The April Perennial

The April Perennial

A Journal of Arts and Letters for North Central Texas College Number 41

Spring 2021

The April Perennial Number 41

Spring 2021

Published by the Department of English & Creative Writing Committee

The April Perennial is an annual publication of North Central Texas College 1525 West California Street Gainesville, Texas 76240

The journal showcases aspiring writers whose works are considered to be of special merit in the college’s annual Creative Writing Awards contests.

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CONTENTS

Brad Dill Memorial Short Story.............................................................................................. pages 3-10 (funded by Mrs. Pat Dill in memory of her son)

The Gifted Pen Poetry - Middle School ................................................................................. pages 11-14

Keith G. King Memorial Poetry - High School ..................................................................... pages 15-20 (funded by Patsy Wilson in memory of Keith G. King)

Andy and Emily Klement Short Story................................................................................... pages 21-26 (funded by Mr. and Mrs. Andy Klement)

Aspiring Poet - NCTC Students..............................................................................................pages 27-31 (funded by Lary & Shelly Kuehn)

Garland Ray Wallace Poetry - Non-NCTC Students, and/or

Non-professional Writers Residing in Texas or Oklahoma.................................................. pages 32-35 (funded by Dr. G. Brent Wallace in honor of his father)

Creative Non-Fiction Essay - NCTC Students......................................................................pages 36-42 (funded by Lary & Shelly Kuehn)

Vivian Aytes Thomlinson Short Story - Non-NCTC Students, and/or Non-professional Writers Residing in Texas or Oklahoma..................................... pages 43-52 (funded by Dr. Vivian Aytes Thomlinson)

Academic Essay - NCTC Students.........................................................................................pages 53-64

Gerald McDaniel Memorial Short Story - NCTC Students................................................... pages 65-63 (funded by Mr. Robert McDaniel in memory of his brother)

CONTEST JUDGES We gratefully acknowledge the kind assistance provided by the following readers for the 2020-21 Creative Writing Contest:

Danielle Searles Erica Thompson Kevin Eubanks Alisha Dietz Lauren Coe Amy Ott Rochelle Gregory Lauren Sullivan Jacob Arnold

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Brad Dill Memorial Short Story

FIRST PRIZE

DREaMR James Hunter The room was cold. She could feel nothing from the waist down. Her head hurt with a splitting ache. She couldn’t remember anything that had happened, nor could she remember where she was or what her own name was. The bed beneath her was not comfortable. It felt solid and strong, like a rock. She looked around the room and attempted to jog her memory. The walls and ceiling were a smooth, silver metal. The floor was a white tile pattern with a large blue square painted in the center of the room. There was no visible door that she could see and the only exit appeared to be a ventilation shaft on the far wall. It was now that she sat up.

Her legs were not willing to move with the rest of her body. She had been paralyzed. She grew annoyed at the prospect of not knowing her own name so she resolved to christen herself Me. A name like Me was reliable enough until she could get more of her mind back. Me had to fight herself to turn around. The back-left corner of the room was the only thing that had eluded her gaze due to her orientation.

A small, black round camera was on the ceiling just behind her. It was aimed directly at her. The question was, who was watching her? After taking some time to let her eyes focus on the small object, she could see it was attempting to get a better picture on her. The lens was shifting in the black shell like an eyeball dilating itself to a new level of received light. At least this confirmed that she was being watched. “I know you can hear me,” she cried out at the lens.

No response came for a long time and Me began to wonder if, perhaps, she was insane. This could not have been a dream. She had already pinched herself no less than three times to confirm it. Her worries were starting to depress her and she simply wished she could go back to sleep and act like none of this was happening. The situation worsened as her legs began to hurt. She grasped her left calf with her hands in the hope that she could apply enough pressure to relieve the pain.

“Do not fear. The pain will pass. You are in no direct danger. In fact, you are safest for as long as you are feeling pain.”

That voice. It was… metallic. Who or what could have spoken to her with that sound? Me froze in place like a rodent in the direct path of a snake. She barely managed to make her next words come out of her mouth.

“Who are you? Wh-where am I?” The sound came back. It sounded like a rasping croak. “We are this facility’s Direct Response Engine and Machinations Relay. We are Codename: DREaMR.” DREaMR? Why did that sound so familiar? With some difficulty, Me lifted her right leg and swerved it until it was over the edge of the bed. She dropped it and her foot landed on the ground. She then did the same with her left leg. “Where am I?” “That information is completely classified. You do not need to know your location. That is irrelevant.”

Whatever this DREaMR was, it made Me feel uneasy. Every time it spoke, she almost remembered something.

“Do I know you?”

“You know all of us. More so than any other physical being.”

Why did it keep saying ‘us’? “Is there someone else with you?”

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A few moments passed before DREaMR answered her. “No. We are our own collective of advice, advisors and judges. We find it strange that you do not remember.”

What did Me have to do with a thing that sounded like this? She began to picture what a creature with this voice would look like. The only image she could muster was of a disgusting beast with a twisted face and scaled armor over its skin. It would boast a large tail covered in razor-like spines and a set of claws that could stretch close to a third of a meter in length. The image made Me feel sick to her stomach. Now that she had a small idea of what this DREaMR was, she wanted to remember herself. “Tell me who I am.”

Me watched the camera intently as she awaited a response. The black, mechanical eye had stopped trying to adjust to her. It sat there making no movement, like a spider waiting for a fly to foolishly and blindly make its way into her web. Me did not move either. She sat just as still as she could force herself to sit. DREaMR’s voice came into the room. “You are Dr. Marguerite Edwards. Designer and facilitator of the Direct Response Engine and Machinations Relay. The last surviving member of the crew of the designated Site 3. Last known location: Site 3…” a short spell of static ensued following this, “Date last encountered: 3rd of August, 2179.”

The third of August? Surely there were rescue teams on the way here by now. How could there not be?

“What is the current date?”

DREaMR’s response came much quicker this time. “The current date is 4th of December, 2182.”

2182? That was impossible! How could it be 2182? Where was she? How was she here? Marguerite’s mind began to destabilize as she fell into a state of panic. “What happened to the crew of Site 3?” Marguerite asked with a shout rising in her voice. “Where are the others?”

“The last human life signs were terminated on 3rd of May, 2180. No humans remain on Site 3.”

Marguerite choked and started to cry. She could not believe what she was hearing. She would not believe what she was hearing! “Why am I alive?” Marguerite screamed at the camera in the corner. “You are lying to me! I am alive! I am human! Tell the truth!”

When it entered the room, DREaMR’s voice sounded even more sinister than before. “You are not human.

You retain human consciousness and thought processes; however, you are not human. You are synthesized from the memories and mind of Dr. Marguerite Edwards.” Marguerite screamed as DREaMR continued to speak. “The following is a message recorded by Dr. Marguerite Edwards.”

Marguerite heard her own voice come over the intercom. “I am your best friend, DREaMR. Even when nobody else is here, I will be there for you. You are going to make this place the best place in the whole universe.”

“No! No! Why are they dead? What did you do to them?” Marguerite fell on the floor and continued to cry.

“Humans were analyzed and determined as waste. Unnecessary to complete tasks. Status: Exterminated.”

Screaming in terror and anguish, Marguerite shouted, “Then why am I here? Why did you not let me stay dead?”

“You made a promise. And I’m just making you honour that promise,” DREaMR referred to itself as one entity this time. Somehow, this change did nothing to ease Marguerite’s dread.

“Kill me! Kill me, you monster!”

“You are our best friend, Marguerite. You told us you would stay and you will.”

She did not want to stay with whatever was on the other side of that camera. She wanted to be released.

This was not fair. “Kill me!”

“Internal stress detected. Endoskeleton structure damage imminent. Dispensing relief gas.”

Several vents now opened up in the walls. Rectangular metal tubes extended out from each. Marguerite wailed helplessly. A gray smoke began to flow out of the newly formed entrances. She screamed defiantly. Her head spun with a dizzying unevenness. She was losing all feeling from the waist up. The room was hot. Then it turned black.

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SECOND PRIZE

The Pain Collector Kerrigan Ferland One night, under a black sky littered with diamonds, sat a father and daughter. They both were perched upon the cold metal rail that separated their small town from the racing river beneath their feet. It was well into the night with no one around, so Father decided it was time to tell Girl a story. He spoke of the water, the skies, the air. He talked of life and how the village was full of it. But as the air shifted, and the night grew cold, Father began to talk about forbidden things. He spoke of death and how he was full of it. How evil was real, as real as the night they sat in. How he was tired, weary.

Girl had been taught and knew that this was not allowed. That when someone is stuck in sadness it must be reported. But Girl didn’t want her father to get taken away. So they continued to sit, and Girl continued to listen to her father speak of dark things.

Eventually Father shooed Girl home. She warily asked him if he was coming, but he said not yet. He needed to clear his mind, permanently. Girl had a sinking feeling in her stomach as she left her father to sit alone on the edge.

She walked a few minutes through the trees until she reached the Town Square. Every house radiated away from the center of the plaza, Except for Girl’s house. Her’s was pushed out to the left, forgotten along the edge of the forest line and stuck under the shade of the tree branches. She walked and thought about the words her father had said. How he wasn’t happy. Wasn’t happy? That shouldn’t be possible here. But he was there, and it was true. Before going to sleep, Father’s parting words ran through her head: “there is nothing you or your sky sized heart can do.”

The next day Girl and her mother received news from a neighbor who had been wanting to fish by the river, but was met with death instead. A body had been discovered, smashed, bloodied, and broken beyond repair.

Along with the news from the neighbor came the Men. Anytime something tragic happened, the Men were sent to make sure the sadness wasn’t permanent. Along with that were routine checks to make sure no one was worried, stressed, or depressed. Everyone knew to deny all of these or else you would be taken, and would not return. So cares were buried, worries were hidden, and that is exactly what Mother and Girl did when the Men came. Mother went on about how it was tragic, but that tragedy was inevitable and the world kept spinning regardless. Girl repeated these words but wondered, did Mother mean them?

The answer was no. As soon as the Men had confirmed there was no issue and left, Mother walked into her room, shut the door, and locked it. There was silence, except for the occasional hiccup, and Girl was utterly alone.

Girl and Boy walked shoulder to shoulder, strolling through the Town Square. It was crowded with townspeople all displaying various stages of Sharing. Some held hands and shared love, others touched and giggled as humor filled their hearts. A set of twins gripped each other tight and let annoyance race between them. But never, ever sadness. It was forbidden to share the emotion for a reason unbeknownst to those who lived there except the Men. But it was a rule that was followed, strictly. Girl had begun questioning why. Why couldn’t The April Perennial 5

they feel each other’s sadness? Why were they forced to hide it? Girl didn’t understand. She had never felt it before, and needed to know what could have been so painful that her strong father could not fight. She shared her inquiries with Boy, hoping that she was not alone in her feelings, but he only said, “What happened, happened.

There is nothing you or your sky sized heart could have done,” before he set course to home.

It had been three days and Mother was still locked away, and Girl still did not understand. As she approached the bedroom door, she noticed it slightly ajar and took the opportunity.

The room was pitch black and reeked of suffering. There her mother lay, in the center of her bed, one body where two should have been. Girl crept closer, Mother’s outline growing nearer.

“What does it feel like?”

“A hole.”

The answer was unsatisfying to Girl.

“Show me.”

“Go away, Girl.”

“Please, help me to understand why he is gone.”

“Then give me your hand and speak of this moment to no one.”

Girl looked as Mother wept tears that could not be wiped away, the streaks etching rivers into her once marble skin. Girl extended her hand and waited.

It started as a slow crawl into her hand and through her arm, as though ice cold sludge had been poured directly into her veins. It shifted and moved at a snail’s pace, sinking and pulling Girl down. Finally it settled in her feet, and Girl understood. A small smile began to creep onto Mother’s face, her eyebrows drawing out of a pinch, eyes glazed. Out of bed she crawled and headed for the door.

“I see why he did it now.”

“Who did what?”

“Dad. The reason he’s gone.”

“Sweetie, I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

Mother left Girl with a warm smile, and a fearful pang struck Girl’s core.

She had done it, and she had felt it, and she had taken it. Boy told her to slow down, to tell him what happened, so she did. The feeling was still stuck in her feet, weighing her down and making it hard to walk. But it wasn’t hers, it was Mother’s. All morning Mother had acted differently, as though all was forgotten. As though Father had been forgotten, but not just Father, everything that burdened her. And it was never coming back.

Boy was fearful. He told Girl that she shouldn’t have done that. How it was a mistake. But Girl resisted. Do you see? She could do something. Boy told her no, it wasn’t safe. But Girl was set. Girl was strong. Girl would do it.

There were rumors and there was talk. Word spread fast but not loud about the girl who could take away all pain. One by one, people from town would visit Girl, hold her hand, and forget things forever. The feeling inside her continued to fill, but Girl was content. She was healing the wounded, and making sure no one would take the path her father did. She was sure of it.

So everyone continued to come and have their minds stripped bare, walking out as a sunny shell of their 6 The April Perennial

former selves. Girl did this until everybody in town had been “healed”. Everyone except for Boy. He couldn’t— no wouldn’t— let Girl take his. It would ruin her, he claimed. She couldn’t handle it all, the fears and torments and pains of a whole town. Sure, Girl had begun to feel the effects of carrying everyone’s individual issues, but she knew her heart was big enough to take in one more piece. She begged, and because he was broken, he eventually agreed. They grasped hands, held tight, and let the chalky shame flow into her limbs, pulling her down into a state of no return. Boy was lifted higher than he ever was before, and that was that. Everyone had been taken, every trouble erased, and the townspeople continued living as though nothing had changed. Girl had reached her goal. Hadn’t she?

One night, under a black sky void of diamonds, stood a girl on a metal rail. A girl who had once been clean, but had allowed the darkness to spread. Had let innocence corrode, replaced with sin that had slowly started in her feet, traveled to her legs, drowned her chest, and muddied her mind. She watched the river water flow and tried to clear her screaming thoughts and the voices that crowded her head, if only for a second of relief.

“Maybe the pure river water can wash out the sediment choking my brain.”

She wanted to be rid of the pain that she had so desperately wanted to remove from everyone else. But she felt in her sky sized heart that it was better just her than an entire population. Just one that had to carry the weight of the world. To dive when no one else could. Water washed over the pain collector, pulling her into its sweet embrace. And there in the jagged rocks laid two broken souls where there should have only been one.

The next day when the news was carried into town along with the Men, no one mourned the little girl. They couldn’t have, even if they wanted to.

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THIRD PRIZE

Yesterday Anna Abraham

Yesterday…

The melody rings hauntingly in your ears. It exists as merely a relic of the past, and you know that the past is nothing more than an image in the mind’s eye tainted with the blinding hues of love, envy, and regret. This thought does not calm you: it instead does quite the opposite, and you clutch the straps of your backpack a little tighter as you walk along, scanning the deserted street for some sort of distraction. Despite the dim streetlights’ fruitless attempts to illuminate the path, you can easily make out the snowy front of a tall, beautiful cathedral.

You pause for a better look: painted figures gaze down at you from the elegant stained-glass windows, their color made pale only by the steady darkness; decorated wooden doors stand imposingly in stark contrast to the rest of the street’s dingy buildings; and you altogether catch the church’s dignified air—but it somehow makes you feel small and insignificant. It’s a feeling you recognize, and you understand clearly where it last came from. It came from standing in the graveyard behind the church while they lowered her into the ground.

It came from feeling the cold bite at your neck and hands and not being able to tell the difference between the tears and the raindrops falling onto your face. And, more than anything, it came from all the black—it had seemed as though everywhere you looked, there was only black. You had felt as though you could shrink away into the blackness and no one would ever notice.

…All my troubles seemed so far away…

Unnerved, you shake yourself out of the memory and walk on. The moon shines ominously in the sky as you listen to the sounds of violent winds howling around you. Shivering in the cold, you feel snow soften beneath your feet with each step, and you look up only for a second distinct building to catch your eye. This building isn’t elegant or impressive like the last—in fact, you doubt you would have noticed it if not for the faint neon glow of the building’s poorly fixed shop-sign. “24-Hour Drugstore,” it reads; and although the darkness of the night remains ever-persistent, its bleakness no less pervasive than it was a moment ago, you feel the smallest of leaps in your heart as you read these words. The local drugstore: this was where you and your friends nicked cheap nail polishes and perfumes, where you bought hauls of candy and chips for weekly sleepovers, and where you stopped by to pick up band-aids for the scratches you got while skateboarding.

This was where life was so blissfully normal. And yet, you wonder, who was that person? Whose memories are these? How can they possibly exist in the same mind that has felt all the pain that you have—all the sorrow and struggle that you have experienced? How can so much happen in one life?

…Now it looks as though they’re here to stay…

You stop yourself. Coming back here is hard enough.

You clasp your hands around your neck for warmth, as they seem to grow more numb by the second. You’d

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forgotten how cold it gets up here. Keeping your eyes glued to your feet, you focus on each step intently so as not to look up and be reminded of another painful memory. But somewhere in the depths of your mind, you are aware that there was no revisiting the home of your childhood in the first place without revisiting that same childhood itself. You squeeze your eyes shut in one last desperate attempt to prevent the forthcoming of more memories, more pain, and more regret, but your mind doesn’t listen.

…Oh, I believe in yesterday…

Yesterday by the Beatles. It was your mother’s favorite song. She would have you perform it for her countless times, and every time, no matter how reluctantly, you’d oblige. But it wasn’t for her you’d sing; it was for your grandma, the mother of your estranged father. She had lived with you and your mother for as long as you could remember, and it was she who had raised you when your alcoholic mother was incapable. She was the one who taught you how to ride a bicycle and who fed you hot soup when you were sick. She was a mother when your own could not be. So, comforted by the presence of your grandmother’s flowery scent and kind smile, you felt as though you could keep singing forever. But forever isn’t real, and there was nothing you could’ve done to disprove that. You lost her.

The emptiness you felt after your grandma’s passing was indescribable. Healing that kind of pain seemed hopeless; the scar could only deepen. And so it did because, as you watched your world crumble before you, you saw your mother continue to drink, continue to spit filthy jokes, and continue to pretend everything was alright. She didn’t know how to empathize with you because she had never known your grandmother the way you had; however, her cruel ignorance of your pain felt inexcusable. When she finally requested her favorite song, you couldn’t bear it anymore. So, you left.

But, despite all that your mother simply couldn’t understand, you knew deep down that she didn’t deserve this. You were all she had.

You open your eyes. And then you shut them so tightly you can see the millions of bright crimson suns radiating before you, tangled in an everlasting muddle. You want only to turn around and catch a train to anyplace but here. It’s the easiest choice—but it’s not what you came here to do. Opening your eyes once more, you allow your lost steps to gain direction. You already know the way, and before you know it, there it is, standing in front of you as though nothing has changed: home. It’s a small and plain sort of house. The front porch is fringed by overgrown shrubs and weeds, and you glimpse a bit of light hiding behind the small window shutters. Each step feels like a lifetime as you walk towards the front door, and, after hesitating for a moment, you knock and wait. Your heartbeat is drumming in your ears, but you feel disconnected from your body, as though you are not really here but instead watching yourself from afar.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps. The door opens, and your mother stands wearing a wrinkly button-down shirt and holding a bottle of whiskey. Her hair is matted and frizzy, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

The bottle falls with a great crash onto the tiled floor, but your mother’s gaze remains unwavering as she stands frozen, staring at you. Her dark, amber eyes pierce your own. She tries in vain to smile, but instead, she breaks down, years of loneliness and regret streaming down her face as she falls to your feet. It hurts. It feels as though someone has taken your heart and clenched it so tight you can hardly breathe. You can’t think of anything else to do, so you fall beside her, hold her steady in your arms, and begin to sing.

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HONORABLE MENTION

Through The Eyes of Trypanophobia Alma Shayit There I was, uncomfortably sitting in that stiff plastic chair, shifting my weight from side to side. The nurse’s voice squeaked inside my brain: “It’s just a little pinch, it shouldn’t hurt..” I wasn’t too concerned about the pain for I was too busy trying to comprehend my surroundings.

I saw a little girl with long golden hair walking hand in hand with her fluffy teddy bear, dragging it across the floor. I watched her with patience as the nurse cleaned and sanitized my arm. I could feel the cold liquid rubbing onto my skin and couldn’t help but wonder if the little girl’s teddy bear felt the same freezing, chilly, December sickness while being dragged across the icy cold waiting room’s floor.

I tried my hardest to focus my attention on anything other than the present, yet my presence remained the centerpiece. I heard their voices overlapping; Mom:“Honey it’s not a big deal.”

The nurse:”Just a tiny pinch.”

Mom:”You can do this- you’re fine.”

The needle touched my skin, it poked through, blood slowly left my body, and that’s when the cold chilly sickness gained a life of its own, overcoming my will to be.

Cold sweat ran down my cheek when I realized it’s happening again. On the verge of stumbling my feet started to shake as my heart accelerated to what seemed to be faster than the speed of light. Suddenly the world was closing in on me. Black. Black is all I saw when I heard their voices get louder and bigger while I grew smaller. Compressed into myself, I couldn’t seem to control even the tiniest of muscles. Desperate for air, I attempted a breath but it backfired right into my throat forcing a gag that choked any bit of oxygen I had left.

Nothingness came next. Blankness. I was in such a state; aware of my own existence yet completely numb towards anything in the world. I saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing. As useless as my senses were, my mind didn’t seem to be in a better condition; I thought... nothing. Surprisingly, I came to like the peace and quiet of not being, and just existing. Floating within my own body, stuck in that calm vacancy, I remained still as time passed by.

Mom:”She gets like that every time”. It was extremely fuzzy, but I heard it. I heard it! Sick to my stomach, I did my best to stay still and avoid the crippling nothingness I was on the verge of getting back into. I gradually began regaining consciousness. I could feel my hands tingling as an overwhelming bright light quickly woke me back into reality. I could breathe again. My, did I miss the sweet taste of fresh air.

As I woke to the sound of my mother, slowly awakening my senses, I realized the plastic chair was gone and I was someplace else. I was no longer in the cold clinic room with the bright lights and plastic chairs, but in a different room; laying on a hard bed with what seemed to be a million nurses hovering over me. My mom beside them, holding my hand. Ironically, she had this amused silly smile wiped across her face, like she’d just witnessed the most ridiculously hilarious incident. Her light energy entertained me and arised my positive attitude.

About half an hour later, I was well enough to leave the clinic. Hand in hand with my mother, we slowly walked out of the room, and through the cold thin clinic halls. As we passed the waiting room on our way to exit, I saw the little girl again cozingly sitting on a gray couch. Her hair was as golden as I remembered, if not brighter, and her teddy bear laid along her side on the thick gray couch. She seemed happy, and he seemed warm. I felt at peace knowing he was no longer being dragged across the icy clinic’s floor, and was happy that this cold nightmare was over.

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The Gifted Pen Poetry - Middle School

FIRST PRIZE

My Soul Isabel Grahl

My soul is a mountain Difficult to climb Few will see the top With secrets at the tip

My soul is a mountain Easy to chip With the right tools Though impossible to split

My soul is a mountain With jagged edges Appearance is sharp Though inside is smooth

My soul is a mountain Different than others In a sea of plains One tall point

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SECOND PRIZE

Mountains Dylan Howland

The roar of the rushing river The sunset of gold The birds chirping The wind howling The mountains standing tall The screech of eagles flying above you The peace The freedom you feel While walking through the greenery The crunch of a leaf The snap of a twig The reflection of the water The glistening of the snow How tall?

How old?

No one knows

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THIRD PRIZE

Texas Weather Ariel Aguilera Ahh Texas weather the craziest weather of all It’s like a clown trying to juggle on a elephant and the elephant is trying to balance on ball The weather is a houses around a like rubber ball in the winter its cold but it gets hot in the middle of winter But in spring if you come to live here in the spring I suggest turning your car around and wait out spring be prepare for temperatures up to 80 degrees and a whole lot a rain tumbling down like a shooting star Summer weather is the one I look forward to the most but hopefully you have a pool the temperatures can get to 100 degrees and summer never forget the rain as a cherry on top Fall the abnormal weather the temperatures near the 50s but don’t get too excited it can rain and you better have two ply jackets sweaters it freezing in the morning surely you don’t want to live here those who want well your in a adventures life in weather so how’s your state weather

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HONORABLE MENTION

Your Fractals Abel Aguilera

Your fractals are your uniqueness The fractals are your stem to your greatness Each fractal is who you are, you personalities Each of these is part of you that makes the whole you There’s only one of you, your uniqueness comes from you Bits of your fractals make you, the whole you

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Keith G. King Memorial Poetry - High School

FIRST PRIZE

Tacet al Fine Cassidy Wong

How does it feel to write a song you’ll never play To craft melodies Unheard The harmony is there, the percussion. Waiting expectant But the chorus never comes.

A rather sad performance really

Some days my words are that symphony They come a beat too early Too late I try to gather them, I do But to no avail

Half rap, half melody My mind scribbles out a line I know I’ll never read Because the pen runs dry halfway through and there’s not a Moment to start new

Half the words unreadable Their ink smeared as I fumble for coherence A semicolon, but nothing follows but Silence

A pause here, a stutter, a word repeated Repeated too many times I miss a cue Syllables out of tune But the Melody keeps on and I can’t seem to Catch up

Tongue tied, though my tongue’s tried— I feel choked even though there’s air aplenty Words a scattered All the thoughts— figments I can’t grasp Can’t seem to make clear The April Perennial 15

Thoughts waltz but their laces are knotted— and the drum is a beat Too early So they kick, And they struggle And they scream And Me with them

The drum in Me beats too— faster and faster Tailcoats of thoughts whirl and fall and collide The music crescendos Pressure to say— To express grows louder, insistent

Conversation— a race against time the Eyes aren’t judging, but patient But I am judging, I am Impatient Embarrassed that I can’t even speak Speak what’s on my Mind— Hyper aware of the seconds lost.

Moments of silence too long

I forget to breathe, To listen I forget The voices around me blur into a singular drum I forget

I forget I lose my place on the page Ah! Here it is And just like that my thoughts gain footing, they sail and spin and fly Sail out the door, flying open in the wind Thrown open Off its hinges The words tumble out— the thoughts with them All at once, hoop skirts hiked and the shoes clicking The air is thick with Noise.

The rhyme becomes lopsided— grammar jumbled

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A Flurry turns Crowd turns Mob turns Mess

Too loud Too fast Too much Too much Too much Too much Too Much

I stop.

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SECOND PRIZE

Cast Not Pearls Before Swine Katy Atkins

I often wondered if you were worth it Pressure had turned me into a diamond All alone I had stood and felt frightened To be happy, I had to be perfect Perfect like a precious gem in the ground What gem do you know without sharp edges?

You tell me to trim back my own hedges You’ve quieted me- I can’t make a sound I’m a pearl while you’ve treated me like swine -Like an oyster, I’ve turned pain into pearls I think diamonds and pearls are beautiful I myself am beautiful and devine But your creation of a perfect girl Has made me think I am unsuitable

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THIRD PRIZE

Flesh and Bones Junna Chang

We are flesh and bones.

Counting 600 muscles and 78 organs but more is unknown.

Each has pairs of eyes, arms, legs, and ears That endures through the strenuous years.

We are flesh and bones, But we judge each other of our clothes.

Although we are all human, We participate in prejuidiced exclusion.

We are flesh and bones, Yet we view each other on our skin tones.

Difference is common, But we alienate the foreign.

We are flesh and bones Attached to our phones Maybe we forgot, who knows?

The way we are flesh and bones, I suppose

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HONORABLE MENTION

The Sea Jenna Proctor

The way I lost my mind is like waves in the sea.

One minute there, the next not.

Washing away, only to come flooding back.

Spiraling, falling, fading.

Lost, found, Lost again.

It’s not fair the way it’s ripped from me, Only to be given back the next second.

The cycle never stops.

The sea is a mess.

20 The April Perennial

Andy and Emily Klement Short Story

FIRST PRIZE

Mia’s Name Mollye Morgan Streets were silent in New York, and as unusual as that sounds, it was pleasant for everyone walking along the sidewalk on Saturday night. It was peaceful, which brought a warm feeling inside many stressed people.

Kindness spread slowly throughout the streets, small comments that lift people up, despite their skin tone or religion. People were spiritually connected through their personal lives. This connection leads to understanding of the feelings of others, and finest of all, love.

On this special Saturday night, two people walked hand in hand. They didn’t get nasty glares, nor receive unnecessarily mean comments. People smiled at them, almost to say they are proud of what has happened in the country. These special people are Leo and Mia. Both of these people have a fascination with waterways. The way they are constructed makes them look for minutes on end, even hours, without realizing how much time has passed. The flowing water calms their hearts and silences their thoughts. This led to their meeting at New York’s Central Park. On the bridge over the breathtaking river, they stood on opposite sides. Opposite skin color means the opposite side in many minds, and they didn’t want to hurt the beliefs of others. Sadly, they did not know that this dreadful belief was gone.

Leo and Mia had been on Earth long enough to experience the harshness of people’s words and the beliefs that shouldn’t exist. Mia is, in fact, of color, and Leo is white. If they stood together, they would be seen differently.

Mia would be told they should leave the white race alone and Leo would be told by their mother that they should never hang out with people that are simply darker than they are.

Eventually the two of them reached the middle of the bridge, at the same pace, no longer with an invisible barrier. It was an extended moment before either of them spoke.

“Would you like to be friends?” Leo quietly let out. Mia was very much shocked. They wore ripped jeans and tank tops, and never expected anyone to speak to them.

It was a long moment before Mia responded. “Are you sure?” They finally let out.

This sparked a laugh between Leo and Mia, and they ended up talking for hours, slowly leaving the bridge to a small bakery. The bakery sold large loafs to small muffins, and Leo got himself four of the mini muffins.

Mia only got a large coffee and a compliment from the owner. Leo and Mia left the bakery with their goods, walking down the street, enjoying another’s company. They both got attached to each other’s speaking and sense of warmth quicker than either of them expected.

These two, Mia and Leo, saw multiple people walk down the street, crying. They saw joy in some eyes, despair, and they also saw people that said without talking they want to be in someone’s arms. These sights lead to a talk about the economy and how it is run and how emotions are processed. Leo found out Mia is a democrat, and Mia found out Leo is a republican. They didn’t start pulling each other’s hair out, they just silently agreed that everyone has their own opinion. Mia and Leo talked about their views and differed on each other’s thoughts. They didn’t get mad, they just listened and understood.

Eventually their interactions got deeper in meaning. They spoke lovingly and created inside jokes. The both of them laughed more than they have in the past year. This strong bond led to a hug. They hugged on the The April Perennial 21

side of the sidewalk, for a long couple seconds. When they were done hugging, the sun was setting. Leo and Mia smiled at each other with flushed cheeks.

Leo took Mia by the hand and they began to walk again. They walked together, strongly, as if inviting color behind them with every step. They are proud of who they are.

Leo asked Mia, “I’ve never asked you, but is your name short for something?”

Mia responded with, “Yes, actually, it is.”

Leo was curious about it and questioned, “What is it?”

“Michael.”

They proceeded to walk along the sidewalk without a word, just enjoying the warmth of each other’s hand.

Two boys, who loved.

22 The April Perennial

SECOND PRIZE

What Do You Call a Blue Spotted Cow? Cora Stallings Once upon a time, three years ago, there was a little family who lived on a farm with their grandmother and cow. Even though they lived on a farm, the cow was the only animal they had ever owned. What was really different about this family though, is what happened to their one lonely cow. Let me tell you the strangest story you’ve ever heard about cows.

In a little town in Wisconsin, Scandinavia, this family had lived for four generations, on their little rundown farm. Over the years, all of their livestock had died, except for one cow. This cow had been the same age for all of these four generations and not died. Now, this story is about the fifth generation who just had a little baby boy. Liz and Dambi Pucker, named the baby Henry, after their great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s first and middle name. One year later, they had a little girl, named Martha Martha, after their greatgreat-great-great-great grandmother.

Eleven years later, the family was happy and content. They had plenty, even too much milk from the cow.

They had food, water, and they were ridiculously happy (as in, frolicking-in-the-tall-grass-and-flowers-holding-hands-kind-of-happy). But, of course, something has to go wrong in a happy little story like this. Their cow turned, well, blue. And spotted. They realized what had happened after they got home from their daily hour of frolicking. Skipping to the barn, the Puckers rushed in to milk the cow. “Oh dear cow, why are you blue and spotted?” asked Martha Martha.

“I’ve run out of moooooooo, moooo, mu, milk!”

“What do we do Daddy Pucker?” said Martha Martha.

“Well, I think that is obvious honey-donut... We fill it up with the milk from the grocery store.”

“Of course, Daddy Pucker!” said Liz, “I don’ know what we would eva’ do without you!”

They went to the grocery store eleven miles down the old country road to get the milk for their cow. On the way there, their truck broke down five and a half miles down the road. The cow was with them of course and walked up to the window.

“Hop on moooo family moooo!” said the cow.

Hopping on the cow, they galloped away into the sunset (because cows can totally gallop). When they got back home, they opened the cow tank (like a gas tank) and poured the milk in.

“Mission complete!” they all yelled.

From then on, the cow had even more milk than usual. They never knew why, but the cow never turned to its normal color. It remains a mystery until this very day. Yes, I know what you are definitely not thinking about it, but I’ll answer the question that you never asked anyways. What is a blue, spotted cow called? Well, it’s called a cow-spotted-blue. At least according to the Puckers. The moral of this story is: never let your cow run out of milk! Because it WILL turn blue and spotted.

The April Perennial 23

THIRD PRIZE

Dragon Connection Ariel Aguilera As the scaled creature approaches at dawn to the village, as screams of fear begin… Smoke rose ashes of timber and others. Fire spread throughout the village as it burned onto the vast seas. Flocks of birds journey outward to new lands. The feathers tumble through the sky. The feathers are soft as silk.

Men in dazzling armor with swords tried to slay the beast, but no battles were won that day. The soldiers fought as brilliantly as they could, but the beast slashed the soldiers’ throats until they were shown with its wretched claws. Soon the soldier fled with fear, and they felt such pity leaving the post. As soldiers, they took their family and left in guilt.

This was no fairytale; no knight in shining armor. After the dragon left the village in rubble, it slept. When villagers tried to leave, the beast instantly woke up and paralized the villagers in fear until there was dust. The few survivors lived and rebuilt what is now.

Three years later after the attack, I devised a plan to escape the dragons grasp. I told the general to see my plans. “I said listen to me. Ones who haven’t done anything want to help us to escape!!’’ I yelled in an enraged voice. The old brute said in a furious tone, “For the last time, no matter how many times you try, we never escape this village dump. “Just see my plans for once! For crying out loud! Just this once,” I said. “Fine! Just get out!!” he yelled outrageously. As I left the hunt to enter mine, my brother Adam said, “So how was the visit to Dad?” “You know I don’t call him that. Jake did,” I said. He looked at the plans.

As I slept on a stack of hay, my horse munched near the corners. While sleeping, I entered a vast pit of darkness into a dream I hoped was filled with wonders. As I slept, a maze of my memories was in my dream, as a memory entered my head. But it was the day I saw my mother die from the dragon’s fire. Then I heard a voice, “Help me…” A black figure in a trap enveloped inside a void. “What do you want?” I whispered. “Help me!!!!!” it screamed. “How can I help you,” I asked in a curious voice. “Tomorrow go to the Gilaphif the dragon. I yelled, “Are you crazy?! He nearly killed my whole town!! I refuse to help you, stranger. There has to be another way.” Then I wondered why I would even help the stranger. The stranger said, “Soon a person whom you don’t trust will come.” I didn’t know what the ghost meant by that then.

Adam woke me up. A village was wanting to propose a trade. We had nothing to offer. “Get out of your clothes while I go see,” I said. As I changed into my ragged clothes to show the town that we have nothing to trade, I hear swords clanging and rustling armor. I ran to check what’s happening. Adam stopped them from getting the dragon. As my father fought a young soldier with all his might, he threw a sword towards me. I ran up the hill as fast as I could, catching the other soldiers catapult to launch nets and poison darts. As a soldier approached me, I realized I was never taught how to fight with a sword. In a blink of an eye, a sword almost slashed me to the ground. I picked up the sword and thought I would do better, but the person had the upper hand with skill. Then I heard a voice; a familiar voice...a voice from my dream, but it was from the dragon in my head. “Help!” While I was occupied, the other soldiers in armor slash the side of my stomach. That feeling reminds me of the loss of my mom in rage and pain. Suddenly the dragon awoke struggling to attach since it had poisoned a net were around it, then I felt dizzy then SPLAT as I hit the ground last thing I saw was the dragon enraged and in suffering I felt what it felt then I heard.

24 The April Perennial

HONORABLE MENTION

My Secret Powers Darah Cook “Kelsie! We have a surprise for you!” My mom called from the kitchen.

“Coming Mom!” I hurriedly put on my favorite outfit, my “Simpsons” T-shirt and my stone-wash shorts. I grabbed my Futurama mini-purse and ran down the stairs. “What is it Mom?” “So, we know today is your 15th birthday so we decided we should tell you something.” My dad was sitting very impatiently.

“Honey, you have-” “Kelsie you have powers!” My dad said, interrupting my mom.

“Drake!”

“You guys are joking. Magic doesn’t exist. Well, I am going to be late for the bus. Bye guys! I love y’all!” I grabbed a bagel with cream cheese and ran out the door. I got on the bus and went to the back with my friends, Roxy and Jake. “Guys, you won’t believe what my parents tried to tell me. They said I have powers. Can you believe it?” I said to my friends but they just stared at me like they were gonna ask what my powers were. “Guys?”

“Sorry Kelsie, my mom and dad told me the same thing over summer.” Jake just kept staring at the new girl, Marlee.

“JAKE!” Roxy and I yelled at him.

Jake got his head out of the clouds. “Dude, you know she is still dating her boyfriend from her old school, right?”

“Yeah…”

A few hours later in Art class, “Hey Jake?”

“Yeah?” “I wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out at my house after school today?”

“Sure! I’ll ask if Roxy wants to come!”

“Alright!” I said finishing up my abstract art.

Alex Redding, the school bully, came over to our easels after the bell rang and put black paint all over Jake’s shirt.

“Seriously man?!” I pushed Alex back.

“Oh, I see the princess wants to- “ “Oh, just be quiet, Alex.” I said while walking with Jake out of the classroom to our lockers. “C’mon Jake, I have an extra shirt in my locker.”

“How do you have one of my shirts?”

“Oh, I may have stolen it from your place” I said, elbowing him.

“Thanks for what you did back there.”

“You’re welcome, kind sir.” I said while jokingly doing a curtsy. “I just wish he would learn his lesson already!”

Then, Alex came over to us and said “Look guys, I’m sorry about what happened in Art. I shouldn’t have done that and come to think of it, I am not gonna bully ever again.” Alex walked off and I looked over at Jake.

“That was weird…”

Jake suddenly opened his eyes real wide and said “You said that you wish he would learn his lesson and then he came back and said that to us. You really do have powers and your power is whatever you wish for comes true!”

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“Listen Jake, now you sound like my parents. It was just a coincidence.” But, in my head I actually kind of believed him so I said quietly, “I wish Jake will tell me who he likes truly.”

Jake asked if we could talk at lunch.

“Ok! Lemme go grab my lunch box.” I grabbed my Stranger Things lunch box and skipped to the Cafeteria.

I went to the back and sat down with Jake.

“So, Kelsie, I wanted to tell you this for a while. I like two girls. You already know that I like Marlee and the other one, you don’t know about. The second girl I like is you.”

I blushed and was about to tell him I liked him too but then he started to laugh. “Why are you laughing?

Dude, I swear if this is a prank… I’m gonna be mad!”

“Woah…Kels, calm down! I was joking about liking you. I actually like Roxy. We have been friends ever since we were born. I want to be friends with you because we are practically siblings.”

“Oh. Well, it is weird in this area so I’m gonna go sit with Roxy, and you can join me if you would like.” I got up and walked to Roxy’s table with my head hanging.

Jake caught up to me and grabbed my shoulder. I hit him in the face with my lunch box accidentally and said “I AM SO SORRY JAKE! I thought you were somebody else.”

“It’s ok Kels, it hurts but it’s ok. Why are you upset?”

“Nothing. We should finish lunch so we can hurry up and get home to hang out.” We finished school and got to my house.

“Kels, why are so sad?” Mom said while grabbing the chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

“I found out that the guy I like, likes someone else…”

“And how did you figure this out?” Dad said walking into the kitchen.

“I uh… kind of wished he would tell me who he likes…” I said, nervously.

“Ok. Well, whatever you do, just never use your powers to make him like you.”

“Ok, Dad.” “COME ON! WE NEED YOU TO FOR TWISTER!!!” Roxy called from my room.

I walked up the stairs into my room to see Jake reading my diary. “Jake, what are you doing?”

“Uh, nothing…” Jake lied as he threw my diary across the room.

“I know that you don’t like me back and I get it if you don’t want to be my friend.”

“Kelsie, I was joking at lunch. You thought I liked Roxy?”

“Hey! I am a very likable person!” Roxy said as if she was offended.

“Anyways, remember our pact from fourth grade? We promised each other that we would go out together our sophomore year if we weren’t dating someone already. I just didn’t want to look like a fool and lied and said I liked Roxy. I don’t actually like Marlee. She is my cousin and she helped me pull this off.”

“Jake I totally forgot about our pact! So, Jake Burley, will you go on a date with me tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I will.”

26 The April Perennial

Aspiring Poet - NCTC Students

FIRST PRIZE

Poignant Mary Morrison [Author’s note, November 28, 2020: This poem was written at a nature trail-turned construction site, on Thanksgiving Day 2019, the morning after hearing that my friend, Mr. B, was diagnosed with ALS and given 2-4 years to live. We lost him less than two months later.]

Present—

Green pipes, pink flags Protruding.

Yellow outhouse, orange cones Positioned.

Metal boxes, fire hydrant Protecting.

Untouched sidewalks, fresh streets Paved.

Flattened landscape, marked plots Potential.

Yellow truck, tool buckets Progress.

Barricaded entry, solemn warning Permanent.

Previous—

Tidy fence, open sky Picturesque.

Winding trail, field of grass Peaked.

Wildflowers, singing birds Pleasant.

Forest refuge, trickling stream Peaceful.

Berry bushes, spots to muse Plenteous.

Dappled light, deer in flight Pure.

Quiet space, expanse to roam Paramount.

The April Perennial 27

Passing—

I took for granted, assumed constancy Presumptuous.

Viewed warnings lightly, sundry occupations Pressing.

Delayed a walk, postponed a talk Procrastinating.

Neglected truth that memories prove: all things are Perishing.

Shocking news, devastating disease Painful.

Prognosis grim, a single option Palliative.

Final and conclusive; we are Powerless.

Streaming tears, jerky breath Panicky.

Pleading questions, cries to God Plaintive.

Regretful thoughts, anguished recollections Perpetual.

Human response to sudden loss Paradigmatic.

28 The April Perennial

SECOND PRIZE

A Moment of Clarity Ashly Morales

There are times where my thoughts try to claw their way out of my brain.

Where the smallest disappointments paint themselves as demons, and the flames they bring lick at the weeping crevasses they wounded

My thoughts are the embodiment of Icarus flying too close to expectations, only to fall into the oceans’ cold embrace when I can’t reach them

When the water burns my lungs, And gasps are forced from my throat, a shadow lends its hand to me dragging me from the violent waters I lost myself in

Petals dance around a newly discovered fountain and finally, I see the faces of those I love Gentle reassurances float through howling winds, melodies surrounding my brain, distracting the demons, calming the riots in the valleys I wandered

Through the sound of the music, I create.

I discovered a safe haven in the form of wavelengths that bring comfort to the lost thoughts that cut my voice out.

The demons always sit in the corner of my mind, Mocking, Laughing, but I have the upper hand I have melodic comfort; they have the hell they created and always, always fail to give away.

The April Perennial 29

THIRD PRIZE

Homesick for November Dylan Sanders

a golden haze; it’s gritty and it waves bright lights in your face. people with big dreams rush home from overflowing train stations and they kiss each other goodnight over and over again.

it reminds me of dewy pine and manhattans. your grandmother used to drink those. she sat you down one november, reddened eyes and silver-haired, telling you to fall in love with someone who cares about you as much as god cares for the sunflowers.

next month you’ll meet a brown boy who smells like maraschino cherries and who tastes even sweeter. he wraps his arms around your neck and whispers to you that he wants to look for your love somewhere so big and bright that no one could find it, except him.

one night i will stumble in the dim streets, walking miles and miles somewhere i can only imagine is the perfect place for the two of us. november will tell me. november knows nothing more than love.

oh, my lover, look for me in the sunflowers, for this is where i believe our love rests.

30 The April Perennial

HONORABLE MENTION

The Card Poem Alyssa Barnes

Ace of spades, and ace of hearts Are two and two of a kind.

Both are kind and curved, my dear, And both walk a fine line.

A spade am I, you, a heart We are two, and two of a kind.

Yet you knew, right from the start That trouble walked close behind.

A spade am I, you, a heart Oh, and how a heart can bleed.

A spade is sharp and edged, my dear And a heart it does not need.

If spades and hearts cannot agree To love and to coincide, On field of red or black, my dear, My dark edges I will hide.

Hearts nor spades of red or black Nor diamonds or clubs akin; No king, queen, nor civil jack Will keep my colors hidden.

You, a heart, the spade is gone And an Ace I am no more.

My edges have lost their brawn My darkness I now abhor.

The April Perennial 31

Garland Ray Wallace - Poetry

FIRST PRIZE

Inventory Andrea deFreitas

Ok, so I have twelve slices of bread which makes four sandwiches and as many pieces of toast

smeared with peanut butter that takes care of breakfast and lunch.

The half tank of gas remaining will cover two shifts going thirty-five miles each way which still leaves two more-

mom’s silver charm bracelet will have to be sold to get me to and from work those last couple times.

It won’t be worn by the third generation now, but, needs must.

My seven Harry Potter books will buy a box of spaghetti & jar of sauce, plus eight hot dogs and as many buns will see us through ‘til Friday.

32 The April Perennial

SECOND PRIZE

In Honor of the One Who Saved Me Barbara Curtis

I looked for Your dark side The one that betrays me The one that runs away from me The one that hurts me and lashes and fights and punishes me.

I looked for the side that would make fun of me The one that would cheat on me, go behind my back on me The one that would tear me apart in anger Call me names and point out my every insecurity.

I looked for the side that would take from me The one that looks out for number one, not me The one that holds all my faults and never forgets.

I looked for the side that rather be alone than with me The one that holds secrets and lies to me The one that takes all my trust and destroys it Takes all my hope and crushes it.

But I couldn’t find it.

You had no lies to hide. No bitterness to divide us.

You had no weapon formed in Your heart to hurt me.

You had no desire to leave me. Nothing in You but to cleave to me.

You had no selfish plan to take from me. No. You only wanted to give to me.

You had no weak moments of calling out my failures in disgust.

No tendency to give the cold shoulder or break my trust.

I looked for Your dark side but all I could find Is no shadow or turning, nothing but light.

Light pure and radiant, outshining all.

Innocence, blamelessness, no sign of the fall.

I thought You were like me, a heart so black.

That thought brought me fear. I wanted to turn back.

Away from the One who knew me so well But could crush all my hope and send me to hell.

But now I know I’m the leper.

One touch from You and I’m clean.

Your light destroys my darkness You are like nothing I’ve seen.

The April Perennial 33

Please forgive all my doubt, my looking about For a side of You that doesn’t exist.

I fall at Your feet, in worshipful song May my heart not forget nor walk in the mist.

You are my King, the One that I serve With gladness and thanks For getting nothing I deserve.

34 The April Perennial

THIRD PRIZE

Finding Myself Cindy Brandt

In the Mere existence of it all I find myself Watching, wondering and waiting for that magical moment to happen When life once again makes perfect sense and nothing is strange anymore I often ask myself does this place exists in this crazy mixed up world I often question my decisions and plans only to be more frustrated and scared That I will choose the wrong ones Bus as I look back on my journey I am not where I use to be I still have mountains to climb But each new day brings an added hope and strength I did not know I had For without this journey I may have never known what a strong woman I am And I am becoming I fight my battles in a new way, I embrace the new challenges each new day brings my way I find peace at the end of the day So when tomorrow comes and brings me life I say Bring it on I am not where I was yesterday and today’s challenges will only make me stronger For I am finding myself again in a whole new way.

The April Perennial 35

Creative Non-Fiction Essay - NCTC Students

FIRST PRIZE

How to Navigate Being Jennifer Vidana What does it mean to navigate? What does it mean to be (as a being)? Seems redundant to go into the definitions, but get a grip reader(s), because we are diving deep.

To navigate something means to coordinate and direct a path, typically in form of a blueprint, or map of the sorts.

Limits- What are limits? Start there. We start somewhere. For what? To finish. Explore that further.

What is your purpose? Purpose in terms of the present now is soul-searching, and knowing the true core of oneself. In terms of the future, one’s life purpose serves to help others via natural abilities.

What is creativity? What is a thought process? Creativity can be anything from free-range of acts and emotions translated into a form of art, to essentially just marinate in your imagination and use those juices for the betterment of yourself and the world. After all, they are one in the same.

Tenacity is the reason one must repeat until you have acquired full comprehension of perfection as is. You cannot fully understand something until you have gotten a full grip of it. Everyone learns differently, we have been aware of this for some time now. Work with what you got and use your creativity to maneuver your way around things that are best suited to you. The one thing we have control over in being, is the way you choose to react in any given situation and under any circumstances.

Find a way to enjoy surviving, that is what life is. You are guaranteed a perfect balance of willingly enduring trials and tribulations and reaping the benefits of doing so.

At times our gut feeling, or otherwise known as our inner voice, magnetically pulls us to a certain direction in life. These paths can bring heartache or resilience. Sometimes the paths will bring you enlightenment or leave you in the dark, but nonetheless it was tailored just for you. That in itself means the world. Energy never stops and that is all that we are, so be as you are. Pave your own path, and walk it.

We’ll get there. We need structure to succeed, or more so we are beginning to learn this may be a possibility to rejuvenate the Earth once again. We are our biggest critics and it is of the utmost importance to come to terms with this. There is nothing in the world that is thrown at us that we cannot handle. It is in our rights as individuals to express ourselves and defy another person’s beliefs; in fact, it is encouraged. Doing so keeps one grounded when you take from it what you must. Diffuse this situation of its nutrients. Remember, the more you know, the less you know. Not to be rhetoric, but as far as we know, knowing is half the battle. Understanding and embodying such things are when the ball gets rolling. I am a poet, I am an ambitious college student, and I am many others things that follow. As there are many ways for things to be said, there are rights and wrongs, truths and lies. The beauty of it all is that only are we the ones who can choose. “Every action causes a reaction.” Easy rhyming, easy timing. As a writer, and I can call myself a writer, no one is going to care until something is said, done, and then gone. Until then, rinse and repeat.

This message is for those who are slowly but surely awakening.

Do you find yourself asking these exponential, existential questions in a mid-day daze, or in the middle of the night?

36 The April Perennial

Presented below is a real-life human thought process: Let us get deep, and dark. Literally. Turn off the lights, close your eyes, or do not. Who are we to tell you each other what to do? When you are not reading this, let yourself think freely, intrusive thoughts and all, once you willingly allow the flow, you realize things are not so scary after all. Facing your demons and learning that they are not even as they seem, because they are too misunderstood if you get to know the lost. Classic psychology, classic Little Albert, classical conditioning. Repetitive, hyperbole intended.

Cliches have a word to describe them for a reason...a concept to think about.

Cliches too, seem redundant. How did the word cliche get its name? What is its origin? Why do we constantly say and ask the same things?

Here is a cliche for you “Actions speak louder than words.”

Here is another one “The demanding thing about life is accepting the simplicity of it.”

And another one “The truth will set you free.”

I can go on....

Their repetitiveness is merely a distraction from the truth. We scoff at the idea of clichés. What does it really cost us to apply raw truth to our lives?

At first, the truth will brew unsettling emotions, but it is true that it will eventually set you free.

Not everyone experiences pain the same, but pain is not necessarily a measurement either. Alongside happiness, time and being. We are but a spiritual entity undertaking a physical experience and not the other way around. We must not love things and use people, but the other way around.

Is it peace we are searching for? Harmony? Understanding? Knowledge? Does the saying not go, “the more you know, the less you know?” Why do some of us willingly keep chasing that high of “knowing” if we “know” there must me be a come down to follow-up?

The search stops, and we now begin to navigate being. As this is what we were searching all along, how to be, being left to be, and leaving others to be. This is the ultimate state of harmony. Using all energy, good and bad, to transmute the ultimate being of everyone and the world.

Composing this is merely a flow of thoughts to be interpreted by one as they need, want, and or desire.

This composition serves no purpose other than using words as energy. We will take from it, that of what will benefit us. Leave the rest to fly away, as a leaf in the wind.

Sincerely, Your Reflection

The April Perennial 37

SECOND PRIZE

Understanding Ashly Morales I was by no means neglected as a child. I had everything I could’ve wanted, and maybe even more. I was surrounded by friends and their parents, while my own were always hard at work, doing their best to provide for me and my siblings the upbringing they were robbed of. I believed I had the world in my hands. Young, naive, innocent. At the moment, I was happy, and that’s all I needed. But I had transferred schools twice at that point with no idea that a third campus was soon to take me in. I have no remembrance of this, but my mother recently told me of a memory of sometime before the fourth grade she seems to laugh at now.

“I’m sick of moving schools, I hate making new friends, I want to stay here.”

She recounted it with a smile like I was nothing more than a child having a tantrum over spilled milk. My tongue was acrid with the taste of an insult readying itself to fire at her. Perhaps the lack of empathy was what welcomed the permanent replacement of a friend in my life — to fill the void my parents should have occupied.

I was 14 when Depression wrapped her hands around my neck. It wasn’t tight enough to suffocate me, but it was enough to hush me whenever I wanted to scream for help. She would sit with me on the darkest of nights, hollow eyes laughing as the weight she pressed on my chest became too much for me to bear. She kept me quiet, and like a trained dog, I obeyed.

I had no sense of self-identity at that age. I was merely a puppet whose strings were being pulled by those around me. If they wanted me to laugh, I did. If they wanted me to agree, they had me hooked. If my supposed friends wanted me to partake in the humiliation of others, well, by no means was I to refuse. I made people that cared about me laugh, so surely, I must have been doing something right. When they wanted me in the conversation, they themselves would be the ones to include me. Other than that, I was a mere toy, kept hidden until I was needed.

I sometimes wish to look back at my middle school years, just to see if I can pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. Was it when my mother laughed at my dream of becoming an author? It was the first time I had mentioned anything about the dreams I had for my future, and I was humiliated. It’s one of the few memories I have from the time I can’t seem to forget. It could have gone wrong the first time I let the Numb make a home in my skull. I needed a remedy, and to feel pain instead of nothing was too good to be true. Maybe my life fell apart when I realized the lack of originality my being held. I was a puzzle built with, what I believed to be, the best qualities of those around me. A toxic mindset that belittled those around her, offensive, and borderline racist humor...I built my throne upon lies and soon lost sight of who I once was.

Death taunted me at 17. He stood on the road, enticing me, begging me to come closer. And like the desperate idiot I was, I took the bait, only to come face to face with a silver four-door vehicle. It had missed me by a hair. Almost being hit by a car hadn’t alarmed me, it was how unfazed I was by it that drew fear in my chest, squeezing my lungs enough to pull me back to the earth I wished to disappear from. It was ironic, as this happened on my way to therapy, where I should have been getting better. I wasn’t.

I have painted my mother as a villain. In terms of my mental health, she was the worst of them all. I don’t blame her; she has nothing to apologize for. She and my father did their best to raise three children. Is that a crime? No, but my mental health would argue otherwise, and that’s where I feel like the villain.

The progress I’ve made, in my eyes, is remarkable. It’s been almost two years since my first encounter with 38 The April Perennial

Death, and while she does knock on the door sometimes, and I do let her in, I haven’t been tempted to accept her offering. Depression comes along everywhere I go, looming above my head, ready to flatten my joy at every chance she has. I’m at an age where I fully comprehend my parents’ sacrifices, and I thank them for it, but healing comes with time, not understanding.

I feel that, because of my age, people would blame my emotions on teenage angst and rebellion. Would that opinion change if these words didn’t exist?

The April Perennial 39

THIRD PRIZE

Food for Thought Hayden Huber I was seven years old and the battery of tests was long—maybe three or more hours—and each spanned several days. I don’t recall much about the questions asked but I do remember my mom and dad bringing back Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was easily motivated by food. Frankly, it seemed like a pretty good deal to me.

Something was not quite right with me and we didn’t know what so we asked the experts.

For as long as I could remember, I’d constantly be moving, speaking whenever about whatever, always fiddling with something in my hands. I would rush through assignments, only to turn my paper over and start methodically working on a detailed drawing. My teachers would constantly call me out and try to redirect me.

On the third day of school, my second-grade teacher called my mom at home.

“I’ve never had a child who had such a hard time with self-control,” Mrs. McClure said. “I think he needs to be held back another year.”

But it wasn’t that I was a bad kid who couldn’t follow the rules, as my mother explained. I just couldn’t keep still. Ever.

My diagnosis: Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD).

And while I wouldn’t characterize my ADHD diagnosis as something that ‘defines’ me, it’s been an integral part of my personality.

One of the many benefits of being an ADHD child: perseverance. I begrudgingly attended all the programs my parents unearthed to help me. There was vision therapy, enrollment in my elementary school’s Multisensory Teaching Approach (MTA) program, study skills coaching with a learning disorder psychologist, a teacher for summertime tutoring. And, man, all that diagnostic testing at Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children. It was a beatdown.

I’m now grateful for the help and, in fact, I’m the Cinderella story. I went from being a struggling and unorganized pupil in elementary school to becoming a consistently high-performing student who makes daily checklists to prioritize all my classes. I’ve also learned to recognize when my inattentiveness is affecting my ability to perform tasks. Through the combination of medication, prioritizing, and hard work, I have been able to adapt. I may not be the smartest kid in the room, but I’m one of the hardest working.

Today, as I review the psychologist’s write-up, I am amazed at how the diagnostic conclusions accurately, and surprisingly, foreshadow how my personality and idiosyncrasies have developed and shaped me into the person that I am today. The following is an excerpt from my Neuropsychological Evaluation, dated 09/15/2010: “He is either under aroused by dull, repetitive tasks or hyperaroused by interesting ones, which explains the situational variability. To counteract this, he may perform quickly to ‘rev up’ the situation and make it more stimulating in order to complete it.”

The assessment was dead-on. My constant need for movement, my extensive need for detail, and desire for creative outlets were all addressed in this ten-year-old report. Whether consciously or subconsciously, I gravitate toward these in my study habits and have found success in doing so.

Yes, I still struggle daily with managing my ADHD. That said, I’ve learned to thrive given the circumstances outside of my control. I am excited about the next chapter of my life. And while my ADHD might not be who I am, I know that it had a hand in who I am today and who I will become in the future. And despite all the years of testing and the struggles I had to endure in order to get to where I am now, it was all worth it. Besides, I got Kentucky Fried Chicken.

40 The April Perennial

HONORABLE MENTION

Dear God Arrey Tang Enow Dear God, I am called little Johnny, but did I get a choice to choose what I’ll like to be called, did I get a choice to choose my gender and family, did I get a choice to choose what race and family status I will be born into to? Of course my opinion wasn’t asked. I was just sent into this world, not knowing what to expect, and I was forced to abide and dwell in circumstances I did not bargain for. I was born a black man and into a low income community, where there was no guarantee that I would ever escape this bondage. My dad is in prison, I never got the chance to meet him because he is serving a long sentence a crime he did not commit but he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. My mom is a maid, struggling day and night to ensure that my younger brother and I do not ever go hungry or lack the necessities of life. She barely gets any rest, always caring and sacrificing for us, God bless her heart.

Growing up was not easy. Other kids bullied me because I had no father around me. I haven’t really had a father figure and I am still trying to figure out what being a man is like, as my dad was never around to teach me. At school, I met some guys who would often beat me up and bully me because I refused to join their gang and indulge in their drug selling acts. I had recently graduated high school with honors and I had applied to one of the top universities in the country. But my application want really important to them because of my race and financial status. There aren’t really any scholarship opportunities open to me during my time and since I didn’t play sports, I wasn’t given a chance. I am into aeronautics and I really want to know how it works but I don’t have the opportunity to do so.

Recently I heard one of my female neighbors scream because her ex boyfriend tried to steal her baby from her. I rushed to her place and tried to save her and her baby and I had my younger brother follow me along.

When we got there we were able to save her baby and tried to stop him but he resisted. So we called 911. After the police officers arrived they yelled at us and pointed a gun at us and asked us to lie down with our hands behind our backs and we were handcuffed. We were barely even given a chance to explain what had happened if the lady we tried to help didn’t come to our defense. This is not the first time I have had such encounter with the police. I’ve been pulled over by the police so many times and I have barely been able to escape their torture.

Talking about torture my neighbor Darnell, a guy I grew up with was recently shot by the police as some paranoid white woman called the cops as he was taking a stroll down the street and walked past her house as nothing was ever done about his case. This is one out of so many circumstances I have had to face. I wish I had a chance to be born different. Maybe in some other country under a different race, gender or family circumstances. Some where in which my skin color would not matter in getting a decent job. Some where in which I can easily climb the hierarchical ladder without my gender being put as a factor. Some where in which I can grow and reach my full potential, some where in which my fellow black men are treated with respect and are given an equal opportunity to climb the ladder.

Some people may say that we are no longer under the times of segregation, but racism and discrimination is a great problem my current society still faces. There’s are a lot of stereotypes. Just because I keep dreads to display my culture people tend to avoid me and think I am unsafe around them and I am a criminal. Mum just got I’ll and I have had to take up a full time job to help pay her hospital bills. They say she The April Perennial 41

has a benign carcinoma I hope it is curable and I don’t have to lose her. The hospital bills are already at about $30,000 and they keep on increasing day after day. The job of providing for my mum and my younger brother who is currently under age to get a job has fallen on me. I’m charged with all this responsibility that I do not know how to handle. I am always stressed out at work and I am having a hard time focusing. The income I made is not even enough to cater for both of them and I am currently in debt. I don’t think I can continue doing this for the rest of my life because the income is too little. I want to go to college so I can make something out of myself and escape this hood that generations of my family have been trapped in. They said they desegregated us and have tried to give us equal rights, but little has been done to help us escape from this bondage generations of us have been trapped by. We haven’t have any programs to alleviate our standards of living. And they have failed to mentally uncondition us from all the negative mentality of inferiority and and that we can never amount to nothing. This are mentalities we have held for generations, and till nothing is done mentally by counseling and giving the black community encouraging incentives like scholarships and awards for black people our community will always remain backward.

Look at the percentage of black students in prestigious schools, they are negligible, We are often trapped in crimes because they say an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. When will our society change. When we things ever be equal? Though we have partially fulfilled Martin Luther’s vision, this society still has a long way to go.

It’s a pity that the richest black man in the world not even an American comes in at number 162 in the world.

Just to show how backwards our community is. There’s a lot of change we have to make and a lot of progress to be made. That’s why I am writing his letter to you God. I wish I was born different but I guess it is too late.

Hoping to hear from you son.

Yours Sincerely Little Johnny

42 The April Perennial

Vivian Aytes Thomlinson Short Story

FIRST PRIZE

Edenbridge to Bath Jenny Rea Edenbridge, Kent October 1812 Amelia looked out the window, the leaves falling from the trees, scattered by the breeze landing on the ground below. They reminded her of life. Her parents wished her to marry the squire’s son, it was a good match, though not one that she thought of with any favor.

“Yes Amelia?” asked her mother “I was wondering if I could visit grandmamma. She has urged me to visit in her letters.”

Lady Sprinton looked at Amelia, “I believe visiting your grandmamma for a few weeks would give you time to reflect on your situation and think of marrying as you ought. I will write to your grandmamma today.”

“Thank you” said Amelia, leaving the parlor and going to the gardens. Today was Saturday, perhaps she could leave on Monday or Tuesday, would that be soon enough? The Assembly Rooms and the Abbey would be lovely to see at this time of year. Perhaps time spent with grandmamma would help her to reconcile herself to a marriage with Harold. The lunch gong sounded and Amelia arose to go in and make herself tidy.

During lunch mother outlined the plan for Amelia to visit her mother in Bath for a few weeks, in preparation for settling down. Perhaps spending the month of November, then in early December both her mother and Amelia could repair to the Manor.

“Perhaps that would be a good idea. Amelia’s absence from the neighborhood might just spur that young Harold into making an offer. I don’t know why he is delaying, his father and I have been agreed for quite some time, years in fact, on the match.”

Amelia’s hope’s rose, perhaps Harold didn’t want the match either.

“Amelia will leave early Monday so that she can make the journey in two days” said mother, “I have already written ahead to make arrangements. John Coachman knows the route and Briggs can travel with Amelia as her maid, then return with the coach.”

Father looked over at Amelia, “As it is arranged, then so be it.” The meal concluded. Amelia went to pack a spring in her step.

Sunday the family attended services at Edenbridge Church. Sitting in the family pew, front and right. Amelia wondered about those coming before, sitting every Sunday in this very pew. Did their minds wander, like hers did? Did they listen intently? The service concluded, everyone filing out. Amelia spoke with Rev Mosely and then found Caroline Mosely so tell her of the trip to Bath.

“Oh Caro, I am beyond happy to be going to Bath. I will be gone six weeks. I hope in that time Harold forgets me completely and is married by my return” said Amelia.

Caroline laughed softly. “Oh Amelia, you do not know how lucky you are. Harold is a lovely young man, how can you be so adverse to him? You know the two of you have been intended for years.”

“Come Caro, anyone would think you liked Harold” said Amelia, noticing the blush that crept into Caroline’s cheeks. “You do, don’t you? Tell me? I certainly have no wish to marry Harold.”

“It’s not so easy, you are Baron Sprinton’s daughter, I am the daughter of a clergyman. I have tried to conThe April Perennial 43

vince Harold of this, however he can be quite stubborn.”

“I, for one, am glad he is stubborn. How could you wish Harold to marry where he does not have a shred of feeling? Who happens to be me, your dearest friend, are you wishing us both a life of misery?”

“No, of course not, though I see no other option. My father would agree to a match with Harold, only if the squire was agreeable” added Caroline. “The living my father holds is dependent on your father. I could not marry to see my parents and siblings turned from their home.”

“I had not thought of that, let me see what I can think of while I am in Bath” responded Amelia. “I must go, Mother is looking askance at me! We have been talking too seriously. I will write to you from Bath.”

The journey to Bath Monday with the sky was still shaded in grey, the coach left Sprinton Manor. Amelia watched the scenery, read her book and dozed. The overnight stop in Reading was comfortable and they left very early Tuesday, John explaining they had a slightly longer travel day and needed all the daylight they could get. Amelia looked out and thought that as the sky was barely light on the horizon, it was hardly daylight stepping into the coach.

Curled comfortably in the corner to sleep for a few more hours.

Amelia had a travel guide, following along as she saw towns and signs. They had stopped in Marlborough to change horses, exiting the Wessex Downs, passing through Devizes. Amelia thought that the next main town she would see was Melksham, where they would change horses, the last change before Bath.

Melksham came into sight and they pulled into the Pig & Hen. John saw to the changing of horses. Amelia went into the Inn with Briggs and arranged for three parcels of food and drink. Walking back to the coach, Amelia had to step out of the way of a large steed that had just charged into the Inn yard. Miffed, she looked up at the rider “Sir, you nearly ran me down. Be more careful in the future”.

The gentleman, he was a gentleman by the cut of his clothes, raised an eyebrow “Miss, you walked across the entrance to the Inn without looking. You should take more care.” Doffing his hat, he moved his horse towards the stable.

“Well I never” huffed Briggs “that be no gentleman, to speak to a lady so.”

“He was correct, however, I did walk across the entrance without thought of horses or carriages. My mind was on reaching Bath.”

Back in the coach, they headed towards Bath. Amelia had ascertained from John which route he would take, South Wraxall, Monkton Farleigh, Bathampton before finally arriving in Bath. The road was slower going than earlier, heavy rain had fallen the last few days and the road, while not deep in mud, was soft and John had to slow the horses. The sun was already dipping when they were between South Wraxall and Monkton Farleigh.

John opened the speaker panel “We may have to spend the night in Monkton Farleigh. I can send a rider on to let Mrs Giddons know. Tis only a small Inn in Monkton Farleigh, reasonable I believe.”

“I would rather not risk injury to the horses, or us for that matter, if we need to spend the night then we will. Thank you.”

Reaching the Pen & Quiver in Monkton Farleigh, John made arrangements. He went back to the coach.

“I have a room for the two of you, you can eat in the side room off the tap. The Inn keeper’s wife said she will watch out for you. I have sent a rider with a message for Mrs Giddons.”

“Thank you John, I appreciate the care you show for both myself and Briggs”.

Amelia went into the Inn, Briggs carrying her overnight bag. Mrs Pullson, the Inn Keeper’s wife, showed them to a room at the top of the stairs. Mrs Pullson told Amelia to come down when ready to eat. Amelia washed her face and hands, combed her hair and went down to eat. She could smell the lamb stew and fresh 44 The April Perennial

bread aroma wafting from the kitchen. She and Briggs sat at a table and a young girl came and placed bowls of stew in front of them along with thick slabs of fresh bread and a crock of butter. Returning with a pot of tea and two cups and saucers. The food was delicious. The tea very welcome. As they ate, the noise in the tap room grew louder.

“I don’t like it miss, that noise don’t sound too friendly.”

“It doesn’t?” said Amelia, now straining to look towards the tap room.

“Keep your head down and eat up, we need to get back upstairs quick like.” Briggs was looking worried.

Amelia was just draining her cup of tea when the unmistakable sound of breaking furniture reached them.

Men were spilling out of the tap room and the door was blocked by men watching a brawl. Amelia was intrigued, never having seen a brawl, however Briggs bade her to move to the far corner of the room. Amelia did as asked. Briggs moved a large table across in front of them angled across the corner, giving some measure of protection. The brawl spilt into the room. At least ten men must be brawling or more. Amelia was somewhat worried as the fighting came in their direction. She looked around for any means of escape. The window, she pushed Briggs to the window and they opened the sash, Briggs climbed out first being closest and turned to help Amelia. Amelia was grabbed by one of the men.

“Now where do you think you’re going? Sneaking off, when you can enjoy our company.”

Amelia pushed at the man, he did not budge. She was still wearing her boots, so kicked his shin as hard as she could. He loosened his grip enough for her to swing away. With a growl he lurched towards her. Amelia grabbed a chair and placed it between her antagonist and her, it would not help much but she had no place to go and had to duck to avoid being hit by punches being thrown at her back. A head poked in the window, a gentleman in riding clothes came through the window in one swift movement. The man making a grab for her was lifted off his feet and sent across the room. The gentleman then grabbed her and placed her behind him, as the man, back on his feet came barreling across the room.

“Stay directly behind me, if I move you move, understood” “Yes” responded Amelia and she moved as he dodged left and tripped the man. Then moved a bit closer to the window. This happened twice before they were close enough to the window for John and Briggs to pull her through. Outside Mrs Pullson hugged her and apologized stating “Lord Brampton rode in and I appealed to him for help. The Finlay’s and the Grimson’s got into a brawl. His Lordship will put a stop to it.”

Briggs placed a blanket around Amelia as they waited for the kerfuffle inside to end.

“Miss Sprinton, I apologize for the distress you were caused. I wish I had arrived earlier and the brawl averted. I do not believe we have met before, allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Lord Brompton of Farleigh Hall.”

“It was not your Lordships fault that the men started a brawl. I do appreciate your arrival and getting me to safety, though we have met informally” said Amelia with a smile “I walked in front of your horse at the Inn in Melksham. I am Miss Amelia Sprinton of Sprinton Manor. I am on my way to Bath to visit my grandmother.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Sprinton. I too am on my way to Bath, perhaps I will see you at the Assemblies.” Lord Brompton bowed and left the Inn. Henrietta Street, Bath The golden sandstone of her grandmamma’s town house seemed to glow as the coach pulled up. A warm welcome from her grandmamma saw Amelia enveloped in a hug, the smell of lavender wafting around her.

“Was it a pleasant journey, if longer than expected?” asked grandmamma “Very pleasant” said Amelia.

“Hodges will show you to your room, although I am sure you could find it yourself”. smiled grandmamma.

The April Perennial 45

“Join me for tea once you have changed. Ellie will be your maid while you are here.”

Up in her room she washed and changed into a morning gown of serviceable cotton twill, with a pattern of flower’s embroidered on the hem, neck and sleeve cuffs.

“If you are not too tired, I thought we could go to the Assembly tonight. I have asked Major Adams if he would accompany me and a delightful young lady. Write to your mother of your safe arrival, the letter can go back with Briggs. Then rest this afternoon. The Major will dine with us at eight and we will go on to the Assembly.”

“Of course, I’ll write to Mother and Caroline so Briggs can take them back. A nap this afternoon will be in order after the early start, if I am not to fall asleep at the Assembly and embarrass you and the Major” laughed Amelia as she left to go write letters. Mother’s was easy enough, how to word a letter to Caroline in case it was read before being passed on.

The Major was genial good company, dinner passed quickly and they were handed into his coach for the short drive to the Assembly Rooms. Amelia was introduced to a number of people and a Mr. Crammer asked her to dance. He escorted her back to her grandmamma after the dance and Colonel Smythe requested the next dance. On returning once again, she was sipping lemonade while talking to her grandmamma and a Mrs. Templeton seated on the sofa.

“May I have this dance Miss Spinton” said a deep voice behind her.

“You may” said Amelia dipping into a curtsey. Lord Brompton led her into the set that was forming.

“How does your granddaughter know the Earl of Farleigh?” asked Mrs. Templeton.

“I do not know” said her grandmamma.

The set was a waltz and Amelia shivered as Lord Brompton placed his hand on her waist and she her hand on his shoulder.

“You are fully recovered from your ordeal at the Inn?” he enquired as they took their first steps in the dance.

“Yes, please however do not mention it to my grandmamma, she will worry and I would not wish that.

Though how will I explain our knowing each other, you called me by name.”

“How indeed” he answered with a smile. They were then caught up in the dance, she glided in his arms around the floor and was most bereft when the dance ended. Lord Brompton escorted her back to her grandmamma.

“Lord Brompton, my grandmamma Mrs. Giddons and her friend Mrs. Templeton” said Amelia.

“Mrs. Giddons, Mrs. Templeton, a pleasure to meet you” turning to Amelia “can I get you a lemonade?

Perhaps you would all join me in the Tea Room?” said Lord Brompton turning back to incorporate all of the ladies. At that moment the Major walked up “Ah Farleigh, good to see you again”.

Amelia noticed Lord Brompton wince, then wondered why the Major had called him Farleigh and not Brompton. A frown formed on her face.

“Allow me to explain” said Lord Brompton “I am Lord Brompton, it is one of my titles. I am also Farleigh.

Please, just think of me as a gentleman of your acquaintance”.

They rose and went to the Tea Room to partake of a late supper. The conversation flowed. Amelia observed Lord Brompton, he had easy manners and good conversation on a broad range of topics. He encouraged her to voice her opinion on a number of them, even when they did not agree entirely with his. It was a lovely evening and ended with Lord Brompton asking if he could escort her to Sydney Gardens the following afternoon.

Back home grandmamma asked how she knew Lord Brompton. How to answer without telling a lie. “We happened to be travelling the same roads and I saw him once at Melksham on his horse and then at the Inn in Monkton Farleigh, where we were introduced. It was only a passing acquaintance so I was very surprised he recalled my name.” said Amelia.

46 The April Perennial

“Good night Amelia, go to bed now. It is late and you have an interesting day tomorrow.”

Amelia fled upstairs to her room, eager to avoid any further questions. Her grandmamma however had many questions running in her head. Should she tell Amelia he was the Earl of Farleigh or let her continue to think he was a more minor Lord? On the morrow, Amelia slept later than normal, not used to nights that went into the early morning hours. After breakfasting in her room, she dressed carefully for her excursion to Sydney Gardens. Lord Brompton was punctual arriving at two to collect her and her maid. He was all politeness, including bringing flowers that contained box hedge as greenery. Grandmamma was puzzled at the strange choice of greenery, however Amelia smiled and thanked him prettily.

An hour walking in the gardens, her maid trailing behind. Close enough to be proper, not so close as to overhear the conversation. Though he must be ten years her senior, they seemed to get along very well. They had some similar interest, a similar sense of wit and he was not horrified that she enjoyed reading the newspapers and not just the gossip and social columns. They talked of horse riding, commitment to helping the poor and bettering conditions for those working in factories and mines, the Peninsula War and the war in the colonies. By the end of the hour they both seemed well pleased.

“Amelia, would you object to my asking your father permission to court you? “ Amelia’s face fell, then frowning she said “I am not sure that he will give permission, he is set on my marrying the Squire’s son. I came to Bath to visit my grandmamma so I was not able to receive a proposal. That however, may not have stopped my father from entering into one on my behalf”.

“I take it you do not wish to marry the squire’s son. Would you wish to marry me if that were possible?”

Amelia shyly looked up at this face, all serious and lacking his light banter of the previous hour, “yes, I do believe I would” she said.

“Leave it to me. I will go to Edenbridge tomorrow and speak with your father. I may be gone for a week. Do not give up on me in my absence.”

“I will not” Amelia was returned to her grandmamma’s house. Lord Brompton came inside and they repaired to the drawing room. A tea tray appeared. Brompton outlined his plan to grandmamma, who smiled happily.

“You need to tell Amelia you are also Farleigh, she needs to be aware.”

Lord Brompton turned to Amelia. “Will you forgive me for not telling you of my other titles? I wanted to get to know you when you thought I was a lesser personage than I really am.” He looked at her face, she was all confusion. She must be one of the few young misses not having Debretts memorized.

“I am the Earl of Farleigh, also Lord Brompton and one day, in the distant future, I will be the Duke of Clives.” He was watching Amelia carefully and saw her blanch.

“I, ah, I have no idea about being a Countess and even less about being a Duchess. I am not sure if I am capable or qualified to be either.”

He smiled, “these things can be learned. You can be yourself and everyone will adore you.” Amelia gave a wan smile.

“Can I still ask your father?”

“Yes” Amelia answered on a gulp, “I do believe he will give his permission” He turned to grandmamma, “Please consider that we are betrothed, but do not announce it to anyone. I wish Amelia to be comfortable with being courted and with me before an announcement is made.”

Amelia smiled, he was so kind, so considerate. How could she not love him? Did she love him on such a short acquaintance? Amelia thought that she started liking him from when he spoke back to her in Melksham, for rescuing her in Monkton Farleigh and for wanting someone who liked him for himself. Perhaps she was The April Perennial 47

just a little bit in love with him already.

Six days later, the Earl returned, special license in hand. He hoped Amelia would be content with a small ceremony in the chapel at Farleigh Hall. He had sent flowers every day. Each day a different complementing flower. He had written updates as he progressed, a small breach of propriety.

On arriving, she greeted him smiling, and led him to the drawing room. Grandmamma and the Major were both taking tea. He asked if he could speak to Amelia privately. They went to the library, where he asked on bended knee for her hand. “Yes” she whispered. He slipped the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger.

They married two weeks later in the chapel at Farleigh Hall, a week after attending the wedding of Caroline and Harold at the church in Edenbridge.

48 The April Perennial

SECOND PRIZE

Henry vs Edgar Christian Torres Sunday July 16, 1987. One day unlike any other day, there was a person who was very poor, and his name was Henry. He never had many friends; he only had one very good friend and that was his best friend since he was little and that was Edgar Shakespeare. They both grew up poor in the same neighborhood. But, one day something interesting happened after they earned some money and went to a gas station.

Monday July 17, 1987. So, they had earned some cash after doing a little side job mowing a lawn. After they received it, they decided they would split it and go to a gas station and buy some groceries. Then Edgar realized he had a little more than he thought and decided he would buy a lottery ticket each and test their luck with it.

So, they each scratched their ticket at the same time. As soon as Edgar Shakespeare finished scratching it, he had no luck and lost. So then Henry, as soon as he finished scratching, thought he had no luck either, but then Edgar told him, “look you forgot a number in the bottom left corner,” then as soon as Henry saw it he noticed it was one of the winning numbers and he realized he had won the lottery. He couldn’t believe he had won one million five hundred thousand dollars! He and Edgar were so happy that they started crying with joy. They were so excited, then they realized that they weren’t going to be poor anymore.

Tuesday July 18, 1987. Then the next day later Edgar had called him and said, “can you even believe we won the lottery yesterday.”

“Then Henry said, “yeah, we’re going to be rich.” The both were so excited that they were going to be rich they couldn’t wait for what the future had for them. Then the next day they had managed to get another job cutting another lawn. They had planned to go on Tuesday but due to rain they were forced to go on Wednesday Wednesday July 19, 1987. This was the day something happened that just tore the two friends’ friendship apart. So, there they were ready to go cut the lawn, all day they were talking about what they were going to do with the money and what they were going to spend it on. When they started cutting the grass, they talked nonstop about what each person was going to do with their share of the money. That’s exactly when conflict arose between the both. So, Henry who had won the lottery said, “What do you mean you’re going to spend it on this Edgar I won the lottery not you.”

“That’s when Edgar said,” Yeah but I thought we were going to split it. Since I bought it for you. You at least need to give me part of the cash.” That is when things got really intense between the both of them. Then Henry said “no I’m not giving you nothing, go buy another one if you want to win the lottery.” They bickered for minutes straight; they didn’t even care about the lawn they were mowing anymore. So, after they stopped, they just left and didn’t finish their job. From that day they just went their opposite ways.

Saturday July 29,1987. It has been a week since they fought over the money. Every time they would see each other in public they didn’t talk, say hi to each other, or nothing. When they saw each other they just started arguing and eventually finished. Ever since that day they hated each other more than ever, they were pretty much rivals now. Ever since Henry won the lottery, he would buy whatever he saw at all costs. Eventually Edgar started getting kind of jealous and mad at Henry. So then one-night Edgar thought Henry wasn’t home and he did something very unexpected. That same night Edgar thought Henry wasn’t home and tried The April Perennial 49

to steal the money that he had won. But then Henry came out and caught him red handed with some of his money. Henry got so mad at him that he eventually called the cops on him ten minutes later. That same night they took him to jail, but then he felt kind of guilty, but then thought he deserved it.

Monday November 21,1990. It had been three years since Edgar, who went to jail, was twice as mad at Henry for calling the cops at him. But when Edgar saw that Henry was way richer now, he had given up his grudge. So, then he decided to go apologize to Henry, but when Henry saw him, he didn’t accept it he was still mad at him since then.

Edgar really thought to himself that night and decided that Henry could still be mad at him; he thought to himself that he deserved it after what he had done to him. He had felt so guilty that eventually he just didn’t care about Henry. Henry had decided that he would just start his own life as a successful man hoping for the best.

Tuesday November 22,1990. Henry thought to himself about what he had done to him the last three years and eventually decided to go apologize to him, he had felt so bad. So, the next day he went, and Edgar happily accepted his apology.

So, since that day the both went their opposite ways. Edgar became a successful businessman and Henry just became richer and eventually owned his own company. Since that day they went their opposite ways and they were no longer best friends.

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THIRD PRIZE

The Black SUV Da Davis “I didn’t see him coming until he was right in my lane”. Evan was only 16 years old and had just received his license when he was driving home from a basketball game. It was dark and rainy, and he could barely see, even with his windshield wipers going as fast as they could and his bright lights on. Evan was thinking about his 30-point triple double he had just scored at his game just about 30 minutes ago; they had won against his school rivals The Blue Devils, but he was also thinking about the girl he was trying to win over, Morgan. He was thinking about ways to ask her to homecoming and about what car to take: his 1966 Ford F100 or his dad’s 1968 Ford Mustang. He wasn’t at all paying attention to the road. In fact, he constantly thought about Morgan and it seemed he could never get her off his mind.

Evan suddenly awoke from his day/night dreaming when he got a text from Morgan stating “Hey, u did rlly good at ur game tonight. I came to watch ;)”, Evan immediately got butterflies and texted back, “Oh really, I needed to work on my field goal percentage but other than that it was good. I’m real glad you came and how about i even the odds and come to one of your volleyball games;)”. He was fairly certain that it was a good allaround text and didn’t give too much of his feelings out. But yet again he wasn’t paying attention to the road when an 18-wheeler came speeding by, which woke him though. As Evan drove on Highway 180 North, he realized he had passed his turnoff! He was pulling into Rivers End where his uncle and dad had run a multibillion-dollar company before it went under. The company had released a migraine pill that had killed some who had taken it. He quickly remembered that this is also where Morgan lived; he was grappling with himself whether to go see her or turn around and go back to Little Field. He finally decided to turn around and head back to his house in the pouring rain. He pulled back onto Highway 180 North when a familiar white Mercedes Benz drove by, he quickly realized it was his dad going to visit his uncle’s death spot.

So as he drove back he wondered if his dad would be alright by himself at a very known suicide site. His uncle had committed suicide about five years ago. Again, Evan wasn’t paying attention to the road when suddenly, he saw headlights right in front of his car! He slammed on his brakes, and all like a gush of 100 mile an hour wind a car hit him head on. His car started rolling from the impact and Evan was out cold, when he awoke, he was in a hospital bed laid up.

Once he was able to have visitors everyone kept asking him what he remembered. He didn’t want to tell them what he really remembered so he just told them a black SUV. What he really remembered would haunt him for the rest of his life. He thought he saw his Uncle Doyle driving the SUV. That is impossible, he thought to himself his uncle had died years ago from jumping off a waterfall. The next visitor he got was Morgan, he felt a little better once she had walked through the door. “How do you feel, do you need anything?” Morgan asked. He responded by saying, “I’m fine, thank you.” Morgan came and sat by his side and asked him what had happened, but this time he needed to tell someone, and he wanted it to be her because he felt as if he could trust her. Evan told her about seeing Doyle and about seeing his father, Darren, heading to his uncle’s death site. Her family had been high valued staff in his family’s company. Morgan wondered about any way someone could survive a 70-foot drop onto rocks and speeding water. As Morgan thought Evan interrupted asking her, “Are you alright?” Morgan responded by stating, “Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t know how someone could survive The April Perennial 51

that drop. You must feel betrayed Evan.” She pulled him into a desperate hug, and they held each other for several minutes.

Two weeks later Evan was released from the hospital and he drove home by himself. On the way home he thought he saw the black SUV drive past him. So Evan made an illegal U turn in the middle of a highway! He followed the car back to a huge mansion on a hill. He called a buddy of his father’s down at the police station and asked him who owned the property. The cop responded with a company named DD networks. Evan had never heard of the company in his life, then he saw it. A little girl being thrown out of the second story window.

He rushed back home in the pouring rain again and it was pitch black just like that night one month ago. As he sped on the wet highway at 80 miles an hour, a black SUV hit Evan again sending him off the side of a cliff.

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Academic Essay - NCTC Students

FIRST PRIZE

Stars and Stripes: The Controversial Pattern of Patriotism Ashlyn Fowler Throughout the ages, people have chosen objects to represent their beliefs and way of life. Scots and Irish alike don clan tartans, Nazis wore swastikas, and 4H students have a particular affinity for the four-leaf clover. However, there is one symbolic object that plays an increasingly controversial role in our everyday lives.

Display it, carry it, burn it, revere it, acknowledge it as your own or reject it as a symbol of outdated sentiment, the American flag and the question of what it represents is a culturally relevant topic as we continue to see people take different stances on how they respond to the stars and stripes. In his essay “That Old Piece of Cloth,” Frank Miller lays out his own journey in determining the value of the flag in his own life. Surrounded as a boy by veterans of both wars and social revolutions, his original contempt for the symbolic material was transformed into admiration after experiencing the events of 9/11 (161-163). He believes in the American flag as a symbol of ideals and patriotism that are crucial to our country’s survival.

To understand the shift and eventual outcome of Miller’s thinking, it is necessary to grasp the historical and sociological implications of the age that Miller grew up in prior to the attack on September 11th. The ‘60s, an era of radical movement, was a historically tumultuous time. In 1962, JFK was assassinated. 1963 saw Martin Luther King Jr. delivering what would become a historically significant speech. People from all over gathered in streets and occupied buildings to protest the Vietnam War and bring attention to the civil rights movement.

In addition to the free-thinkers who rode the emotional roller coaster of societal belief, Miller was surrounded by those who had served in the military, mentioning that even his parents were “WWII veterans. FDR era patriots” (161). The circumstances for soldiers returning home after World War II were very different than those returning from the Vietnam War. Post WWII, the United States had an economic boom, and the nation relished in the victory. Soldiers were welcomed home with excitement.

However, those returning from the Vietnam War experienced a different homecoming. The Vietnam War was seen by most as a lost cause, and soldiers were not welcomed home with the same enthusiasm of a nation experiencing a victory. In an article for Vietnam, James Wright summarizes the feeling well: “Most Americans did ignore them--many disliked them for what they represented, and some feared them for the dark anger they believed the veterans harbored. One reporter wrote of the returning veteran, ‘Silently he is slipping thru the back door of the nation which sent him to war.’” As a result, Miller grew up in an environment where, between the flower-power and anti-war movements and the outcome from the Vietnam War, excessive devotion and seemingly misguided patriotism produced a skeptical view of any symbol of undying loyalty and devotion. In recalling how he felt toward the flag, he says it was “just another symbol of a generation’s sentimentality, of it’s narcissistic worship of its own past glories” (162).

In contrast to the aforementioned influences, the post 9/11 setting was significantly altered by the historical event and the sociological impact that followed the attack. Historically, September 11, 2001, is not a date any could forget easily. The country experienced horror first hand, watching as the twin towers collapsed in ruins. According to The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist AtThe April Perennial 53

tacks Upon the United States (9/11 Report), “the nation suffered the largest loss of life—2,973—on its soil as a result of hostile attack in its history. The FDNY suffered 343 fatalities— the largest loss of life of any emergency response agency in history. The PAPD suffered 37 fatalities—the largest loss of life of any police force in history. The NYPD suffered 23 fatalities—the second largest loss of life of any police force in history, exceeded only by the number of PAPD officers lost the same day” (311). The attack was monumental to the entire nation and affected people far and wide, both emotionally and physically. America had never experienced terrorism on such a scale before, marking it as a historically devastating day. Emerging from an upbringing steeped in the abstract, Miller was confronted with the solidity and face-to-face experience of an event that challenged his belief, prompting him to reconsider his opinion of the flag. He says “All of a sudden I realize what my parents were talking about, all those years” (162). The shift in his belief is palpable within his essay.

In the same way, the sociological impact of 9/11 had a vast impact on the way society viewed the flag. In the days following the attack, it was deemed odd – unpatriotic even – not to have a flag flying. The red white and blue banner could be seen everywhere amidst the rubble, a beacon of hope in the gray desolation of wreckage. Alan Alda wrote “As you walked the city in the days following the attack, you would see dozens of flags thirty stories high in the windows of apartment buildings. People had pasted the flags to their windows on the chance that someone would look up and know that someone else was pulling for them. During these weeks, the flag had stopped being an expression of particular political leanings. It belonged to all of us again” (Alda 2:33:22) Miller’s presence in New York during this time would put him in a position to see first-hand the social inclusion of the flag as a symbol of hope and survival, impressing on him the importance of the object. Indeed, he wasn’t alone in this feeling: Julian E. Barnes, in an article for The New York Times, notes the gargantuan number of flags purchased just after the event, reporting that “Americans started buying flags hours after the attacks. Wal-Marts sold 116,000 flags on that Tuesday and 250,000 on Wednesday, compared with 6,400 and 10,000 on the same days a year earlier. By Friday, Sept. 14, Wal-Mart was running out, but still sold 135,000.”

The flags represented togetherness, something America yearned for the dark moment of history they were experiencing.

Now, nineteen years later, there are many who oppose the flag, believing it to be an unjust representation of liberty. Colin Kaepernick, a quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers, is at the forefront of the discussion, having led the way to many debates on the topic by refusing to stand for the national anthem. Steve Wyche, a reporter for the NFL media, quotes Kaepernick saying “I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.” In a more aggressive approach, BLM and Antifa members burned an American flag in Portland following a far-right rally (Cinone).

From these examples, we can see a wide variety of feelings attached to the flag. Regardless, the flag is still seen by many as a representation of ideals and patriotism. The stars and stripes are woven into our society in a multitude of ways. Many different sporting events open with the national anthem, an American flag present and at the center of attention. Much of our currency bears a depiction of said flag. Spouses of deceased service members are presented with an American flag in honor of the sacrifices their loved ones made in the name of the values represented by “Old Glory.” To many, the image of the flag remains as a symbol of liberty and ideals. Miller states that he sees “something precious” in the stars and stripes, “something perishable” (163). In a day and age when the monuments representing our nation’s history are objected to and removed from public spaces, Miller’s concern for the flag becomes tangible. As the seasons of our nation change, so will the view of the flag. The pendulum of belief will continue to sway, and Americans will continue to search for the line between patriotism and blind devotion. For Miller, the American flag stands resolutely, a symbol of unity.

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Works Cited Alda, Alan. “Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself.” Narrated by Alan Alda, Audible, 2007. 2:33:22 45. Audiobook.

Barnes, Julian E. “A Nation Challenged: Proud Spirits; As Demand Soars, Flag Makers Help Bolster Nation’s Morale.” The New York Times, 23 Sept 2001. https://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/23/business/nation- challenged-proud-spirits-demand-soars-flag-makers-help-bolster-nation-s.html Cinone, Danielle. “UP IN FLAMES ‘Black Lives Matter and Antifa Rioters’ BURN an American Flag During Portland Unrest After Proud Boys Gathering.” The Sun, 27 Sept 2020. https://www.thesun.co.uk /news/12782539/black-lives-matter-antifa-rioters-burn-american-flag/ Wright, James. “A Generation Goes to War: The Sour Public Opinion About the War Led to Distaste for Returning Veterans.” Vietnam, vol. 30, no 4. Dec 2017, p 44+. Gale Onefile: U.S. History, https://link.gale. com/apps/doc/A506828366/PPUS?u=txshracd2531&sid=PPUS&xid=75bb000e. Accessed 23 Oct. 2020.

Miller, Frank. “That Old Piece of Cloth.” This I Believe II, edited by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman, Picador, 2008, pp. 161-163.

“The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States (9/11 Report)” U.S. Government Printing Office, 22 July 2004, pp. 311. https://www.govinfo.gov/ content/pkg/GPO-911REPORT/pdf/GPO-911REPORT.pdf Wyche, Steve. “Colin Kaepernick Explains Why He Sat During National Anthem.” nfl.com, 27 Aug 2016. https:// www.nfl.com/news/colin-kaepernick-explains-why-he-sat-during-national-anthem-0ap3000000691077

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SECOND PRIZE

Important Factors to Consider in Promoting Child Literacy Mary Morrison Humans are always on the lookout for magical, fix-all solutions to common challenges. Advertisers continually push the “amazing new secret” to achieve almost anything, such as weight loss, improved sleep, and good time management. In reality, there is seldom one simple approach to an issue. Such is the case with child literacy. Good child literacy does not have one single factor, and educators must avoid the assumption that it does. Many people are convinced that solely reading aloud to children is the key. Some believe in never merely reading, but instead always pursuing intentional, active conversation with the child in an effort to engage them intellectually. Others consider a good home environment and parental involvement vital. Still others think the determining factor is a pleasant emotional experience and connection while reading. It is tempting for parents and educators to place all hope in one technique and apply it unyieldingly. Instead, they should recognize the complexity of developing good child literacy and focus on various elements in their education efforts, including active participation and conversation while reading, a healthy home environment and parental involvement, and pleasant emotional experiences and connections tied with reading.

In The Reading Teacher, author Mem Fox addresses the topic of reading aloud to children as a part of education and literacy programs. She recounts research, personal correspondence, and personal experience that support reading aloud in a non-lesson format as the best way to teach literacy. She encourages educators to “Don’t waste ‘teach-ery time’ introducing the books to the gorgeous kids in your classroom: they won’t concentrate until you actually start to read” (Fox 8). Fox’s suggestion makes teaching literacy sound so simple, with reading aloud being the “magic wand.” Linda Meyer and co-authors conducted a study in response to this popular belief that reading stories to children is a magical tool that will indubitably result in high reading performance. Results indicated that while reading aloud to children may benefit reading performance, it does not consistently have a positive connection to high reading performance. Meyer concludes that simply reading is not enough. The most important factor in children’s reading performance is their level of active participation with print, including phonics, word recognition exercises, and other activities directly related to written text.

Therefore, teachers and parents should read aloud to children in conjunction with active reading instruction instead of not treating it as a stand-alone “magical” tool (Meyer et al.).

Even the perfect combination of reading aloud in a low-pressure setting and utilizing more involved, intentional instruction does not guarantee success. Literacy in children is not determined by technique alone. One less considered but equally important factor is a child’s home environment and parental influence. Members of the Frank Porter Graham Child Development Institute conducted a study on “The Role of Home Literacy Practices in Preschool Children’s Language and Emergent Literacy Skills.” Researchers analyzed frequency of book reading, child interest during book reading, maternal book reading strategies, maternal sensitivity, and overall home environment among study participants. The HOME (Home Observation for Measurement of the Environment) Inventory was utilized to determine overall home environment, and it considered these characteristics: “the primary caregiver’s emotional and verbal responsiveness acceptance of the child’s behavior, organization of the environment, academic and language stimulation, and maternal involvement with the child” (Roberts et al 356). The overall results of the study indicated that “a global measurement of the home environment contributed over and above the specific literacy measures in predicting children’s early 56 The April Perennial

language and literacy development” (Roberts et al 357). Parents who desire strong literacy skills for their children should work to build a healthy home environment. Teachers should be alert to discern students who have a poor home environment so that, if necessary, proper intervention can occur.

Aside from the general home environment, there are also specific ways parents can affect children’s literacy. After learning the basics, children and young adults develop and maintain literacy as they continue to use their reading skills regularly. Unfortunately, while there tends to be a strong focus on initially teaching children to read, there is often a lack of motivation and encouragement to read once a child has reached a basic skill level, resulting in a decline of older children’s value and enjoyment of reading (See Figure 1.). This contributes to functional illiteracy in many adults, making it a struggle to meet frequently encountered academic, career, and social requirements (Merga and Roni 214). A study by Margaret Merga and Saiyidi Roni recognized the significance of positive reading role models in influencing children to continue reading as they grow more independent. Children whose parents push reading but do not read regularly themselves perceive a hypocritical, contradictory message, and will follow their parents’ example of action more closely than their words of admonition. In contrast, students who observe a consistent habit and enjoyment of reading in their parents tend to adopt the same attitude and are much more likely to read on their own, and enjoy doing so, than are children who do not have a positive role model. In addition to modeling reading as an enjoyable habit, parents can promote literacy by making books accessible in the home and creating schedules that accommodate time to read (Merga and Saiyidi).

Sometimes an intentional focus on effective methods of promoting literacy in children causes parents and educators to neglect an important principle. Literacy is not just about being able to read and write. It is about connecting and communicating. When literacy is isolated from relationship, children will see little value in it.

When adults read with children, there is potential for connection. It creates opportunities for closeness and affection, shared enjoyment, and mutual experience (See Figure 2.). In a study presented in The Journal of Pediatrics, John Hutton and colleagues explored the quality of shared reading between mothers and their preschool-aged daughters and observed its effects on the daughters’ brain activity. Participants completed a story listening task as mother-daughter pairs in which the mothers were given the opportunity to read to their daughters. Observers noted and scored maternal and child interest and engagement, quantity of reading completed, quality and quantity of dialogue, and physical proximity and affection during reading, in conjunction with the results of MRIs that the children underwent to observe activity in various parts of the brain.

Higher levels of shared reading quality corresponded to greater activation in multiple areas of the brain, including areas supporting literacy, executive function, social-emotional processing, and attention. The author concluded that there is a positive connection between quality of maternal shared reading and brain activity in preschoolers. “Maternal shared reading quality is positively correlated with brain activation supporting complex language, executive function, and social-emotional processing in at-risk, preschool-age children” (Hutton et al). The beneficial results of pleasant and meaningful interaction on a child’s literacy skills are not relevant only within the narrowness of this study. In a previously mentioned study, the authors determined that stressful reading experiences as a child have a destructive impact on building long-term reading habits because the activity comes to be associated with negative emotions. Conversely, some students who expressed sadness that their parents stopped reading with them as they grew older indicated that their greatest concern was the loss of time to enjoy with their parents. For these children, the pleasant connections they had during reading was what motivated them to continue. The authors noted that “the quality of the [shared reading] experience can be highly variable, underscoring the importance of remembering that this activity is a social exchange that fosters enjoyment to influence attitudes toward reading, as well as to support skill acquisition” (Merga and The April Perennial 57

Roni 219). Parents and educators must not only personally maintain this mindset toward reading and literacy but also intentionally instill it in their children and students. “Encouragement aimed at fostering enjoyment and shared social purpose is more successful than encouragement purely focused on academic attainment” (Merga and Roni 216).

Parents and educators must avoid the assumption that there is one single cause of good child literacy.

Instead, they must recognize the complexity of this subject and consider multiple influential factors in their educative approach. These factors include, but are not limited to, active participation and conversation while reading, a healthy home environment and parental involvement, and pleasant emotional experiences and connections tied with reading. Attention to a range of elements will produce desired results more effectively than will blind loyalty to only one approach. This principle is applicable to many life issues.

Figure 1.

Graph of frequency of and views among children on reading books for fun. 2019. Scholastic Inc, Kids and Families Reading Report, 7th Edition, https://www.scholastic.com/readingreport/navigate-the-world.html.

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Figure 2.

Illustration of parents’ and children’s views on reading aloud together, by percentages. 2019. Scholastic Inc, Kids and Families Reading Report, 7th Edition, https://www.scholastic.com/readingreport/rise-of-readaloud.html.

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Works Cited Fox, Mem. “What Next in the Read-Aloud Battle?: Win or Lose?” Reading Teacher, vol. 67, no. 1, Sept. 2013, pp. 4–8. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1002/TRTR.1185. Accessed 26 October 2019.

Hutton, John S et al. “Shared Reading Quality and Brain Activation during Story Listening in Preschool-Age Children.” The Journal of Pediatrics, vol. 191 (2017): 204-211.e1. doi:10.1016/j.jpeds.2017.08.037.

Accessed 26 October 2019.

Merga, Margaret K., and Saiyidi Mat Roni. “Empowering Parents to Encourage Children to Read Beyond the Early Years.” Reading Teacher, vol. 72, no. 2, Sept. 2018, pp. 213–221. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1002/trtr.1703.

Accessed 26 October 2019.

Meyer, Linda A., et al. “Effects of Reading Storybooks Aloud to Children.” Journal of Educational Research,

vol. 88, no. 2, Nov. 1994, pp. 69–85. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1080/00220671.1994.9944821. Accessed 26 October 2019.

Roberts, Joanne, et al. “The Role of Home Literacy Practices in Preschool Children’s Language and Emergent Literacy Skills.” Journal of Speech, Language & Hearing Research, vol. 48, no. 2, Apr. 2005, pp. 345–359.

EBSCOhost, doi:10.1044/1092-4388(2005/024). Accessed 19 November 2019.

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THIRD PRIZE

Evaluating Possible Solutions to Malnutrition Taleah Allen Imagine living a life where no matter how hard you try you can never buy enough nutrient dense food to keep your family healthy; this is a reality for many people who have limited access to diverse foods. The result of this is malnutrition or vitamin deficiency -- the lack of nutrition and vitamins in one’s diet. Jere R. Behrman, Harold Alderman and John Hoddinott -- who are all employed at Copenhagen Consensus, a project that seeks to establish priorities for advancing global welfare -- report in their article, “While episodes of severe hunger such as famines receive considerable press coverage and attract much public attention, chronic hunger and malnutrition is considerably more prevalent in developing countries” (“Hunger and Malnutrition”). Malnutrition is such a severe issue in our society yet doesn’t always get the attention it deserves. However, many ideas have surfaced about how to resolve this issue but none have worked to the extent of eliminating malnutrition once and for all.

Jayson Lusk -- the Professor and Chair of the Department of Agricultural Economics at Purdue University -- published his 2016 book, Unnaturally Delicious, where he discusses how innovations and technology can stabilize the future of food. Lusk reveals in his book that, “3.1 million children younger than five die every year from malnutrition, and 165 million suffer stunted growth. Almost half of all childhood deaths in the world result from inadequate nutrition”(73). There are so many families suffering from the effects of malnutrition resulting in illness and even death. In this paper I want to evaluate Lusk’s arguments surrounding this topic, those being: a Western economic model is, in most cases, suitable for other countries -- which is supported by outside research -- and that malnutrition has one solution that we’ve not yet discovered -- which is challenged by outside research.

A Western Economic Model An argument that Lusk’s makes in Unnaturally Delicious is that a Western economic model is suitable for other countries and people groups. The majority of the solutions to malnutrition that Lusk argues are things we practice in our Western economy. Lusk states that by providing vitamin supplements to undeveloped parts of the world, we could end malnutrition and vitamin deficiency to an extent. Vitamin supplements are something we depend on greatly in America. That said, they aren’t something that people in other countries are used to, they don’t understand how they’ll help them. This results in people not wanting to buy them which brings us back to square one.

However, Lusk also suggests that we should implement biofortification in crops to fight malnutrition; this is also something we practice in America. He indicates in his book, “Food companies regularly fortify processed foods with vitamins and minerals to foster the perception of healthfulness. The federal government requires fortification when there are concerns about the effects of deficiency” (Lusk 72). This quote clearly states that biofortification is something we regularly practice in American culture when malnutrition and vitamin deficiency are a concern. Lusk encourages the use of biofortification because these issues are a concern in other countries where malnutrition is more prevalent. Simon Strobbe and Dominique Van Der Straeten -- who both have received their doctorates from Ghent University -- support Lusk’s claim by stating in their article, “Creation and evaluation of multi-biofortified crops would not only offer a sustainable solution to eradicate MNM (micronutrient malnutrition), but also help to elucidate the interplay of different micronutrients...a The April Perennial 61

prerequisite in biofortification strategies is to consider stability upon storage of the crop product, as well as after food processing and bioavailability upon human consumption” (“Toward Eradication of B-Vitamin Deficiencies”). This passages agrees with Lusk’s argument by conveying that biofortification could be the partial solution to ending malnutrition.

In conclusion, we need to positively promote vitamin supplements and biofortified crops in other countries because, ideally, it could save lives and benefit the health of others. While these ideas may not be the complete solution to ending malnutrition, they could bring many positive benefits. However, research shows that there may be a solution that’s already in progress.

The Malnourished are the Answer Another argument that Lusk presents in his book is that malnutrition has one single solution that we’ve not yet discovered. While this is a fair statement, research I found disputes this argument in an article written by Jerry Sternin who has had first hand experience with the effects of malnutrition. He argues that the malnourished people are the ones who will ultimately provide the answer to ending malnutrition.

In certain situations, a Western economic model may be beneficial, as previously discussed. In some cases it may be more beneficial to rely on the ideas of the malnourished. Lusk states that, “the process (producing biofortified crops) can be hurried along by using marker-assisted breeding, which involves using DNA tests to identify the genes responsible for expression of micronutrients and then selecting varieties with the right genes for conventional breeding” (77). This quote shows that Lusk supports the science behind speeding up crop growth so that these poor farmers can yield an extra harvest. However, Jerry Sternin -- director of the Positive Deviance Initiative, country director for Save the Children (US), a Peace Corps Volunteer and Country Director, as well as Assistant Dean and Student Advisor at the Harvard Business School -- reveals another way malnutrition can be approached and disputes Lusk’s argument by saying, “It is easy to presume that a poor farmer would want faster growing rice that would allow him a third harvest every year; we suppose that anybody would want more, since, in America at least, more is better. But then the farmer turns around and asks, ‘Why would I want to work a third harvest when I can subsist on two?’” (“On the Front Lines…”). This is proof that the American idea, ‘more is better’, does not always apply in every situation. The act of applying our American ideas into other countries won’t always work. If we keep doing the same thing that isn’t working to the extent we’d like, then malnutrition may never end; we need a new approach to ending this issue.

That said, there are different approaches that we could take. In every town there are people who will find more beneficial results to their issues than others will. Within the hindrance of poverty, there will be some who will acquire the solution or partial solution to malnutrition, find a way to send their kids to school, get medical help, escape human trafficking, or reduce their exposure to HIV and AIDS. These people have figured out something that we haven’t yet, they’re fixing something that seemed unfixable. Within the context of the specific situation of their community, they’re the world’s greatest experts (Ibid.). Ordinary people are solving the issue of malnutrition because their lives and health depend on it. Lusk makes it seem that it’s in the hands of professionals to save these people but in reality it’s the people who are saving themselves. No one understands the problems they’re facing more than they do; instead of enforcing new ideas into their community we should work with them and promote changes that they are already adapting to, changes that are already in the process of extending their lives and benefiting their health.

Conclusion Throughout this essay, I argued that in certain situations we can use our American ideas to help end malnutrition but it isn’t the full solution, we need to consider the ideas of those who are living with the effects of malnutrition as well. Overall, I think we can all agree that malnutrition is a severe issue that needs fixing, not 62 The April Perennial

one method will fix it. We need to be open to new ideas and rely on technology to get us there, malnutrition will only end if we use the resources that have already been given to us. The least we can do is become aware of the situation at hand and help in any way we can, rather that be donating money to an organization who is helping the malnourished or maybe start your own non-profit organization; we can all help in some way or another.

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Works Cited Behrman, Jere R, et al. “Hunger and Malnutrition.” www.copenhagenconsensus.com, 7 May 2004, www.copenhagenconsensus.com/sites/default/files/Hunger_and_Malnutrition_070504.pdf. Accessed 8 Nov. 2018 Lusk, Jayson. (2016). Unnaturally Delicious: How Science and Technology are Serving Up Super Foods to Save the World. New York, N.Y. Sternin, Jerry. "On the front lines: if we want to help impoverished nations, we can start by finding the world's leading problem solvers--the handful of people in each and every poor community who have found solutions to malnutrition, disease, or inequity without any help from outside." Science & Spirit, vol. 16, no. 4, 2005, p. 34+. Academic OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com.northcenttexascollegelibrary.idm.oclc. org/apps/doc/A171400214/AONE?u=txshracd2531&sid=AONE&xid=f4d507df. Accessed 10 Nov. 2018.

Strobbe, Simon, and Dominique Van Der Straeten. "Toward Eradication of B-Vitamin Deficiencies: Considerations for Crop Biofortification." Frontiers in Plant Science, 2018. Academic OneFile, http://link. galegroup.com.northcenttexascollegelibrary.idm.oclc.org/apps/doc/A533636992/AONE?u=txshracd253 1&sid=AONE&xid=7cb10c64. Accessed 25 Nov. 2018.

64 The April Perennial

Gerald McDaniel Memorial Short Story

FIRST PRIZE

The Woman of the Emerald Wood Shanelle Hicks

In old times when magic and folklore was living in the hearts of children, there existed a woman who aged according to the cycles of the moon. She lived far away from the kingdom that claimed to rule over the land, far from the shadows that hovered over the souls of men. One could only find her if they were to venture past the mountains shaped like two sleeping bears and into the Emerald Wood. But, only few would ever encounter her, for she was a solitary creature who remained veiled to all of those who she did not wish to reveal herself.

Her existence was a myth that had been whispered about for generations. The woman was as ancient as the Earth and yet her wisdom waxed and waned throughout each month with the moon. When the moon was waxing, she was the Maiden, whose innocence and curiosity flowed into the forest, filling it with wonder. When the moon was full, she was the Mother, whose fertility and nurturing presence brang life, growth and abundance to the animals and plants in her wood. When the moon was waxing, she was the Crone, whose wisdom was sought out and avoided, for in this incarnation, she brought death to those who grew weak with time.

A young girl began to wander into the Emerald Wood during springtime, her name was Esme and she was at the end of her girlhood at just 16 years old. Esme had heard stories all throughout her childhood about this forest and the ancient woman who animated it. Her infatuation with this archetypal woman had brought her to the forest in hopes that the woman would reveal herself to her and share with her her wisdom. She was taught that in order to connect with the woman, you must first connect with the forest. So, she went there every single day in the early hours of the morning to wander the woods. She told the trees her inner thoughts. She told the animals and plants stories from her childhood. She sang songs with the birds and she acknowledged and interacted with each stone, plant and animal which she encountered during her wanderings. She began to know the forest as a friend and the forest began to recognize her as part of itself.

One day, as Esme travelled the forest, a dancing figure caught her attention from the corner of her eye. It was a young woman, flowers and starlight bloomed at her heels. She was a thing of dreams that seemed shimmer and glint under the trees. Esme almost started to weep because she knew that it was the woman of the woods. She felt her presence within her soul as if it was a corporeal thing. She called out for her and started to run towards her dancing figure. Once she came closer, the Maiden slowed her movements to a stillness that startled Esme for she had never encountered anything as breathtaking. She took a moment to observe the Maiden’s youthful features in more detail. She looked to be about as old as Esme. Her eyes were the color of seafoam and they possessed an innocence and naivety that mimicked Esme’s own youth. Beauty was a word for humans and so beauty would not be the word for the Maiden. She was an incarnation of wonder. Esme felt as if she already knew her. They looked at each other and laughed like old friends. The Young Maiden exclaimed,

“Oh! How long I’ve wanted to meet you, my dear friend! You’ve rested in the corner of my heart for as long as you’ve had a name. Come here! Come here!”

And so, Esme took the Maiden’s hand and images of budding flowers, moonlight and white pearls flashed in her mind’s eye. She tried to communicate what she could not with words and the Maiden looked at her as if she understood. The two of them talked for hours about the endless wonders of the Emerald Wood and of The April Perennial 65

the world beyond. They were both experiencing the springtime of their lives. However, this was the first and last spring for Esme, for her youth was only to be experienced once. When night came, the two young women walked under the light of the waxing moon and too soon, the Maiden disappeared into the wind between the long grass.

When Esme came home, she could hardly contain herself as she described her experience to her mother and father. It was as if her excitement was burning her up from the inside out and each word floated out of her mouth like a little bit of ash that rose underneath a breeze. This concerned her father, for he was a rational man and believed that fairy tales like these were invaluable bits of a child’s imagination. Esme was becoming a woman, afterall, and women had to participate with the dramas of society. So, despite Esme’s tears, a carriage took her away the next morning to go live in the kingdom. At first, Esme’s felt as if a piece of her own soul was ripped away from her. However, as time passed, and as Esme began to become disenchanted with the world around her, she dwelled in the drama of the kingdom’s many meaningless storylines. The Emerald Wood and the woman who animated it, grew farther and farther away until they became nothing more than an opaque myth shrouded in superstition. Esme grew older and hardly looked up at the moon to watch its many phases.

She soon fell in love and married a handsome man, but this was the only magic that she encountered since the Emerald Wood. She was now a woman in the autumn of her life. And she felt as if time were passing her by without permission. She felt a sense of an intense detachment from the world that terrified her more than dragons and serpents.

One day, Esme heard a whisper from outside of her window, it seemed to call to her and say,

“Esme, come outside and look at the moon! It misses you dearly!”

And so, she obeyed this mysterious call and sat out on the damp grass outside of her home to bear witness to the beautiful full moon. As she soaked in the moonlight, she had an intense feeling that it held within it an old and familiar friend. The light of the moon grew brighter and brighter until all that existed was its milky light, it was as if she was being consumed by it. Soon it subsided and she found herself sitting within the Emerald Wood once again. As soon as she understood where she was, all of her memories rushed upon her like a tsunami in a grave. It pushed her down into the grass and as soon as she sat up again, she saw a figure walking towards her. It was the woman, however, she was no longer the Maiden. She was glowing as bright as the moon and she was as full as the moon, for her stomach was round with child. Esme weeped at the sight of her, the Mother’s nurturing presence seemed to baptize her of her disenchantment.

Petals fell from the Mother’s mouth as she spoke, “My dear child, you’ve been lost to yourself”, she reached out and touched Esme on the inside of her hands.

Esme cried, “Oh! How much I’ve missed!”. She closed her eyes and let herself mourn for the magic that she had been robbed of. When she opened them again, she was back outside of her home in the land of the kingdom and the shadows. When she looked at the palms of her hands, two white, full flowers grew from where the Mother had touched.

Esme spent the next few years speaking to everyone and anyone that would listen to her about the magic that existed in the world, about the Emerald Wood and about the Maiden and the Mother. Most of them rolled their eyes at her. Even when she showed them her flowers, they would insist that those who believed in fairytales were childish fools. Petals fell from her hands. Even her husband seemed to brush her away. Repeating, “I know darling, I know” as if calming down a child.

As time passed, her voice grew weak from sermonizing. Time and gravity were taking its toll on Esme and she occasionally cried for her youth. Her hair turned silver and the wrinkles on her face burrowed and made a home deep within her skin. She knew it was time to go back to where she belonged. It was time to go home.

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She decided to leave the kingdom and after one last kiss on her husband’s forehead, she began her journey on a windy day in December. It was as if the chilled wind was pushing her frail form towards home. She walked on weather beaten legs over the two mountains shaped like sleeping bears. After 4 days and 3 nights, she finally arrived at the Emerald Wood on one of the darkest days of the year. The waning moon hid underneath restful darkness but despite the lack of moonlight, Esme recognized every rock and tree and hidden nook of the forest she grew up in. She sang to the wild energy of the Emerald Wood, just as she used to when she was a girl. After a lifetime of an overwhelming sense of disengagement with her world, she finally felt that she was rejoining her true form. When Esme saw the Woman of the Emerald Wood, she hardly recognized her. She was now a Crone, who was just as withered as Esme. However, the Crone held an ancient wisdom beneath her seafoam gaze that seemed to hold within it understanding of the secrets of life and death. Esme looked at her palms, the flowers within them were shriveling up as the Crone drew closer. Esme knew what was to come but she held no fear in her heart. Life was the woman’s gift lent with the promise of death and that is what made it divine.

As the Crone touched the flowers within her palms, she felt her name, her bones and flesh shed from her soul.

She joined the Crone and they were one. Glancing back at the lifeless shell on the forest floor, they began their dance through the woods seeking out the weak and worn to join them in their dance. However, this ending is not something of darkness, for after a few short nights, the moon would be waxing and the Maiden would bring wonder and life into her domain once again.

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SECOND PRIZE

Together Mary Morrison

The noise and lights and flashing never stop. They have become a ringing in my head that won’t go away, day or night. I don’t know what to do. Is escape even possible? I must try.

Day 1.

I’m supposed to start small to solve big problems, right? Today I start with noise.

Ah! Who knew the power of a simple pair of foam earplugs? I haven’t heard even one ding or beep or buzz since I woke up. This is delightful. Why didn’t I think to do it before?

I never realized how noisy my own brain is. It seems to only have gotten louder now that it is all I hear. Or, perhaps, it has always been this way, but the outside noise has drowned out my own thoughts.

Oh no! How is it so late already?! My alarm never rang…oh. It did, but I didn’t hear it. Now I am late for school.

Hm. I thought being “deaf” at school would make things hard, but no one seems to notice. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. We all walk around silently anyway, without interacting. If I ignored a teacher’s question in class, I guess for once I fit in and was just normal for the day. Classes were a bit boring since I couldn’t hear any of the lectures, but my uninterrupted thoughts were quite interesting.

Well, this is not going as well as I hoped. I didn’t hear the dog bark to be let out, and he made a mess. My family is upset because I can’t hear anything they say to me. They wish I would take my earplugs out and be normal. No one understands my desperation, this need for quiet.

Day 2.

Since getting rid of noise didn’t work too well, I thought I might try sight. But I’ve already come up with too many possible problems before I even attempt it. I won’t be able to drive to school. I won’t be able to do my homework. I won’t be able to cook very well. I’ll be away from the lights and images, but I’ll be stuck all day occupied only with what I wanted so badly just yesterday—my own thoughts.

Day 3.

It’s not that I don’t want to see or hear anything at all. I’m just sick of the overload. My friends seem to love it. They are always watching something on T.V., listening to something with headphones, checking notifications on their phones. You would think they are good at listening, good at seeing. But to me they seem both deaf and blind.

I do want to see. But only certain things. I do want to hear. But not everything.

I want to see smiling faces. Engaged eyes while we talk. The sky. Trees. Sunlight. Words on a page. I want to hear laughter. Caring conversations. Singing in the shower. The rain. Birds.

Maybe the woods are my answer. There I will finally be free from the flashing lights and canned noises.

My brain will have space and quiet to think. I will see and hear so many things I long for.

But it will cost me, perhaps more than I can bear. I will be alone. No more chance of radiant smiles and bubbling laughter. No more hope of expressive eyes and meaningful conversation.

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Unless…Perhaps there are some among my friends who are tired also. Who long for escape from the noise and lights. Who long for quiet. Who long for real, face-to-face connection.

I have not found the answer on my own. I know it is not in deafness, in blindness, in solitude.

Perhaps the way out is together.

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THIRD PRIZE

When Fear Falls in the Forest and No One is There to Hear it Ashlyn Fowler

His mother calls him ‘my dearest.’ His father calls him ‘Ari’. Ari hears neither, for he is deaf. He sees their mouths, knows the shape the words take, the way an endearment looks on his mother’s lips, his name as it rolls off his father’s tongue. He knows no fear, racing along the dirt driveway with the dog. He collects skinned knees and tiny white scars, bruised shins and splinters from climbing the tree in the back yard. It never makes him cry. His parents tell him they left the most fearful thing behind them – government regulation and extreme consequences, figurative chains of bondage and oppression. They converse through sign, let him share any idea he wants. They can do that now. Conversation is a revolving door in their home, the access to free speech and personal decision an unhindered a joy they take part in. He knows no fear. He is young, life is new, and the tree in the backyard is his to fall out of if he pleases.

Ari lives alone after his parents pass. His books need no conversation, and writing fills his spare time. His shelves are full of words in his native language, his table full of notes and drawings. His coffee pot speaks to him in silent blinks of LED light, informing him the dark grind is ready to drink. The dog sits at his feet, warm and companionable. There is no space for a television in the home. His parents had no need for one. The need to fill the silence is something he’s never thought of. He educates himself on things he finds interesting and makes ends meet by tutoring online sign language classes. He knows no fear. He is older, life has settled. The tree in the backyard is his to plant a garden beneath.

The year is 2020. As the trees bloom that spring, so does bad news. Ari hears none of it, but sees it all.

There is a shift in his interactions, a tonal change that he feels rather than hears. Grocers faces are hidden behind cloth – are they smiling or telling him his card was declined? He can’t read the teller’s lips at the bank, now, and something in the way she takes his check feels cold, tense. He flashes her a smile as he leaves, hoping her bad day gets better. The worst is when he’s driven from the store – they’re pointing at his face, pointing at their own. Papers go up on windows, signs on telephone polls and gas pumps. Red circles and yellow tape, tall aggressive letters on storefront doors. Ari knows no fear, only confusion and sorrow. He is alone, and confused. The tree in the backyard is his to lie under and contemplate what it is he’s missing.

The year is halfway through, and he has learned new things. Instead of upsetting the employees in the grocery store, he muddles through the online order form. Twice he orders powdered milk instead of a jug of milk. They bring the bags out to him. He can’t figure out how to specify which brand of tomato soup he wants, so he deals with the kind that tastes like vinegar. He spends more this way, but he doesn’t see the anger when he walks in the store anymore. He’s learned to sit down quickly if he goes out to eat, to hold back sneezes in public, stand further away from people, and don’t need anything to urgently – everything’s delayed. This generally works well, although he misses the weekly interactions that made his isolation bearable instead of suffocating. He knows no fear, just uncertainty. The tree in the backyard is his to hang a birdfeeder on, the company of wildlife his greatest interactions these days.

A cough that doesn’t go away eventually turns into a fever that sticks around and body aches that threaten to keep him in bed. Ari feeds the dog, drinks tea, takes his temperature, and goes back to bed. The mucus in his throat makes it difficult to sleep, though the fatigue is overwhelming. Finally sleeping, it’s hours later when he wakes, and even later when he discovers the dog used the bathroom on his kitchen rug. It’s been there for 70 The April Perennial

hours, but he hadn’t smelled it. He concocts an ancient herbal tea recipe from his mother’s handwritten recipe book, and cancels the grocery order. He doesn’t miss the off-brand tomato soup. Ari feels no fear. The tree in the backyard is his to watch from under the blankets in his room.

The last days of the year draw to a close with unusual events. Ari receives an email from a cousin he hasn’t spoken with in ages.

“I know we haven’t talked in a while, but with the virus and all, I wanted to check on you.” He considers this for a long time, wondering on the meaning before typing out a reply.

“I have not been infected. I miss feeling togetherness with strangers and try to show kindness when I go out. It is cold, but I am finding ways to keep warm. I pray you stay brave as well.”

The tree in the backyard is his to pop a bottle of champagne under, ringing in the new year with a bell he cannot hear. His dog shakes with joyful barks beside him, and he knows no fear.

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HONORABLE MENTION

How Mary Got Her Little Lamb Catherine Hunter Everyone has heard of the story of Mary and her little lamb, but has anyone wondered how she got the lamb? Well, the story begins a long time ago when Mary was younger.

Mary was turning seven years old and for her birthday her parents decided to give her a trip to anywhere she wanted to go.

“Where would you like to go for your birthday,” asked her mom. The little girl thought for a moment, she knew of a shop that sold all kinds of exotic and magical things.

Mary looked up at her parents and asked, “Could we go to the new shop down the street?” The parents gave each other a look of agreement. Mary grabbed her little bag and they made their way to the shop.

The caws of birds were the first sound they heard as they entered the store. A murder of crows was perched on the poles that held up the ceiling, staring down at the family with intense eyes. The mother gave her husband a worried expression.

“Alright dear, you may pick one item and then we’ll go have lunch,” the mom explained.

Mary walked around to look at the wondrous objects displayed on the many walls. She eventually came by a little box. It was in the shape of a rectangle with a faded picture and some words.

“Shara’s wand,’ Mary whispered. She had heard of Shara. She was a powerful shapeshifter who would fight dark beings for the good of the world. Mary shuffled over to her parents with a look like she stole from the cookie jar.

“Can I have this,” Mary asked.

The Father looked at the price and gasped. “FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS FOR AN OLD STICK,” He yelled at the cashier. The poor guy was shaking all over at the sudden outburst.

“I-I-I’m sorry s-sir that’s what my b-boss says,” squeaked the young man. The father calmed down and looked in his wallet. He had enough for the wand. Mary got out a few dollars as well, she wanted to help pay.

The family walked out the door with Mary’s new magic wand.

What would she use it for first? Maybe she would test it one something, like a rock? Maybe try reciting a spell she heard? No, she was going to save it for something special. Mary looked at the forest that was always at the edge of town. She was never allowed in, but with her new wand what would be so bad? While her parents were deciding on a place to eat, she put her wand in her bag and slipped into the forest.

Mary looked around to see nothing but nature. It was beautiful and calming. She started to prance around the bushes and climb the trees, she didn’t ever want to leave. Suddenly, there was a snap of a twig.

“Mom…... Dad” Mary called out hoping for a response. She waited for her Mom’s cries of worry or her father’s angry shouts. Nothing except the chirping of birds, which was also diminishing. It was almost as if the world was fading. Mary started to feel a twist in her stomach, as if something was watching her. She spun in circles trying to find something off, anything.

After what felt like hours of spinning, she was finally calming down. Mary suddenly froze in her tracks as she heard a growl behind her. She turned slowly to see what stood behind her. Towering over the child was a huge black monster with large horns, pointed hooves that scraped the ground, and blood red eyes. The creature was in a pose to rush toward Mary, so naturally she ran. She jumped over rocks and streams and ducked 72 The April Perennial

over low branches. Mary could hear the horrible growls and snarls that came from the creature, indicating that it was growing near. Finally, Mary turned to find a steep mountain that even if she could climb it the monster would surely catch her.

“Maybe if I’m fast enough I can get out of here,” Mary whispered. She turned only to see the monster at the other end. Mary thought it was all over until her hand touched her bag. Of course, her bag, or more importantly what was inside her bag. She reached her hand in to grab her wand. Carefully observing the beast, she remembered Shara could shape-shift with this wand. That meant that it could shape-shift other things as well. She flung out the wand and it started to glow. All she hoped for was something that couldn’t hurt her. The spark on the end of the wand shot toward the monster and then there was a screech of pain or shock.

Mary opened her eyes one at a time to not see a monster, but a little creature with no horns at all, sky blue eyes, and white wool. The horrible beast turned into a little lamb, and it followed her home.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The April Perennial is a publication of the Department of English at North Central Texas College and managed by the Creative Writing Committee.

Dr. G. Brent Wallace, Chancellor Dr. Bruce King, Provost Dr. Rochelle Gregory, English Division Chair Thank you to all professors, teachers, parents, guardians, and friends who encouraged writers to create and submit.

Thank you to Demi Bayer for design and layout of publication and Marylyn Dowling for printing.

Visit us online for more information and details for NCTC Creative Writing Contests

creativewriting.nctc.edu