Prairie Voices 2024

Editorial Staff

Editor: Nicholas Schevera

Assistant Editors: Susan Daugherty, Lee-Ann Frega, Heather McClelland

Art Editor: Robert C. Lossmann

Cover Art: Gillian Grozier

Inside Cover Art: Xeane Main, Art Noel

Design and Production: Maddy Asma, College of Lake County Public Relations and Marketing

Prairie Voices is a collection of student writing and art which is published annually in April. It represents the diverse voices of the student community of the College of Lake County. We accept creative nonfiction, including essays, as well as creative fiction, including short stories and poetry. Please type, proofread, and double-space each submission, and submit via e-mail as a MS Word attachment to assist us in the editing process. Include your name, address, and phone number, along with a brief autobiographical sketch relating information about your family, interests, hobbies, and career goals.

For orders or inquiries, contact:

Prairie Voices

Nicholas Schevera Communication/Arts Division College of Lake County 19351 W. Washington St., Room B265 Grayslake, IL 60030 (847) 543-2959

Email: com409@clcillinois.edu

Complimentary copies are available in the Communication/Arts Division Office – B213

Copyright 2024 by Prairie Voices

List of Writers

List of Artists

Porpoise Gray

Stephanie Powell

The gable roof stretched high above Meryl Davis’s head. Paint, once sharp and vibrant against the white trim, had long dulled with time and harsh winters. Meryl could still remember standing in the rows upon rows of color at the hardware store, eyeing the swatches dubiously. Which hue could possibly represent her business? Her livelihood? Green was garish. Red was too bold. Blue, too calm. Brown, too boring. Nothing was right.

Within her indecision, Meryl hadn’t noticed when her ever-present shadow reached out and plucked one card right from its slot. Small hands passed the swatch to Meryl with a toothy, uneven grin and twinkling hazel eyes.

Maybe it was fate’s cautionary hand that had lodged the rejection in her throat. Meryl hated the color on instinct. It frowned back at her, too dull, too simple. Could such a bland color represent her trials, and ultimately her perseverance? Of course not. Meryl had said none of that; however, unwilling to tarnish the brightness in those eyes, she had merely nodded instead, taking that small hand and that ill-fitting swatch home with her. She’d called the contractor that evening, and that was that.

Swinging the barn doors open and stepping inside after so long felt like bracing against a strong wind. The smell of hay was pungent and sweet in her nose, a testament of the fresh, green-tinged bales piled neatly in the far corner. The sound of her steps echoed dully, her boots kicking up dust with each clack, clack, clack against the cement. Sunlight shifted through the dormer windows overhead, overlaying the barn in shades of yellow, white and brown.

Meryl lay a hand against a massive eggshell-painted beam in the center of the barn. The wood was warm to the touch, her hands a bitterly cold contrast. As Meryl paused there, struggling to get her bearings under the wave of uncertainty cresting over her, she felt, not for the first time, that she was aboard a large ship, the tumultuous sea shifting the very floor beneath her feet.

Gray with a whisper of blue. Like the arctic, cold where it once had been bright. Meryl tried not to glance at the small square of paint left unbleached by the sun where a dark blue and gold flag had once hung.

Her eyes sought familiar grooves in the wood above her head. Marriage marks. Roman numerals to show which beam was which. She tracked them sluggishly. Further down the beam, different grooves marred the wood. Even without touch, Meryl could feel them like tattoos on her skin. Horizontal slashes and dates written in colorful markers.

Porpoise gray, the swatch had read. It seemed much bluer than gray once the painters had finished all those years ago. Yet now, standing in stark relief against the bright blue of the winter sky, Meryl could see it. Gray with a whisper of blue. Like the arctic, cold where it once had been bright. Meryl tried not to glance at the small square of paint left unbleached by the sun where a dark blue and gold flag had once hung.

Meryl couldn’t look at them. Instead, her eyes swept the barn.

Dust mites danced in the air, twinkling in beams of light before losing focus as they sank to the shadows near her feet. On one side of the spacious building, four stalls lay vacant, the horses out to pasture for the afternoon. The absence of sound was worse, she thought, than a symphony of stamping feet and impatient huffs ever could be. Even the twittering calls of the swallows that made a home

in the rafters had long left their nests. In the silence where sound belonged, Meryl’s mind wandered.

Her new stable hand, Vince, was an older gentleman with a graying widow’s peak and roughened, sun-withered skin. Vince kept to himself, paying Meryl no mind, save the acknowledgment of a gruff nod. Her eyes followed him as he moved about, dutifully carrying out his chores, from cleaning brushes in a small sink attached to the shower stall to shuffling around in search of tools. The familiar movements made Meryl feel wrong-footed. Alien. Like an outsider. It was only as Vince moved some junk across the counter in the feed room that Meryl noticed the baseball cap there, abandoned, forgotten.

Meryl steadied her breathing. When had it gotten so fast? A shaky hand sought those familiar grooves on the beam, starting low and rising higher and higher. The freshest stretched half a foot above her head. The date, not so long ago, written in blue handwriting, scratchy and so unlike her own.

The name… Meryl looked up to the ceiling. The rafters and purlin boards overhead gave the illusion that she was standing in the belly of a vast ship, caged in by the wooden-toothed maw of a beast. At that moment, the familiar sight of the barn faded, a stinging moisture taking its place. She could no longer smell the comfort of hay or feel the warmth of the sun. Meryl felt herself sinking. Sinking under the weight of the ocean pouring in, colored a muted porpoise gray.

Amber Roots of an Upturned Tree

Stephanie Powell

The sight of glass still follows me, Struck down by lightning but not left to rest, bottles like amber roots of an upturned tree, caught in the wind like a mockingbird’s nest.

Every night, or sometimes twice, Like a flightless bird or a listless sea, I would glimpse that room and its owner’s vice, but your apologies were never meant for me.

Within a place without a door, understanding never came to pass. I was far too young for this type of war, wearing smiles in different shades of glass.

It isn’t glee, I can promise you that. It’s not care at all, in your blurry eyes, wielding false praise like a diplomat. in your slurring drawl and your pupil size.

It’s the scent that still lingers in my hair somehow. No, the bottles were not trees at rest. It’s the high others chase that I can’t, even now. There was no lightning or mockingbird nests.

There were only nights, sometimes twice, Within that place, in need of a door, when I saw that room and its owner’s price. You left empty words and nothing more.

But I know you now, like I hadn’t then. Only at that moment, when I learned the game of the high you chased time and again. the rules all changed, and you overcame.

What a lie you spun, in that glass door room, when your breath still smelled of the same perfume. Now long nights I spend, far from that space, removed from you, and your pain misplaced.

Yet when a familiar bottle catches my eye, I’m shackled again, caught beneath your high. So now I stay home and avoid temptation of blurry eyes and intoxication.

And if you carved away the doubt in me, you’d find amber roots of an upturned tree.

Greyhound 4669

Isaac Shaw

Jason puts away his phone and begins to nestle into his seat. With eleven hours left of his journey, he is desperate to kill some time. Unsure how long he’ll be able to sleep on a bus, Jason closes his eyes with the hope of being able to drift away. It takes a few minutes, but he’s finally able to feel consciousness leaving. Unfortunately, however, as soon as he starts to be enveloped in the sensation, a tap on his shoulder promptly washes the feeling away.

“I am so so sorry to bother you, but I have a bit of an unusual request.”

Jason’s eyes strain to make out the figure in the darkness, but by the sound of the voice he surmises it to be a woman.

“Um sure, what’s the request?” Jason replies still unsure whether or not someone is actually speaking to him.

“Well, the guy sitting next to me upfront has a bitch of a snore and it’s been bugging the hell out of me. I figured I could maybe move to a seat back here close to the engine to drown him out.” Jason turns around and notices he’s sitting right in front of the engine panel. He then looks around at available nearby seats and is shocked not to find any.

as she’s already on her way back to the front to retrieve her bag.

It’s fine as long as she’ll let me sleep too.

It’s the only thought Jason has as she makes her way back to the seat.

“I’m Mira,” she whispers as she sits down beside him.

“Oh, I’m Jason. Nice to meet you,” he replies as he initiates a forward-facing handshake. Feeling a bit odd due to his now contorted body, Jason sinks into his seat. Without a wasted second, Mira flashes him a smile and reaches over for the handshake. Jason meets her in the middle, and they both share a soft laugh.

She is lost in the dancing lights of the night sky but so too is Jason lost in her. From her black boots to flowing hair, Jason finds it hard to do anything but study her.

“So, you want to sit back here, next to me?”

“Please, if it’s not too much trouble. I promise not to take up a lot of space,” she jokes. Jason has always had a hard time saying “no” to people, but this time he finds it especially difficult. For when he sees her face, earnest in her plea, there is no way he can say no.

“Yeah, sure it’s no problem,” Jason lets out, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“Great! I’ll grab my stuff,” the woman exclaims

“Nice to meet you, too, Jason.”

Feeling a bit more awake than before, Jason begins to notice the people he’s sitting next to. He sees an elderly woman clutching an in-progress winter scarf, a boy no older than eight traveling alone, a man covered from head to toe in tattoos, and a myriad of shapeless blobs stretching down the dark cabin. An assortment of people whose only commonality being that they’re all on this bus. Everyone Jason sees appears to be asleep. Everyone, that is, except for Mira. She’s currently stargazing out the windows across the aisle, wide eyed and mesmerized. She is lost in the dancing lights of the night sky but so too is Jason lost in her. From her black boots to flowing hair, Jason finds it hard to do anything but study her. He wants nothing more than to speak with her but can’t come up with a word to say. That is, until he notices her wrist.

“Is that agent Bauer’s communicator?” he whispers as he points to her bracelet.

“Yeah, it is! You’re the first person to ever recog-

nize it! I swear Galaxy’s Reach is so underrated.”

“It’s probably my favorite series of all time. I was actually watching the latest episode before making my way to the bus station,” he remarks while trying his hardest to hide his excitement. “It was so good, I ended up leaving late just so I could make sure I watched it all,” he admits embarrassingly.

“You must be headed somewhere really exciting if you’re willing to give up watching the show,” says Mira.

“Exciting? Well, not really. Just back home.”

The change in Jason’s attitude is readily apparent. He can’t help but be reminded of the parents he’s soon to see; the flood of memories is almost nauseating. In an instant the childhood he tried so hard to forget rushes back all at once. Jason tries his hardest to act as if nothing bothered him. He isn’t able to disregard his emotions and continues to remain silent.

After a few moments of only the engine’s purr, Mira asks Jason if everything’s all right. He lies and says that everything is fine. Jason turns to peer out the window to do some stargazing of his own, hoping he will get lost out there rather than in his own head.

Unsure of how to salvage the conversation, he begins to sink further into his seat. This time Mira doesn’t reach out to grab him. Slightly embarrassed that he blew his chance, he pulls out his phone to check the time.

1:04 a.m.? I’ve still got 10 hours left. Maybe a few hours of sleep can pass the time.

He closes his eyes, ready to be taken away. A few hours pass, but Jason doesn’t feel any less awkward than when he went to sleep. Thankfully for him, Mira is now asleep, so he doesn’t have to face any potential embarrassment. Jason takes this opportunity to stare out the window. The stars and moon dominate his view, for their light is the only light to be seen. No street lights, no headlights, not even a billboard. Only the light from above. The dense forests obscure any other potential sights to be seen. Curious as to what stretch of highway can afford such a view, Jason pulls out his phone and checks the location on his map. He pinches, zooms, and rotates around his current position, but Jason sees nothing. No roads, no towns, not even a state.

Nothing.

Immediately, he figures it’s just a bug with the app. I guess I need to update it later, Jason thinks to himself. A rational explanation is behind this, he’s sure. Even with that reasonable notion, it isn’t enough to stave off his impending sense of dread.

Where are the other cars? The billboards? The power lines?

These questions echo in his mind while he stares out into the midnight. Nothing to pass by except for the trees.

He grows worried. The more he sits in his seat, the more the idea of being taken off course festers. Jason desperately needs peace of mind, so he decides to get it from the driver. He gets up and squeezes past Mira, making sure not to disturb her. As he makes his way down the cramped walkway to the front of the bus, he passes by all of his fellow passengers, all of whom are fast asleep.

Jason approaches the driver’s seat to find a man with eyes trained on the dark road ahead.

“Um, excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, but could you tell me where we are?” Jason asks the driver as quietly as he can.

Without moving his eyes off the road, the driver responds, “Nowhere. Nowhere in particular.”

Unable to make sense of the driver’s response, Jason tries to see if there’s a GPS console on the dashboard to help him understand. Dials and levers litter the panel, but there is no screen in sight. There is only a digital clock that reads “1:04.”

“1:04? That can’t be right. Hey, I think your clock isn’t working,” Jason tells the driver. He pulls out his phone to show the driver the correct time only for it to read the same thing.

“1:04.”

What? I know I’ve been asleep for at least 2 hours. How can it still be 1:04?

Frantic thoughts ricochet across his mind. He takes a step back, trying to rebalance himself after feeling a little dizzy. As he moves backwards, he notices the sleeping passengers all around him. Jason frantically tries to wake someone in an attempt to tell them what’s going on, but they all remain asleep. Some turn over, others continue snoring, but none wake up. Feeling defeated, Jason looks back to retreat to his seat, but finds Mira staring back at him.

She’s been watching him in silence this whole time.

“Thank God you’re awake Mira. I think there’s something very wrong with this bus,” he cries, unable to get control of his frantic breathing.

“There’s nothing wrong with the bus, Jason. We’re actually right on schedule,” says Mira as she gestures for Jason to take his seat. Jason takes time to ponder what he should do next. After a bit of silence, he decides to sit back down next to her.

“You say we’re on schedule Mira. But where are we on schedule to?” he asks fearfully.

“Jason, you know exactly where you’re going. You’re going home.”

Jason stares out the window. For a moment he feels as though he can be lost out there. In the infinite expanse, Jason won’t have to be tied to anything. Not to his parents, his anxieties, not even to a bus seat. He can forget it all and be free. Unfortunately for Jason, he isn’t able to leave. So, Jason does all he can do and takes his time to format the only question he has left. Training his eyes on the lights of the sky, he finally builds up the courage to look back towards the woman.

“Mira, who are you?”

With a faint smile she replies, “I’m whatever you need me to be Jason.”

Jason notices Mira’s bare wrists and turns back away. He leans his head on the window in an attempt to cool down. It’s only now that Jason notices how smooth the ride has been. No bumps, no shakes. The only thing to feel is the rumble of the engine. The only thing to hear is the rhythmic breathing of his fellow passengers.

Jason’s dread takes ahold of him. It’s hard to breathe and the windows can’t open. There’s never been much Jason could do in his life, but now he truly feels as though he has no options. The only thing Jason can do is to watch the stars. As he sees them dance and shimmer in the night sky, the dread he feels is slowly released. Eventually, Jason is serene, as if this is the only place he ever needs to be. Slowly the nagging feeling that he is forgetting something important replaces the dread. Soon, that feeling is replaced, too. The only thing Jason feels now is exhaustion. He pulls out his phone to check the time.

1:04 a.m.? I’ve still got 10 hours left. Maybe a few hours of sleep can pass the time.

Jason closes his eyes and begins to drift away.

Michael Kukulski, digital photography

Prairie Voices 2024-25 Jaelyn Fleener, oil painting

Where I’m From Madeline

Rajski

I am from anime costumes, from leotards and ice skates.

I am from piles upon piles of clothes (Cluttered, cramped, paths were made in order to walk.)

I am from the raspberry bush the pine trees whose branches supported me like my bones.

I’m from saying grace at Christmas dinners and depression,

From Jennifer Ann and Wendell Lewis Jr. I’m from Dad jokes and sarcasm, From “Don’t make me call your father” and “Stick it, and freeze.”

I’m from illegal baptisms attending a Catholic school anyway and ultimately being kicked out.

I’m from Fort Bragg and the Coeur d’Alene Tribe, Polish sausage and pierogi.

From the C130s and C141s my mom jumped from, the dependence my sibling has on blood sugar kits and insulin.

On the top shelf of the bookcase in my room pink photo albums stand in a line, carrying a timeline of my life.

I am from those memories, caught forever in time, wondering if that little girl would be proud of me.

Crosswalks

Miles Jajich

Trees sway in the wind as I jog along the neighborhood trail. Leaves scrape against the ground, crunchy against my moving feet. To feel embraced by nature, crickets chirping away in the tall grass, welcoming to my attentive ears.

The sweet recognition of one’s cooked dinner, a feastful chicken with a side of mashed potatoes, reminding me to reach the goal.

To meet the intersection of St. Mary’s Road in hopes of achieving a safe passage across. How I wished for a better system as I waited for an opening that would never appear. The worrying of slowdowns to the progress made. Safety signs pressed into the ground, unable to properly do their job. Staring as cars go hell for leather amid their sense of urgency. The white stripes of passage, concealed by the putrid fog of rolling coal. And so I stood. Jogging in place, awaiting the day I could cross the finish line.

Jaelyn Fleener, oil

Salina

Jack Hugener

It had been just over four years since the divorce. Leroy seldom thought about it anymore. He thought about plenty of things—cars, liquor, his father—but Norma Jean was rarely one of them. Thinking was about all he had been able to do since getting back on the road.

Since being soft-cleared to resume trucking, Leroy had mostly been tasked with shorter regional routes. He would go to somewhere like Indianapolis, Chattanooga or Atlanta and be satisfied with the opportunity to be on the road at all, but deep down he would be relieved to be returning home. Something about being in the truck for too long had him thinking back on his accident, and the bottle would begin calling his name once again.

He was called upon one November night by an advisor at the local cargo-transport branch that employed him. Another driver had fallen ill—sepsis or something—and Leroy was the only other driver in the area not currently on a run. It was a much longer trip than he had taken since his accident, but the advisor had promised a pay bump to compensate for the last-minute call.

heart of the city and parked up next to an inconspicuous food stand on the corner of the lot. The clerk was just closing the stand for the night but hadn’t seen a customer in hours, so he decided to do his good deed for the day and greeted Leroy like he would any other. Leroy ordered three hot dogs: one with all the fixings and two plain. He ate the first hot dog on the spot and stuffed the two plain aluminum-covered parcels into his jacket pockets. He thanked the man, reentered his rig, and continued west.

Something about being in the truck for too long had him thinking back on his accident, and the bottle would begin calling his name once again.

Leroy was told he could leave the following morning—so that he had time to pack and tidy things up at home—but Leroy had nothing to pack and no family to leave behind, so he decided to take advantage of the night ahead of him and hit the road. He departed shortly after nine o’clock that night, and before he knew it, he was barreling west on Interstate 64 toward Louisville. He had been in Louisville a million times; it was the first stop on many of his trips, so he knew exactly where to pull off to grab some food for the road. He rolled into the parking lot of The Home Depot just before the

Leroy drove all through the night, only stopping to relieve himself and eat one of the remaining hot dogs for breakfast at around six o’clock the following morning in the small town of Junction City, about an hour outside of Topeka. He made no time to consider anything but the journey ahead of him. Before the road-static had fully left his legs, he was back in the cockpit of his truck heading west on 70 toward Denver. He had never properly been to Denver, although he had driven through a number of times. Despite this, he seemed to pay no notice to the city when it finally passed by through both windows of his truck. He was making very good time; he seemed to believe he would be rewarded if he were to deliver the cargo as early as he could. Nothing Leroy passed after Denver seemed particularly remarkable to him.

By nine o’clock that night, Leroy had found himself at the crossroad town of Salina, Utah. Named after the salt deposits found on location by early Mormon settlers, Salina was a nothing-town in the middle of a nothing-state. Entering the town from the east, Leroy was greeted by two dueling roads: I-70 Southwest toward Las Vegas and 50-89 Northeast toward Salt Lake City. He bisected the fork and rolled into a truck stop overlooking the Sevier River

at a quarter past nine. Before Leroy could unbuckle his seatbelt, he was asleep.

Leroy awoke shortly before sunrise. He emerged from his truck as the first light began to swallow every vulnerable bit of landscape it could reach. He moved northward on foot, deviating from the gravel path marked by whomever owned the truck stop, and stepped down to the bank of the river. He followed it north, snuggled by the sound of sparrows from the patch of woods to his right and that of the restless river to his left. Beyond the patch of woods sat a bluff, which shielded the valley from the rising sun and thus gave Leroy the illusion of a dark morning. He stopped a quarter of a mile from where he left the trail and settled himself on a rock. Still looking northward, he could see a man on the bank of the river. The man was far enough not to

notice Leroy but close enough for Leroy to observe that the man was fly-fishing. He sat on the rock a while, savoring the smell of the river. Leroy noticed that the smell of a river had the ability to take him back in time. Natural bodies of water seemed to have a distinct smell which, under the right sentimental conditions, could leave one longing for a life left behind. Leroy wouldn’t approach the fisherman, but he would take comfort in watching him enjoy the morning sun and knowing that perhaps one day he could do the same.

After a while, Leroy reached into his pocket and produced a roll of paper. He unraveled and straightened it, held it up for the sunshine to take a look. He would build the log cabin after all, right here on the bank of the river.

Lori Koshack, watercolor

The Witch and the Jackdaw

Milo Melchert

The low, keening whines of a barred owl outside the house drilled into Sallow’s ears.

It wasn’t as though Sallow had never heard the forest at night before. They sat beside the river when the evening grew shadow-dark, and above, the stars shone bright enough to see through the canopy. They had listened to the crickets and the frogs come awake as the cicadas quieted while the water rushed eagerly by them. They had climbed trees, and listened to the calls of those owls and the nocturnal wildlife; the scurrying of little mammals through the underbrush; the haunting screams of foxes that sounded like banshee’s wails.

Sallow let out a heavy sigh underneath the weight of Goblin on their chest, staring up at the devil’s ivy hanging from its pale green pot attached to the ceiling by a hook. Sleep eluded them as they listened to that owl’s droning, despite the long day of pulling weeds and baking mini jam treacle tarts.

Just as they had resigned themself to a sleepless night, Goblin’s head rose like a bullet and a low growl rumbled from his chest. The monstrous orange ball of pure fur and mischief leapt off Sallow’s chest, tail even bushier than normal, and bolted right out of the room through the cat door.

“What gives?!” Sallow called after him, though the cat was already long gone. From the other room, however, came the low sound of his growling. Sallow rubbed their eyes, then threw off the blankets and slid out of bed.

Armed with fuzzy slippers and an oversized brown jacket that fell to Sallow’s knees, they followed Goblin out of the bedroom. They found the creature at the front door, ears pinned to his head and tail swishing back and forth at high velocities.

“It’s an owl,” Sallow told him moodily. “You’ve heard owls before.”

Still, Sallow unlatched the bolt of the front door. Light was already beginning to seep into the round-edged, foggy windows. They hadn’t realized,

when they’d been struggling to sleep, that dawn was already peering over the horizon.

When Sallow opened the door into the mist-blanketed, dewy morning, cold air sweeping in through the screen door that shielded them from the rest of the outside, Sallow looked down at Goblin and lifted a hand to gesture outside.

“See, there’s—” They shut their mouth.

Outside of the front garden gate, the fence of which was freshly repaired with new logs and a black-iron latch, stood a hooded figure, the mists curling around their feet.

The sky had not yet shed its black veil, so the sun’s light only barely broke through the tree line of the forest. The woods were still a dull, cloaking grey, and so was Sallow’s cottage. Everything was fuzzy and partially hidden in the dark.

Sallow reached into the inner pocket of their jacket and pulled out a pistol, holding it up for the stranger to see. “Who’re you?”

The hooded figure raised their head enough for Sallow to see the outline of a face.

“I didn’t expect a witch to have a gun,” the figure said, their voice a low and warm pitch, like fire crackling.

Sallow took the safety off and made sure the click was audible. “Oh, it’s magic, all right. I tap this little stick here, and it casts a little spell out its eye right here,” they tapped the end of the barrel, “and then it conjures metal for me that lodges into your brain and kills you dead in a heartbeat. So, I’d hurry up and tell me who you are, stranger, unless you want to see how good at magic I am.”

The stranger raised up two empty hands. “No need for that. My name is Alder Fen. I’m here for your aid.”

Sallow snorted. “Your name is tree swamp?”

That earned them a soft chuckle from the figure who, with one raised hand, cast off the obscuring hood. The man standing at Sallow’s gate had short auburn hair that looked like it had been thoroughly

tangled and couldn’t lie flat, had skin like fuller’s earth, and stubble darkening the lower half of his face. His hands were wrapped in deep brown linens, and he wore leather strands around his neck that were covered with seashells and frosted, colored glass.

“And yours is Sallow,” said Alder. “May I enter?”

Sallow exchanged a glance with Goblin, who no longer growled or pinned his ears but kept his tail flicking as he stared dead towards Alder. “Why?” they called out. “Why should I let you in? How do I know that you won’t kill me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, ser, I doubt I would have made it this far,” Alder said. “I have heard the stories of what happens to those who wish you ill when they enter this forest. As for why, I request shelter. I am not so unlike you. I come from faraway lands of strange rituals and culture, and the locals do not trust me.” He unwrapped the linen from his left arm and held up a stark black brand in a jagged J-like shape. It was bordered by red that told of infection. “Especially because of this. I was told that your mother was once a well-renowned medicine woman before her ways were declared archaic. I was hoping some of that knowledge had passed to you.”

Don’t step on any of my plants, or I’ll cut off the foot that did it.”

Alder unlatched the gate. “You’re a menacing one, aren’t you?”

Sallow curled one side of their mouth up and grinned, sharp-toothed, and wolfish. “Don’t forget it.” They unlocked the screen door, and left it open to move into the kitchen to the right of the door. As they began to fill a copper kettle with water, Alder tentatively opened the door and stepped in. “Shoes off, there’s a hanger to your left for your cloak. Don’t track mud in the house.”

“Or you’ll cut off whatever part of me that made it muddy?”

Sallow shrugged. “If I feel like it.”

The sky had not yet shed its black veil, so the sun’s light only barely broke through the tree line of the forest.

The woods were still a dull, cloaking grey, and so was Sallow’s cottage.

Before he took off his shoes or cloak, Sallow watched over their shoulder as he stooped down and held out a hand towards Goblin. The cat leaned forward, sniffing him tentatively, before he sneezed on Alder’s hand and trotted away into the living room and onto the stone slab in front of the unlit fireplace. He was probably hoping Sallow would light him a fire if he did so.

If Goblin wasn’t mouthing off at him, or trying to tear his face off, then Alder was probably fine. Goblin was a good judge of character.

Sallow narrowed their eyes. They didn’t correct Alder’s assumption that they hadn’t been born here, even though he was wrong. “What’s the mark from?”

Alder smiled, but the look was tense. “I would rather not say, if it’s all the same to you.”

They sniffed. “It’s not. But if you try to harm me, Goblin will scratch out your eyes, and it sounds like no one would miss you if you didn’t leave this place.”

That got a wince out of Alder, who looked away for a moment before turning back to Sallow. The pain in his expression was covered again by a mask of faux warmth. Then, softly, he said, “Yeah.”

Sallow clicked the safety back on and put the silvery pistol back in their pocket. “Come on then.

“Goblin?” Alder asked curiously.

“Yep,” they said, and offered no more explanation. Sallow put the kettle on the old stove and coaxed the fire on before turning to face Alder, arms crossed. “Sit down,” they said, gesturing to the maple-wood kitchen table out of the way of the main cooking space. “You want tea?”

“That would be nice,” Alder said. After his shoes and cloak were removed, giving way to a dark green and brown outfit of leathers and quilted fabrics, he moved to the table and sat. “If you want compensation, I have money to pay—”

“Can you do embroidery? Have you ever cleaned a house?” Sallow cut in. “Know anything about dyeing fabrics or cooking?”

Alder blinked. “I’ve never tried embroidery, no.

Yes, I know how to clean a house and cook. No, I’ve never dyed fabrics. I’ve worked on farms, mostly.”

“Know how to raise chickens, then?” Sallow asked, opening the cabinet of tea leaves. “What kind of tea do you want?”

“Uh.” Alder looked like Sallow had thrown him in the middle of a game he didn’t know the rules of. “Yes, and anything is fine. I’d prefer nothing sweet, though. And something not poisoned.”

“Great.” Sallow pulled out a matcha blend for themself and lemon-orange for Alder. “I can give you chores then. Don’t care about money, but I could use some help around the house. Got a book on how to do embroidery that you can read. Tried to pick it up myself, but I’d rather throw myself in the river.” While the kettle slowly heated, Sallow came and sat beside Alder. They gestured for his branded arm, and he offered it to them. “How long ago was this?”

“About a week, now,” he said. “I tried to wash it, but it was… Let’s just say I didn’t have access to the most sanitary resources.”

“Hmph,” Sallow grunted. “And what’s it mean?” They looked up and caught his eye as he opened his mouth. “And don’t bullshit me. You want my help, I get to know what I’m getting involved in.”

Alder sighed. “I’m not involving you in anything.” Sallow levelled him with a stare as hard and sharp as cut stone.

He sighed. “It’s from a smuggler’s ring near the northern coast. The Jackdaws. They are…brutal, in short.”

“You a smuggler?” Sallow asked, curling their lip in amusement. “You seem way too timid for that.”

“No, got taken by them a while ago. I was their errand and stable boy.”

“If you got taken in a while ago, why’d they wait so long to brand you?” Sallow asked, standing to retrieve the first aid kit from the nearby linen closet.

Alder ducked his head. “This was not the first time I tried to escape. They wanted to make sure I couldn’t again.”

“And they didn’t think you’d just cover the brand?” Sallow rolled their eyes and stood on the tips of their toes to retrieve the kit from the top shelf. “Seems like they didn’t really think ahead.”

“The branding iron had needles in it, coated in

a slow-acting toxin,” Alder said. “It’ll kill me within a month. They say they have the only antidote.”

Sallow turned abruptly, eyebrows near their hairline. “Well, why didn’t you say anything about that before? You didn’t think I’d need to know that?”

He shrugged. “I was getting there.”

Sallow kicked the closet door shut. “I fucking hate people,” they muttered. They never got visitors, especially since their mother had died. Even she hadn’t gotten many visitors since people had started calling her a witch and declared her practices too unsavory and dangerous. Compared to Sallow, though, she was the belle of the ball.

They set the kit down on the table, and diligently began working on Alder’s brand. They could see now where all the puncture wounds under the charred skin had scabbed, where the skin had begun to yellow, and where the pus was forming under those pockets of scabs. They wrinkled their nose. Alder sat diligently, and Sallow snuck looks at his face, noticing now the darkened veins around his mouth and his eyes, and the deep purpling bags under them. The pallor to his skin was not a natural one. They rolled their eyes as he fought winces at every touch, visibly chewing on the inside of his cheek.

The kettle began to whistle. Sallow set down their work and returned to the stove, where they clicked it off and gathered mugs. Alder sat in silence. It was as if, now that he had achieved his goal of getting inside the house, he had unplugged the part of his brain that had been keeping him running. He looked more tired than Sallow was going to feel later, having gotten no sleep that night.

Sallow brought the tea over and sat beside him again with a heavy sigh. “Got an extra room you can stay in. I don’t care if you’re dying, you’re still helping me with the chores.” They narrowed their eyes. “If your smuggler rats chase you here, I’m handing you right over. Got it? Not putting me or my hellion cat or my house on the line for your mongrel ass.”

Alder quirked his lip. “I’m not that dirty, am I?”

Sallow wrinkled their nose and pinched their lips, making a face of disgust. “Worse than me, and that’s saying something. I’ll even give you first shower privileges.”

“Well, Sallow, I’m touched.”

“Shut up, tree swamp.”

Skye Perkofski, ceramics

The Box That Wouldn’t Open

Kevin Lind

Iremember looking down into the open casket, and seeing a familiar, wrinkled, old face. But something was different about it this time. He didn’t have his glasses. Where were his glasses? He was a little more pale than usual. He seemed hollow, like a wax figure. I remember looking at his hands. One of his thumbs was just a nub. I cracked a slight smile and I quickly wiped away the tear that welled up in my eye. His eyes were closed. I wondered if his eyes would still be that same brilliant green if I pried his eyelids open.

I remember seeing my dad cry. That made me want to cry. Seeing your parents cry always really sucks. My parents don’t cry much, but when they do, I always vividly remember it. They were the ones I’d used to go to if I needed to cry. They always seemed to know exactly what to say. But suddenly, the roles were reversed: Now, they were going to me because they needed to cry. The thirteen-year-old me was about as wise as a doorknob, so I didn’t really know how to handle that situation. So, I just cried with them instead, hoping that would make them feel better. I remember feeling numb for most of the day. I found myself zoning out frequently. Nothing felt real. I remember thinking, how am I here right now? Why is this happening? And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got with myself. I hated myself for not spending every possible second with him. Normally during a funeral, violence is something that is far from people’s minds. However, all I wanted to do was run around screaming and start punching things and hopefully break my hands, just so I could feel something other than the gnawing numbness.

My grandpa had an amazing memory. He could memorize just about every “shortcut” on every street. However, sometimes his shortcuts weren’t actual shortcuts. Sometimes his routes would take longer than if he were to just go the regular way. I think he just liked showing off how he knew every road. I remember when he still worked as a

carpenter. I remember one day when I was about six or seven, my mom said I didn’t have to go to school because Grandpa was in the hospital; he accidentally sawed his thumb off. After his surgery, all that remained of his thumb was a little nub. I remember when he used to take a Sharpie and draw a little smiley face on it and make it talk to me. I found that to be the pinnacle of comedy when I was little. I remember listening to all the tales of his former glory when I used to go with him to pick up my sister from school. One story stands out: he loved telling this one anecdote of how he was the fastest kid in his school growing up…well, except for him losing a race this one time to a guy named Russ Hager. That made me hate that guy. How dare he beat my grandpa in a race? Grandpa would also always mention how he ran track barefoot, perhaps alluding to his toughness. I remember when I would receive birthday cards from him with fifty dollars inside on September 19th every year. But then I remember getting birthday cards from him on random dates, like March 3rd and November 30th.

On the inside of one of these cards, he wrote “Happy birthday Keven!” K-E-V-E-N. He misspelled my name. I didn’t recall him misspelling my name in any other previous birthday card, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Keven with an “e” was close enough. But, then on the inside of another card, he wrote “Happy Birthday Kenny!” I was puzzled. Clearly, something was going on. Something bad. Shortly after, I found out my grandpa had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I remember reading there was no cure for this disease.

I remember going to visit my grandpa in hospice care. My dad reached into the backseat and stuffed a bag of Red Vines into my hands.

“Here, give these to him,” he ordered. My grandpa loved Red Vines. They were his favorite candy. My dad and I walked inside, where there was a very prominent hospital smell. I remember looking into my grandpa’s eyes, and there was this ambiguous

sparkle within them. Kind of like he didn’t really know where he was, or who I was.

“Hey, Grandpa, look what I have for ya!” I said enthusiastically, gently placing the bag of Red Vines in his lap.

“Oh…uh…Howdy.” My grandpa replied, somewhat confused. “Howdy” was his go-to greeting.

“Dad, do you know who this is?” my dad asked. I could sense the concern in my dad’s voice. My grandpa stared at me for a moment, and looked back at my dad innocently. He just shook his head “no.” He was embarrassed. My grandpa couldn’t remember me.

There was another time later on that my dad and I went to go see my grandpa. We rode the elevator to the upper floor of the hospice facility where they kept all the most ailing patients, and we finally got to grandpa’s room. There was a noticeable shift in the air when we walked inside. There was a strange aura in his room. It felt desolate. You could taste the hopelessness. Death loomed in the corner with its black cloak and signature scythe. Grandpa looked significantly thinner since the last time I saw him. His breakfast was left mostly untouched. It looked like he took maybe one bite of his piece of toast. My grandpa had forgotten how to swallow. The curious sparkle in his brilliant green eyes was replaced with a distant stare. His eyes had turned to a lifeless black. A cold and crawling dread crept up my spine; at the time, I wondered if I was being too pessimistic, but my grandpa looked like he could perish at any moment.

My dad greeted him with an exhausted “Hey, Dad.”

My grandpa murmured something. He was unintelligible. He wasn’t able to pronounce words anymore. A thorough sadness washed over me upon that realization. My dad and I stayed about an hour, but it felt like I was there for an eternity. It seemed as though I was subconsciously counting every second that passed by. As we were leaving, I awkwardly leaned over the bed to give my grandpa a hug. He didn’t hug me back. A very small part of me wondered if he remembered all the shortcuts he used to take when he was driving; wondered if he remembered when he would draw a smiley face on his nub of a thumb and make me laugh. I won-

dered if he remembered me at all. However, I think if there was one thing he did remember, it would be that one time he lost that race to some jerk named Russ.

I whispered a choked-up “Love ya” in my grandpa’s ear. I’m not sure if he understood what I said. And, if he did understand, did he understand how much I meant it? I had to force myself to end the hug. I turned around and nodded to my dad, gesturing that it was time to go. That’s the last memory I have of my grandpa.

I remember looking over the closed casket. I’m not sure at what point the casket went from open to closed, but suddenly, I was flattened with the clarity that I was really never going to see my grandpa again. I was hoping the casket would burst open, and my grandpa would jump out and say “Howdy!” but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. That would’ve been terrifying actually, now that I really think about it. I remember the gathering forming a circle around where my grandpa was being buried. I remember the sobbing. I remember people hiding their tears behind black sunglasses. I remember the casket being lowered into the ground and the mechanical sounds that accompanied it. I was petrified. I couldn’t move. It’s like that moment was frozen in time. I think I blinked once, and I abruptly found myself back home. It was over.

I walked back into my room. There was a noticeable shift in the air when I walked inside. There was a strange aura in my room. It felt desolate. You could taste the hopelessness. Death loomed in the corner with its black cloak and signature scythe. I looked at Death a little more closely. Under its hood, I saw a familiar wrinkled, old face. I saw a set of brilliant green eyes behind its glasses. Death reached its hand out for me. Its thumb was just a nub. There was a smiley face drawn on it. It faintly whispered to me in a recognizable voice: “Howdy.”

Seasons

Alexander Kogen

Sweltering light beats

Down upon the rocky banks

Waiting for the tide

Autumn leaves falling Oranges, yellows, and reds Showering the ground

In the frigid air Surrounded by frozen trees A once teeming pond

Trees shake off the ice Grass freed from snowy prison Flowering once more

I Told You So

Liana Jacobson

Ironically, my greatest motivators are doubt, critique, and underestimation. Whether it has been in the classroom, the gym, the “safety” and “secureness” of my past intimate relationships, or even my own mind, nothing pushes me more than others telling me that I will never be capable of performing a task. There have been countless times throughout my life in which I have been told that I will never succeed because of my sex, intellectual ability, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, low selfesteem, and the list goes on. I used to let the negative voices win and dominate the direction of my life. I stayed isolated within my comfort zone and promised myself that I would remain there for eternity for fear of failure.

I told myself that I would accept nothing less than “perfection,” and perfection would be impossible outside of my comfort zone, right?

does not matter. What matters is how one reacts to that doubt, pessimism, and underestimation: one can either give up entirely or use others’ projected insecurities to fuel their own successes. I chose the latter. Ultimately, there is not a more empowering feeling than when the hard work pays off, and I can tell someone that previously doubted, critiqued, and underestimated me, “I told you so.”

The judgment of others is inevitable, but often, these individuals have burning insecurities within themselves and choose to project them onto those they envy.

Well, “perfection” is perception. Imperfections, failures even, are sincerely our greatest gifts. However, our minds often view them as flaws and, therefore, our true beauty and overall growth are overshadowed, blinded, and never visible to the naked eye. No one is without flaws and failures, but it is these flaws and failures that create beauty and success. Therefore, they should be spotlighted and celebrated, regardless of society’s unrealistic standards and expectations. The judgment of others is inevitable, but often, these individuals have burning insecurities within themselves and choose to project them onto those they envy. Once I learned this, I became unstoppable. I have been broken, beaten, and bruised by others, and admittedly by my own doubt and pessimistic thoughts as well. However, that

The classroom is not the only environment in which I have been underestimated, but it is certainly one of them. I attended a K-12 public school for my entire academic career before college, and it is no secret that students in schools all across the country are placed in a “box” based on their academic capabilities and performance from the time that they walk into their kindergarten classrooms to the time that they walk across the stage and receive their diplomas. While I agree that education is a privilege that should never be taken for granted, I do not agree with the divided treatment of students based solely on their academic abilities. Students who do not perform well in school are often doubted and overshadowed by the overachievers that excel in academics. However, these students have potential, too, and deserve an equal chance to shine. In Mark Bowden’s nonfiction essay, “Dumb Kids’ Class,” he discusses his overall experience and lessons learned as a student in both the “dumb kids’ class” and the “smart kids’ class” throughout his K-8 education.

Bowden attended three different Catholic schools and remained a student in the “dumb kids’ class” until his eighth-grade year at St. Joseph’s. At first, he was underestimated by the nuns at his new school due to his history of academic performance in prior years. However, he was eventually promoted to the “smart kids’ class,” with all of the “pampered

kiss-asses, overly concerned with pleasing parents and teachers.” On the contrary, the “dumb” kids were not obliged to fulfill such expectations, if any at all. Therefore, “with the burden of expectation lifted,” the dumb kids often fell victim to trouble and mischief (Bowden 2). Throughout Bowden’s Catholic school education, he came to the ultimate realization that the “dumb” kids are often brushed off and overshadowed by the overachievers that possess academic excellence. In essence, their true potential is often never shown because they are immediately doubted and, therefore, never given the chance to shine, unless they use that doubt to their advantage.

I remember the first time that I took a leap of faith and challenged myself to an advanced placement course in secondary school. I walked into the classroom and sat down at my desk with sweaty palms and what felt like a burning target on my back. The other students in the room were enrolled in this class to get AP credit for Ivy League colleges and spent their entire academic careers sitting in honors classes and obtaining academic awards and scholarships. I felt dumb. Sure, I was here to get AP credit too, but this was my first time in an advanced placement course, and it was beyond obvious. The other students’ stares were the lasers burning through the target on my back, and I could not escape the sizzling burn. The sweat droplets started running faster than an Ironman athlete, and my heart felt as if it was going to explode through my chest. Cue the panic attack.

When the bell rang, I ran to my counselor’s office and demanded to be transferred out of the course. He told me to sit down. My counselor spoke three words to me: “Prove them wrong.” I took a moment to process those three words, shook my head, and left his office, still enrolled in the course. I ended the course with a ninety-eight in both semesters and ended up receiving a five on the AP exam, an opportunity that I would not have had if I had left the first day of class. However, while my performance might appear to be a success on the surface, the true meaning behind it dives much deeper. I discovered that, “real goodness is in giving up” a task not when it is easy to do so, “but when it is hard” (Bowden 4). However, I did not give up. I put in the work and showed those that doubted me

that I could excel in the course. It is great “to enjoy the world’s esteem.” However, it is, “better still to be underestimated (Bowden 4). All in all, my performance would have been impossible without the fuel of doubt and underestimation. I proved them wrong. Though, I proved myself wrong, too.

Nonetheless, I did not only prove the “smart kids” wrong. I proved others wrong as well. Mark Bowden’s idea of proving those that have doubted one wrong is the most powerful self-esteem booster of all time goes far beyond the classroom. For instance, the gym. Fitness centers are an intimidating place for many individuals, especially those that are new to their fitness journeys. Often, new gym goers feel vulnerable in an unfamiliar space and fear judgment from those at the intermediate to advanced levels, especially women. In fact, a recent survey from Women’s Health found that approximately one in three surveyed women, “described ‘intimidation in the gym’ as their biggest barrier” to entering one (Gritt 1). Despite my initial fear of entering a mostly male-dominated sport, I fell in love with lifting weights from the time that I first picked them up. Naturally, I became addicted to the rush of endorphins that I would feel during and after each of my workout sessions along with the empowering strength gains.

However, that initial excitement began to fade when my own family started to comment on my appearance in a negative and rather disrespectful manner. I frequently encountered fitness professionals on social media discussing the doubt and negativity that they experienced, often from their own friends and family, but I never thought that it would occur to me. Well, I was wrong. My grandmother would voice her concerns regarding how “bulky” my physique would become if I continued to weightlift while also telling me to watch how many calories I consume at every family event I would attend. Additionally, some of my male family members would tell me that “women should not lift weights” because “they will never be as strong as men.” Even my partner at the time struggled to show an ounce of support for my new hobby. This was not only frustrating to me but also intimidating. How could my own loved ones be so unsupportive and critical toward me for doing something that brought me

genuine joy?

Fortunately, I did not let their pessimism defeat me. I discovered that insecure individuals doubt those that they envy or feel inferior to. Thus, I shifted my mindset and began to take critiques as compliments. Despite the overwhelming doubt and negativity that I encountered, I listened to my heart and have not put down the weights since. I have been pushing myself in the gym for almost three years now using others’ doubts and negative comments to my advantage. Believe it or not, the thought of those three words, “prove them wrong,” is a stronger pre-workout than caffeine or any pre-workout supplement on the market. Though, that thought inevitably became my reality. The same individuals that initially doubted me are now complimenting my physique and discipline three years later. And, what do I say to them? “I told you so.”

Moreover, Bowden’s idea is not only applicable to specific environments but stages of life as well. Entering young adulthood is stressful as it is. Adolescents are expected to provide for themselves in the real world as opposed to depending on their guardians for need fulfillment and support. Furthermore, the transformation from childhood to adulthood becomes an even harder obstacle to navigate when provided with zero parental support or guidance. When entering college last fall, I felt very isolated and consumed with immense despair as it seemed that my own family and friends did not have my back. I announced to my peers that I planned on pursuing a career in education, and all I heard on repeat was, “You will make no money in that field,” and, “You will be miserable as a teacher in this society.” Each time these words entered my ears, I felt like my childhood dream was one step closer to becoming entirely crushed. It is not uncommon for fear and shame to be “considered a spur to better behavior and accomplishment,” whether it be in the parenting or education world (Bowden 1). However, I was not scared in the slightest anymore, especially after knowing that doubt sparks from jealousy and jealousy sparks from nothing more than invasive

insecurities.

Ever since I was a young girl, I had a burning desire to become a teacher. I used to set my stuffed animals out in front of me and pretend to teach them, and while I no longer do that at nineteen years old, the desire has yet to burn out. Others may desire to work in a career solely for the generous salary, but I would rather wake up excited to go to work every day and not make a fortune than dread going to work for a few extra dollars in my pocket. As a matter of fact, a teacher’s choice to leave their profession behind is ultimately influenced by the location and district in which one teaches. Teachers tend to chalk up the, “long hours, never-ending duties, micro-management from the administration, behavior in the classroom that never seems to improve,” and other challenges to their “incompatibility” with a teaching career (Woodward 1). In reality, these are the best teachers that adore teaching at their core and will go to great lengths for their students but simply cannot handle the demands and obstacles of their district.

Each time these words entered my ears, I felt like my childhood dream was one step closer to becoming entirely crushed.

So, my friends and family can doubt my career choice all they want, but as long as I work for a district that respects me, then I believe I will be perfectly content with my career. As with any profession, one’s own experiences will not automatically guarantee another’s, especially if under vastly different circumstances. Hence, I am motivated more than ever to “prove them wrong.” When the doubters and pessimists see me beaming with joy as I positively influence the lives of my students, I will simply look at them and say, “I told you so.” At the end of the day, it is my life, and I am going to live it as I wish. Fundamentally, those doubts and critiques were not strong enough to exhaust the flame of my personal or professional desires, and they never will be.

Whether it be the “smart kids’ class” versus the “dumb kids’ class” or the “high-paying career” versus the “low-paying career,” the “box” divisions within life are inevitable. Humans are categorized into “boxes” all of the time but that does not mean that those “boxes” should automatically determine

how they are treated. Every individual on this planet is unique and gifted with a beautiful potential and a purpose that deserves to shine. There will always be insecure critics that will undermine any soul they envy and attempt to overshadow others’ beauty, potential, and purpose. However, it is up to the underestimated individual to absorb every ounce of

Works Cited

doubt from those critics and use it as fuel to flourish. I could lift three times my body weight in the gym, but there is simply nothing that makes me feel stronger than proving those envious critics wrong and saying these four words to their faces: “I told you so.”

Bowden, Mark. “Dumb Kids' Class.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 1 June 2012, www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/06/dumb-kids-class/308981/.

Gritt, Emma. “New Survey Finds 1-in-2 Women Avoid the Gym Due to Fear of Wearing Lycra.” Women's Health. 25 Oct. 2022, www.womenshealthmag.com/uk/health/mental-health/a41766551/womenfear-gym-lycra/.

Woodward, Madison. “You Don't Hate Teaching, You Hate Your School.” The Educators Room, 28 Feb. 2022, theeducatorsroom.com/you-dont-hate-teaching-you-hate-your-school/.

The Zebra

Jack Hugener

Sit on the deck and smell the air; feel the grass and hear the birds; sit on the deck and watch the storm; the storm cannot hurt you; watch the lightning and hear the boom; count the seconds in between; be what you want to be, regardless of what others want you to be; treat people well, because everyone is human; don’t hurt an animal, because they are God’s creatures; what if I don’t believe in God? ; then don’t hurt an animal because they’ve done no wrong; don’t kill those bugs, they are God’s creatures, and if you don’t believe in God then you’ll let them be anyway; your dog is your best friend, even if you don’t have any; be a friend to those that have none; be the person whose friend they want to be; this is how you treat a friend; this is how you treat a girl; be gentle and be kind; wash your neck and your ass if nothing else; your father might not teach you; this is how you shave your face; your father might not teach you; this is how you cook a steak; your father might not teach you; this is how you plant a seed; your father might not teach you; this is how you catch a fish, but don’t let me catch you treating it badly; I want to be a soldier ; then be a soldier; I want to be an artist ; then be an artist; I want to be a chef ; then be a chef; I want to be an artist again; then be an artist; I want to be a writer ; then be a writer; be a zebra for all I care, for if you are a zebra then a zebra is what you are meant to be; this is how you make do when making do is all you can do; this is why making do might not always be enough; this is how you deal with people to whom making do is not enough; these are the people trying to take the fruit of your work; but don’t let them blame those in need; the man on the TV talks too much; this is why he’s wrong; that is not how you treat a person; this is how you treat a person; don’t let me tell you how to think; don’t let me tell you how to vote; don’t let them tell you how to think; don’t let them

tell you how to vote; don’t judge a person because of how they think, don’t judge a person because of how they vote; a person is a person is a person and a person is human; you’re a person and you’re human; this is how you be a man; your father might not teach you; don’t let them tell you how to be a man; your father might not teach you; a man is a man is a man; but don’t let me tell you to be a man; a man is what you are and a man is what a man means to you; you don’t have to be a man if a man you are not; don’t let me tell you to be what you are not; be the man that a man wouldn’t dare to be; be good to the man telling you not to be the man he would not dare to be, as he is one of God’s creatures; I don’t believe in God; then be good to the man because he is a person and because a person is human; and if you see mistreated the man telling you to be the man he would not dare to be, then stand up for the man despite his beliefs; stand up for him who would not stand up for you; stand up to the man who will not let you be a zebra, a soldier, an artist, a chef, a writer, a person.

How the Bear Changed Me

Sharon Dershin

Have you ever wanted to change your life? I mean totally shake it up.

It’s not that I don’t like my job or whatever, but I’m looking for a change. Something new. Tired of my peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Tired of my clothes. Tired of myself, really. I slipped my sandals on and walked out into another sunny California day.

As I wandered out of my apartment, the smell of coffee filled the air and drew me into the shop downstairs, the smell of creosote and smog and coffee to be exact. I got in line. In front of me was a family with two children. The parents were talking about their big move.

“How will we find a teacher for the kids?”

“Someone will want to join us.”

“We are leaving so soon. I hate that we left it to the last moment.”

I stood there, thoughts swirling. Was it one of those sliding doors moments in life? Choose it. Can I?

“Hey. I couldn’t help but hear, you need a teacher? I’m a teacher. 3rd grade.”

“Do you want to sit with us and talk about it?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed some cream and coffee stir and joined them at the table. They told me about their plans to live in a little cabin in the Arctic Circle for a year. It looked beautiful. Little log cabin in the middle of nowhere. They needed someone to teach their children Maggie, four, and Sky, eight, for a year.

Me. Me. Me! My head kept saying. After a long discussion it was all agreed. We’d leave in three weeks.

What to pack? I had never been to such a remote place. I mean there could be bears! What if I get hurt? No one in sight. No one to help. I don’t know these people. What if they’re weird? They look nice…deep breath. I’m doing it. Yeah.

Nothing like packing up your life, or what you think is your life. As I put the last file box of my

belongings into the 10 x 10 storage locker, I thought, what the heck am I doing? Close the door. Open the window. Isn’t there a saying like that?

Hiking boots, Rain gear, warm freakin’ coat. Definitely. Layers, my mom always told me to wear layers in the cold. What is the temperature in the arctic? The Arctic tundra is the coldest of all biomes, with an average annual temperature in the Arctic Circle being -35° F. Okay. Socks. Wool Socks. First aid. I need a kit. 298 piece all-purpose first aid emergency kit. That should work. Mittens. WARM ONES. Food. Whatever would we do for food? Watch. I don’t think I’ll need that. No Watch. Radio. GPS?

I was ready. I sat in my empty apartment with a slice of pizza and a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles when my phone rang.

Woman (speaking on phone): “We aren’t going. So, sorry Kate. John got a job. Total last minute. We couldn’t turn it down. You can go if you want. Use our plane. The cabin is there. You’ll need to plan out your food. We planned on picking up supplies in Fairbanks.”

Plan out my food. For an entire year. What to bring? Flour, yeast, baking soda, honey, peanut butter. Peanut butter. Powder milk, coffee, oatmeal…lots to think about. Salt. Pepper. I’ve no idea what to bring. Chickens for eggs? Fishing rod, gun? The last time I shot a gun I was in Girl Scouts.

Flight to Seattle. Flight to Anchorage. Then Fairbanks. There I arranged food. Everyone was full of suggestions. Once all the supplies were gathered, I met the small plane. The pilot flew me in. It was a sea plane. Small and bumpy ride, but it was gorgeous. The plane skimmed the mountains as it flew following the river. The vastness of the land hit all my senses. Just trees and rivers as far as the eye could see. Occasionally we would see a bear or moose or an eagle by the river.

Pilot: “Why are you living all the way up here? Research? (pause) It sure is pretty, though. Getting away from someone?”

“I wanted to challenge myself. Live alone. Be self-sufficient.”

The pilot gave me a look as if to say “be courageous,” but really meant “you’re crazy.”

After many hours, with a good bump we landed in a river. Thanks to my hip waders I made it safely to the shore. It was only about a mile from the cabin. That might not seem far, but there was a lot to carry for my 5’4” body. He was nice and helped me. There were rocks and bushes and trees on either side. It was quite rugged. The grass had been trampled down by animals trying to get to the river for a drink or food. Then I saw it. A little cabin in a clearing. Just like the picture.

It was beautiful, the cabin was small. There was one glass window in the front door. Other windows had been covered with plastic and duct tape. Just a couple of rooms and a kitchen. A stove to burn wood to keep it warm. A small refrigerator that I hoped worked. A freezer on the porch. My knife. Did I bring a knife? Whew.

I unpacked, thanked the pilot by giving him a cup of coffee, powder creamer. Opened the door to let air in and stood and looked. There was a large field and then in a circle some trees. Trees were small because of the permafrost. Fuzzy sticks they’re called in Alaska. In the distance I heard the plane engine start and then silence. It was hot.

I was home.

I woke up. I had not considered what I had to do every day. I opened the front door and looked out.

I grabbed my fishing pole and net and headed for the lake. On the way I stumbled on a rock and skinned my knee. The walk took twenty minutes and there were lots of mosquitos. I rubbed dirt on my arms which seemed to make them less bothersome.

The river flowed swiftly. I would need to catch a lot of fish before winter to be able to eat. Dipping my net into the river I pulled up a salmon. Wow. Dinner. Again and again, I pulled out salmon. Fifteen in all. I’ll survive the winter.

I stuffed fish in my backpack, under my arms and in the net. I carried them home in several trips. Then, I chopped them up in portions and put them in the freezer and cooked a bit for myself. Satisfied, I sat out staring at the clearing, belly full. The sun was still up. I had no idea of the time. I sat for a while. A long

while. This is my new life.

The next morning, packing my gun, I took a walk to explore the forest. Coming out of a thicket, I came upon a little hill covered in blueberries. Filling my canvas bag and the bottom of my T shirt with as much as it could hold, I dreamed of making jam. I wondered if there were jars in the cabin. As I turned to leave, I saw a bear. Eating as many berries as he could. He lifted his head and glanced at me and thankfully went right back to eating. I backed up slowly and hid behind a tree. Heart racing, I headed home. I knew Grizzly bears can hit speeds of 35 mph. When they come out of hibernation they must be absolutely starving. What am I doing here all alone? I must be crazy. Seeing the cabin was such a wonderful sight.

When I got there, I noticed that the glass pane in the door had been broken. Shattered glass was on the porch. There was blood and bear fur on the door. I carefully cleaned out the glass and found some plastic to seal the window. I nervously walked into the kitchen. Disaster. The room was a mess. The bear had been in the house. My honey. My honey was gone. That bear took all my honey. A year without dessert!

I walked back outside, really pissed. Looked right and left, down a little way to the left sat another bear. Ten-foot, brown, ferocious Grizzly bear sitting with my bucket of honey. Digging in with his paw and having the time of his life. My heart started racing. I ran inside, grabbed a big metal pot and a spoon and started banging it. The bear was startled and scared off. I walked over to where the bear sat and grabbed my honey. I scraped off the top bit and took my reward. Standing there in the clearing, I took a deep breath. Looked around for the bear and went inside. Once I was inside, I fell to the floor realizing what I had just done. I wasn’t in California anymore.

The next day I went about gathering wood and twine to build a cache. There was a box of nails and a hammer, an ax in the cabin, lucky. There was a tree outside the cabin. I could hang the food somehow. Steadily I dragged wood that had fallen and made a pulley system where I could hang my food and get it up and down easily. Hopefully the bear would not be able to figure it out. He could climb, but maybe

my invention would be too much trouble for him.

The sun was hot. High in the sky. I should have jumped in the lake for a bath. I had to haul water to the house. Four to six buckets. That meant four to six trips. I could wash my dishes and myself with that.

I must be beginning to smell. Good thing no one is with me.

Days seemed to move in slow motion. From sun-up to sun-down I worked. The leaves on the trees were beginning to change color. Shades of red, orange, yellow blew in the subtle wind. I needed to seal up the window in the front door. I took a few logs and worked them until they were flat and put moss in between in the cracks. I left the plastic as a barrier. Everything took ingenuity.

One thing was for sure: the bear was encroaching. I often saw him trying to figure out my cache. This was no small bear. He was huge. Lumbering.

I had read that urine would prevent them from coming too close. Every day I would walk fifteen feet out from the cabin. Pee and tie a little red string so I knew how far I had gotten. It took many days, but I finally completed a circle around the cabin.

Clamoring up to the roof of the cabin, I watched for the bear. It did come up to my circle. Smell it moved a bit and smelled again and turned away. It worked. I couldn’t believe it.

Then it snowed.

One morning, lying in bed. I had the feeling someone was looking at me. I opened my eyes. And there in my face was the bear. Drooling on me with his hot smelly breath and sharp teeth. A scream came all the way from my toes. It was a sound I didn’t know I could make. Loud. Unbelievably, the bear’s eyes narrowed. He tucked his tail and ran out of the cabin.

I scared the bear.

I sat up. Totally freakin’, heart racing. Surprised I didn’t pee myself. “I really needed a better lock on the door.” That’s it. I grabbed the gun. Got up on the roof of the cabin in my pajamas and decided I would shoot him. This was no easy decision. It was him or me. I sat there determined. Looking out at the clearing. I had no idea how close the bear needed to come to shoot it. I didn’t know if I could. I was a pacifist for goodness sakes. There I sat. Seemed

like forever.

Suddenly, a loud sound (like a freight train) came from the right. A giant moose ran followed by the bear. ZOOM. They ran across the clearing into the forest to my left.

I heard squeals and growls from a loud fight, and then a crashing sound.

That’s it, the moose is a goner, I thought.

Then silence. Suddenly the moose came out of the woods staggering around like a drunk. Followed by the bear dizzily walking.

The moose went left, and the bear went right. I laughed to myself as I climbed off the roof and went inside. No one was dying today.

The snow started falling. Temperatures dropped. I took snow and melted it to wash, bathe, do dishes. Chopping wood for the fire became a full-time job. I was exhausted, but there was nothing like lying in a warm bath. Looking out the window and seeing the snow fall, I could relax, the bear was now sleeping.

I didn’t go far from the cabin, but brought my honey inside. Blueberry pancakes with syrup became my staple breakfast or lunch. I don’t really know. Time passed.

The temperature dropped. I was wearing all my clothes, even inside. The darkness lasted seven minutes longer each day.

One night there was a knock at the door. A knock! I opened the door and saw a man with a beard filled with snow. He said, “It’s really, cold out tonight, do you mind if I come in?”

I gave him a good look, UP and DOWN, then let him in. Me, a single woman in the middle of nowhere, let the man in the house. I made him a cup of coffee and he defrosted.

“What were you doing out here?”

Jamie was his name. “Just exploring. I saw your chimney smoke and headed this way. I didn’t want to sleep outside again. I almost froze last night.”

We got to talking and the night passed. He had a guitar and played some music. We both fell asleep. I woke up to the smell of coffee and the fire burning. A smile covered my face. I had never been happier.

Jamie had the most beautiful blue eyes. Curly hair. He cut wood every day, played music and I created things to cook with the supplies left. Days became months. Jamie and I enjoyed our time to-

gether in the cabin. Our conversations grew deeper and one night he leaned over and kissed me. You know the feeling when your stomach does butterfly flip flops? Well, mine did. You leave civilization and go into the middle of nowhere and the love of your life knocks on the door. It was unbelievable.

The snow began to melt, and the sun came up seven minutes more each day. One night, we made

a big fire outside. The sky was blacker than black, and there must have been a million stars overhead. The greenish yellow of the northern lights danced in swirls overhead.

“Will you marry me?”

Linda Beitzel, watercolor

Thank you, Lightning

Amelia Villhauer

No one really told me how I was meant to go about being in my first relationship. Especially when I was only 13 and had no clue what the words love and heartbreak even meant and the significance they can hold. Especially when the person I was entering a relationship with was a girl and I’m supposed to be with only boys. Right?

But Alex wasn’t just a girl. She was the pebbles falling down the side of a mountain triggering an avalanche. A fiery catalyst that ripped back the curtain to reveal a world of love and sexuality I lost myself in that regularly and left me gasping for air or struggling to get a grip on my old reality. My life was simple like a dark blue night sky, and she struck like lightning across it, imprinting herself into my soul forever.

Meeting her felt so insignificant at the time. One week into seventh grade my friend Joy walked over to the lunch table with Alex and her twin sister Samantha behind her, and all I was thinking about was how excited I was to have new friends in middle school. It only was a matter of weeks into the friendship when both Alex and Samantha started uttering words like bisexual, transgender, nonbinary, and so on. Before Alex, I didn’t even know what bisexual was. I didn’t know there was anything beyond straight, lesbian, and gay. Sure, I had grown up with an older lesbian sister who had been in a relationship with the same girl since I was eight years old, but Kelley and I weren’t really the type to sit down and have a prolonged discussion about sexuality and what it means thanks to the 10-year age gap between us.

I had always known that it was okay to love someone that is the same or opposite gender as you, but no one bothered to mention to me that it was okay to love more than one. No one until Alex. And of course, as a naive fresh-faced teenager, I jumped into accepting a new sexuality without truly realizing what it meant, well that is until it

was too late. But I just wanted to experience this new lifestyle. I wanted to keep learning more and surround myself in it because to me it was new and it was exciting. A life where I wasn’t stuck in a box of loving just one type of person. There was this huge community I wanted to learn about, and I wondered how could I have lived 13 years without knowing about this beautiful and supportive group of people.

And of course, amongst all of the excitement there was a girl who made me giddy and giggle at everything she did. Who filled my body with huge butterflies flapping their wings. I will never forget the night where I was lying next to her on a couch in her basement watching a movie as she held me while circling her finger on my hip which left my brain short circuited and my body peppered with tingling goosebumps. I couldn’t have even tried to describe the plot of the movie if I had wanted to. It only made sense that when she asked me out at the beginning of the summer my only answer could be yes. Yes, as long as no one knew.

And what a beautiful summer it was. Sleepovers of sharing beds and falling asleep just staring at each other. Innocent kisses on the cheek. Feeling wrapped in a warm bubble of newfound emotions. We were each other’s little secret and it made everything feel so personal and intimate. I wish I could say it stayed exactly like this. That school started up again and we told everyone proudly, and we’re still together in love. But the truth has always been a harsh brute force, hasn’t it?

School starting up was the bubble popping and our relationship shattered. I’ll never forget when Alex asked me a few weeks before going back to school if I was comfortable telling people. My first instinct was no. Fear reared its head and turned into this ugly monster choking me out. Whispering in my ear that if I told everyone about Alex that I would be titled the gay kid. My sexuality would be out there for people to know and pick at and I didn’t have the strength to let them. Whenever I pictured

myself in a relationship before, it was always with a boy. Wasn’t I always meant to end up with a boy? Now I was with a girl and it felt like the future I always planned for myself was ripping at the seams, and I was too scared to deal with that fact. The only solution that seemed possible was to grab duct tape and try to get everything back to my normal. A normal where I didn’t like girls and especially didn’t end up in relationships with them. No one had to know about my slip up. No one had to know. Also, if even the thought of telling people I was dating a girl terrified me so much, then I guess I have no other choice but to take it as a sign that maybe I am heterosexual.

I’m not proud of how I shattered Alex’s heart. Shame is a better word for it. I behaved like a coward and I couldn’t even look her in the eyes. Everything we built, every moment we shared, every smile we pulled out of each other, every prolonged hug, every part of our beautiful summer love broken over a measly stupid text message. In a span of one conversation, I hurt someone who meant the world to me and shoved myself back in the closet and locked the door.

It took many years to attempt opening that door again. Every time I would try the ugly monster of fear wrapped around my throat and left me gasping for air until I slammed the door shut again. Along the way, I learned about the term internalized homophobia and suddenly everything was starting to make sense again. By the time I had the courage to officially come out again I was a couple months into my freshman year of college. By then, Alex was nothing but a lost memory that would cross my mind and spark a sad smile filled with nostalgia and regret.

I don’t know what my future holds or who I will eventually end up with but something that is going to remain certain is that Alex will always be the girl who lit up my night sky and showed me how bright and exciting lightning can be.

Summer in Chicago

Amelia Villhauer

Bright days

The buzz of the hustle and bustle

Cafes overflow into the streets

Laughter echoes off every surface

Why would anyone contain a smile

When there’s a river that sparkles in shades of sapphire

Winding and turning through the city to catch everyone’s eye

Tall buildings kiss the sky

Flowers dance to greet everyone with the spread of their petals

Sand stretches beyond comprehension

Gritty and burning beneath their feet

Welcoming Lake Michigan to land with a hug

And I am inside

Clocking in for another day inside these prison walls

Concrete that taunts and laughs in my face

Grayness spreading for miles

Sunburnt happy faces mock my pale complexion

Their long flowing skirts tease my scratchy blue and gray uniform

The customer service smile is ripping at the seams

What does the sun even look like?

I should be with them

Carefree, crazy, crawling towards adventure

Instead, I’m here

Stuck, sad, swallowing these feelings down

I want summer to greet me in a hug

Golden rays please fill me with hope

Reach into my chest and release this pressure

Let me go grayness and routine

Let me shine

Let me go outside

December

Paulina Moran

We stand behind the yellow line in front of the tracks. The 5:50 train to Wisconsin flashes past, the wind stirs and blows through our hair, my teeth begin to chatter. A voice comes over the intercom announcing the 6:04 to Clybourn is approaching. I shift forward and back on my heels, anxious. She turns and stares at me for a moment, concerned. I smile reassuringly, “What?” She hesitates, “What will you do if you see him tonight?” I fully turn to her, caught off guard by the question. She stares at me expectant. The sun is setting and casts a golden hue over her face, illuminating it. I’ve always loved her eyes, mahogany brown, it’s like you’re staring into two cups of warm coffee. I finally shake my head “Nothing.” I look away from her and down the tracks toward the city. “That’s so sad.” she murmurs. I turn back, creasing my brows. “What is?” She shrugs. “How two people could be so intimate at a point then become strangers again.” Her words echo in my head, unsettling me. It’s funny how you think you’re healed from something, then the smallest comment will pull you back, dismantling the progress. A chill runs over me thinking of her words, “I need you to not say stuff like that to me.”

February

You pass them at a party without either of you making the slightest eye contact, the two of you knowing the other is there without having to glance. It’s not necessarily that you feel their presence in the room; it’s more that you feel the affect their presence has on you. Anyone watching from afar would assume you are strangers and maybe you were at a time or maybe a part of you always knew the other before your paths ever intersected. Now they brush past you indifferently when just weeks ago the two of you lay in bed, fully clothed but emotionally stripped. I told you my past. You told me I didn’t deserve it. You told me your dreams and I told you

they’re beautiful. I told you my fears, you told me they’re unsound. I am afraid of people leaving, I am afraid of people forgetting. Passing you at this party, not uttering a word to one another; my deepest fear coming to life; the fear I confided to you in the comfort of your bedroom.

March

We crowd under the awning at the train station as the flurries come down. It’s nearing the end of March yet my fingers still become numb within seconds. I keep flicking the lighter attempting to get it lit, but the evening wind interrupts each time. It finally catches and I pull out the joint, working quickly. We sit on the cold, concrete stairs and pass it back and forth. When it’s my turn, I don’t stop hitting it. I breathe in deeper and deeper, praying this will somehow suck me into another life. I’m sick of the one I’m living in. “Stop. That’s too much.” She reaches for it but I pull back. Laying down on the second step. Various people rush up the steps as the train schedule flicks across the screen above. My long, blonde hair pours over the edge of the step and people step on the ends of it, going into the station. “Paulina, that is too much” I look up at her and shrug. “I don’t fucking care.” I’m suddenly at Lincoln Hall handing the bouncer my entry ticket and ID, joking with him that it’s real. I remember my friend grabbing my arm and tugging me out of line, laughing uncomfortably and telling me to “shut the hell up you want to get us kicked out?” After that I just kept waking up. I woke up on the floor of the venue; it was vibrating from the music radiating off the stage and I pressed my ear against the hardwood floor before I was pulled off it. I woke up in the car, my cheeks wet with tears, leaning against the glass window, until the door swung open and I tumbled out. I woke up in my bedroom, to my father screaming at me from the other room saying I charged a $120 Uber to his credit card. I pull a pillow over my head, praying when I wake, I’ll be elsewhere. I’ll be in his bedroom. I’ll be listening to the nostalgic hum of

his records and to his roommates yelling at us to be quiet. Instead, my eyes flutter open to the darkness of my room, my blinds pulled close and the sound of my stepmother fumbling around in the kitchen. She can’t cook for shit so I’m not sure what she’s up to. My dad stands in the doorway, shaking his head in disapproval. “What are you doing?” he asks, displeased. I let my head fall back down on my pillow. “Self-destructing,” I tell the ceiling.

April

I’m at lunch with my brother. He lives in this small, shitty town so we go to the same pizza place every time I visit. “How have you been lately?” He sits across from me drinking his third cherry Coke I probably shouldn’t have let him order. I reach for another slice and stuff it in my mouth. “I got fired this morning,” I say with my mouth full. His eyes go wide. “That means when they force you to leave right?” I nod. “Why did you get fired?” he asks, concerned. I shrug. “I stopped caring about my job” He stares at me. “Why?” I put my crust on his plate. “I’m depressed.” He’s still staring at me but in a more serious way now. “Why?” I wait to answer and take a long pull from the margarita I ordered. “Someone broke my heart.” His eyes go soft and sad for me. Something about brown eyes I just love. My brother has them, my mom, my best friend; they make me feel at home. “I’m sorry.” he says real softly. I look out the window at the snow falling; it’s April what the hell is this I think and then eventually turn back to him. “It’s okay.”

May

I walk into my mother’s bedroom. It’s a little after twelve, I stand in the doorway, observing her for a moment. Fox News blares from the TV propped on her dresser; it’s surrounded with unopened makeup and perfume boxes. Stacks of paperwork litter her bed, filled with blue ink notes in the margins. Her eyes flick back and forth from the television to the book in her lap: The Menopause Manifesto. She chews on her blue pen. It takes several seconds to notice I’m standing in the doorway. Her face beams at me, hopeful. “Hey! How was the party?” I smile at her reassuringly. Then I let out a laugh then I let out a cry. “Oh honey, come here, come lay down.”

I kick off the heels I especially wore tonight hoping he would comment on them. My mother quickly

collects her papers and pulls up the comforter allowing me to crawl in next to her. My body is rigid at first when she wraps her arms around me. I haven’t let anyone touch me since last winter. I built my hard-coated cocoon and have not emerged since. She softly kisses the top of my head and this small display of affection reminds me how much I have been deprived of intimacy and comfort like this. My entire body breaks out in a tremor of sobs. The pain radiates through me, slowly smothering every part, like a wildfire consuming a once beautiful home. My mother runs her fingers through my blonde curls, my ears burn in distress and I flinch when her hand brushes against one of them. “Can I tell you something?” she asks between gasps of my cries. I don’t answer, but she speaks anyways. “Honey, heartbreak is somewhere you go to build a tent, not somewhere you build a home.” I sit up and look at her, shaking my head. “What does that mean?” I choke out. She smiles, sadly. “You will see.”

July

I think that’s the worst part; the fact no one can really pull you out of it. You sit in it and you’re just praying for someone; someone to come and heal or rescue or wake you. Then you realize no one is coming. You must be the one to do it. You have to be the one to seek out the closure you weren’t given. To learn how to forgive them for mistreating the love you gave. To forgive yourself for not walking away the times you should have. You must be the one to collect the shattered parts and rebuild yourself. Someone may have set fire to the house, but now it’s up to you to build it back up and reclaim the home. You may believe the loss to be the worst thing to ever happen, but soon you will see it was a blessing in disguise. It gave you the opportunity to start fresh and make your foundation indestructible. You are not weak for it; you are so incredibly strong. The heart can be broken over and over yet can never be destroyed. It still finds the capacity to love again. For months there were so many things I wish I could tell you. I’d write texts over and over I would never send. If you stood in front of me today, I wouldn’t have anything to say and maybe some would think that’s sad, but I believe it to be resilient. It shows how after all the pain that someone can inflict, you are still able to reclaim your peace.

Memories of Anshan

Kam Hok (Jane) Tong

Igraduated and said “good-bye” to my university at the age of 24. I was assigned to Anshan Iron and Steel Corporation by the State and Anshan was my first stop into society.

At that time, the Shenyang-Dalian Railway ran through the entire city; it divided Anshan into two parts. Most of the area west of the railway was the AN GANG factory area, and east of the railway was the residential area. Anshan had a population of one million, and AN GANG claimed to have 240K employees. Now, Anshan has a population of 3.3 million and AN GANG has only 130K employees.

I got married and had children in Anshan. Back then, I was young and active. Many times, I visited AN GANG’s major factories with great enthusiasm. I wrote poetically, “When I come into AN GANG, it is like a drop of water falling into an ocean. I want to keep up with the huge waves, exercise and grow up, and be tempered into steel.”

assigned to live in AN GANG’s “318” maternal and infant dormitory.

I worked at the Anshan Iron and Steel Research Institute in the city. My husband worked in the forging workshop of AN GANG Machinery Maintenance Factory. It was about 20 kilometers away from our house. Back then, there were no private cars in mainland China.

Not long after we started working, my husband and I bought two bicycles from Beijing and shipped them to Anshan. From then on, we all cycled to and from work.

The winter in Anshan was full of ice and snow. Nobody ever cleared the snow on the roads in Anshan. One winter was enough to turn the roads into big, long skating rinks.

Many AN GANG employees lived in towns or rural areas along the railway line between Shenyang and Yingkou. Some of them took trains to AN GANG to go to and from work almost every day. Most of AN GANG’s employees and their families lived in Anshan, in AN GANG dormitory buildings east of the railway.

Among the many AN GANG dormitories, there was the “318” maternal and infant dormitory. It was famous for its surprisingly small rooms. Don’t underestimate this place. Here lived a lot of scholars who were university graduates from all over the country assigned by the State. Hundreds of college graduates and their families were assigned by AN GANG to live in less than two square meters, about 21.5 square feet of space. Our family of four was

The winter in Anshan was full of ice and snow. Nobody ever cleared the snow on the roads in Anshan. One winter was enough to turn the roads into big, long skating rinks. There were often heavy rains in the summer, and the roads were crisscrossed by railways. My husband was a thin and small Cantonese. He had to ride a bicycle round trip every day. The journey was full of dangers, and it was common to fall down and get hurt.

Ten years after we graduated, both of us were only earning the salary of college graduates. We ate poorly every day, the whole family was malnourished, and adults and children were constantly sick. At that time, Anshan’s supply of meat was only three taels per person per month, and the supply of eggs was also extremely short. Our eldest son William, six years old, was in the first grade of elementary school. He walked half an hour to school by himself. My four-year-old son Mark was in No.11 kindergarten every day.

Both of our bikes had a small wooden board mounted on the crossbar just for Mark. Every day when I went to work, Mark sat on the small wooden board. I pushed Mark to the kindergarten, and then I

used my bicycle to push Mark home after work.

Why did I walk my bike instead of ride it? Because the Anshan Public Security Bureau had grandly declared, “For the safety of citizens, traffic order must be rectified, and riding bicycles with children is not allowed.” Therefore, the Anshan Public Security Bureau had specifically dispatched police cars and trucks many times to arrest people riding bicycles with children.

One day, my husband and I were riding bicycles, and Mark was sitting on the crossbar of my husband’s bicycle. My husband rode near on the outside of the road. In order to protect them, I rode on the inside of the road.

We saw an unmarked truck driving up on the opposite lane, and a row of four small heads were exposed above the roof of the truck driver’s cab. This truck seemed suddenly to cross the middle dividing line of the road and drive straight towards us. The situation frightened us. My husband and I immediately got off our bikes and stood there. The truck drove all the way to the opposite side of us. Suddenly there was a harsh braking sound, and it stopped in front of us at once. I was shaking with fear. If this truck had not stopped, we would have been crushed to death.

Four strong men immediately jumped out of the bed of the truck. They loudly claimed that they were policemen, but the four of them were disheveled and none of them wore police hats. They came up and held my husband’s bicycle. Mark was so frightened that he cried and shouted, “Mom!” They handed the crying Mark to me, and then gave us a loud scolding.

They forcibly threw my husband’s bicycle into the bed of their truck. One of them said viciously, “You ride with a child, your bicycle has been confiscated! “ Perhaps because my weak husband did not resist them, they only confiscated the bicycle instead of arresting my husband.

The three of us had only one bicycle left, and we stood on the road stupidly for a long, long time. It seemed that taxis were rarely seen in Anshan back then. I don’t remember how we got home that day.

From then on, our family was all afraid of the police. Whenever Mark saw the police, he would shout from a distance, “Mom, police!” As long as Mark was

sitting on the bike, we no longer dared to ride. We could only push the bicycle and walk to take Mark to the kindergarten.

Once I took Mark back to Beijing for two weeks, but I didn’t inform his teacher. Because life in Anshan was very hard, on my return to Anshan, I brought a lot of things from Beijing for my friends and colleagues. The night before work, I set up individual packages for each person.

Then Mark came along and took a bag of candy. “This is for my teacher,” he said.

I said, “No. There is no way. You didn’t say in advance that you needed some gifts for your teacher. Every package here is accounted for. Mom forgot to buy candy in Beijing for your teacher. I am sorry.”

Mark put down the package of candy and walked away silently.

The next day after work, when I picked up Mark, I met Mark’s teacher who I had never met before this time. The teacher said to me, “ Mark didn’t come to kindergarten for two weeks. When I asked him where he had been, Mark told me that he was sick and hospitalized.”

When I heard it, I was stunned. I didn’t know how to answer the teacher.

That night, I told my husband what the teacher said. Both of us regretted that I caused Mark so much stress because I forgot to bring back a present for his teacher. What surprised me the most was that such a young child would make up lies about being sick and hospitalized to deal with his teacher. It was I who had made my own child lie. It made my heart ache.

One day Mark asked me for tetracycline. I asked him about his strange request, “What do you want tetracycline for?”

He said, “ Today in our class Di Tie gave our teacher some tetracycline tablets. Di Tie’s mother is a doctor at Lishan Hospital. During lunch, our teacher gave Di Tie a big snack.”

I said, “Mom is not a doctor, and I don’t have tetracycline on me. Mom also doesn’t know where to get it.”

It made me feel that every day the children were opening their eyes widely, watching all the things happening in the world around them, and learning how to live better in kindergarten. I knew that the

unhealthy atmosphere in society was influencing the kindergarten and polluting the young and innocent souls of the children.

But what could I do? How could I talk to a fouryear-old child about it? I understand that kindergarten is a corner of Chinese society, and there is nothing I can do to change it.

Life in Anshan left me with painful memories one after another. For the future of my children,

I had to leave. It has been almost half a century since I left the steel city of Anshan. However, every scene of my days in Anshan is like it was carved into my mind by a knife, making it impossible for me to forget.

Delaney Nichole Scott, ceramics

Scales

Rhea Hechanova

Astraea has heard stories about the fearsome creature that has been flying around her kingdom. She has not seen it for herself. Yet time and time again, many lips would share in hushed voices about its magnificently terrifying appearance.

“Its own eyes can pierce one’s heart with just a simple glance!” they exclaimed.

“The off-white scales depict how much blood has been spilled with its attacks!” they said to her.

She takes their concerns to heart, to the point where she memorizes each and every new detail that she comes across. The topmost detail is that it is an unpredictable force of nature. One day, it might be found in the eastern woods; the next, it could be seen in the plains up north. No one truly knows what its next move is, but she knows she must be ready to face it.

Astraea remembers the tales that she was told, born from the prose of her brother, Atlas, who had long passed as he suffered a terrible accident one early morning. They told her that he was allegedly bloodied and beaten in the forest when he was out riding on his horse. He used to speak of the lore of the adventurous sailors that rocked the surrounding seas of their nation, ethereal fairies and nymphs that skipped around the grasslands, the cunning witches who practice their magic in the woodlands, the teasing elves that schemed their mischief in the meadows, and the fantastical beasts that roamed around every nook and corner of their kingdom.

was around nine, leaving her and her brother to fend for themselves in the great but empty world that they live in.

Astraea roams around the thickly forested mountain ranges. It is beautiful, but sights like this are seldom what they seem. She has been walking for who knows how long as she clings to her blue cloak, which covers her shoulders and neck and hides her dark locks. Each little step she takes is taken with caution. She might be a target of the lurking inhabitants of the woods, despite the eeriness of the peace. A singular break from a random twig can give her away.

She takes their concerns to heart, to the point where she memorizes each and every new detail that she comes across.

The topmost detail is that it is an unpredictable force of nature.

A large footstep reaches her ears, and she lets out a gasp. Her eyes widen as she stands in front of the fabled animal. Ivory scales that match its wings accompany its larger-thanlife form. Sharp and pointed teeth that could stab with a simple hit occupy its mouth. A barbed tail swaying on the leaf-covered ground could push a man back a mile if it didn’t appear so calmly before her.

Astraea steps away with a small and subtle movement. She gulps as she takes it all in. She is miniscule, like an ant, to the great being that looked down on her. Her eyes slowly make their way to its infamous gaze.

Could she be killed in an instant? Cursed? Would she have turned into stone?

Home never felt like home when he was gone. For someone so young, she had already seen so much death. Her mother was taken away by a spreading disease when she was a toddler, and her father closed his eyes and never woke up when she

She breathes in, her chest knotting itself with fear, while her throat is suddenly dry. Her gaze finally meets the creature’s own. The shades are warm as the sunlight shines on its head, yet the more she stands there, still but never frozen, she feels an overwhelming sense of familiarity.

She narrows her vision and tilts her head to the side to see better. Perhaps this is a trick of the light,

an illusion being cast due to her tiredness from walking, or a figment of her imagination born from her yearning of what once was. But at the same time, she knows those eyes anywhere, despite the things that she has been told about. Its stare is colored a golden brown, reminiscent of the warm honey that she often indulged herself in back when

she was young or the soft ambers of the warm fireplace where she listened to stories that were told to her. It reminds her of home.

“Atlas,” Astraea concludes with a soft whisper.

“Brother, what has happened to you?”

Michael Kukulski, digital photography

Divine

Isabella De Loncker

I've never felt true to myself, like something is actually wrong. Nervously suspicious, like a sinner in church. Staying in the shadows, from the walls in my house, that breath negativity.

Because I can never let it go. What made it hard, was believing all my pain, is what made me who I am. But in order to bury this guilt, that I disguised as rage, I needed to become more depraved. Left with too much to be explained, I had every right to go insane. I am not a serene girl. Raised in quiet sombers, and angry mellows. Underneath my skin, rage could overflow at any given moment. I desired love so badly, talking myself into fearing it, knowing how it will tear me apart. I will give too much, only to receive too little. Having nothing left to give, stranded alone and bare. In a room surrounded by people, still feeling terribly alone. I've fought and struggled so badly, and so terribly hard.

Just to have my pain belittled, and picked apart like a riddle. Sometimes I feel as if I'm a ghost, drifting through endless hallways. Possessing a body that's blurred, words muffled behind a fuzzy face. Trying to find the correct pitch, or at least know that someone understood.

Wailing a grotesque hymn, unique like a music box. Softly rehearsing each note, to its own strain. An endless loop, that I could never stop playing. If only they heard, the depth to my heart. Sensing the drop, of my low keys’ vibration, and immerse in my encore. Melting in passion, to my horrifying song. Performing as a siren, seeking to not drown alone. Built on broken trust and tears, my insanity became their masterpiece. Because they stole my harmony, to a once bittersweet melody.

Writers’ Profiles

Isabella De Loncker believes that writing poetry is a way for her to journal her thoughts and feelings. It has helped her better understand herself and shape her into who she is today.

Sharon Dershin is an award-winning, innovative and driven creative leader with a solid background in marketing and creative processes. She started in the advertising career as a way to pay her way as a singer in New York but ended up loving the creative challenges and continued on her advertising journey working in agencies in New York, London, DC and Chicago. Recently, she decided to return to school and get her English teaching endorsement. That is when she found CLC.

Rhea Hechanova is a sophomore college student who loves to write and views it as a way to express herself.”

Jack Hugener loves to read and write. He is studying English literature and hopes to work in a field that allows him to write or engage with writing in some capacity.

Miles Jajich likes to venture around, finding new places and hopes to one day become an airline pilot.

Liana Jacobson is a kinesiology student at the College of Lake County looking to become a health and wellness coach. She is passionate about health and fitness and loves to exercise, but she also has a deep passion for writing and always enjoys writing new pieces in her free time.

Alex Kogen enjoys reading and writing, especially about nature and the relationship that humans have with it.

Kevin Lind is a medical imaging student here at the College of Lake County.

Paulina Moran is a sophomore at the College of Lake County majoring in journalism.

Milo Melchert (they/them) is an aspiring author of novels and short stories, obsessed cat parent, avid D&D and gaming nerd, and occasional crafter as the mood strikes them. They enjoy writing heart-

warming but eerie stories full of magic and found family, and their favorite place to write is in the woods.

Madeline Rajski enjoys watching anime, crafting, or cosplaying and has dreams of becoming an author.

Isaac Shaw is studying English at CLC. He enjoys writing, listening to music, and playing video games. He hopes to become a videogame writer in the future.

Kam Hok (Jane) Tong grew up in Beijing, and has been in the U.S. on and off for almost a decade.

Amelia Villhauer is a journalism major with an interest in broadcast journalism who hopes to become a TV reporter in the future. She has had a passion for creative writing for many years.

Art Noel, digital photography