Sheepshead Review Fall-Winter 2025

Staff

Advisor

Dr. Rebecca Meacham

Editor-in-Chief

Heba Obaideen

Managing Editors

Shia Chang

Jasmine Emmons

Chaz Rowell

Co-Copyeditors

Samantha Landvick

Alissa Washington

Publicity Director

Camilla Doherty

Layout Editor

Heba Obaideen

Co-Designer

Anita Wettberg

Fiction Staff

Kendall Cox

Julia Hahn

Josie Halvorsen

Talan Greeno

Sylvie Cavros

Nonfiction Staff

Jacob Burkert

Shelley Leddon

Kaylee Paul

Isaac Quezada

Poetry Staff

Phoenix Alanis

Samantha Landvick

Jamyla Johnson

Savannah Kruse

Israel Pedroza

Jordan Sieracki

Visual Art Staff

Vic Lyons

Mara Meissner

Kathryn Willis

Russel Kilian

Saige Prahl

Poetry

Camilla Doherty

Danielle Ludke

Visual Arts

Alissa Washington

Nonfiction

Alena Scheussler

Fiction

Clara Romero

Genre Editors

Letter From The

On first glance of this semester’s issue, you may notice

a sepia tone wash of retrospection, hand-drawn polaroids

meant to evoke a sense of nostalgia, and of course, the peculiar

spelling of this issue’s title: Sheepshead Revue. You may

also notice the phoenix on the cover, that like the persistent

creature it is, falls and rises as a new entity. And you might

wonder why? This year, our UW-Green Bay campus turns 60

years old. Along with it, is the evolution of our literary and arts

journal that, like the phoenix, has seen many transformations

over its time.

From our formative years as Parnassus, our iconic days

as Sheepshead Revue, the instrumental 2003 revival of our

journal, and the well-established modern publication of today,

our journey has been long and ever-evolving. And though

we’ve been known by many names, have gone through many

transitions, and seen many staffs come and go, in essence,

Sheepshead Review is what it has always been: a journal that

showcases the creativity of individuals willing to take a chance

with their work.

So join us on this new journey while we take a walk

down memory lane. Not just through our design, but through

the work itself; after all, it’s the work that makes the journal.

Through these pieces we hope you can revel in the past and

reflect. Perhaps, it’s a moment in time when you were stuck

in indecision as you contemplated a complicated relationship.

Perhaps it was the comforting memory of your grandmother

carefully and tentatively passing on the wisdom that hides

within every wrinkle on her aged body. Or perhaps, simply it is

the mirrored reflection of the sky that you see when the rest of

the world had gone silent and the sun, tired and aging, drew

nearer to the horizon. Through any means, take a moment

4

Editor-in-Chief

to reflect; take a moment to revel in the past; take a moment

to consider, how will you, through a snapshot in history,

contribute to this collage of work?

When reflecting on this semester, I think of the adversity

our staff had to overcome to bring to you this issue. I think

of how, like the symbol of our campus, the phoenix, we had

to rise and grow stronger. Through the chaos of trying to

figure out new skills and programs, last-minute readjustments

and improvisations, and facing the unpredictability of new

drawbacks, our staff was able to make it out on the other side.

And to the wonderful Sheepshead Review staff, who despite

the disorder of this semester, stuck it out, I owe a huge thank

you. A thank you to Dr. Rebecca Meacham, who was an

outstanding guide in uncertain times. And finally a huge thank

you to our contributors; your participation in this collage of

history is what keeps this journal going year after year—decade

after decade. The Fall 2025 issue of Sheepshead Revue is our

snapshot in history; one we are proud to share with you.

Heba Obaideen

Heba Obaideen

Editor In-Chief

5

Table of Contents

The Romance of Suffering by Savannah Smyth 12

Clocks Have Faces Too by Aliyah Lyne 13

Pond Life by Gloria Keeley 15

Euforia Abstracta en la Ciudad Invisible

by Vivian Calderón Bogoslavsky 16

She Never Read Comic Books by Mike Nichols 17

Counting Faces by Christopher Thompson 19

Dream Catcher by Carella Keil 25

Mirror World by Noah Spellich 26

Sun Downs by John Sieber 27

Ash and Ember by Karrie Wortner 29

A Possible Hope by Melanie Van Handel 30

A Possible End by Melanie Van Handel 31

The Mountain’s Revelation by Kira Ashbeck 32

Sunk by Ashley Kauffman 33

Blossoming, Yet Foul Hunger

by Melanie Van Handel 38

Assumptions by Kira Ashbeck 40

Land Vistas - NYC and New Mexico

by Max St-Jacques 41

Life in the Bike Lane by Kephren Pritchett 42

6

It is Not Your Job to Save the World

46 by Phoenix Alanis

48 A Hope for Tomorrow by Lara Gates

49 Start Over by Tetiana Yatsechko-Blazhenko

51 Strawberries by Carter Vance

There Were Times I Did Not Wish to Die

52 by May Obermark

Thoughts Spread-Eagle on the Gynecologists’ Table

53 by Dariana Guerrero

54 Pink Hibiscus by Diana Willand

55 Hotline by Amanda Izzo

59 Urban Reflections by Eric Calloway

60 Jazzbo by Gloria Keeley

The Red Sea (a Memoir for ‘First Blood’)

61 by Caitlin Scheresky

62 Maternal Myth by Jacie Schonert

63 Banana Bread by Ashley Neary

64 Cat as a Hat by Jayla Pagel

65 Simple Tea by Christine Vartoughian

71 Indoors by Susan Shea

72 I Caught the Moth Girl by Tania Li

76 The Boy Next Door by Brianne Turczynski

83 Stargazing by SM Stubbs

84 Fairy-tale by Emma Atkins

85 Silent Partners by Sharon Weightman Hoffmann

7

Kawachi Fujien Wisteria Garden

by Denver Boxleitner 86

Icy Neglect by Kira Ashbeck 87

Our Own Bubble by Maribel “Autumn” Hernandez 88

I Can’t Tell my Parents I’m in Love by Talon Drake 89

Crazy Diamond 2 by GJ Gillespie 91

The Bench by Kristin Schaaf 92

Moth and Windshield by Madeline Perry 98

Digby’s Kingdom by John Barrett Lee 100

Family Pets by Jayla Pagel 104

Good Luck by Carly Spychalla 106

The Crown Prince by Donald Pattern 106

Into the Bottom of Ourselves by Ellee Achten 107

UW-Green Bay

Submission

Highschool

Submission

The Romance of Suffering

Savannah Smyth

You segment me like an orange,

Seek me like a clue—

You want to peel back my soft, soiled skin

And taste test the bruise.

Splay my insides apart,

To locate the spot of rot—

Are my juices sweet or bitter?

Is my suffering ‘hot’?

I smelt like summer once.

Warm citrus on your tongue,

Before you plucked me from a tree,

I was ripe, I was young.

Now look at what you’ve done.

My halves no longer whole.

You can try to seal my peel

But won’t give back what you stole.

The very core of me,

The heart—that central pit.

You swish about in your careless mouth

Until its chambers split.

But one orange is never enough

To fulfil your insatiable needs,

You grope around the orchard

Still spitting out my seeds.

But in that I am freed,

A part of me lives on,

My hate will spread bitter roots

And you’ll cower from my spawn.

12 | Poetry

Clocks Have Faces Too

Aliyah Lyne

4:00 a.m. I awoke in a cold sweat, the kind that makes

one feel instantly in need of a shower. Disoriented by the spell

of sleep, I was not yet aware of what could’ve pushed me to

wake up so abruptly and with such inconvenience. I scooted

out from under my covers and swung my legs over the side of

my bed. Despite the grogginess surrounding my entire being,

I could still feel the grip of what must’ve been a nightmare.

I glanced all around my unlit room, trying to make out any

everyday object to ground me back to reality and away from

the residue of the dream that had taken me as its captive. As I

perched on my bed processing, I couldn’t help but think that

if anyone was with me at that moment, they’d think I was

entranced, or maybe even possessed. But after a few moments

of this, I could recall my dream again. Clear as day, and real as

real can get. It wasn’t a nightmare, a bad dream, or anything

close. I began crying, inconsolably. The kind of long cry that

clears every little sad thing out of your mind and soul. Between

sobs, I kept telling myself, “You’re fine.” “There’s no reason

to cry.” “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t okay, and it never would be

again.

In my dream, I was inside my old living room, and I was

four years old again. I sat in my mom’s lap, the safest place

I ever was or ever could be. I couldn’t smell anything, but I

was positive that the room smelled of warm chocolate chip

cookies. My brother and sister were on the floor, lying on their

stomachs. They were playing with Legos and miscellaneous

action figures, creating some dramatic storyline that wouldn’t

make sense to anyone but them in that exact moment. Laughter

came from my mom as my sister said something childishly

uncalled for. I looked up at her smile, then over to the vintage

brass clock that hung on the wall beside me. I stared at it

intently, trying to figure out what its hands were pointing

Nonfiction | 13

to, but hard as I tried, I couldn’t make it out. And then...

it was over. That’s all that the dream was. Nothing eventful

happened; it was almost like a picture or a clip from an old

movie. I truly was fine; and so was my mom.

But I would never be four years old again. My mom

would never be young again. Ever. Never again would I get

joy out of puddles or a thrill going down a rusty park slide.

I’d never be fighting with my sibling over who got the middle

seat, or who got the bigger half of a cookie. There would

never again be a point in time where I felt true, pure, childlike

joy over anything. I would never be a kid again, and there was

nothing, absolutely nothing, that I could do about it. I couldn’t

get it back for any amount of money, any hours of work, any

kind of pain. In that moment as I shivered in bed, stuck in

the drench of my own sweat and tears, I knew that if I ever

got a chance, I would give up anything to get that back. The

only thing I had to look forward to was getting older. I would

slowly become invisible, until one day I would no longer be

anywhere.

Ironically, I knew I’d be all right once I fell asleep again.

I knew when I awoke the next morning, the busyness of the

daytime would sweep those thoughts under the rug, and

by the time the next night rolled around, the current would

feel as distant as my childhood. Time would continue lurking

over my shoulder, watching me grow older as it stayed the

same as always. This fact wasn’t going to go away. I was well

aware that there would be distractions from this thought, but

distractions would only accelerate the very thing I was trying

to stop. Time, the perpetual thief that it is, would take away

everything I’ve loved and everything I’ve hated. Without a

second thought for anyone’s feelings but its own, it would

explode everything in its path, and it wouldn’t look back. I

couldn’t stand it for that, but the more I dreaded time, the

more cruel it would be to me. I looked again at my clock, it

glared back at me and said, 4:30 a.m.

14 | Nonfiction

Pond Life

Gloria Keeley

Visual Art | 15

Euforia Abstracta en la Ciudad Invisible

Vivian Calderón Bogoslavsky

16 | Visual Art

She Never Read Comic Books

Mike Nichols

What we want is that the city

should shut down and the people

all stay home the day after, like when

Superman died. Empty streets and coffee

shops like sudden mass extinction. Dead silence.

But there is no walking processional filling a mountain

trail to the cemetery, standing up there like a signal.

No hundreds of grave faces of mourners who did not

know the dead except by reputation. No flowers, no tears,

no “We love you” signs line the chain link fences.

Instead, all the people act like today is just

another Tuesday. They go to work, stopping off

at the coffee shop to order skinny lattes as if no

horror had happened. They line the streets and

fill them with vehicles and noise and confusion

so loud that they wouldn’t be able to hear the news

even if they cared to.

And we sit in somber silence trying to make sense

of a world without her in it. Stunned looks on our

faces like we’ve come to after being bludgeoned

with a rifle butt and are trying to figure out how

we arrived here. Who we are now. We cannot

touch each other. Some protective grief membrane

has formed around us. We have no tears yet.

We can’t even work up the tears of those faceless,

fictional mourners who never knew her.

The emptiness does not fill us so much as it

fills all the space in the house while we gaze

Poetry | 17

dully around us. A silence.

It holds

the full reality away. Later, we can fantasize

how Batman might find a reason to revive her.

Somewhere in the multiverse.

18 | Poetry

Counting Faces

Christopher Thompson

Following graduation from law school, I packed up my

belongings and made for New York City. My job at Kirkland &

Ellis paid well enough for me to get my own place, but I chose

to live with roommates instead. The randos weren’t panning

out, so I had to search for friends elsewhere. New York isn’t

exactly a kind place, and the only connection I made was at

a local deli. Sad as it may sound, this relationship came at an

actual cost, as this man worked behind the counter.

After some time, I became a regular. The deli was

called Signour, and while it had great sandwiches, I thought it

had better service. After a few months of stopping in for my

favorite sandwich, the number three, I had built up a good

rapport with the middle-aged man behind the counter. No

matter the weather, the day of week, or the news, his face

radiated kindness. He spoke softly, and with an indescribable

warmth, sort of like the voice of an audiobook narrator. I

don’t think a day passed when he wasn’t behind the counter,

pristine white apron equipped, fixing sandwiches, ringing

people up, and starting conversations.

Most of his questions were about my job or plans for the

weekend. I liked keeping him apprised on these happenings,

as I could tell he, too, enjoyed discussing them with me. I

suspected that he liked me more than the other customers, but

it was hard to say. He was nice to everyone. Only sometimes

would he answer my questions about the business.

And rarely did he share about his personal life. I

discovered he had a wife and little boy by only chance.

One Sunday afternoon, while walking down the street, I

encountered them on a stroll. We stopped and said hello

before continuing on our separate ways. For a while after that,

I thought we’d become friends. But not once had he offered

me a sandwich on the house. Eventually, I understood that

Fiction | 19

our relationship was strictly transactional to him. Our brief

conversations still meant something, even though I paid for

them. After all, I considered him my only friend in New York.

My initial pair of roommates left after our first year

together. One moved into a place with the friends he’d made,

and the other signed onto his girlfriend’s lease. While I was

happy to see them go, the apartment had an immediate silence

to it. Mornings were quiet, evenings were stirless. I found new

roommates quickly, but they were also random. The rest of

my twenties were spent living in that apartment, and I worked

too much to make friends. My reliance on Signour grew in

measure. The apartment saw a few different combinations

of roommates over the years—me as the only consistent

occupant—until one day I, too, moved on.

New York simply hadn’t worked out. When I was

offered an internal counsel role at an energy firm in Houston,

I accepted. In the chaos of moving, I didn’t get a chance to say

goodbye to the few acquaintances I’d made, including the man

at Signour. I figured this happened to shop owners all the time.

One day, you realize you haven’t seen the face of a regular

in a while, and that’s it. Days at the deli continue their slow,

monotonous chug forward, agnostic to whoever swipes the

credit card.

In Houston, I signed a lease for a one-bedroom. I liked

the southern city more than New York, and even managed

to make friends through a recreational soccer league. At

the beginning, I searched around for delis like Signour, but

couldn’t find one. Houston sprawled much more than New

York, and I learned that the relationship between customer

and worker wasn’t the same. It was true that Southern people

were nicer up front, but after a few weeks, I couldn’t get the

conversations I’d grown accustomed to. I didn’t need a deli like

Signour anyway. All things considered, my life was dramatically

better, and rarely did I think of my unique time in New York.

There was one experience that I felt I’d missed out on,

though. I hadn’t celebrated New Year’s in Times Square. Raised

just outside of the city in Bronxville, I spent my childhood

20 | Fiction

watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve television

program with my family. I enjoyed seeing everyone celebrate

wildly, “Happy New Year!” sunglasses on their faces, a steady

stream of confetti twirling past. I always imagined myself

wedged in the middle, our collective swaying back and forth

as we belted Sinatra’s “Theme from New York, New York.” To

me, this seemed the happiest place a person could be.

So I spent my first New Year’s Eve as a Houston resident

back in New York. I visited my parents for Christmas and then

caught a train into the city for the event. When I exited Penn

Station with time to kill, I decided to wander past the old

apartment. As I got closer, stomach rumbling with hunger, the

idea of a sandwich from Signour sounded perfect. Maybe I’d

even reconnect with the owner.

Stepping inside, I vaguely recognized the man working.

One year had introduced doubt, and I wasn’t certain it was

him. Something looked different, but to this day, I can’t say

what changed. As I reviewed the menu, I faked a look of

contemplation. I already knew what I would order. “I’ll have a

number three, please,” I said after some time.

The man grinned, and this confirmed it was him.

“Remind me your name again?”

I told him.

Lifting his hand near his face and moving it in a circle, he

said, “You look familiar. Lived around here, no?”

“Yes,” I said. “I recognized you, too.”

How many faces had he seen in the last year? How

many would he see as owner of this deli? The numbers seemed

impossibly large, almost unintelligible. In one year, I’d nearly

forgotten his, but he’d remembered mine.

“You know, this was my favorite deli,” I said.

He bowed politely and thanked me. He asked about my

life. I spoke about work and friends, and he delicately placed

roasted turkey slices between two halves of a baguette. After

dressing it with a secret aioli, he swiftly wrapped the sandwich,

handing me the finished product with one hand as he rang me

up with the other.

Fiction | 21

“Please visit again,” he said.

“Why don’t I stop by this time next year?” I said.

One year later, I entered Signour and ordered a number

three. What was a pleasant coincidence the first time—

nostalgia, a few hours to pass, and an empty stomach—grew

into a holiday tradition. Each December, when I flew to New

York to visit my parents and stop in Times Square, I swung

by Signour to see the owner. He’d ask about my life, and I’d

ask about business. He’d hand me a number three sandwich,

and I’d pay him. A year would pass, and we’d do it all again,

everything the same, aside from our age. The relationship

remained unchanged, even with the charm of its refreshed,

sincere nature. But to be honest, I still didn’t know his name.

The tradition became my preferred way of timestamping

the end of one year and the beginning of another. My birthday

was too busy, and too visceral. On New Year’s Eve, I could

stand outside of my age and appreciate the steady flow of

time. The interior of the store, the menu, and especially the

taste of a number three, all seemed unafflicted by the same

time that wrinkled our faces and caused our earlobes to droop.

The routine preserved a slice of the world that existed outside

time, our simple exchange of money and food like our own,

isolated place. I maintained the tradition for at least a decade,

though I can’t say for sure how long.

Time outside of New Year’s Eve in New York raced

forward. In Houston, a friend from the soccer team became my

girlfriend and then my wife. Together, we bought a house in a

suburb of Houston. What felt like nascent ideas of parenthood

morphed quickly into reality. I missed one New Year’s Eve

in the city, and just like that, the tradition was shattered, my

yearly pilgrimage to Signour coming to an abrupt end.

Many years later, after our son left for college, my

wife and I planned a trip to New York to see my mother

and hit New Year’s Eve in the city. After a couple of days in

Bronxville, we took the Long Island Rail Road into the city.

With a few hours before the ceremony began, I took her to

my old neighborhood, and we walked around. There were

22 | Fiction

new stores, sidewalks, and park benches. My old apartment

had been replaced by a luxury high-rise. Now in my fifties, the

differences were striking. Our last stop before heading to Times

Square was Signour.

I prepared myself for changes similar to those the

neighborhood had endured, but when we got inside, the deli

was identical to my memory of it. I felt for a moment that I’d

somehow been teleported back in time. The counter and menu

looked no different. The owner, too, appeared exactly as he

did decades ago. The gap in time had not just left him alone.

It had stripped away the expected result of aging. I couldn’t

believe it.

Bewildered, I said, “You look incredible. My eyes must

deceive me.”

“They do,” the man replied. “You think of my father.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to say hello.”

“He passed in September. I’ve been keeping the lights

on, but it’s been hard.”

A wave of sadness washed over me. “I guess we’ll take

two number threes,” I said. “In honor of your old man.”

He started preparing the sandwiches, gliding across

the counter to grab various ingredients, and slice the roasted

turkey. “You know something,” he said after a few minutes.

“My father told me about you.”

My eyes followed his hands as he laid the roasted turkey

between two halves of bread. The son’s process was flawless,

maybe better than his father’s.

“He said, for years, a good friend paid him a visit every

New Year’s Eve. Always ordered a number three. That must be

you.”

I had no words, so I stood in silence as he wrapped

the sandwiches and placed them in a brown paper bag. I

approached the register to pay, but I met a raised hand.

“No,” he said. “These are on the house.”

Later that night, my wife and I stood in Times Square.

We counted down the final moments of the year with

everyone. Corralled like a herd of cattle, we stared at the

Fiction | 23

radiant ball, which gradually slid down the pole towards the

New Year. We positioned ourselves at what must have been the

crowd’s center, just like I had many times before. Something

felt different, though. As the ball neared the end of its journey,

and the crowd started to rock, I turned the other direction.

I started counting the faces before they left, but I ran out of

time.

24 | Fiction

Dream Catcher

Carella Keil

Visual Art | 25

Mirror World

Noah Spellich

26 | Visual Art

Sun Downs

John Sieber

first rupture

then forget

then forget forget

exists

/ /

inside that

curdled cerebellum

something scorched

something soured

a blurry whirl of

lemon pith

taught on the tongue

/ /

I named my daughter Clara. I held her once.

Now, why have you brought me here?

My husband should be home any minute now,

and can’t you see there is work to be done?

Baby will need a sweater when she is born.

All that winter will swallow up her little bones.

It’s so cold now, my head is already sore,

like how snow sores in April.

/ /

Why is this purple ribbon tied to my finger?

Why is this sticky note plastered onto my forehead?

What have you done with my baby girl?

Don’t you know I am all she has left in this world?

Please, just let me hold my baby girl.

Can’t you hear her weeping?

Poetry | 27

She’s chirping like a bell, so loud, my head

is unfolding like an umbrella

stretching out against the gale.

/ /

I wish to get home soon,

but I do not recall where I left it.

I’m sorry to bother you,

but do you have the time?

There’s really so much to do, and

Oh my, the list is long.

Quick! Grab those needles for me.

And don’t let that Chickadee fly away.

I must stitch her up with this ribbon I have found.

She has misplaced her delicate little wings,

and I cannot bear to hear her hobble around.

Hop to, hop to, hop to,

there is work to be done, you see.

The sun is going down now and, well,

we all know what happens when

the sun downs. I wrote a list down

somewhere, on a sticky note. I stuck it

somewhere I wouldn’t forget.

/ /

Oh won’t you look at my little bird—

my pretty little bird.

She sings for me,

cooing in her cradle,

for her new paper wings.

I took this purple and weaved it

in and out of her little body and—

Oh, she is weeping again.

The poor little thing. She just needs

a mother.

28 | Poetry

Ash and Ember

Karrie Wortner

THE DARK:

I rise in war, in quake, in flame—

I carve the world with grief and shame.

I drown the light, I break the breath,

And crown the hour with quiet death.

THE LIGHT:

Yet still I bloom where ruin sleeps—

In whispered acts, in love that keeps.

I mend with sun, with song, with grace,

And haunt the dark in every place.

THE DARK:

I twist the truth, I scorch the land,

I steal the hope from trembling hand.

THE LIGHT:

But still we give, and still we rise—

With bikes, with books, with clearer skies.

THE CHORUS:

So let us write what must be told—

Not just the ash, but ember’s gold.

The pen is ours, the hour near—

To haunt with hope, not hollow fear.

Poetry | 29

A Possible Hope

Melanie Van Handel

30 | Visual Art

A Possible End

Melanie Van Handel

Visual Art | 31

The Mountain’s Revelation

Kira Ashbeck

32 | Visual Art

Sunk

Ashley Kauffman

I imagined I would spend my entire summer vacation

with my hands tightly gripped on handlebars, but the

handlebars were not supposed to be attached to a lawn

mower. Since I was very good at math, I quickly calculated that

if I made a dollar for cutting grass and I cut five lawns a week,

I would finally earn enough money to get ungrounded and

regain my father’s respect the week before summer vacation

was over. When I wasn’t busy doing chores or cutting my

neighbors’ lawns, I could hear my friends’ laughter through my

bedroom window, and I wished I could go back and change

how my summer vacation began.

For me, the first week of June was the greatest month

because it was intertwined with the ending of school and the

beginning of my life. My birthday always fell a few days after

school ended, so it was like receiving an extra gift from a longlost

relative who never signed their name. It was the beginning

of freedom where your imagination had limitless boundaries.

That morning, I felt so proud when I met up with my

friends, Tyler, Emmett, and Kate Beckett. I had ridden my

new bike over to our regular meeting place at the bottom of

Heckman’s Hill.

“Whoa!” cried Kate, who was going to turn ten too later

that summer. “Peter got the silver Stingray!”

Eleven-year-old Emmett high-fived me. “Awesome!

Where’d you get it?”

Tyler, who was twelve, punched him in the arm. “For his

birthday, stupid!”

I nodded. “My parents gave it to me last night after

dinner!” Yesterday had been my actual birthday, but my party

wasn’t until Saturday. I couldn’t wait, even though I had

already gotten the best gift with my bike! I had been so excited

that I rode it around the yard a few times and popped some

Fiction | 33

wheelies. I had never had a bike of my own before, but I knew

how to ride because Kate let me practice on hers. Tyler and

Emmett never let us use their bikes.

“Come on, let’s go capture Heckman’s Hill!” Tyler

yelled, hopping on his bike and charging forward. “Last one up

the hill is a rotten egg!”

Heckman’s Hill was the ultimate place to ride your bike.

The half-hour of uphill pedaling was gruesome, but when you

reached the top, the sense of accomplishment you felt was

incomprehensible. When the last school bell rang for summer

vacation, our adventures began. It was an unspoken tradition

that only a select group understood.

Up on the hill, the pain in my legs became numb as

I stood looking down at the valley and lake that had now

become miniature in size. But it was immediately forgotten as

we played Cowboys and Indians with B.B. guns and bows and

arrows. Like every day on Heckman’s Hill, we lived it like it

could have been our last, grasping every ounce of adventure

that our imaginations could envision.

That is, until Tyler said, “Hey, Peter, I dare you to ride

your bike down the hill onto the pier!”

I thought about it for a few minutes. I had ridden on the

back of Kate’s bike down the hill many times, and it was so

much fun. I liked watching Tyler and Emmett do it too. Now it

was finally my turn!

“Are you chicken? Bawk, bawk, bawk!” cried Emmett.

“No way. I accept.” We shook hands on it, and I walked

my bike over to the top of the hill. How hard could it be?

I began to coast down the hill slowly. When I hit the

bump that was in the middle of the hill, I took my hands off of

the handlebars and kept pedaling.

“Totally awesome!” I yelled. That was fun! I felt like I

could fly! “I’m a bird!”

Suddenly, with a thump, I landed onto the pier. I tried

to move my feet backwards to brake, but the bike kept going

faster and faster! Oh no!

I could hear Kate yelling behind me, “Brake!”

34 | Fiction

“I can’t! It’s going too fast!”

“Then jump off!” replied Tyler.

That seemed like the best thing to do. So I did. But my

bike kept going…off of the pier and into the lake with a great

big splash!

“My bike!” I watched helplessly as my new silver

Schwinn Stingray sank to the bottom of Crescent Lake. I tried

to grab onto the black banana seat, but all I could do was

watch the reflection of the white racing stripe disappear into

the muggy water. It was like my life was flashing before my

eyes in slow motion, and I immediately questioned whether I

would actually live to celebrate my tenth birthday.

Tyler, Emmett, and Kate came to a stop on the pier

behind me.

“Now look what you did.” Kate socked Tyler in the arm.

“You dared him to do it!”

“Whoa.” Emmett let out a low whistle. “I didn’t actually

think you’d do it, Peter. I thought you were a chicken.”

“My bike,” I moaned again.

“Hey, don’t worry, we can get it out.” Tyler jumped into

the lake off of the edge of the pier, and Emmett followed.

Kate was always doubtful of her brothers’ ideas, so she

didn’t bother jumping. She sat with me on the pier.

“I’m sorry about your bike. I didn’t know it would sink

that fast either. You were flying down the hill though! That was

so cool!”

“Yeah.”

By now, Tyler and Emmett had come up for air and

climbed up onto the pier.

“Oh, man.” Tyler coughed out lake water and sprayed

our faces with it. “It must have sunk to the bottom faster than I

thought.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Duh! You saw how fast Peter

was riding that bike! If he hadn’t jumped off, he would have

drowned along with it. How would you explain tha to Mr.

and Mrs. Casey, Tyler? Huh?”

At that point, I might as well have been dead. “My

Fiction | 35

parents are going to kill me if I don’t come home with that

bike. It was my favorite birthday present!”

“Maybe we can come up with another idea.” Tyler and

Emmett knocked their heads together to think as we all sat

down on the pier.

If there had been other people around, maybe they

could have come up with other ideas. But Crescent Lake was

quiet for a Wednesday, like it always was during the week. On

Saturdays and Sundays, it was always crowded with people

fishing, canoeing, or families having picnics. No such luck

today.

“Hey, why don’t we fish it out?” Emmett suggested.

“But we don’t have a fishing pole,” Kate replied.

“Don’t worry! I’ll figure something out.” Tyler jumped

onto his bike and raced toward home. When he came back

fifteen minutes later, he was carrying his grandfather’s old castiron

anchor and a Cordomatic retractable clothesline that his

grandfather used for camping. Maybe it would work, and I

wouldn’t be dead meat after all!

“What can we use for bait?” Emmett wanted to know.

“We don’t need bait. We’re catching a bicycle, not a

blowfish!”

Tyler threw out the anchor and held on to the clothesline

as the anchor splashed and sank into the water. Then all we

could do was wait.

Fifteen minutes went by. To pass the time, each of us

picked a song to sing. Tyler picked “Hang on Sloopy” by The

McCoys, Kate picked “I’m a Believer” by The Monkees (she

had a crush on Davy Jones), and I picked “The Lion Sleeps

Tonight” by The Tokens, while Emmett whistled the theme

song to The Andy Griffith Show.

Finally, Tyler yelled, “I got something!”

Maybe it actually worked, I thought.

He pulled up the clothesline one hand at a time, but all

he reeled in was an old log, which he then threw back.

As the afternoon sun beat down on us, Tyler kept trying.

He threw out the anchor three more times. He caught an old

36 | Fiction

glass Pepsi bottle, a piece of algae, and a rock, but no bike.

“You’re not going to catch Peter’s bike, Tyler. It’s as good

as sunk.” Kate stood up, and I followed.

“No!” Emmett cried. “Not yet. Let’s all jump in the lake.

Maybe it came close to the surface!”

So we all took deep breaths and jumped in the lake to

look one last time. But all I could see were little fish swimming

around as I blew bubbles.

We all came up for air as Tyler said, “Okay, I give up.”

With that, we all decided to admit defeat.

I climbed up onto the pier. “I might as well face the

music.”

And so, with squeaking shoes, we began the long

journey home.

* * *

Looking back now on that summer day in 1967, I

wasn’t really sure who was more upset about my bike being

irretrievable at the bottom of Crescent Lake: me or my parents.

But I did become an expert at mowing my lawn, as well as

many neighbors’ lawns. It only took me until the week before

school started to earn enough money to replace my bike. And

needless to say, I never rode my bike off of the pier again after

that.

Fall arrived quickly, and my friends had no problem

informing everyone on the school bus about how I rode my

bike off of the pier and it sunk in Crescent Lake. I decided that I

would learn many lessons in my life the hard way, but it would

provide memories that would last my lifetime. So when my

fifth-grade science class was studying about why some things

sink and other things float in water, everyone, including my

new teacher, Mr. Cooley, agreed that after this summer, I was

an expert on the topic!

Fiction | 37

Blossoming, Yet Foul Hunger

Melanie Van Handel

38 | Visual Art

Visual Art | 39

Assumptions

Kira Ashbeck

40 | Visual Art

Land Vistas—NYC and New Mexico

Max St-Jacques

Visual Art | 41

Life in the Bike Lane

Kephren Pritchett

Riding my bike on campus at my last university, I

encountered three types of people. First were the Girl Gangs,

like cut-out copies of paper dolls, they dominated the wide

path. When I approached them, they would reluctantly part

ways, allowing me to pass through before they closed ranks

again. Then there were the Jumpers. Always young men

walking alone, probably freshmen living away from home

for the first time. The sound of my bell, intended as a gentle

warning, would startle them off the pavement onto the grass.

Last, and most numerous, were the Zombies. Heads down,

eyes on their phones, headphones covering their ears, they

could neither hear nor see me. Sometimes, I would have

to screech to a stop in front of them, their swerving gait

preventing me from passing safely. With blank eyes, they

would look up from their phones briefly, then continue on

their shuffling way.

At my new university I don’t live on campus. I have to

ride my bike on the city streets to get there, and this is where

I encounter the Righteous Drivers. Righteous, because their

entitlement to the road is obvious as they try to force me off

it. Righteous also because they speed up to make right turns in

front of me. Though even as they endanger my safety, they are

Midwest-nice, and wave when they cut me off.

Another type I’ve found on the streets of my new city is

the Solitary Cyclists. Like me, they are helmeted and cautious,

fixed on finding a way to their destinations through the

obstacles on the road. When we pass each other, sometimes I

ring my bell in greeting. Sometimes we pass by silently, and I

know that I am not alone.

Once, when I was young and lived in Milwaukee, a

group of friends organized a communal bike ride from our

Riverwest neighborhood to Irish Fest three miles away. Our

42 | Nonfiction

pack of crust punks, bartenders, and musicians numbered

around 20. We may have resembled a bike race at first, but

our boots and patched black Carhartts clearly called us out

as commuters. We spread out on the street, claiming it as our

own, until we reached the bike path and rode through the trees

to the lakefront park. I still remember how I felt, surrounded

by other Solitary Cyclists, like I belonged, like I was safe.

Despite the danger, or maybe because of it, I know the

bike lane is where I belong. Defined only by its narrow strip

of white paint, it straddles the edge between pavement and

road: somewhere in between. When the bike lane runs out, I

find a new route, unmapped and rocky. From the bearing of

my bicycle, the world is wider than it appears from a car, closer

than it looks on foot. On my solitary path, I hear the absence

of engines, the whisper of wind as I fly by hidden landscapes,

accessible only by two parallel wheels. I pedal at my own pace,

savoring the scenery, going my own way.

Nonfiction | 43

It is Not Your Job to Save the World

Phoenix Alanis

It is not your job to carry

every great sin ever committed by mankind

On your shoulders

like Atlas

Crumbling under the weight

It is not your job

To fix every crack

In every heart across the world

It is not your job

To save the world.

And it is not a personal fault

If you cannot cure someone else’s suffering

It is not your job

It has never been your job

You are one person

One heart

One speck of dust in the infinite cosmos

And how could anyone expect one person

to fix every way anyone has ever been hurt?

It is not your job

And it is not your fault

If the only life you ever save is yours

If the only accomplishment you ever have to your name

Is putting one foot in front of the other

Until you end up in your grave

If the only thing you ever do

Is live your life

And do the best you can

You’ve done your part.

You don’t have to save the entire world.

It’s not your job.

Your job is to hold on

46 | Poetry

When your mind gets dark

And the fears take hold

And the knife looks oh so sharp

But you still take a breath

You wipe your face

And you keep going

Because it’s not your job to save the world

it’s okay if the only life you save is yours.

Poetry | 47

A Hope for Tomorrow

Lara Gates

48 | Visual Art

Start Over

Tetiana Yatsechko-Blazhenko

You reach the equator of your life. Everything is in place.

A job that feels like your life’s calling. A rhythm: morning

swims, evening fitness, herbal teas in glass mugs. Travel plans.

You mark your calendar months ahead.

You wake one morning to explosions. Not thunder—not

fireworks—something sharp and metallic. You freeze. The walls

tremble. Your country is under attack.

In ten minutes, you shove your life into an old backpack.

Documents. A photo. Chargers. A warm sweater that smells

like home. Your hands tremble, but you move fast. You burn

the bridges behind you. You don’t look back. You run.

In a new country, you are no one. No name, no

contacts, no roots. To the world, you’re the girl in the muddygreen

jacket. You wear plain clothes. You try not to stand out.

You avoid mirrors. You avoid speaking.

Your voice stays in your throat. You listen. You nod. You

shrink. Your experience means nothing. Degrees, titles, skills—

forgotten. You’re expected to stay quiet. Invisible.

In a grocery store, a drunk man hears your accent. He

spits words at you—slurred, angry. “Speak our language,”

he growls. “Or stay silent.” He sneers at your cross. Says you

should pray in his temple.

At a job interview, the woman doesn’t even sit down.

She looks at your documents and says, “Don’t expect anything.

You are no one here. You want work? Work for pennies.”

You fall. A hundred times. Maybe more.

But you rise. Again. And again. Your knees hurt. Your

back aches from scrubbing floors. But you rise.

And then—small things. A woman on the bus offers you

a seat. A stranger helps you fill out a form. Someone hears

your accent and smiles. Says nothing cruel.

God sends your people to you. Slowly, you begin to

Nonfiction | 49

come back to life.

Your heart still bleeds—especially at night. You miss your

own voice, your own air, your old sky. But you no longer stay

silent.

You speak many languages now. Not all of them use

words.

You are not breakable.

Not for the enemy.

Not anymore.

50 | Nonfiction

Strawberries

Carter Vance

When I asked you, how to

say freedom in a Persian

dialect from Qom,

you laughed:

“You have to taste the word,

in chalk, blood, bite marks,

rubber, gas,

let it drip down, sweet fruit,

and find its place with you,

see how it feels in the back

of big yellow taxis,

in front of star patterns

in shattered glass.”

I took a rosebud from

the counter case, studied in light,

how it feels to run out

with dynamite sticks and megaphones,

break car windows, slash tires,

pour sugar down drainpipes,

give gotten candy to onlooking children.

You said it was the same as

strawberries

Whether I liked them or not.

Poetry | 51

There Were Times I Did Not Wish to Die

May Obermark

yet was faced with danger anyway:

days I buckled my seatbelt in the car

and still got hazardously cut off on the highway,

times I looked both ways before crossing the street

and was still barely not-hit by a motorcycle.

It is things like this that make me rue my suicidality.

What need is there to conjure up ways to kill myself

when the world will gladly do it for me anyway?

Knowing this, I pass by dogs chained to posts,

ignore flowers swarming with bees

and puddles cluttered with birds and their talons.

I am more afraid of being hurt

than living an unsatisfactory life.

After I decided to live I resolved

to be a difficult person to deal with,

someone who could survive whatever the world threw at me.

Yet as the years pass, I come to understand

that I have survived, and now I am just a difficult person.

52 | Poetry

Thoughts Spread-Eagled on the

Gynecologists’ Table

Dariana Guerrero

mom never let me wear dresses. mom never let me wear pink. mom

never thought I’d turn

into a woman never

thought that my legs

would need to spread

to keep me healthy. mom

underestimated

the power of age. mom

squeezed her scream

when I said I liked sex.

beat

Dr. T works

their credentials on my lips

penetrating the drape of my cervix,

my thighs tense at the slight pressure

until it is too much. I

squeeze a scream

will this touch keep me

healthy?

Poetry | 53

Pink Hibiscus

Diana Willand

54 | Visual Art

Hotline

Amanda Izzo

When I was 16, I got a job at KFC. As soon as I started

working the drive-thru window, my then twenty-year-old

boyfriend, Anthony, would pull up and order a single biscuit

but leave with a bucket overflowing with wings, sides, and fries

in exchange for a halved 30mg Percocet. He had introduced

me to painkillers earlier that summer out of the drugs he

sold, and I had become physically dependent on them at

an alarming rate. So quickly, I’d actually mistaken my first

symptoms of withdrawal as a horrible flu, unlike any virus I’d

ever had. One that left you writhing in bed, feeling as if you’re

crawling out of your own skin. Or wishing you could, in hopes

of shedding your outermost layer of pain to find any relief.

At lunch time, I would account for the food I’d given

him as my own lunch and skip a meal. Over time, his car

slowly became more full with friends each biscuit visit. It had

gotten to the point I was forced to pay out of pocket, or

deduct from my weekly paycheck. It was a bit unrealistic to

assume the 98-pound employee was eating a 20-piece bucket

loaded with sides on top of multiple Famous Bowls every day.

That Friday I opened my paycheck and felt a wave

of despair hit me. $11.92. I couldn’t even afford a half of a

Percocet on my own now, which coincidentally, fit right into

his playbook. He did not want anyone supplying me but him.

Shaking on my smoke break, I dialed his number and begged

him to front me a pill so I could function. I also told him I

couldn’t afford to feed anyone but him anymore. Immediately,

he was annoyed and angered.

“Why would you pay at all? Just fill the bucket and

don’t say anything,” he offered.

I didn’t have it in me to explain that we work in an

assembly line. That my boss was onto me about my addiction,

and that she’d started watching me like a hawk whenever I was

Nonfiction | 55

on the register. Apologizing, I said I just couldn’t do it, or I’d

lose my job. He scoffed, but agreed to come by for his own

lunch and my paycheck, which he’d sign over to himself.

Hours passed before he arrived. The sun had long since

set, and my withdrawals were visible and very apparent by

this point. Twice, my coworkers asked if I needed to go home.

To have everything ready for closing and keep my mind off of

the anxiety-provoking, tedious task of waiting, I decided to flip

the chairs up and mop the floor again. By the time I’d finished,

sweat poured from under my oversized polyester uniform,

leaving me uncomfortably damp and chilling me to the bone

when I passed beneath the air conditioners.

I grabbed my phone and felt my trembling fingers race

across the keyboard.

“Where are y—” but hearing the door open, I looked up

to see him standing there. Letting out a large sigh of immediate

relief, I exited my unfinished text to him and slid my phone

back down before tucking it in my back pocket. One hand still

on the mop, I picked it up and placed it in the bucket.

He looked entirely too happy for not getting his way

with me earlier.

“Hey, babe. What’s up?” He gave me a quick kiss before

I pulled back, giving him the ‘drugs now’ look. When we were

chest-to-chest, he usually tucked the pills in my apron or front

pocket when we hugged in attempts to be less suspicious than a

direct hand exchange. His grin was similar to the Cheshire cat.

It made me feel nervous and uncomfortable.

“Come here,” he wrapped one arm around my waist,

and I felt his hand glide into my back pocket. Instead of

discreetly dropping my pill in, he slipped my phone out of my

jeans.

“Anthony, come on.” I held my hand out, annoyed.

“Just let me see who you were texting,” he beamed as he

turned away from me, sliding my phone open.

“Give it back, stop it,” I began reaching around him

trying to grab it back while he extended his arm up, twisting

and turning to keep his back to me. He said it shouldn’t be a

56 | Nonfiction

problem. What was I hiding anyway?

“I’m not hiding anything, I was texting you, you

psycho!” I jumped up and down and tried my hardest to get

a good grip on my phone, but he’d always manage to slip by

me.

“Woop! Sike!” he’d spun and tossed my phone over the

mop bucket before grabbing it in his other hand. Mid-air I’d let

out a scream, terrified he’d fumble and drop it into the murky

water. He laughed after catching it.

“My phone didn’t ring,” he retorted, crouching far

over to conceal my phone under a nearby table while quickly

reading as many text messages as he could.

“Because I looked up and saw you and didn’t hit send!

Tony, I’m not kidding, give it fucking back!” I genuinely had

nothing to hide, but it felt so invasive.

Finally, after seeing enough messages to his satisfaction

that held no significant relevance, he stood up straight. Smile

and all signs of playfulness gone. His face and expression, a

blank canvas. He held his closed fist out with my phone in it. I

immediately grabbed it and tried to yank it free, but his fingers

stayed locked in place around it. I looked up to meet his vacant

eyes.

“Give. Me. My. Phone.” I quietly enunciated each word,

aware that we were now being watched closely by the last

customer in the cafeteria. A blonde-haired woman in her forties

who had stopped mid-chew to stare.

“Please.”

Just then, as if teaching a toddler manners and proper

etiquette, he released his grip. I snatched my phone, and

underneath it I saw a half of a Percocet sitting in his open palm.

I plucked it from his hand.

“See you tomorrow.” He said, coolly walking off. But

before he made it out the door, he turned back towards me

and added, “I’ll take a Famous Bowl.”

Kicking the mop bucket under the table, I ran to the

bathroom to crush and sniff the pill. Relief flooded me. I

leaned against the sink and gave myself a moment to soak in

Nonfiction | 57

the physical feeling of normalcy I’d been desperate for all day,

before turning the water on to wash my face. Straightening

up, I patted my forehead and cheeks with the starch paper

towels and went to reknot my apron when I realized he left

me my paycheck. I can buy cigarettes! It felt like a small act

of intended kindness, though I knew deep down he’d only

forgotten to ask for it. Coming back out, I saw the blondehaired

woman in the cafeteria standing before me. Assuming

she needed the restroom, I held the door open. Instead, she

gave me a small and sympathetic half smile, outstretching her

hand in my direction.

“Honey, I want you to have this,” she whispered,

handing me a business card.

DOMESTIC ABUSE HOTLINE

I tilted my head like a dog would when confused.

“I just want you to know, I saw that whole thing, and

that is NOT ok. Please, call day or night if you ever need

anything,” she pleaded. Laying her hand atop mine, she turned

the card over. I saw she had written her own name and cell

phone number on the back. I looked up at her, too stunned to

say anything.

“Anytime,” she squeezed my hand before turning on her

heel to walk out.

I stood there frozen, dumbfounded while staring down

at the hotline number in my hand. After she made it to her

car and began to pull away, I jogged over to lock the doors.

Pressing my back against them, I laid my head against the glass.

Confusion made way for my first, and last thought of that

strange interaction I had for years to come;

I can not believe that lady thinks I’m in an abusive

relationship.

58 | Nonfiction

Urban Reflections

Eric Calloway

Visual Art | 59

Jazzbo

Gloria Keeley

60 | Visual Art

The Red Sea

(A Memoir for “First Blood”)

Caitlin Scheresky

They all knew me

and the softness of

my body,

took pleasure in its safety

and coolness

and what it provided,

and yet when the

time came, he split

me in two, spread me,

arms outstretched, divided

by soul, by name,

by boat, by lover.

I loomed above, red

and blue and alive;

below, they stood

afraid

awestruck

at what man could

shape a woman into.

Visual Art | 61

Maternal Myth

Jacie Schonert

A pelican feeds its young its own blood.

Medieval bestiaries painted this sacrifice

in golden leaf and vermilion ink. A mother’s

chest is torn open, her offspring drinks.

Science denies their feast. Really, they carry

herring in their pouch then regurgitate: far less poetic.

Yet, myths persist—they speak to deeper truths.

Grandmother’s hands, cracked from decades of washing others’ clothes.

Mother’s spine, curved from years of bending to expectations.

My voice, hoarse from explaining why I deserve to stand upright.

We feed our daughters not with blood, but with sacrifice.

Fragments of dreams deferred, stories

swallowed, rage transmuted to resilience.

They call it love, duty.

I call it the weight of history, inheritance of wounds.

The next generation drinks what we can offer.

We hope they will fly higher, wings unburdened

by questions of what they must surrender

to keep their young alive.

When does the cycle break? When

does the pelican learn she doesn’t need to bleed

for her children to thrive?

Perhaps when we stop praising the beauty of her suffering.

62 | Poetry

Banana Bread

Ashley Neary

Visual Art | 63

Cat as a Hat

Jayla Pagel

64 | Visual Art

Simple Tea

Christine Vartoughian

She puts on her party dress, the one she’s been waiting

to wear again. It’s been so long since the last time she felt the

chilled silk against her chest, the whalebone bodice wrapping

her in its tight embrace.

She steps back and looks in the mirror. She looks like a

ghost, coming back to earth as a fairy princess.

The dress is over two centuries old.

* * *

“I don’t care, I have money, I’ll pay for your suit.”

The excuses are adding up, the details of each one scrunching

up like used socks atop a pile of dirty laundry. How many

times would she have to accept his uninterest? If he isn’t going

to go to the stupid wedding with her, she’d have to rethink

everything. She can’t go on like this. One way or another, she

would have to make a choice that once made, she could never

walk away from. A definitive decision—precise, sharp, and too

serious to be sentimental.

Lavinia pulls on a pair of fishnet stockings and Doc

Martens—plain, black, lace-up. Her style these days is easy,

simple. A plaid skirt barely hitting her knees and a T-shirt for

a band she used to be friends with called The New York Dolls

finished up the look that makes her feel ready to face the

world. She always has to mentally prepare herself whenever

she leaves her room. There were steps involved. Wake up,

wait until most people have left for class, shower while the

bathrooms are empty, put on lots of sunscreen, then light

makeup on good days, and deep, dark eyeliner with red

lipstick on sad days. She wears different iterations of the same

outfit and always packs her bag the night before, ensuring she

won’t have lingering choices in the morning that could cause

her to hesitate to leave her room. A short mantra to herself

before she grasps the door handle and, with a silent breath,

Fiction | 65

turns it.

She glances in both directions before stepping into the

hallway.

“I exist.”

Inhale.

“I exist.”

The subtle move of her dark, red lips as she breathes.

“I exist.”

Exit Lavinia.

* * *

Lavinia’s favorite activity while riding the subway is

judging people. Her eyes feast as her mind pings, “What the

fuck is wrong with this person?” “Why is that guy smiling at

me?” “Oh, I have the same scarf!” “Wow, that person is big.”

“Oooo, that person is beautiful.” “This woman is so kind,

she made room for others to squeeze in.” “That man, what

a gentleman, getting up for his elder.” “Who’s this asshole

pushing everyone? I hope he doesn’t sit next to me.” “Fuck, I

hate showtime.” “Do I really need to ride the subway?” “No, I

don’t want any candy bars. Sorry.”

And then sometimes the pinging stops just long enough

for her to listen, to see someone on the train having a hard

time. “Do I have anything to give them?” she would ask

herself, and when she could answer with a yes, she’d reach

into her bag and take out a dollar or two. As she’d pass it to

whoever was asking for help, she’d look them in the eye and

smile, even on days when smiling was an effort. Sometimes

something baffling happens. With each person, she’d exchange

a spark, a current crackling all through her insides. Lavinia

imagines this is what love feels like.

With all her judgements, even the harshest, the last ping

in her head as Lavinia would wait for those doors to open,

preparing herself to slip through incoming bodies, would echo

with a softness like the touch of a mother’s hand, and Lavinia

would whisper, “Thank you. All of you.”

* * *

But she was not thankful for Larry, no, and unfortunately

66 | Fiction

for her, she was stuck with him. Every time she looked at

him, it was a constant reminder of that. She would know

those dark, brooding eyes underneath his unruly, intimidating

eyebrows anywhere. They matched her own.

Some twins are born looking exactly like each other,

and some look as different as a smile and a frown. Larry was

long, stick-thin, and walked like his joints were coming apart,

like he didn’t quite know where to put his feet or hang his

hands. Lavinia looked delicate and petite but moved through

the world with a distinct stature, both in mind and body,

containing a natural intuition that seemed to know exactly

where to take her. Sometimes she’d enter a room as if she

could walk through walls. While none of her classmates would

see her entering, everyone would know once she was among

them. They could feel her. She had the presence of a priceless

work of art.

Larry was… different. Larry didn’t attract attention, not

because he didn’t want to be noticed, but because he didn’t

want to make much of an effort at anything. It was easier for

him to say nothing, to go nowhere, to try only hard enough

to pass by, so completely mediocre that no one would ever

remember him. It takes energy to try, and Larry wasn’t a trier.

Unfortunately, for him, his high-achieving sister wouldn’t let

him just sulk around, checking off the bland activities of his

daily to-do list. She requested things, and sometimes when

he would deny her requests, she would upgrade them into

requirements.

Today, she is agonizing him over attending their uncle’s

wedding. Every excuse he could think of, she refutes without

pause. She even offers to cover the cost for his suit. “I thought

for sure that something expensive would stop her,” Larry

moans to the only person he speaks to on a regular basis—the

middle-aged guy with a mullet that works at the campus café

and always smells like a skunk.

“She must really want you to go.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go alone?”

Fiction | 67

“She doesn’t have to go! I’m not making her. Why can’t

she let me do what I want?”

“I dunno, man. Family.”

Larry replies with a sigh.

“Family.”

* * *

“Because we are family, that’s why!” Lavinia shouts.

“What does that mean? Does that make it—”

“You know precisely what that means! Don’t be fucking

stupid.”

“Well, maybe I am stupid! Maybe I want to be stupid!

Do I need to fight for my right to be stupid?” Larry shouts

back.

“Only you would want something like that. It’s

pathetic.”

“If it means not having to go to this wedding, sure, I’m

pathetic! Why do you want to go so badly anyway? It’s not

like we haven’t had to sit through a hundred of these already.”

Lavinia and Larry pause and silently stare at each other,

both smart enough to know that there is nothing left to say

that will change the outcome of this argument. While having

the same eyes, they have different mouths, and both are

now pursed so tightly it looks as if Lavinia might burst a vein

holding herself back. Luckily, for both of them, a decision

reaches itself without further discussion. Their division adds up

to an answer.

“So, what? We do the same thing as last time?” Lavina

asks.

“Sure, that was pretty easy, right?”

“You think it’s easy because I do all the work.”

“Fine,” Larry sighs. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Get the plane tickets.”

“Fine.”

Lavinia takes a Visa card out of her purse.“Don’t lose it.”

“I’m not going to lose it.”

“And don’t buy any Legos with it either.”

“I won’t. Jesus.” Larry grabs the card and storms out of

68 | Fiction

his own dorm room.

Lavinia lets him go without a word, but as soon as he’s

gone, she says to herself, louder than a whisper, “Jesus has

nothing to do with this.”

* * *

She’d been saving it in case this happened.

Lavinia tries to stay stoic as she packs up all her things,

zipping and unzipping suitcases. She will have to leave a lot of

her things behind again, and for some reason, she never got

used to this part of the process. Some of the recent belongings

she has accumulated were gifts, mostly from boys in her class

trying to get her attention with things they made themselves,

proof of their talent: an elaborate wire sculpture of a dragonfly

sitting on a rock, a delicate necklace made of tissue paper, a

tiny origami frog that hops when you press on it. She likes her

school, her art classes, and she doesn’t want to leave so soon.

She wouldn’t have to if it wasn’t for Larry. Couldn’t he just

man up and sit in a fucking church for half an hour?

As she wraps her tokens of affection—a few books, and

her art supplies—she gets most everything to fit inside the one

small Samsonite she has been using for the past twenty years.

Her clothes, she squeezes in last. They are what was hiding the

gold, gleaming shovel in the back of the closet. It’s beautiful,

and she doesn’t want to get it dirty, even though that’s exactly

what it’s meant for.

* * *

“Mea culpa,” Lavinia says as she passes her brother a cup

of tea. Larry glances at it, unmoved. Lavinia smiles at him. “I’m

sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. Really.”

“Really?”

“Truly. Madly. Deeply.”

Larry pulls the cup towards him.

“Honestly, I was getting bored here anyway, and who

wants to go to Nick’s wedding again?”

Larry takes a small sip, testing the tea. She knew he

Fiction | 69

would. Even his drink of choice is dull.

“Thanks. This is really nice.”

“I know you love that brown water.”

Larry takes a big slurp.

Lavinia quietly watches him tip his head back as he

drains the cup and takes this as her cue to grab a thin blanket

off his bed and lay it on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Making my life easier.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Larry knew she’d pick a fight again, but he hadn’t

thought it would be so soon. He stands up, ready to leave, to

avoid, but his lanky legs collapse underneath him. He sputters,

his body shaking more evenly as he loses consciousness than

when he walks around as usual.

When Larry goes still, Lavinia rolls him up in the fleece

and carries him out like a little elf loading up Santa’s sled. The

flimsy blanket turns out to make quite a sturdy sack.

* * *

Nick was having a winter wedding, of course. The

dirt was hard, but Lavinia was harder. It took her only a few

minutes to tunnel through the ground, deep enough to keep

Larry away for a long while. She was out of shape, true, but

after all the digging, the rest was easy. She tossed him in the

hole without bothering to unwrap the blanket he probably

bought from a Walmart or someplace like that. He always liked

cheap shit, she thought, as she filled the grave. Burying him

was the best she could do. She couldn’t kill him. They’d been

dead for lifetimes already, but punishment...punishment was

always a possibility.

“Bye-bye, brother, see you next century.”

70 | Fiction

Indoors

Susan Shea

When I slowly water houseplants

my long-gone tiny grandmother

still stands beside me

handing me a key to philosophy

telling me to pour carefully

to consider the roots

let them take in what they need

at a pace they can handle

suited to the story of their origins

she tells me I should think

before I act and pray for these

precious living things

while I remember

I must do my best

as though it all depends on me

Poetry | 71

I Caught the Moth

Girl

Tania Li

I.

You peel your wings &

weave—into silk satin

skirts, sew your limbs into

chantilly lace, thread

dainty twine through your

fragile fingers, bedeck the

trim with floral stitches.

You clear your husk of

creases & wrinkles, pin

your eyes to cork &

canvas. Your skin flakes,

and you collect your

calluses. You sheath them

in resin alongside piquant

droplets. You wish—to

freeze them, bid them

farewell like a honeyflecked

moth.

72 | Poetry

II.

She cradles your wings,

brittle and beady, lulls

you—to sleep—by singing

& swaying, cups your

limbs in open palms,

pirouetting—in an open

casket—a marionette

stage. In March, she irons

adamant flowers, mourns

the rags & tatters & scraps,

plays coy in sun-kissed,

fetching pastures, mourns

the flutters & falters &

flails. She is—erratic,

beguiled by a balmy

embrace—a hollow husk,

lunar & luring—wings

burning.

III.

I wash your wings in soot

& soil, fold them—into

casebound pages, engrave

an apology & trim the

spine, soak the letters in

dewy jars. I envy the sun

& your bewitching

complexion. I stare—at

your baked cocoon. In

April, I prate, heed to my

trance, scrawl atop your

vacant canvas. I wish—to

latch onto her serenades. I

wish—you knew that you

were mistaken, that I was

glancing—at you.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m

sorry.

Poetry | 73

The Boy Next Door

Brianne Turczynski

My childhood home was in a suburban neighborhood

with a lot of children my age. Our house backed up to a

small creek and a forest we called the woods. This was our

playground. There was a mystery to it. In the woods, we

could pretend we were just about anywhere or anyone.

We navigated by the trees, oddly shaped bushes, rotted-out

stumps, and the narrow, leaf-covered pathways made by deer.

There were elaborate forts built by the older kids along the

pathways. It was known by all of us neighborhood kids that

they were filled with Playboy magazines, cockled by rain and

humidity, and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. We were

afraid to go near them because of the nefarious things inside.

But there was a meditative silence and presence in the trickling

water from the creek and the clapping canopy of leaves high

above our heads. The woods were a peaceful place for us

to play, and it held many stories of birth and death and the

passing of time.

I had a crush on the boy next door. His name was

John, and he lived two doors down from me. It was the

kind of crush that lasts a whole life long and stays in the back

of your mind even as you grow past it, the kind of crush a

person never fully gets over. The problem was that he was

the neighborhood bully. Me and the other kids rallied against

him sometimes in the name of justice, but one day we went

overboard. We said something that made him cry. There were

five of us neighborhood kids against him and his sidekick,

Devon, that day. Finally fed up with us, John pointed at me,

singled me out from the group, and announced to everyone

there with tears streaming down his face, “She is the only one

who understands me.” To this day, I don’t know what made

him say that, but I thought so much of it that I wrote it in my

diary—a thick, flimsy thing I kept hidden under lock and key in

76 | Nonfiction

the drawer of my nightstand. It might have been the first time I

quoted someone in writing, the first time my journalistic nature

took hold, and it was his voice I captured. Why?

John was a sweet-natured kid who was born into a

rough family. He had to toughen up or die, and he didn’t

do it very well. He was clumsy at it, awkward at it. He tired

of it quickly. The violence in him ignited, flamed, then died.

He was my first exercise, outside of my family, in how to

unconditionally love and forgive people even when they’re

rotten, even when they’re hard and sharp as nails to you.

At my elementary school, it was common for the boys

and girls to play chase at recess. The boys chose one girl,

and the girls chose one boy. One day it was my turn to be

chased. I couldn’t believe it when my friends told me at lunch.

The amount of attention flattered me very much as I never

thought the boys even knew I was alive. I remember this day

very well. Recess came, and the boys began their pursuit. I

ran as fast as I could, but John, a natural athlete, was faster

than me and caught me in no time. He didn’t know what to

do once he caught me. I knew it; I sensed it; I read his mind.

I did understand him. To this day, I see myself frozen in time,

his hand is on the back of my shirt, and my face has a look of

shock. And he, in his mind, said: I am in a hurry to hide in the

shadows of the norm, and you are the awkward thing I have

caught. I have never caught such a thing before. I am a boy,

and you are a girl, and I must get rid of you as quickly as I can.

No one must see me, no one must know how much you mean

to me.

After swinging me around once or twice, he let go, and

I fell. I hit a two-by-four with my face and passed out. He

received a suspension, and I received seven stitches in my lip.

When we got home from the hospital, my mother

walked me to his house. She was terrified he had scarred me

for life. She wanted to make him look at me with my black,

Frankenstein-like stitches bonding my bright red, swollen lip

together.

“This is what happens when you’re not careful on the

Nonfiction | 77

playground,” she said.

John’s mother and my mother stared at him. “Say you’re

sorry!” his mother said after a pause.

He looked piteously at me. For a moment, he even

looked frightened by my wound, then a half smile creased his

lips. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I remember how humiliated I was, standing in front of

him, displaying my seeping lip to the boy I liked.

A few years later, our attraction for each other or

at least, curiosity, hit a crescendo. We moved past violent

snowball fights and hiding games, like Kick the Can, and

decided we should kiss in the woods. We were in junior high—

practically grown-ups. It was going to be a thing, a big event.

All the neighborhood kids knew about it. We were twelve

years old and were going to kiss. And not just any kiss—a

French kiss.

We met, the two of us, by a tree in the woods. He chose

a spot off the trail that was hidden from the peering eyes of

neighborhood kids. We laughed a little, embarrassed by what

we were about to do. He leaned against the tree, trying to

look relaxed and cool with his spiky mullet and me with my

flowery tee-shirt tucked into my Kmart jeans and a headband

that concealed my childish bangs. He reached for me like a

pro—a twelve-year-old—and we embraced. Our lips met

tremulously, both of us afraid our braces would stick together. I

played with his hair a little and thought myself very grown up

and advanced to be able to synchronize my lips with his and

run my fingers through his hair at the same time.

That day, we crossed over and out of our childhood

together. He kissed the scar on my lip, the small but visible

cross-stitched scar he had given me on the playground years

before. Now we were bonded for life by the ever-fabled first

kiss.

Teen Nights, we would slow dance to the tune of What’s

Up by 4 Non-Blondes. He held me tight, and we kissed while

dancing in front of our classmates; this time we didn’t care

about peering eyes. I commented in my diary how tightly he

78 | Nonfiction

held me, as if I might vanish or run away. I remember how

protected I felt, how welcomed, and how grown-up and

responsible he seemed as he held me.

We’d be an item for a couple of days, then he’d “dump”

me over the phone; Devon was bullied into doing it for him.

I’d hear Devon’s voice on the receiver: “John says he doesn’t

want to go out with you anymore,” or “John says he’s done

with you,” or simply, “You’re dumped!” would ring on the

other end, and by this time I knew what it meant. A few days

or months later John would ask me out again and dump me

again; that was our pattern. But then there were moments,

secret moments, when he would make me a gift and slip it

into my hand at the bus stop. I understood what he was doing

and why. In his mind, he said: I am in a hurry to hide in the

shadows of the norm, and you are the awkward thing I have

caught. I have never caught such a thing before. I am a boy,

and you are a girl, and I must get rid of you as quickly as I can.

No one must see me, no one must know how much you mean

to me.

By the time sixth grade ended, I was finished with his game of

catch and release.

My attraction to him faded as I grew up. I saw where

he fit in with other boys. He was a football player on our high

school team and had many friends, which made him arrogant

on top of his general roughness. He and the other football

players sat at one table at lunch, and the girls sat at the other

table. The football players threw French fries at the girls’ table

every day. One day I became their chosen target. This time I

wasn’t flattered; I was pissed and hurt. I retreated to the girls’

bathroom to cry about it.

The bell rang. I waited in the bathroom until the

hallways emptied so no one would see that I had been crying.

I made my way to class with red eyes and blotchy cheeks.

John happened to be late too and caught me on the stairwell;

it was just him and me. Why? He looked at me, and I looked

Nonfiction | 79

at him. He saw that I had been crying, and he said, “I’m so

sorry.” For the first time, after all the years he tormented me

with heartbreak after heartbreak, I could tell he meant it. I

saw once more the small piteous look he gave me years earlier

when he saw my lip stitched and bleeding, and there, on the

empty stairwell, I saw it again just behind his eyes. Only this

time it wasn’t a mere flash of sympathy that died out with an

embarrassed smile, it lingered as his lips said the words, I’m so

sorry. I knew something in me had forgiven him for everything

that very moment. All the heartbreak and the scars—forgiven.

But despite his gesture, and despite what I truly felt in that

moment—that I wanted to wrap my arms around him and cry

on his shoulder and be what we once were, friends, dancing

under disco lights, and that maybe my doing so would have

changed something in him, maybe he would have chosen a

different path. Instead, I called him an asshole and ran up the

stairs to class.

I lost track of John after high school, but I heard that

during the real estate collapse in the early 2000s, he made

ends meet by stealing copper pipes out of abandoned houses.

He was caught and put in jail. When he was released, he got

mixed up in drug dealing. He was caught a second time and

was placed under house arrest.

In the meantime, I was married and had two children.

We live a quiet life in the same town where I grew up. I took

my kids to my childhood home, showed them the woods, we

passed the creek, the old forts, and the kissing tree. I took them

to the playground and showed them the place where I fell. I

looked for blood.

One morning I woke up to sparkles above my head,

bright white sparkles that shined and disappeared, shined

and disappeared. I closed my eyes and opened them again;

I rubbed my eyes a little. The sparkles vanished but left me

with the feeling that whatever they were, they were not of

this world. I learned later that day that in the early hours

that morning, John was tragically and mysteriously killed. His

remains were incinerated and found leaning against a tree in

80 | Nonfiction

the woods.

I didn’t think of John when I saw the sparkles above

my head that morning, but I did think of the sparkles after I

heard about his death. I was the only one who understood

him. That was his prediction for me. A premonition when

he pointed at me and singled me out that day before all the

days. A prophecy that I would write and write and write this

story over and over again. Reliving memories and smiles and

gestures and words, wondering at the effigy he became and

why, why, why.

Of all the memories I have of him, it is the memory

of him on the stairwell, his face in that moment of sincere

concern, that I see clearest now that he is dead. I forgave him

for everything that day.

I told the story of the stairwell at his memorial service.

His family was there, the rough ones, the ones who taught

him how to spit and punch and the football players too, the

ones who threw the French fries, and then there was me, the

one who taught him how to kiss, how to hold, how to dance,

explaining to all of them who their son, brother, and friend

really was in his deepest depths. I was the only one who

understood him. He was a man who could say he was sorry

and mean it.

And maybe that’s what the sparkles were, one last apology,

one last gift.

Last night I dreamed that I was in high school again.

John was there alive once more and teasing me as he usually

did. I ignored him, turning away while I finished my lunch. He

persisted in getting my attention, and I thought he must like

being around me to work this hard and to stay here by my side

even though I have refused to speak to him.

In this magical, mysterious dream world, we went home

together because he lived with me, and we slept in the same

bed, and it was known to me in this dream world that we had

done so since we were kids.

Nonfiction | 81

In this dream world, he was a part of me, and I was

a part of him, and nothing could separate us. We fell asleep

together like we had every night before, but this time he held

me, with his arm around my shoulder and his hand in my

hand. And we lay there together sleeping. It was innocent.

We were children again, two spirits. Then my dad came into

the bedroom. He tapped John on the shoulder and told him

to sleep in the basement from then on, and from then on, we

would be separated forever.

I pretended to sleep when John got up and left. My dad

said we’d be separated forever, but I did not flinch. I knew I

would see John again soon. My dad didn’t understand, like

most people don’t understand, that the end of forever is in no

time at all—it is seconds away, inches away. It is now, this very

moment, through the retelling of memories and dreams, and

any gesture to separate us from those who live in memory is

futile.

Thirty-five years later, the scar on my lip remains. With age, it

deepens.

82 | Nonfiction

Stargazing

SM Stubbs

Half of tonight’s stars

have already died. Some

expired in centuries past,

the rest longer ago than

that. With no clouds

and an absent moon,

we calculate the distances

their light travelled before

it could nest in our eyes.

They are what’s left

of ten thousand systems,

a refulgent flock searching

for darkness to migrate into.

The longer we watch,

the more deaths we witness.

I want them to last forever,

or until sunrise, however

long it takes to grant us

what we need. Understand,

tonight will be the last time

we recline on this lawn

beneath a sky swollen

with ghosts, the last time

we promise in whispers

and kisses that our wishes

will bind us for as long

as these bright deaths shine.

Poetry | 83

Fairy-Tale

Emma Atkins

I say: I don’t write about real life.

It’s boring—I prefer my world untrue.

but that’s a lie.

In all my fiction, sits a piece of you:

between the dragon’s flaky scales

tangled in the maiden’s golden hair

underneath the wizard’s grimy nails

I shoved my thoughts of you so far back

they touched my imagination.

Now—as I get better and you get worse—

you infect every line: a genre-bending parasite.

They say: it’s good to get it out. Put it on paper,

not in your head.

but that’s a lie.

You are not inspiration. This is not creative healing.

You are a fairy-tale villain,

and I am transcribing.

84 | Poetry

Silent Partners

Sharon Weightman Hoffmann

This is the way we represent ourselves: alone,

with no one backing us. It can’t be wrong

to find a way our bodies might belong.

You call me at midnight. We have grown

to slowly trust each other. In your arms,

sometimes I think of him. We’ve made a pact

not to confuse the fiction with the fact:

We can’t quite keep each other warm.

We manage the best we can. We don’t possess

a single thing we might pledge to each other.

No matter what we say, we aren’t alone.

At every table there are extra guests.

They stand at our shoulders, our lost lovers,

our silent partners. We are not our own.

Poetry | 85

Kawachi Fujien Wisteria Garden

Denver Boxleitner

86 | Visual Art

Icy Neglect

Kira Ashbeck

Visual Art | 87

Our Own Bubble

Maribel “Autumn” Hernandez

88 | Visual Art

I Can’t Tell My Parents I’m in Love

Talon Drake

There is nothing more lonely

than existing in living rooms

stuffed with loved ones

whose love; you’re convinced

you are unworthy of

The main difference between my sister and I

her boyfriend has a seat at the table

for brunch

I

can’t tell my parents I’m in love

can’t tell them how his roughness

comes soft to the touch

can’t tell them he’s the only one I trust

pressing my soul against in the dead of night

how he’s resuscitated me alive;

can’t tell them because my love

is black and white but

also not in the same rhyme

my love buckles the boundaries

of conditions to their love

He asks why I speak easy on stage

when I can’t say “I’m gay” in my own home

What’s the point in being proud

if you swallow pride like it won’t

eventually escape your guts

disgust the ones who

didn’t really love you that much

to begin with, but

Poetry | 89

in bloodless bloodline battles

only then you bet

on losing everything

as if they possess enough empathy

to entertain your explanation

the irony of a dead name

sated between couch cushions

stained spit spilling down

foaming mouths of

forgetful family members

neglecting who I’ve become

but encapsulate in a frame

their perception of

what they want of me

as if there is nothing else

into which I can evolve

as if I am meant

to remain embedded

within family photo

living room collage

90 | Poetry

Crazy Diamond 2

GJ Gillespie

Visual Art | 91

The Bench

Kristin Schaaf

The gray January snow crunches beneath my tires as I

pull into the familiar parking lot. Slamming the car door shut,

I grip the hood so my feet don’t slip beneath me. Catching my

balance, I slither like a snake toward the front door.

I’ve lived in Iowa nearly four decades, and the shock of

raw bitterness against my exposed skin still manages to make

me curse this month every year. This year especially, the cold

seems to reflect everything that is bitter in my life.

Sighing a foggy breath, I approach the building: Taylor

House Hospice. The doors open wide as though a mouth were

swallowing me whole into a world I don’t want to enter.

I welcome the warmth as it fills my nostrils and brings

feeling back into my numb extremities. I release with a deep

exhale the thoughts running a loop in my brain: How much

pain is he in today? Do I have it in me to be brave? Yes, I have

to. I can do this.

“I don’t know how you can be so strong,” people keep

saying to me. I don’t know either, and I honestly want to tell

them to screw off. Instead, I smile and say I just do it, by God’s

grace somehow. I wish I didn’t have to be so damn strong all

the time. All I want is to go back to the way things were, but

that will never happen. I put one foot in front of the other,

one day at a time, to keep moving forward when I don’t know

how.

One day at a time has been my mantra since Dave was

diagnosed with melanoma just three months ago when they

discovered the tumor in his brain. The day my heart ripped

open. The day I realized that planning for the future was no

longer a concept I could grasp. I could only live it one day, one

moment at a time.

Today, I mentally prepare for another day at hospice.

The hospice house is filled with quiet comforts: children’s toys,

92 | Nonfiction

movies, and games to play while people visit their loved ones.

There is a living room area with oversized gray-blue couches

facing a large fireplace and mounted television. I put my lunch

in the fridge when I reach the kitchen, which is open and facing

the seating area. There’s even outdoor seating for when it isn’t

sub-zero temperatures outside.

This place has become my second home these past

couple weeks since Dave’s extended stay in the hospital. His

metastatic melanoma spread throughout his body, sending

him to the hospital with a fever. After weeks of his symptoms

worsening, the doctors finally delivered the news that they had

to stop treatments. The words gutted me from the inside out. I

barely had the time to process before we received the referral

to hospice, and my heart prepared for what was next. One day

at a time.

Breaking the news to our girls was not easy. We had

been waiting for the day Dave would return home from the

hospital, and trying to explain to a six and three-year-old that

their daddy was not coming home was likely hard for them

to grasp. We began a routine of visiting Dave in hospice after

school every day. I’m grateful the girls can go to school and

be around their friends, finding some sense of normalcy when

their world is anything but normal. Routines have been good

for all of us, along with finding reasons to laugh even when it’s

hard.

Despite everything, I smile as I remember creating recent

memories with the girls. The other day, I brought in snow from

outside and found toppings in the refrigerator, piling it high

with chocolate syrup and whipped cream to make homemade

snow cones for the girls. It was “the best thing ever,” according

to my three-year-old. And despite my hatred of snow and

cold, I put on my snow pants and went sledding. I can still

hear my six-year-old’s squeals of delight asking me to pull her

sled up the hill again and again. My calves and quads are still

feeling it, but my heart is full from the memory.

Now, I finally head down the quiet hallway.

When I reach Dave’s room, I peer through the doorway.

Nonfiction | 93

He is awake today and looks at me as though he’s been

waiting for my arrival, though it is barely past 8:00 a.m. He

cracks a smile, though I know it’s the morphine that has given

him the ability to smile through the pain. I wonder how bad

he’s hurting, but he probably wouldn’t tell me if it was that

bad anyway. He’s always felt the need to be strong—for

himself and for all of us. He’s fought so hard through this, and

yet we are still here. Now it’s my turn to carry the strength on

my shoulders.

“Good morning,” I say softly as I slip into the chair next

to his bed.

“Where am I? What’s going on?” he asks, his deep

brown eyes speaking fear, yet showing relief and comfort in my

presence. I’m glad he still remembers me, and I hope he won’t

forget. God help me if he doesn’t recognize me or his girls. My

heart cracks at the thought and catches in my throat.

“You’re in hospice,” I remind him for what feels like the

twentieth day in a row. Every time he wakes up, he forgets

where he is because of the tumor in his brain. “You were in

the hospital; now you’re here,” I say simply. “They are taking

good care of you to make sure you aren’t in pain anymore.

The treatments stopped working,” I choke out, willing myself

to be strong. We both need me to be. Even though all I want

to do is fall apart in his arms that can no longer hold me.

His world comes back into focus as he remembers. I

hold his frail hand as we sit quietly, sunlight beaming off the

shimmering snow into his room, bringing light into our dark

reality. Hope is what keeps us going. Hope that someday he

will no longer be in pain, even if it means he is no longer here.

“Do you remember when you proposed?” I say. “I was

thinking about that the other day; college seems like such a

lifetime ago.”

Dave softly squeezes my hand, urging me to go on. I

know stories help him. They help me, too. There’s so much

I feel like I can hold onto from our 17 years of memories

together, and yet I wish I could experience the rest of my life

making more memories with him. Even though Dave is still

94 | Nonfiction

here, I find myself already grieving what we won’t have. I

never knew I could grieve like this, but I feel like it’s all I’ve

done these past few weeks.

I shift my focus from the thoughts in my head and

into the moment. Dave needs me here, and I don’t want to

be anywhere else. I’ll give him everything I’ve got until I no

longer have the chance.

I look into Dave’s eyes and at the dark stubble forming

on his pale chin like a cactus. He smells like soap today, so I can

tell he got a bath last night. Its sweet scent lingers on him like a

pear. The thin white blanket covers his body, outlining his legs,

which somehow seem smaller than they were yesterday.

“We had our place on campus,” I recall, knowing how

much this story will make him smile. I know I will always smile

every time I remember. “We went to lunch, and you insisted

on going for a walk even though it was freezing and windy.”

“The bench,” he responds softly, his voice barely a

whisper. I can tell he’s tired.

“The bench. Where it all began, where you and I had

our first long talk, and where you finally told me you wanted

to date,” I say. “I had no idea you were going to propose to

me that day.”

“No shit,” he replies with a chuckle, piercing the quiet

room with its unfamiliar sound. His laugh feels so good to hear,

warming my bones as I go on.

“No shit,” I reply with a smile. Who knew that instead

of saying yes to a proposal, I’d respond with a “holy shit”

when he asked?

As it turns out, “holy shit” became my response in our

life’s most pivotal moments, from a marriage proposal to

finding out I was pregnant for the first time.

“I almost threw the box with the ring at you so many

times,” he remembers, gazing into my eyes. “You just couldn’t

wait, but I had to surprise you when you least expected it.”

“It was perfect,” I say. We had walked to the bench that

day, across the college campus. We went to a small private

school and met during our junior year when we started

Nonfiction | 95

hanging out with the same circle of friends. There were months

of witty banter and flirting before we finally started dating the

fall of our senior year.

Falling in love with Dave was easy. He drew me in with

his wide grin and sarcastic sense of humor. He was fiercely

protective in the best possible way, and I felt a sense of safety

and comfort with him I’d never felt before. He was kind

and gentle, yet assertive and strong. His faith encouraged me

during some of our hardest moments. It didn’t hurt that he

was tall, dark and handsome either. We dated for nearly three

years before he mustered up the courage to propose. I’d been

hinting at it for the past year, perhaps not so subtly, that I was

eager to be with him forever.

The day he proposed, I had a feeling it was going to

happen but didn’t want to get my hopes up. We walked from

the restaurant and across the street to campus. The orangebrown

buildings stood tall in contrast against the cloudy

gray sky. The autumn leaves crackled beneath our shoes and

tumbled across the pavement as I wrapped my thin coat tightly

around my shoulders. Dave squeezed my hand and pulled me

close. When we stopped at the bench I knew. He was going to

ask me what I had been waiting for.

My brain went to mush as he said wonderful things

to me, and as he got down on one knee and said, “Will you

marry me?” all I could say as Dave opened the box and put the

ring on my finger was, “Holy shit!” and I gave him the biggest

kiss as my yes.

And now, I never would have expected to end up beside

him in hospice before the age of 40.

Holy shit, can I do this? Holy shit, I’m going to be alone.

Holy shit, I’m scared. These thoughts run on a hamster wheel

in my brain, and I will them to silence.

Dave closes his eyes again, his long eyelashes fanning the

top of his cheeks. He seems to have more freckles than he did

before. The mole that brought him here tunneled into his body

and managed more damage than we thought possible. The

melanoma spread quickly and overtook his body before any

96 | Nonfiction

treatment could effectively work.

Just a few short months ago our lives were normal. Now

we are here, waiting for what will become my new normal.

Getting by. One day at a time. You can do this, I tell myself,

exhaling out my fears.

I watch as his chest rises and falls. I close my own eyes,

willing the tears not to fall until I get home. When I am alone,

I can grieve.

Later, as I say goodbye, I don’t know if it will be for the

last time.

Nonfiction | 97

Moth and Windshield

Madeline Perry

Moths are stupid creatures. Surely they have better things

to do than throw themselves at headlights, dashing themselves

against windshields. Surely they should be smarter than thatcan

they not see the danger coming? Do they not know what

will happen?

If I were a moth, surely I would be smarter. Surely I’d

know better than to pitch myself into harm’s way for the small

chance to be closer to the light. Wouldn’t I know better?

What if I were a moth? Would I know better? Or

would I be like all the rest of the moths, killing myself against

unforeseen barriers because I was fooled?

Lovers are stupid creatures. Surely they have better

things to do than bare their souls to others, pitting themselves

against other people’s barriers. Surely they should be smarter

than thatcan they not see the danger coming? Do they not

know what will happen?

If I were a lover, surely I would be smarter. Surely I’d

know better than to let myself be known by someone who

can’t and won’t care for me forever. Wouldn’t I know better?

What if I were a lover? Would I know better? Or

would I be like all the rest of the lovers, killing myself against

unforeseen barriers because I was fooled?

Maybe moths are not so stupid. Maybe the windshield

is an acceptable end, because maybe the headlights are worth

it. Is it worth it? That brief flash of light, of being so close to

it that nothing else can be seen? Does it matter what happens

afterward, once a moth has been so close to the light? Can

that moment mean so much, matter so much, that whatever

happens after is entirely inconsequential? Am I just unable to

see how important that moment is, because all I can see is the

98 | Poetry

aftermath? Is that the genius of a moth, to know what is and

is not important about the headlights? Is that my stupidity,

thinking I know better than the moth when I am not one and

when I can never know what it is to be a moth?

Would I think so, if I were a moth?

Would I think so, if I were a lover?

Poetry | 99

Digby’s Kingdom

John Barrett Lee

Every morning, Mr. Digby stepped onto the stone path,

looked at the sky, and whistled.

“Finchie, Finchie, Finchie.”

The goldfinch fluttered down to the bird feeder to peck

at the seed.

“Chickie, Chickie, Chickie.”

A flash of silvery blue as the chickadee darted in, bright

and busy.

“Did you hear that, Fleur?” he said one morning.

“They’re back.”

His daughter smiled. He’d been calling the birds as long

as she could remember. His voice always held such quiet hope,

like a prayer.

The front yard had been the late Mrs. Digby’s pride and

joy. Some neighbors had paved theirs, knocking down fences

to make parking pads. She thought drives looked messy with

trash cans lined up in full view.

“She was right,” Mr. Digby often said. He was happy to

park on the street to keep the front yard looking nice for her.

It mattered. The grass was always trimmed, the beds bright

with snapdragons, marigolds, and begonias. Sometimes, as he

leaned on the mower to rest, he’d admire his handiwork and

murmur, “Well, Doris, honey—I’ve kept it just the way you like

it.”

But the backyard was his kingdom.

Mrs. Digby used to say he could do as he pleased

there, as long as the front stayed tidy. She liked to keep up

appearances.

A narrow stretch of grass ran down between rows of

beans, sweet peas, and potatoes. At the far end stood a raised

bed bursting with herbs and greens. Mr. Digby liked to watch

Jacques Pépin on PBS, so he knew how to use them. Rosemary

100 | Fiction

was his favorite, especially with steak and roast potatoes.

There was also a gala apple tree, planted by Fleur when

she was six. He remembered her patting the soil around the

sapling with tiny hands. Thirty years later, it had begun to

bear tentative fruit. Long ago, when still in the Navy, he had

delighted Fleur by bringing home a Japanese wind chime from

Yokohama. They hung the string of colorful iron bells from the

apple boughs. Fleur loved the way its delicate notes shimmered

around the yard.

To the far side, the greenhouse—built by Mr. Digby

from old windows—overflowed with knobby cucumbers and

crimson tomatoes of three varieties. He wasn’t keen on them

himself but grew them for Fleur.

Beyond the yard stretched a small pasture. Mr. Digby

often followed the chestnut mare who lived there with a

bucket and shovel. “Ranch gold,” he would say. “No better

fertilizer.” He mixed it into compost tea in a barrel behind the

shed. Collecting manure used to embarrass Mrs. Digby, but she

let it go. She knew how good his vegetables were.

When the work was done, Mr. Digby liked to kick off

his boots and sit in a lawn chair beneath the apple tree, with

classical music drifting from the kitchen radio. He watched the

bumblebees and butterflies hover among the bean blossoms.

Fleur had shown him how to use the camera on his phone; he

liked to photograph the insects he spotted and look them up in

Garden Insects of North America.

One afternoon, as they sat beneath the apple boughs,

Fleur shaded her eyes. “Where have all the bees gone, Dad?”

she asked softly.

He paused, noticing the silence. The garden felt hollow

without their hum.

A memory of another garden long ago began to form.

As a boy, little Dennis Digby had stood at the edge of his

father’s property, watching him move calmly among the

beehives, dressed in netting and gloves. The air had been thick

with the buzz of a thousand wings, yet his dad never seemed

afraid.

Fiction | 101

“Treat them gently and they’ll treat you gently,” he used

to say, lifting a frame heavy with honeycomb. The smell of

warm wax and wildflowers drifted on the summer breeze, and

young Dennis thought it the sweetest scent in the world.

Now, sitting in his own yard, he felt that same mix

of wonder and responsibility. Nature was fragile, but it was

generous. It was his turn to care for it.

He looked across his beds, neat as a picture in a Dick

and Jane book. The lines were straight, the soil bare between,

every plant kept in its place. He caught an acrid whiff of weed

killer from the sprayer nearby and hesitated. He’d tended it so

carefully, loved it into stillness. Perhaps the garden was waiting

for its chance to breathe again.

Fleur watched him quietly rise and put the weed killer

back in the toolshed.

That night, he ordered three bags of wildflower seeds

online—for he was getting handy with his phone. When they

arrived, he scattered them across the grass.

* * *

Mr. Digby slipped away one winter morning when frost

glazed the apple boughs and the wind chime hung silent.

The next summer, Fleur stood alone at the back

gate. The lawn was no longer patchy. It was alive with

wildflowers—red poppies, golden buttercups, and purple

lupines. Bees and butterflies danced around her like confetti on

the breeze.

Her eyes prickled with tears as she stepped off the path

onto the lawn. The garden was his last gift, and now it was

hers to keep alive. She brushed her hand across a tall poppy

stem and smiled.

“Dad,” she whispered, “you’d be so proud.”

Just then, a sudden gust stirred the branches, and the old

Japanese wind chime rang out, its colored bells bright and clear

above the hum of insects.

In the undergrowth, the soil moved too—beetles and

worms, going about their patient work. He was part of their

kingdom now.

102 | Fiction

She sat in his lawn chair beneath the apple tree and

breathed it all in. His kingdom was alive because of him and

always would be. If she listened hard enough, she could still

hear him whistling for Finchie and Chickie—and perhaps she

would call for them, too.

Fiction | 103

Family Pets

Jayla Pagel

104 | Visual Art

Visual Art | 105

Good Luck

The Crown Prin

By: Carly Spychalla

By: Donald Patt

106 | Digital Interactive Media

ce

Into the Bottom of Ourselves

By: Ellee Achten

en

Digital Interactive Media | 107

ELLEE ACHTEN (She/Her) is a multidisciplinary artist based in Portland, Oregon. Her work

explores perception and memory, the construction of the self, and what makes reality real.

Her projects combine lyrical sensibility with layered and immersive forms, blurring the

boundaries between imagination and reality. Her writing and visual work have appeared

in The Normal School, PANK!, Brevity, and elsewhere. Drawing from a lifelong practice of

creative experimentation, she crafts narratives that are intimate, reflective, and immersive,

inviting audiences to experience art that is both contemplative and vividly alive.

PHOENIX ALANIS is a second-year student at UW-Green Bay with a major in Pre-Med.

She’s only ever had two passions: helping people and writing. Her only goal is to be able

to do both at the same time.

KIRA ASHBECK is a UW-Green Bay graduate from Northcentral Wisconsin. Ashbeck’s goal

as a nature photographer is to inspire viewers to engage in nature conservation; scientists

predict that the Peyto Glacier, which feeds this lake, will lose eighty-five percent of its mass

by the year 2100 if we don’t intervene rapidly. To view more of her work, you can visit

her Instagram page

@photography_bykira.

EMMA ATKINS is a poet and novelist currently studying for her Ph.D at Middlesex

University. She has been writing poetry since 2018. Atkins’ poetry has been featured in

publications including the Stony Thursday Poetry Book, Amsterdam Quarterly, Stripes

Magazine, t’ART Online, StepAway Magazine, and others.

VIVIAN CALDERÓN BOGOSLAVSKY is a Colombian artist, anthropologist, and historian

whose work explores the expressive power of color. Through painting, sculpture, and

serigraphy, she creates abstract works that resolve questions of light and shadow through

dynamic color relationships. Her pieces are filled with movement and emotion, revealing

the subtle dialogue between chaos and harmony. With over twenty-five years dedicated

to the arts, Bogoslavsky has exhibited her work internationally and continues to create and

teach art in Colombia, finding in abstraction a space where color becomes emotion and

every gesture tells a story.

DENVER BOXLEITNER is a university fine arts student whose drawings, paintings, poems,

and short stories have been published.

ERIC CALLOWAY is a native from Hartford, Connecticut, who seeks out the forgotten

visuals in the state. He looks to photograph moments that make you think within an urban

backdrop.

TALON DRAKE is a queer multimedia artist from Southeast Michigan. He is an alumnus of

Eastern Michigan University, obtaining a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing and Graphic

Communications. His specialties include graphic design, photography, and performance

poetry. Much of his work features themes of neurodivergence, human experience, and

queer identity. Drake received the Paul Bruss Award in Creative Writing in 2021. His work

has been featured in the “citizen trans* {project}”. Instagram: @dr8key.

LARA GATES is a California-born, Wisconsin-raised artist working on her skills in

photography, watercolor, and mixed media. In May of 2025, she graduated from UW-

Green Bay, majored in Arts Management, and minored in Communication. Since then,

she’s been exhibiting her art while working at a local non-profit. You can see more of her

work on artbylaragates.com.

GJ GILLESPIE is a mixed-media collage artist and founding owner of Leda Art Supply

based in Oak Harbor, Washington. His vibrant works blend art history references with

mid-century modernist aesthetics, often drawing titles from rock, pop, and classical music.

Working with layered papers, acrylics, and found materials, Gillespie creates dynamic

compositions that explore themes of memory, identity, and cultural nostalgia. His Crazy

Diamond series takes inspiration from classic rock while incorporating geometric abstraction

and expressive color. Gillespie’s work has appeared in numerous literary and art journals

and has been exhibited throughout the Pacific Northwest. Visit his work at gjgillespieartistic.

com.

DARIANA GUERRERO (She/Her) is a writer, activist, and educator from Lawrence,

Massachusetts. Recognized as an Amplify Latinx Amplifier in 2022 and winner of the

2023 Mass Poetry Community Award, Guerrero has been celebrated for her leadership in

using art as a tool for resistance and community empowerment. Her poetry has appeared

in Caustic Frolic Literary Journal, Exposed Brick Literary Magazine, Glass Poetry Journal,

Voices and Visions, Women: A Cultural Review, Witness Magazine, as well as in Bailey

Sarian’s The Dark History of Diet Culture. Her creative projects include The Sancocho

Shuffle: A Card Deck Con Sabor, an artist book inspired by her poetry and community.

MARIBEL “AUTUMN” HERNANDEZ (They/He) was born in California and later raised in

Green Bay, Wisconsin. They are a current UW-Green Bay student majoring in English with

an emphasis in Creative Writing and graduating in spring, 2026. The composition was

originally made in a sketchbook. Hernandez’s inspiration came from listening to the album

Dreamland by Glass Animals. The art, just like Dreamland, is supposed to capture a feeling

of nostalgia.

SHARON WEIGHTMAN HOFFMANN is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications

include The Hooghly Review, New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker:

Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), Paddler Press, South Florida Poetry Journal,

LETTERS, Wild Roof, Sho, and other magazines. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic

Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, and two Pushcart nominations.

AMANDA IZZO is a writer and mixed-media artist from Boston, Massachusetts. After years

of writing privately, she’s begun to share detailed recollections of her life and youth in the

form of creative nonfiction in the hopes of connecting to other readers and shy creatives

alike. Recently, Izzo’s work has been published in Levitate Magazine, Argyle Literary

Magazine, ANA Magazine, Waymark Literary Magazine, and Querencia Press, to name a

few.

ASHLEY E. KAUFFMAN is from Carlisle, Pennsylvania. She has enjoyed writing since she

used her imagination to bring her first story to life in second grade. Kauffman received

her B.A. in English and her M.Ed. in Children’s Literature from Penn State University. She

is an avid collector of vinyl records, Golden Books, and vintage typewriters. Kauffman is

legally blind and considers herself to be a differently-abled person who has spent her life

envisioning the world with the turn of each page.

GLORIA KEELEY is a retired ESL teacher from City College of San Francisco. She is a writer

of poetry and short stories. During the pandemic, Keeley took up photography. She enjoys

taking some of her photos and turning them into artwork. She especially enjoys taking

photos of trees. She finds trees have wonderful individuality. She also likes taking “offbeat”

photos. “Jazzbo,” for example, is a photo she took of her shadow and used several paint

apps to make her statement of being surrounded by jazz music. She had in mind the cover

of the 1955 record album, Take Five by Dave Brubeck. Keeley’s writing and photos have

been published in many journals including Spoon River Poetry Review, The Emerson

Review, Sheepshead Review, and Slipstream.

CARELLA KEIL is a writer and digital artist who creates surreal, dreamy images that explore

nature, fantasy realms, portraiture, melancholia, and inner dimensions. Recent publications

include Berkeley Fiction Review, Ponder Review, and The Pacific Review. She is a Pushcart

Prize-nominated writer, Best of the Net Nominee, and the 2023 Door is a Jar Writing

Award Winner in Nonfiction. She is the featured artist for the Fall 2024 issue of Blue Earth

Review. Keil’s photography has appeared on the covers of numerous literary journals as

well as in Sheepshead Review’s Fall 2022 and Fall 2023 editions.

JOHN BARRETT LEE is a writer from Pembrokeshire, Wales, now based in Ho Chi Minh

City, Vietnam, where he lives with his Welsh-Vietnamese family. He studied Creative

Writing at the University of Glamorgan, and alongside his fiction writing, he heads the

English as an Additional Language department at a British International School. His work

has appeared in Fairlight Books, Glyph Magazine, and Free Flash Fiction, among others,

and he has been longlisted for national awards, including the HWA Dorothy Dunnett Prize.

Lee enjoys cooking Italian food and singing tenor with the International Choir of Ho Chi

Minh City.

TANIA LI is based in Miami, Florida, and she is a Chinese-American big cat enthusiast and

fantasy writer. She is drawn to biochemical research and medicine, but if she is not writing

or studying, you can find her sojourning in dream-like lands. Li is currently working on her

debut novel, Equinox.

ALIYAH LYNE is a freshman student at UW-Green Bay, majoring in Writing and Applied

Arts with an Emphasis in Editing and Publishing.

ASHLEY NEARY is a California native living in Boise, Idaho, where she studies Creative

Writing at Boise State University. She will earn her B.F.A. in the spring of 2026. Before

pursuing writing, she studied Visual Arts and Horticulture. She is the proud mom of a

Belgian Malinois and a Chihuahua, whom she rescued from the streets of Tijuana, Mexico.

She refers to them as the swat team and the flash bang, respectively. Neary’s work has

appeared in Paper Plane Press and is forthcoming in Jackdaw Press.

MIKE L. NICHOLS is a graduate of Idaho State University and a recipient of the Ford

Swetnam Poetry Prize. He is also the author of the chapbook, Dead Girl Dancing. Look

for his poetry in Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Ink & Nebula, Plainsongs Magazine, and

elsewhere. Find more at deadgirldancing.net

JAYLA PAGEL is a multi-disciplinary artist who mainly works in fiber arts but also loves

ceramics, photography, and sculpture. Art has always been a big part of her life. Pagel

is known at her school for being one of the hardest-working art students, earning her

a nomination for Best Art Student. She is the captain of her high school art team and

has placed first every year throughout high school. She enjoys creating pieces that are

meaningful, hands-on, and expressive. Pagel is always trying to grow as an artist through

new materials and ideas.

DONALD PATTERN is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He creates oil paintings,

illustrations, ceramics, and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries throughout

Maine. To view his online portfolio, visit @donald.patten on Instagram.

MADELINE PERRY is a recent graduate of UW-Green Bay. During her time there, she

published several pieces in Sheepshead Review, three of which won the Rising Phoenix

competition in their respective categories. Perry is currently working on the manuscript for

her first Young Adult fantasy series and hopes to send it out for review this spring.

KEPHREN PRITCHETT is a nonfiction writer, editor, and textile artist who has lived most

of her life along the lakeshore in Eastern Wisconsin. Her current work includes writing

a memoir about recovering her mental health through her creative practice, creating a

handmade and sustainable wardrobe, and inspiring others to make, thrift, and mend

their clothes. Pritchett’s work unravels conventional ideas of gender roles, sexuality, and

personal expression and stitches together the connections between mental health, creativity,

and sustainability. She is currently pursuing an M.F.A. in Creative Writing and Environment

at Iowa State University.

MAY OBERMARK has worked as a writer and editor for the Tesserae Literary Magazine since

its 19th edition. She is a student from Salt Lake City, Utah, and an attentive lover to poetry.

Outside of her devotion to writing, Obermark enjoys saber fencing and the fine arts.

KRISTIN SCHAAF is currently pursuing her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Lindenwood

University. While she has published a range of online content and articles, she is new to

literary journal publication. Her first article was recently published in The Account and is a

Pushcart nominee. Her writing ranges from lyrical prose to creative nonfiction to poetry,

and she is currently working on a memoir. When she isn’t writing, Kristin enjoys fantastic

coffee, reading and finding outdoor adventures.

CAITLIN SCHERESKY (She/Her) is a North Dakotan poet, writer, and editor. She is

currently pursuing her Master of Arts in English at Bucknell University, where she serves as

the graduate assistant at the Bucknell University Press. Scheresky’s work can be found in

Floodwall Literary Magazine and The Southern Quill. One day she will learn how to skip

stones but today is not that day.

JACIE SCHONERT is a daughter, friend, and aunt to two nieces and a nephew. She grew up

in Dighton, a former logging town in Michigan. She is a current undergrad with a major

in Elementary Education and a minor in Creative Writing. Schonert currently serves as the

arts and entertainment, opinion, social media, and website editor of The Valley Vanguard,

Saginaw Valley State University’s school newspaper. Her work has appeared in Poetry

Nation and Writing at SVSU as the 2024 recipient of the Tyner Prize for Writing Excellence.

SUSAN SHEA is a retired school psychologist who was born in Brooklyn, New York, and

now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. She returned to writing poetry two years ago, and

since then, her poems have been published in, or are forthcoming in Catamaran, Chiron

Review, One Art: A Journal of Poetry, Argyle Literary Magazine, Peatsmoke, Folio Literary

Journal, Burningword, Radix Magazine, Passager Journal, The Ravens Perch, Creation

Magazine, Ekstasis, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Green Silk Journal, and others. Three of her

poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and one for Best of the Net.

JOHN SIEBER is a poet, fiction writer, and professional daydreamer from Indiana. His

work appears in Oakland Arts Review, Clockhouse, Rappahannock Review, and others.

He draws inspiration from religious philosophy, personal relationships, nature, and all

the puzzling mysteries of being. When he’s not writing, he enjoys exploring the outdoors,

discussing politics, hosting dinner parties, daydreaming, and trying his best to understand

the curious world around him. Sieber currently lives in Costa Rica, where he voluntarily

teaches English as a second language to a group of wonderful students.

SAVANNAH SMYTH is a 22-year-old poet from Northern Ireland. Her work was most

recently published in the Nocturne Ash Dark Poetry Anthology by Wingless Dreamers, ‘Shot

Glass’ edition #47 by Muse Pie Press, Superlative Literary Magazine, and the Fall 2025 issue

of Inlandia Journal. Smyth also received an honourable mention in The Dark Poet’s Clubs

‘Small Space, Deep Impact’ competition.

NOAH SPELLICH is a recent graduate from UW-Green Bay, graduating in the spring of

2025 with a Creative Writing major and Psychology minor. He is an avid reader, writer,

and nature enthusiast, spending a great deal of time searching for creative inspiration in

the wilderness. At present, Spellich is working on several novel ideas, but is also looking to

hone his skills as a photographer.

CARLY SPYCHALLA is a student attending Bay Port High School. Their piece “Good Luck”

was made in their Advanced Art class.

SM STUBBS is a former bar owner in Brooklyn, NY, S.M. Stubbs was born & raised in South

Florida. Gunpowder Press released his first book, Learning to Drown, in January 2025. He

has been on scholarship and a staff scholar at Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. Nominated

for the Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best American. Stubbs’ work has or will appear in

Poetry Northwest, Tar River, Puerto del Sol, New Ohio Review, Cimarron Review, The

Rumpus, and others. More information can be found on his website, smstubbs.com.

MAX ST-JACQUES was born in Brooklyn, NYC and he lives in Toronto, Ontario with his

family, girlfriend and cat. Max has shown work at Colors of Humanity Gallery, J.Mane

Gallery, Usagi NYC Gallery, Praxis Gallery, Glen Echo Photoworks, Annmarie Sculpture

Garden & Arts Center, Ten Moir Gallery, Station Independent Projects, Remote Gallery,

Gallery 1313 and at the BRIC Project Room in NYC. Max’s work has been featured in

numerous publications including Stone Soup Magazine, Beyond Words Literary Magazine

and Wanderlust Journal. His work has been featured in the Art on Paper NYC Fair 2025

and the Red Dot Miami Fair 2025.

CHRISTOPHER THOMPSON is a writer based in Boulder, Colorado. This is his first published

work.

BRIANNE TURCZYNSKI is an award-winning author and educator in Metro, Detroit. Her

work varies from poetry to journalism and has been featured in publications ranging from

the Halcyone Review to Michigan Out-of-Doors Magazine. Her film, Not For Sale: A

Witness Story about gentrification in Detroit’s Corktown neighborhood, premiered at the

Better Cities Film Festival in 2023. Turcynski is the author of Detroit’s Lost Poletown: The

Little Neighborhood that Touched a Nation (History Press, 2021). You can learn more

about her and her work at www.BrianneTurczynski.com.

CARTER VANCE is a writer and poet originally from Cobourg, Ontario, Canada, and

currently resident in Gatineau, Quebec, Canada. His work has appeared in such publications

as The Smart Set, Contemporary Verse 2, and A Midwestern Review, amongst others.

Vance’s debut novel, Smaller Animals, will be released in November 2025.

MELANIE VAN HANDEL is a 23-year-old UW-Green Bay alumni with a degree in Design.

Creating art has been a passion for her ever since she could remember, and it always finds

its way into her day-to-day life in some way, shape, or form. When she’s not daydreaming

about her next project, finding cool shoes to wear (that she totally needs) online.

CHRISTINE VARTOUGHIAN is an award-winning Armenian-American writer, film director,

and producer whose work has been shown at the Museum of the Moving Image, Lincoln

Center, and whose feature film, Living with the Dead: A Love Story, is available on Apple

TV, Amazon, Tubi, and Fandango. Vartoughian is a founder of (Screen)Play Press, a

publishing company for unproduced film scripts. Her short fiction has been published in

The Bookends Review, Quibble Lit, 805 Lit + Art, Audience Askew, Rock Salt Journal, and

others. The Only Way Out Is Through the Window is her debut collection and is published

by Rebel Satori Press in July 2025.

KARRIE WORTNER is a student at UW-Green Bay, pursuing a degree in Writing and Applied

Arts with a passion for storytelling across genres. A member of Sigma Tau Delta, Wortner

thrives in the literary community and celebrates the power of words to connect people.

Her writing blends creativity with curiosity, often inspired by her travels and the diverse

cultures she encounters. Whether crafting essays, poetry, fiction, or hybrid narratives,

Wortner seeks to capture moments of wonder and meaning. She is dedicated to exploring

language as both an art and a bridge, weaving together imagination, experience, and

discovery.

DIANA WILLAND is a self-taught acrylic painter who specializes in abstract portraiture

and graphic illustration. She’s inspired by the natural world, mythology, art history, and

her love for antique ‘things.’ Based in Boston, you can find her painting and selling her

sustainable art through her company, Black Cat Sustainable Art Co.

TETIANA YATSECHKO-BLAZHENKO is a Ukrainian writer, historian, and journalist with a

Master’s degree in History. She has published books, poetry, and short stories, including

Museum Sociology: Presentation in Space and Time (co-authored). Her work appears in

literary journals such as Foxylit and Indigo, and in anthologies including Shepit Sester and

Koromyslo. She won the 2025 Odesa Miniature contest and placed second in the 2025

Chuhuiv Miniature contest.

Sheepshead Review Fall-Winter 2025

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