is no way to get out of this slave system once you’re

in it. No way, Dean.” He kind of said it to himself. I felt it too.

Dinner was served, a thick steak with potatoes and vegetables.

We didn’t talk much over the food, but not because it was good. The

meat turned stiff in my mouth, dry to the tongue, tasting almost like

chemicals, or ash. My body screamed every time I lifted my hand to

my mouth, and I felt exhausted. I had never felt so unsatisfied.

Untitled (Bowl)

Ian Floetl


Skyway Conference - First Place

Non-Fiction

Apostasy of a Coffee Snob


B

I drink my coffee black; no cream, no sugar. I like it iced, or warm,

but never hot. Most mornings, I grind and start brewing my coffee so that

it’s the ideal temperature after I take a shower and get dressed. If I forget,

my wife will start brewing it for me because she knows that coffee is my

love language.

A

My first sip of coffee was given to me by my stepsister. It was only a

sip and I probably said that I didn’t like it. My mom would be proud.

I was a snobby, little Mormon. My non-secular friends would sip their

peppermint macchiatos and ask, “How do you not like this?” And I

would say in my haughty, priesthood-endowed indignation, “It honestly

tastes like dirt in a cup.” The same indignation from when I told the

Vice Principal “I saw three kids smoking behind the seminary building.”

I pointed them out by name. They got suspended. They transferred to

Millcreek. The kids at my school always made fun of the troubled kids

at Millcreek.

My brother was a troubled kid. Not Millcreek troubled, but my

mom and I once found his old Book of Mormon; it was given to him the

day he was baptized. He had scrawled the cover pages with “Book of

BULLSHIT.” Arrows pointing to Joseph Smith with the words “FUCKING

liar.” His prodigal nature was angry, aggressive, impassioned, and

seasoning his adolescence with drug use. Fights with our stepdad would

occasionally turn physical.

During those times, I knew I was the favorite. I never made my

mom cry.

It was my brother that bought me my first coffee drink. It was a milkshake

with a little bit just a little bit of coffee, he said. With strict Mormon

parents, most of our brother bonding occurred in the outer refuges of sin.

Whether it was Family Guy, South Park, Arizona Peach Tea, frappes, Will

Ferrell’s Stepbrothers. I asked and asked and asked him if we could go get

coffee again. We never did.

Years later, he was the one who snickered when I ordered coffee

with my breakfast while dining out with the family. “Did you really

just-,” he scoffed. I was married at that point with my firstborn at my

side. I was unabashedly ex-Mormon.

I was surprised when I graduated from Seminary, I had slept through

plenty of classes. I took it at the asscrack of dawn so that I could

take more electives in school. I was in musical theater, choir, acting,

technical theater, I couldn’t sacrifice any of those classes. Those were

my important classes. The driver of my carpool would blast The Book

of Mormon the musical soundtrack to and from Seminary: She was the

Seminary President.

I graduated, I got the degree, and I went to the ceremony. Being

the youngest of ten between my mom, dad, stepmom, and stepdad, I

was the first to graduate from the high school seminary program. My

faith was wavering, but I clung tight to the testimony of my parents.

This makes them happy, so it should make me happy too.

I was in college when I took the advice of many Mormon

teachers and knelt to pray to ask Heavenly Father if the church was

true. I felt nothing. A definitive nothing. I asked again. It became

begging. Nothing. My brother says he met Jesus himself, but I

attributed that to the fact that he used to take shrooms. I demanded

a sign, a feeling. I was crying, looking up at my picture of ethnically

incorrect, blue-eyed, white Jesus; an unsettling painting of him

smiling. At that moment, it didn’t look like smiling, it looked like

disappointment or maybe discomfort like he was saying “chill, dude.”


C

D

While I was away at college, I enjoyed the freedom to evade

judgment while buying my coffee. After dropping out and moving back

home, I would stow away the glass bottles of Starbucks drinks under my

bed. One night, my brother and I went to the gas station and they were

out of my caramel-flavored iced coffees and, in my disappointment, my

brother inquired, “Why don’t you just get the gas station coffee?” I said

I don’t like the taste of plain coffee. “So you put a bunch of creamers in

it. It’s the same thing as those bottles, just cheaper.” He didn’t realize

how significant a revelation this was for me. This is when coffee stopped

being distributed with predetermined portioning of cream and sugar.

It was under my control how much creamer would dilute my coffee;

I was the captain. From then on, I was able to incrementally decrease

the amount of creamer. Like a frog in a boiling pot.

This is a reference to a parable I was taught in church. If you

put a frog in a boiling pot of water, it will immediately hop out, but if

you put it in cool water and slowly raise the temperature, the frog will

become accustomed to the heat until the water is boiling and the frog

dies. This is, supposedly, how Lucifer emerges his victims in sin. Slowly

and meticulously.

My brother left the Mormon church suddenly and angrily, just

to return when his teenage rebellion was expended. I left the church

incrementally. It was the R-rated movies, the swearing, the questioning,

skipping seminary, reading books by influential freethinkers, flocking

towards people who were unapologetically different, letting my

problems with the church set like dough on a countertop.

But if you ask my mom, she’ll tell you that I was a perfect child until I

moved to Chicago.

For months, I felt all alone in a massive new city. It wasn’t until

I started working at a Chili’s in Evanston that I made friends, a niche

group of nerds that would meet on Wednesdays to play Magic: The

Gathering and get iced coffees on the way to work. My ‘go-to’ was a

large Dunkin iced coffee with caramel cream, no sugar. The caramel

was sweet enough to make it taste like melted ice cream and the sugar

added a horrible, grainy texture that scratched my throat.

The friends I made at Chili’s all drank whiskey and beer, but I

was 19 and lawful good. I’m not sure what led to my decision, but after

months of internal debate, I announced to the masses, “I’m ready to

drink.” They bought me a two-liter of Dr. Pepper with a small cask of

Malibu Rum: coconut-flavored Dr. Pepper was a favorite of my family

and I thought it would work just as well spiked.

We turned board games into drinking games and movie nights

into drinking games. We had memorable rendezvous where we sat on

Hollywood Beach looking out over the lake asking grand existential

questions like, “Do you believe in God?” I would always respond,

“I don’t know.”

Two difficult conversations came simultaneously over one phone

call with my mom, she asked if I had had sex and I told her ‘yes.’ She

went on about how this warps her image of my girlfriend and I assured

her that I was the one who brought it up, made the move, put my hand

on her bare hip, asked: “Are you sure?” “Are you sure you’re okay with

this?” “Are you sure?”

My mom asked, matter-of-factly, like she knew the answer, “Well,

don’t you still believe in the gospel?” ‘No.’ That wasn’t the answer she knew.


E

When I began working at Yolk, a breakfast restaurant in the loop,

I got into the habit of drinking a cup of coffee per day. I needed the caffeine;

some mornings I had to wake up at 5:00 am to get there on time. I began

with one cup, two creams, one caramel, and one regular. Then, it shifted

to two cups, one cream each. One cup at the beginning of the shift and

the other cup at the end so that when I got home, I didn’t need a nap. My

entire life would be dominated by either work or sleep if I didn’t evade

daily naps with the help of coffee.

When I told my mom that my fiancé and I had just found out

that we were expecting. The wounds of the last conversation weren’t

quite scarred over. “That’s what happens when you have sex! You need

to go down to the courthouse! You can’t do the big, fancy wedding!”

We were moving the wedding back. “My grandchild will not be born

out of wedlock! She will not be a bastard child!”

She was and is a fantastic mother and grandmother. I have

been in plays, musicals, and sketch revues across the country, and she

has come to every single one. She has gotten off a plane, gone to my

show, and gotten back on a plane to get to work in the morning. I have

never felt unsupported in practically any endeavor. Most of my earlier

memories are from a single-parent household where my mom would

work a ten-hour shift and get home to do a ‘pajama party,’ take us to

a movie or ask us about our days.

When she voiced her disappointment in me, I knew it was because

I had diverged from this postcard image of a perfect Mormon family.

A mom, a dad, and two to three kids reading the scriptures together.

Temple worthy. Families can be together forever through Heavenly Father’s

plan; we were guided to sing in Primary classes before some of us could

even speak. Apostasy had marauded her family. Lucifer had taken her

youngest only years after he gave back her oldest son.

I called her recently to ask the questions concerning the cricks

of our relationship that had been present ever since. “Are you still

disappointed in me?” “Do you love my daughter less because she’s a

bastard?” “Do you still talk about me to your coworkers?” “Are you still

proud of me?” The one thing that she insisted on again and again was

that she will never stop praying for me to return to the church.

I think she sensed my disappointment in that response because

three hours later she texted me:

Parker, I don’t ever want you to doubt how much I love you and how

proud I am of you! I love you more than anything in this world!

I really do brag about you all the time! You are the best part of my

life. I’m sorry I don’t show you or say that enough. I love you! Good

night sweetheart! I’ll talk to you soon.

F

On Christmas morning, my wife and daughter settled around the

living room waiting for me to enter and perform my patriarchal duties of

distributing gifts, but, first, I needed to make coffee. It was a new flavor

that my wife had given to me as an early Christmas present; a Sugar

Cookie flavored blend. I cautiously sipped at it.

The coffee was as rich, as sweet, as warm, and as perfect as the

home where it was brewed.


Infidelity

by Sarah Dell’Aringa

His fingers, slim and slight, coil round like snakes,

the throat of his possessed through precious vow;

yet slink down slacks of silk ‘til chills vibrate

up stolen spines, and faithful skin sheds now.

What hope is left to seek in time’s advance?

Familiar faces fall and faith will fade.

More captivating beauty kills your trance

from her pendulous frame, you now betray

So serpent, bruise and bite the gentle mold

of one you “still” love; this is how it shows.

‘Til death you part, ‘til each of you grow old,

curl ‘round a riper body, hers disposed.

A venom violating her, she weeps,

but only fools forget beauty’s skin deep.

Gone Fishing

Maxine Stewart


If Only

by Joe Doody

If snow could be as lush and warm as sheep.

If sand could be as soft as fresh-cut grass.

An unrelenting melody repeats.

If only dreams of ours could be so vast.

If songs could not speak language known by all.

If rhythms weren’t so mobius and round,

perhaps the snow would not so gently fall--

perhaps our dreams would not end underground.

If snow should be as cold and cruel as Death,

If to Hunger and Desires we are prone,

an ode to Godliness as our last breath:

“I will not spend eternity alone!”

If we should travel through an endless void,

perhaps we’d have no need for pain or joy.

Venomia

Justin Drake


Forgotten Playground

by Joelle Shewan

I came upon a mossy clearing today,

There seemed to be apparitions of children—

I could hear their echoes of play.

I blinked, the site grew sullen.

A lone tree stood in its midst,

The sky behind lacy branches

Hazy against a mist.

More children appeared, just flashes.

The uneven earth trips me,

Small ruts in the lush grass.

I overcome and arrive at the tree,

This ancient being, a thing of the past.

Reaching out, I place my hands on a knot,

A chill up my spine, of a place, now forgot.

Deadpool Poster

Linda Fidler


No Turning Back

by Grace Wiggins

The sun would creep into the small room at dusk. When the dust

circulated it caused the figures of the furniture to be hazed. I remember

staring out the old window, the white sill coated with dust, and the way

my cat would sit on that sill. Her gray legs and were feet curled under her

body, moving only when a stranger passed by, and even then, with just a

slight tilt of her head to track the supposed intruder. There was a vine that

had slightly overgrown and covered a quarter of the window. I can still see

the shadow billowing upon the creaky floorboards within the old white

home. When following the grain of the wooden floor, it would lead down

an old staircase, which was about as dusty as the rest of the house.

I would often sit on that staircase, seemingly collecting dust myself

as I would sketch the outlines of mountains or willowing trees. I would

accompany the image with either a poem or a sonnet. It was as though

words were everything and that I could solve anything given a pen

and a paper.

Without fail, my mother would always be found sitting on the

rocking chair near the piano, holding her flute in her lap and looking over

her music. She was a quiet woman whose expressions spoke the words her

lips never uttered. Though slim in stature, you could feel the years of hard

work in her hands.

We used to spend our Saturday mornings in that front room just

to the right of the front door. I would play our old piano that was always

perfectly tuned. My father never could stand to hear a note off-key. More

often than not we would play hymns, but only the ones with melodies

easily identified. On occasion, my older brother would join, and sing

for us. Unlike me, he preferred speaking to writing. He was an abrasive

speaker who commanded a room by the mere fact that he held his head

high. He and his many friends would sit and simply argue and debate

quite late into the evenings. They would form a circle on our front porch

bringing any and every chair they could find. Many memories lay to rest

in that old white home.

There was always a fear that I would forget the lessons I had

learned throughout my childhood. There was never a day as a child where

I was secure in who I was. I never wanted to error; to do anything less

than what was right. So, I wrote small thoughts and reminders to myself in

the form of poetry, which almost served as my mother’s voice of direction

when she was not there to aid me. Feeling as though my life would fall to

pieces should I not be near her.

I remember how our days would reflect the weather. Our home

was bright and cheerful on the days where the sun showed. The pale

and gloomy days were much more frequent, which is a typical feat for

England, where our home was established. Even on those days, I would

sit on our backswing in the middle of the yard. I would listen to the

rustling of the dark green trees as the yellowy-green grass would brush

against my feet causing them to itch as I swung. I can still feel the sun

on my fair skin and I can still hear the deep breaths I would take that

exemplified my peace. It was all good and filled with beauty. Until, for

me, it was not enough anymore. None of it; none of them. No moment

we ever shared. Nothing we ever did. It lost all intention and all purpose.

I jumped ship when I felt things grew difficult. Behind me are the days

where words mattered. Today are the days where actions speak true,

and words fall short of meaning.

The gray shade is everywhere I look. The sorrowful color clouds

my vision. Gray is the color of the dust that coats everything that

remains after mortars are fired. It is the tint in the skin of the men who

lay lifeless where I step. Gray is the glint in my eyes that had once been

seen as a light blue.

I left home in 1917. It has been close to one year since I left.

Much like the trenches that I had begun to consider my home, I was

now a hollow shell of what I once considered to be who I was. I have

seen loss and no longer value the things that I once held in my heart

as the most important. Now, I consider men that had not long ago been

strangers, to be my brothers. More than the memories of my own blood

could ever be again.

The most familiar thing here is the music. Even then, the words we

sing are hardly the hymns from my mother’s hymnal. They are filled with

profane language and sing more the praises of the girls at home, rather

than the praises of God.

I scarcely remember the days. The days within the trenches blend

as one. We rarely see the sun, whether it appears to us or not, it is almost

always behind clouds of dust.

I now sit with my back against a wall of mud. The fellows around

me are all swapping stories, mostly about their girls back home. Though

nobody has ever believed that they actually exist.

“Any word about the mess tent yet Sergeant?” a soldier named

Lark inquired just as our Sergeant slinked by.


“Ha. Not quite yet brother. But I do have some news for ya,” Sergeant

McCallin replied. He was a shorter man with auburn hair and a thin

mustache. McCallin was Scottish-born and raised. He is an acceptable

leader, but quite an exceptional storyteller. Both Lark and McCallin

enjoyed telling funny stories. “We’re movin’ up the line, mates. Grab

your bags and your tins. We’ll see if we can grab a bite from one of the

companies on the way. Wouldn’t count on it though, if I were you...” He

muttered the last few words. I stood up and looked around. We were a

company of 108 men. Most companies held over 230.

We were strung quite thin, and this was our first time being pushed

up the line as a company. I knew we neared No Man’s Land, but I did not

expect to be so close. The twelve men who were sitting together, including

me, began to walk along the narrow walls of the up trenches. The trenches

flowed much like a current. Some tunnels flowed up, while others carried

down. The system certainly made the tunnels appear as if they were mazes

rather than anything practical.

Mud splattered and coated our trousers as we walked. Our trench

had been poorly dug in and had been through much distress. Puddles

and small ponds filled spaces in the trenches making them even more

impossible to navigate. It is easier to recognize a wall of mud than a

puddle. I can tell you that much.

I stared at the ground as I walked. My shoulders rounded as I

allowed the weight of my pack that was strapped to my back to wear on

me. I watched my reflection in the puddles which were disrupted by the

fellows who walked ahead of me. My hair appeared to be much darker

than the honey blonde that I was once identified by. But whether my hair

was just filled with filth or if I had aged since leaving, I did not know.

I heard a voice yell out to Sergeant McCallin saying something

about mail before we continued up the trenches. A thin, pasty soldier

handed McCallin a small stack of letters. Our Sergeant sighed as he

quickly shuffled through the letters before beginning to walk again.

It took us roughly fifteen minutes to make our way up to the line.

When we took our final steps to our new orders, the light began to fade.

The moon on each man’s uniform, made the men appear as though they

were angelic and traced by light. Without a word Sergeant McCallin

gave the letters to the men to whom they were sent. Letters came mostly

from burdened mothers whose only prayer was to receive a letter in

return. A letter in return would confirm that her boy indeed still had

breath in his lungs.

I once again sat on the murky ground which sank in when it

began to bear my weight. I was unable to see clearly what lay around

me. It was quiet, the sounds were limited to the turning of pages from

the letters that my fellow soldiers had received. I had received but

one letter throughout these few years. One letter to which I had never

replied. The handwriting was clean with each of the letters rounded. The

final letter of the signature curved up and formed a heart. The letter was

from my mother who still attempted to unify me to my family. Unify was

the word that she had used. The words that I found much more fitting

were bind, trap, and tie to. But my mother was a peacemaker and always

had been. She had made her last attempt to stitch the severed head, an

attempt she has not made again since.

I scribbled in my notebook taking advantage of the silence that

I knew would not remain long. For just over that mud wall filled with

worms and maggots, lay No Man’s Land and all its glory. I had been here

before, once, although, not with this company. I had seen many men

give in to the temptation to look over that wall. Merely curious to see if

the stories of No Man’s Land do it justice. This was the same temptation

that most of the young soldiers who sat beside me were feeling. It is as

if you are drawn into the wall by some pull. Should you give in to that

temptation, you will be met with a precise bullet fired by a sniper, a sniper

whose only wish is for you to be succumbed to by your own curiosity.

I had seen it happen many times and fought the pull myself. I have been

sobered by the outcomes I have seen and now instead of craving action,

I look forward to serving my purpose as all fresh soldiers do. “Alright

men,” Sergeant McCallin called. “Get some shut-eye. It’ll be quiet here.

You, keep watch for now,” he pointed to Williams, a dark-haired fellow

of about nineteen. “Wake up Morgan when you’re ready to switch off.”

At this, Williams nodded at McCallin.

McCallin was the highest-ranking soldier that we had now. We

all anticipated his promotion, and we all assumed it was soon to come.

McCallin and I had served together in our previous company. The company

was nearly all wiped out due to bum orders. It happened just on the

other side of No Man’s Land. The first wave was ordered to fall back

before I even made it over the first ladder. If I am being direct, this fresh

company was moved up to the line too soon and lacked the experience

to carry out orders in a beneficial manner. We are all feeling uneasy and

earnestly awaiting our chance to make our mark in this war. Though I

have concluded that discontentment is the enemy of peace, it is also the

foundation of change.


McCallin began to walk up to me as though he could hear my ill

thoughts of the boys around me. “There won’t be much more in the way

of action lad,” he explained. “Even if the enemy has a little fire in them…

there’s not enough of them left to do anything about it.” I leaned my head

back and closed my dry eyes. I allowed my mind to wander. I thought

about how my brother and I used to imagine that we were soldiers,

fighting in a great war. I pictured how we would run across our yard to

battle the enemies. My mind then shifted to what stood across from me-

No Man’s Land and how I am blessed to serve a purpose and be a piece in

this war. I soon fell victim to my exhaustion and fell asleep.

It rained quite frequently back where I grew up. Our lake near

the rear of the old house would overflow causing the ground to become

a soggy mush that squished as your feet sunk beneath its surface. I have

never been quite fond of rain. I always preferred to feel the warmth on

my chilled face after a day that I had spent swimming in the lake with my

brother, David. Despite my preference or my desires, I was used to waking

up to the sounds of thunder, and the piercing light of lightning streaks

across the shadowy skies. Waking up to mortars almost felt like home.

Between that and the bright lights from explosions and fires, coupled with

distressed voices calling your name, it felt as though I had never left home.

I was jolted awake by the sound of our sniper firing two warning

shots to the enemy. The sun was up. I had slept through the night. I looked

around at my surroundings for the first time since arriving. All familiar,

no, not just familiar, all the same. The mud glistened from the sun upon

the water-filled footprints. The rats were as fat and as bold as ever. The

humans within this cage were uneasy and alarmingly quiet. It was as if

they were standing upon a mine that would blow them to pieces should

they move a muscle. Still remarkably exhausted, I found myself staring

into the face of a soldier. I had never directly spoken to him, but his face

caught my eye. The whites of his eyes had a reddened glare but shown

brightly. He sat alone, I could clearly see that he had not slept a wink that

night. I started to look at his uniform and then back on my own. The worn

versus the new. Much like my own tattered uniform, I feel worn. I feel as

stretched thin as the seams on my tan trousers, and as bent out of form as

the buttons that preserved the integrity of my jacket. I am only seventeen

years of age. I have always looked older. When I joined up I was asked my

age; to which I promptly responded with honesty. I was only sixteen when

I stood before that man. “Get back in line and say you’re eighteen when

you come back up boy,” he ordered. I did just that. He stamped my papers

and I was on my way. I feel older now like I have lived more lives than

most ever do, though I had still never seen combat. These thoughts and

memories were running through my mind until I realized that I was still

looking at the young soldier.

“Men. They want us to go over,” Sergeant McCallin said plainly.

“Now?” the young soldier was the first to respond.

“No,” Sergeant McCallin chuckled, putting all at ease. “Not till

dusk. They want us to remind these buggers that we’re still here and that

we still have fire in our eyes.” He pointed to his eyes as he said this.

“Tell ‘em to send a postcard from us all…” Lark chimed in. Not one

person laughed or even cracked a smile.

“We’ll just quickly pop over the line and fire a few rounds,”

McCallin went on. “While most of us do that, a few mortar rounds may be

fired from A. Company. A. Company is going to join us over the wall and

we are going to try to get close and get a vantage point. Understood?”

His eyes took turns meeting those of the men who peered up at him.

“Fantastic. Rest up.” He spoke these words almost in a joking tone. No

other soul seemed to be in a gaming mood. He came back and sat beside

me. Neither one of us spoke a word.

I unbuttoned my outer jacket to retrieve my notebook from the

breast pocket of my vest. I flipped through the pages of the many poems

I had written during the war. A folded corner of a single page held the

place of my favorite poem. I flipped to that page, but as I did so I felt a

pop from within my ribcage. The force made my heart feel as though it

had sunk deep into my gut. The piercing light of the flare was the first sign.

The light came from one of our flare guns from across No Man’s Land.

We stayed until dawn. Loaded our weapons and stood at the

foot of the ladders that led to hell. I had never been above ground

at No Man’s Lan before. The last time I was here it did not turn out in

a manner I ever cared to repeat. A. Company met us in our trenches.

Their men were older than ours and slightly more experienced.

The Captain of A. Company was a man who seemed to be in his

mid-thirties. He had a thick mustache that was beginning to gray and

he was a rather round gentleman. I never could tell which was going to

happen first, either his buttons may burst or his collar may choke him.

Despite this, he led his men well. “Alright, gentlemen. Keep moving, opt

not to run perfectly straight, and remember--these men have been on the

line cut off from resources for a few weeks now. Either they’ve gone, or

they’re weak. On my signal.” He spoke quickly. I could feel the dread yet

anticipation in the soldiers around me. Although I felt numb and my head


was cloudy. I knew I was never going to be prepared when the Captain

gave the signal. Even though I had been through this part before, it did not

feel familiar. This time, it felt real.

“You never do get used to the booming sounds or explosions that ring

through your eardrums,” a soldier from A. Company shouted to another.

“Just like you never get used to the dry cries of pain that ring

through your soul when the lad next to you gets hit,” the other responded

while winking at a younger soldier.

“Now!” the Captain yelled just as my stomach had knotted. The

first wave of us climbed over the ladder onto the empty field. I fumbled

over the ladder as I made my way. The field was filled with craters and

barbed wire. I looked to my right where I could see a decaying carcass

of a horse. I saw the remains of a skeleton where the rats had eaten

the flesh of the poor beast. We stood upon the field where most of us

had expected to meet our end. I looked around at the men around me.

I looked at the Captain who simply nodded his head. “By God, they’ve

gone,” he muttered. “Return to the trenches!” he barked.

A deep sunken feeling pitted within my chest. The captain sent a

runner to battalion headquarters for a clue as to what had happened. We

all sat on the soggy ground as we waited for the return of the runner. My

thoughts drifted back to those of the night before. I felt as though I was

back playing an imaginary soldier.

Hours passed and I spent the bulk of them with my eyes shut.

The runner trudged up the down trenches and into our corner of the

line. “Orders have been dispatched to call off all attacks,” he announced.

“We’ve done it,” he continued, ending with the words, “The war is over.”

I did not grasp all that he had said right away. I allowed it to

wear on me. But I had never seen combat. I never carried out anything

heroic and I did not advance the war in any regard. I knew that the other

fresh-faced soldiers were all feeling the same, but I had never fulfilled my

purpose. Cheers rang out among most of the men, but I fell quiet.

I thought of the day I had left home. Warm and sunny as it was,

I have never felt colder. I packed my belongings without an explanation.

She did not need one. My father had been controlling throughout our

lives. My mother had always encouraged us to give him grace, for he had

grown up being beaten when the sun rose and screamed at as it set. As age

seeped into his brain, my father began to lose control of his emotions. His

outbursts wore thin. I lived with the knowledge that my father had never

amounted to anything great. This instilled a fear within me that I would

be just like him. I walked down our dusty staircase one last time where

I was met by my older brother who blocked the door. I could see the

sorrow in his eyes though silent were his tears. He masked them under

angry words that he allowed to spill out. Hateful were my words in reply.

I had attempted to use them to mask the desperation I felt at that

moment. But in my anger, I grew numb and shoved my older brother’s

arm away from the door. At this moment, I no longer could feel for my

family. I no longer needed them due to my new purpose, and I did not

want them any longer.

These thoughts ran through my mind as I half-listened to the

final words from the Battalion Colonel. At the conclusion of his words,

I thought of the letter that my mother had written to me and the chance

that I had of her forgiveness. No longer was her hand outstretched to

me. I always knew that my decision was reactive, and emotive, that of

a child. I was always able to justify that by the fact that I was serving a

larger purpose, which I no longer had.

I held my notebook in my hands as I rode the train back home

from where I had attempted to flee. I let my head hang low under the

weight of my frustration as the train rolled into the station. I had not

allowed myself to miss my family until I was left with little to no options.

Whether these were walls that I had built up or walls that were built

around me, I did not know. But those walls crashed down as I stepped foot

onto the paved front lawn that led up to the old white house. I climbed the

stairs to the porch. Before I could knock, the door creaked open and I was

met with my brother David standing before me. I could feel the cold void

float in between us as he opened the door. “Guess you made it out,” is all

he managed to say. I nodded reluctantly as I walked in as a guest in my

own home. The old gray cat came barreling down the stairs to rub against

my shins. I could see the dust floating around after she had disrupted

where it settled on the steps.

I could hear the light footsteps in the kitchen for a while before

they grew louder. My mother walked into the room. Her dark hair, now

dusted with more gray, was tied into a loose bun that sat on the base of

her neck. I looked down at my hands because I could not bear to see the

frown that lay on her face. I felt a shove on my right shoulder before I

was gathered up into a hug. I felt her breath quicken as she caught some

air in between tears. The cat circled at our feet as we embraced. “I did

not know if you were coming home,” she said. “I nearly got used to the

idea of never knowing if you were dead or alive.” she continued while


squeezing me tighter. “I tried to write to you,” she whispered as if to keep

it a secret from David whose eyes never wandered from my face. I nodded.

My eyes met David’s which still held a stoic expression. He winked at me

ever so slightly and I unbuttoned my jacket and reached into the breast

pocket of my vest. I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the page

where I saved my favorite poem. I grabbed the folded piece of paper that

I used to bookmark the page. I held the paper in my arm pressed against

my torso as I tore the poem out of my notebook. I tucked the small piece

of paper into the folded one and looked up at my mother’s face. She stood

resting her elbow on her left hand while her right hand was holding onto

her chin. I held the piece of paper up. “I got your letter,” I said simply

almost in a whisper. “And I know I never sent my reply. So here.” My voice

shook as I spoke the last words. I set the letter that I should have sent a

year ago now on the table. She opened the paper and the poem.

The letter was dated July 16th, 1917, the same day that I received

her letter. The poem was dated merely two days passed. I never questioned

the love I had for my family. Yet I made them question the love I had for

them. I felt as though my mission on this earth could not be carried out

unless I was miles and miles away, although this was not so. I traveled

many miles away to stamp my imprint of heroism upon a war that was

won by the time I got there when I could have changed many more lives

by loving who I already had in mine. Simply by appreciating my home,

which was never a place, to begin with.

My father walked in as my mother read my letter. He took my

hand in his and shook it firmly. When my mother had finished reading

the poem, she embraced me once again and I took a deep breath.

The poem that I had written and kept with me all this way doubled

as a reminder of what I had discovered and as a prayer in my heart.

Whether together or either alone,

No human can melt a heart made of stone

With distance in mind

While self-inclined

You never know where you shall go

There is but one way to learn

Simply how to return

To where you are never alone

Merely keep your hands praying

While patiently saying

I am ready to go back to my home.

Audition

Archer Seaborn


Soldier

by Samantha de Souza

Wintere

Justin Drake

This life is a battle,

So give yourself some credit, soldier.

We walk in unprepared,

Pick our weapons on our way.

Some are given armor,

Others hope bullets don’t stray.

The battlefield you stand on

Is yours and yours alone.

You stand up strong, just as you are,

And prepare to take the throne.

Defend your kingdom,

Save the damsel,

Slay the dragon with your sword.

But your dragon is slain,

Damsel is saved,

And your kingdom will outlast.

Look at all you’ve done,

All the battles that you’ve won.

Count your wins and not your sins,

The best is yet to come.

I can’t promise you a life

Where you can lay down your sword,

But I can promise you the chance

To finally sit upon your throne.

The battles don’t seem worth it,

Trust me I would know,

But once they’re done,

You have won,

And your life will go on.

So give yourself some credit, soldier,

The fight has not been easy.

I know it may not be over,

But look back at what you’ve done.

When you do, I think you’ll find

You’re stronger than anyone.


Sock Monkey

Justin Drake

120 Spire 2020

Spire 2020

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