Staff Lani PrunĂŠs: General Editor Laura Glick: Visual Editor Hannah Patterson & Krista Nyce: Literature Editors Kevin Seidel & Andrew White: Advisors General Staff: Erika Babikow, Andrew Hostetter, Sarah Parson, Heather Yoder, Haley Grubbs
Phoenix Recognizes: Hannah Patterson, cover picture - "In Between Dreams" Erika Babikow, back page picture - "My Favorite Place" The EMU Print Shop Student Government Association The EMU community and contributors who continue to support artisic expression. For consideration in our next edition, send works to: phoenix@emu.edu 2
If writers wrote as carlessly as some people talk, then adhasdh asdglaseuyt[ bn[pasdlgkhasdfasdf. Lemony Snicket Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. Pablo Picasso
What you hold in your hands is a collection of memories, thoughts, and emotions in their truest forms. The artists and photographers created pictures of what they loved and wished to make immortal, the writers and poets weaved and strung words together to birth images. We thank all who contributed to this piece in whatever shape or style, for without enormous amount of time and assistance, these pages would not be quite the beauty they are. We hope all who pour over them will marvel at the works, the love, hate, and desire within them, and fall in love. We know we have. B. Lani PrunĂŠs General Editor 2011
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Our Street
John Gullman
Sitting in the back of class, I just smile and nod, hoping that will make me pass.
I take time to stop--and think. About life About what its meant to be About what will make us thrive About where its supposed to lead Life’s a three way street--Pick your path There’s wall street...means the money There’s main street...means conformity Then there’s our street...its quintessential liberty
Come- Take a walk down our street, Hurdle over the weeds, Jump into the living stream, And enjoy the carefree
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Michael Spory
5
Silent Film
Hannah Patterson
Joelle’s Butterfly
Kaitlin Black
Joelle’s
Butterfly
Sings over the
weaving in and
And Joelle follows, a six-year olds chase,
out, up and down.
giggling and reaching and dancing for the prize.
Her black dress amplifies the colors,
covered hole,
and for a while we all stand
watching, crying. And when she decides she can’t keep up with him, she squeals,
“Mommy, I couldn’t catch him!”
And we all lay carnations on her
Daddy’s grave.
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6 Word Stories: Get out, but leave the chocolate. -M.G. Giles Thought about running away too hard. -Adam Posey
Me
Han Park
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The Rain
Lani PrunÊs Once, in a land farther that any ship could sail, and longer ago then parchment could last, there was a kingdom ruled by a greedy and imposing king. Everyone in the kingdom knew he had grown to become this way after the birth of his first and only child. According to rumors (which the people were fond of) the king had never bothered to see his daughter after hearing his wife had perished, leaving behind a sickly, scrawny, sure-to-be-dead-tomorrow-sire daughter. Even when she lived, he did not even attempt to look past his angry grief to go and see, let alone hold, his miracle child. The kingdom had been shrouded in cloud and grey ever since. Seventeen years later and his kingdom was at war with a neighboring kingdom. Funds were running low, with even the king’s personal treasury scraping the stone bottom. The king paced his thrown room from day until night, over and over, his greedy heart and vengeful mind whirring. He had already taxed the people to the point of absolute ruin, and had borrowed more than he could return in 4 life times, maybe more. What else could he do? Then, it struck him. His daughter. His useless, wasteful, murderous child. The king had not spent one second on the possibility of seeing the princess, but he was not the only one. No one had seen her; she had no ladies in waiting, no personal servants, no tutors or governesses. She had only the nun that was employed at her birth, who had been her only connection with all else, and who had taken great care of the princess. Of course, there was talk of the princess being really an ogress or deformed monster, fairy or nymph, or because of all the talk of her frailty at birth, possibly not being alive at all. Some said she was so beautiful her stare burned into anyone who dared catch her eye, or was really a beautiful witch that held men prisoner in her chambers as slaves. Of course, no one knew for sure. The king realized the ingenious of his plan as he wrote up the decree. In one swoop, he could get rid of a terrible burden and gain wealth, all at once. By dawn, the next day, every tree and post had signs, each messenger was sent with the decree in hand, and each departing vessel carried a piece of the news. The mysterious princess was being married off.
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Just Let It Stay- Misty Hannah Patterson
According to the decree, anyone of status or wealth could come forward with a gift. Just one gift mind you, and this gift would be brought forward, and taken into the princess' chambers for inspection. Whichever of the gifts impressed the princess most, that lucky man would become heir. Of course, rejected gifts became Royal Property of the kingdom. Each prince, duke, baron, earl, and knight had but one chance to win the favor of a princess opaque and indescribable. Within hours, men from all over poured onto the grounds, each with their gift to present. The princess' one servant found herself rushing back and forth to present the endless torrent of gifts. And what gifts they were. Rings laden with rubies, emerald, and sapphires; gold tiaras with diamonds the size of kiwis and mangoes; chests of gold outlined in mink; a dress and pair of shoes that shone like the moon, with pearls and silk streaming behind for miles; goblets and jugs that refilled themselves; bottles and jars with fairies and pixies; a telescope that could look through solid objects; a book with a new story everyday; a unicorn; sapphire slippers; a puppy. And these were just on the first day.
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The king had to give up his throne room to hold the enormous mountain of gifts, but to the king this was a wonderful problem, especially since it seemed his daughter was as greedy and insatiable as himself. Weeks went by like this, and the word never came of a chosen gift. Soon, rumors began to spread, most likely started by a slighted contender whose gift was not seen as worthy. People began to say there was no princess, but that the entire contest was created so the king could regain his former wealth. Eventually, these rumors had its affect, and the suitors trickled down to a standstill. On a more than usual rainy and dreary day, long after the kings deceleration, a horse pulled a carriage in front of the castle. Out stepped a tall and very thin young man, and when he was brought in he introduced himself as a suitor who wished to present a gift. When the king laid eyes on the young man, his laughter filled the tall throne room and echoed of the walls. The horse he had came on looked about to keel over, the carriage was missing its roof, and the young man had no shoes, but was presented in muddy, filth covered feet by the guards, who did not bother to hide their laughter. His hands were calloused, his clothes in shreds, and his entire body seemed to be caked in filth. The young man explained he was prince to a small kingdom that had fallen on very hard times. The good king of the kingdom had moved himself to the country, encouraging the other nobility to do the same. In this way, they could all help grow crops and live simply, helping the poorest and sickest, until the great dearth had let up. The prince hoped to win the heart of the princess, gaining an ally in her father, giving himself a wife for his turn as king (giving his father peace
Justin Roth
10
of mind), and a companion to help take care of the people he so loved. The nun beside the king smiled kindly at the sincere words of the prince, but the kind just laughed again rudely. He pointed to the many gifts pilled up around the room, the great steeds, the beautiful clothes and jewels, and sneered at the poor piece of filth who dared to step foot in his presence. He doubted the young man had much to present, but liking a good laugh as much as the next king, he allowed the prince's passage. Just another thing to add to the pile, he thought. The young prince bowed respectfully and followed the nun to the hallway outside the princess’s chamber carrying his knapsack on his back. Servants snickered loudly as he passed, and a dog barked at him loudly from a courtyard. A servant child threw a stone at his back, which was padded by his knapsack. A man passed by, elbowing him roughly as went. The door into the room was high and made of strong iron, and the prince suddenly felt nervous that all the terrible rumors of witches and monsters were true. The nun looked expectantly at the young man, waiting for him to pull out more jewels or treasures. Instead, from his bag he removed a lyre. A dirty, chipped, decrepit lyre, which was looking towards its last days. The nun looked at the instrument, and to the prince, thinking it was all a joke. However, the princes' face was set and serious, a look of determination on his face. He leaned against the wall opposite the heavy iron doors, slid to the floor to sit, and commenced to tune his instrument. Then, he began to play. The sound was indescribable. Like flying through sunbeams, biting into a fresh piece of fruit, running through a field on a beautiful spring day, or your father tossing you high into the air; like kisses from the rain, like sleeping late on a weekday morning, like being held when you haven’t in a while, and you really need to be, or seeing your lover walking towards you, a smile on their face. Like curling up with a good book, like spending time with your favorite people with no regard to time, who would not let you get in trouble without them. Like speaking your mind, like the first snowfall of winter, the first tulip of spring, the first leaf in autumn; the feel of skin against ones own, like kisses that never end, like knowing you are loved. Servants around the castle dropped plates, bins, and chores, listening intently. The drizzle outside stopped. A few tears slipped down the nun’s cheeks. A noblewoman walking the grounds fell in a heap to her knees. A carriage passing by stopped, the horses with their ears perked, the coachmen holding the reins with mouth open, the old man inside feeling younger than he had in years. The
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king in his throne room counting money, seeing he had enough to pay back his debtors, but did not plan to, stopped with a coin suspended in the air. It fell to the table with a dull thunk, rolled onto the floor, and away. The king began to sob harsh, grieved, and anguished tears onto the gold, onto his hands, and cried out for his wife, who could not hear him. A young woman behind a heavy iron door could feel the sound traveling through her body, and all her hurts and pain fell away. Suddenly, the prince stopped. The silence was deafening. The prince slid back up to his feet and leaned against the wall, looking sadly upon the nun who weeped into her hands. She finally turned, walking through the iron doors into the chamber. The prince could hear her whimpers and the sound of her padded feet walking along, then murmurs and suddenly the sound of crinkled cloth, and running. The running sounded weary, clumsy; the prince could hear the runner trip and stumble oddly, as if the chamber was dark and they could easily loose their way. The iron door swung open. A woman. A princess, beautiful, tall, and slender, with black hair falling to the ground. Her dress was long, white, and the girl was holding folds of it in her hands, most likely to run all the faster, the prince thought. She was looking toward the ground, fixing her crown that was falling into her face. Then she looked up. The prince’s gasp filled the silence. Her eyes. Grey, red, diseased; her eyes were blank, but still she desperately searched for her gift, the perfect gift, and the prince looked at his. Outside, the sun was shining.
(n)either
Cole Parks
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Mike Sheeler
6 Word Stories: From black to red to bitter -Jenny Hypes My first wife, he tricked me -M.G. Giles 13
Thanksgiving Jessica Sarriot
For him, there is no mercy in the language of peace. The word itself sounds like a bullet whizzing towards the heart of his country and freedom and by God you’d better give credit where credit is due!
He’s raging and he’s fragile as his words swell, quiver, then land on the Thanksgiving table, “we’d better (he’s showing his scars) give thanks (his eyes brim) for those who give their lives ( his throat seems to have caught something) so we can be here.”
For her, there is no mercy for the language of war. Words fill all the empty space in her militant mouth: forgiveness and love of enemies flung out as challenges, coups, CIA infiltrations and human rights violations hammered in inescapable, undeniable guilty blows--
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Commitment
Cole Parks
all strengthless, aborted by her mother’s sharp look.
Instead, both blue-eyed girl and blue-eyed officer sit back, lamp-lit answers swallowed, dark
sobbing endured only in their hearts as they pass the gravy.
Their tongues puzzle the corners of words that taste like army rations and Palestinian dust.
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Fragments of Nothing Sara Beachy
The cadence of rain on the shingles taste the lightning that hissed around the window in the encasement of your house. what had angered God that he’d swarm this place, breaking pots and blowing trumpets, shaking pillars of a stony foundation. I did nothing. In folly, I forgot something pebbles of memory have rolled away in streams formatted to read should-haves; I’ve tried to smooth them down, sand them over into little mounds of pretty fossils or chromatic colors but I can’t. a mouse squeaked in the talons of a falcon. “Daddy, Daddy stop, please stop.” I did nothing. Darkness blanketed the words Couldn’t they be like Stonehenge? untraceable, mysterious, unfathomable like I was not the archeologist to a family’s buried skeleton. Stairs elongated into Mount Sinai staggering with a turbid commandment “Honor thy Mother and thy Father.” “Daddy, daddy stop, please stop.” I did nothing.
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Grandma Vision
Laura Glick
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In-a-sense
Lucas Schrock-Hurst
I see the river, brown from far away, clear up close: inner tubes floating slowly near the bank and wandering aimlessly in the middle. Children on the inner tubes. The mown whiffle-ball field. The teepee of fallen branches. The stack of board games on the card table on the west side of the rap around porch on the rickety little cabin. The chipping paint. I hear the screen door slam shut before I can remember what mom said about closing it softly. In the back room cribs: laughing and crying, baby cousins discussing whether to grow up right before our eyes. Uncles arguing about the family business. Meat sizzling on the grill on the south side of the cabin by the stack of folding cots we bring in each night. The aroma of the meat drowns out the sticky smelling mosquito coil, if only for the moment. Back on the whiffle-ball field-turned wrestling mat the fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils as I scratch my back vigorously with one free hand and with my other arm finish pinning my slimy younger cousin. Another cousin hits the whiffle ball square in my back and I yelp pitifully. The sting fades as Andrew and I chase Chris toward the deck and Uncle Mike bellows:
“LUNCH iiiiisss REEAAAADY!”
The girls come around the corner from their board game exclaiming:
“I can’t believe we rolled seven four times in row!” I tell them that nobody cares as the Aunts open the screen door squeakily to bring chairs out. They’ve just finished not talking about why certain relatives aren’t on the island, and the men have likewise avoided discussing the fact that they’re all overweight. I don’t know these things. I do know that when I get big I wanna learn guitar like uncle Jon, who by the way is the exception to the rule about these men. Must be because he’s married in, but little matters as he extracts the aged instrument from its hiding place under the bed. Serene breezes blow across the porch as we all belt out Johnny Appleseed and set in on the food. Jon sits in the back and sings songs of peace, serenading the sunshine.
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Father&Son Jim Bishop
I want nothing for I am content. No one has told me recently that life is beautifully and tragically difficult. I want more ketchup. I want to play whiffle ball; I’m afraid Uncle Mike will hit a home run and my team will have to wash the supper dishes. I’m not afraid when I remember that dad is on our team. I’m afraid it will rain tomorrow. No I’m not! If it rains we’ll go frog hunting! Let it rain! The island is home of the swashbuckling-frog-hunting knights! The island is invincible and so are the knights! I am on the island and The Island is forever.
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Broken
James Souder
It’s not you, it’s me Hannah Patterson
Young, green, seventeen, mine my world was yours. Now your lenses have changed prescription.
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Inexplicable Chaos Heidi Long
Do you understand me yet? Farther and pharther I slide…….
Trapped, caught somewhere
mye words jumble, jargle, mumble
Between one
bot still I speakk.
and the other.
With retainered mouth,
Yet somehow far from either?
lisps,
A mix of unrelated worlds–
(a close rhyme) As he grabs one hand,
listen!
the other she pulls With socks ever distorted I slide……. through life, my feet catching
toothpick,
button.
the words will not
HEED WORDS! And still I slide………… Nowhere to call home but this
on every nail,
tongue twisters,
scratched floorboard,
jungle gym,
“The jungle”
Jim. Where else? (Ask your questions. You will need them…….)
Keren Kebo
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Lost
Heather Yoder Tread delicately, going through life. Balance between unspoken loneliness and grief when love you let grow withers.
Be careful not to become entangled with the obligation of the illiterate. Remember you are your own immortal. Do not let envy of the mortal pull you aside, for they joy in humiliating themselves. But you, you only speak the language.
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The Lamp That Went Out Laura Glick You were not born into it: though you ruminate darkly the sins of the world and
than they
find yourself
have fathomed. Far
at their mercy,
beyond their
you have seen further
empty tomb and archaic graffiti in Latin.
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Stealing Secrets Adella Barret
you broke seven bones in your hand when you punched the wall and cried so violently that your chest hurt more than your fist covered in blood.
you screamed a thousand shades of red when your sister pressed her mouth over your ribcage to whisper to your heart that it wasn’t allowed to stop beating yet.
Christ Woman, we are the air. we share wind and thunder. we share a mother and an incarceration and a God who keeps Her fingers on our wrists to make symphonies from the way our pulses beat recklessly against the hours.
you probably don’t know how intensely i watch the rhythm of your wings dancing across your back. you probably don’t know that i see them there,
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And The World Turned Pink Hannah Patterson
gray and blue feathers, severely beautiful, stitched into your shoulders with black string that unraveled from Marys mourning cloth the day she ripped it from her body after finding her son awake like the dawn after a nightmare.
but when the story ends on sunday, you rage after the ink runs out, to write the grief that never stopped aching, breathe the shadow of a man still hanging, reach with scarred and twisted hands back to the cry they are too cowardly to rest in, why have you forsaken me?
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I am from‌
Hannah Patterson I am from concrete jungle ten miles high, I am from mountains and great open sky. I am from Chinatown on the new year’s eve, with fire crackers crackling and dragons and lions dancing, and a little old chinese lady telling me to fix my hair, and dressing me up in red. I am from a hot Christmas eve, with humidity as an extra ornament on our tree. I am from family readings with apple cider, sitting around an open fire. I am from the crisp fresh smell of pine as I roll the window down from the passenger seat as you drive. I am from across the sea and a tourist in my own home land, asking for directions using sign language made up on the spot is something now done with ease. I am from leaving pieces everywhere, so I can feel the sunlight in my hair.
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I am from bad air pressure and recycled air, I am from a suitcase and am running late over the International Date Line. I am and will always be at home a thousand miles away from here.
Mike Sheeler
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Undertow
Jessica Sarriot In my ripened, hungering state I found you fatally, wildly attractive.
You found me not unwilling. The insignificance of love made clear in your lustful, desperate tongue stubbornly filling my corn-mush heart, (a stuffed jam-pot brimming) with thickened, sweet satisfaction.
Perfect wet fiction, over so fast, parading with palms held upwards as not a mistake.
When I catch my breath I stand, as expected, on logic—that immovable granite core. It does not slant or buckle as the clouds roll off to war
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but I hadn’t counted on
forced constantly to re-adjust
emotion’s flood,
my stance
rolling in on waves of irrational, unruly care.
They do not erode the rock; merely swirl around my thighs, cause me to stumble,
And where is the moon that controls these tides?
In my washed-up, world-weary state I found you not at all And the undertow is strong.
Taylor Harrison
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Bathroom Sermon Kaitlin Black
The door opened in, women’s mirrored faces revealed to passersby. Pink hiny-hiders enclosed more than just dropped skirts: guilt-drenched sermon skippers, fidgety girls avoiding Him, unruly children, and scar(r)ed young women watching their backs.
Comfort came in cream-tiled floor and borders of blue and green flowers. Any of three mirrors held your gaze while you chose between washing your hands or purifying your heart. Between Sunday School and church everyone visited, but during church, you’d find the best: rebellion conversations,
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trips to Turkey Hill,
Lost World
Luis G Martinez
empty rooms.
And if you were lucky and no one else was there, you could turn the black knob on the old brown box speaker so low you could hear the truth.
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Boy Meets Vegan Sarah Parson
Lincoln stared at the juicy burger cooking just a few feet away from him as his mouth began to water. He could kill for a cheeseburger right now. Unfortunately, he had to finish washing dishes and today was really busy, people flooding into the restaurant for a taste of their famous lobster. Suddenly Lincoln’s boss walked over. “I’m going to need you to wait on people today,” his boss said. Lincoln said okay, then grabbed a notepad and pencil. As he emerged from the kitchen, he spotted a familiar-looking girl sitting in a booth near the door. She was petit and blonde, sipping a glass of water and looking very out of place, surrounded by overweight men chugging beer and vacuuming down chicken wings and burgers. She was staring at someone’s lobster with a look of abject horror on her face. Oh no, thought Lincoln. It’s her. Sighing, he walked over to her, clearing his throat to distract her from the sight of the dead lobster. “What can I get for you today?” he asked her.
“You don’t happen to have any veggie burgers, do you?” she asked.
“Uh, no, we don’t. Sorry,” said Lincoln. So it really was her. The girl who always came in here, but detested any form of animal consumption. No one could quite understand why she came to the restaurant, a place known for its meaty dishes, even though she was a vegetarian. “Ok, then I’ll have the baked onion soup and an apple walnut salad,” she said. “The soup doesn’t have any dairy does it?” “I don’t think so,” said Lincoln, scribbling down her order with his illegible chicken-scratch. Hopefully the cook would be able to read it. Of course, she had picked two of the three things on the menu that didn’t have meat or dairy. Did vegetarians care about dairy? Maybe she was that other thing, a vegan, thought Lincoln. He took the menu from her.
“What’s your name?” she suddenly asked him, taking him by surprise.
“Lincoln,” he answered, wondering what she wanted from him.
“I only ask because you don’t have a name tag,” she said, pointing to the place on his chest where a name tag would have belonged.
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Michael Spory
“Oh, yeah, I’m usually just a dishwasher, but it’s really busy tonight.”
“Do you like being a waiter?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess.” What was she doing, flirting with him? He couldn’t imagine why she cared about whether or not he liked his job. “So, how do you feel about all these animals being killed just so people can eat them?” she burst out, her voice sounding cheerful, despite her anger for what she was discussing. Subtle, thought Lincoln, mentally rolling his eyes. “Uh, I have to get back to work,” he said. He started to turn, but then
“Wait! Just talk to me for another minute. No one will notice,” she said.
Lincoln sighed. Why did she want to talk to him so badly? He knew he should get back to work, but he found himself turning back around to face her. “I was serious about that question,” she said. “Does the harming of those animals bother you?”
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Lincoln didn’t know what to say. Why couldn’t she just leave him and the restaurant alone? “No,” he said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
She frowned. “Not even a little bit?”
“No, not really,” he said. “Look, if it really bothers you that much then why did you come here?” “Sorry,” she said and her face softened. “I’ve just been trying to see the other side of the issue.” She smiled softly. “I guess I’m not doing too well, am I?”
“It’s okay,” said Lincoln. “At least you’re trying.”
“I mean, it’s not that I doubt my belief in animal rights or anything,” she said. “I just want to understand the appeal of eating meat. You know the saying: know your enemy. “I’m not sure we’re the enemy,” said Lincoln, but then he caught sight of two large men fighting each other with lobster claws. “Well, I guess we just eat it because it tastes good,” he said. “And that’s the only reason isn’t it? Would you like it if someone slaughtered you and fed you to some cannibals?” she asked, her voice rising. Lincoln couldn’t think of what to say. Maybe it was time for him to get back to work. He could only deal with vegans for so long. Not that he had anything against them, he just didn’t feel like being attacked for eating meat all the time.
“Can’t you just let people eat animals in peace?” he asked her.
“Peace? You do know that many animals suffer, right?” she said angrily.
“Well, sorry,” said Lincoln, feeling his own anger rising. “Let me just go up to that lobster over there and ask it how it feels about being eaten.”
“Too bad it’s already dead!”
“Well, even if it was alive, it wouldn’t be screaming: ‘Please don’t eat me!’” said Lincoln, raising his arms in mock claws.
“Just because it can’t talk doesn’t mean it can’t feel.” She said.
Lincoln sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, this conversation is going nowhere and I need to get back to work.” Before she could respond, he turned and walked back to the kitchen and gave the cook her order. He was about
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to ask one of the other waiters if he would take her food to her, but then he realized with horror that when he thought about seeing her, he actually felt excited. He was reminded of movies he’d seen where two people who seemed to hate each other would suddenly share a passionate kiss. No! This is not happening. He hated her. He didn’t like her. His mind suddenly brought up the image of her soft smile, and he found himself strangely attracted to it. He groaned.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked a waiter named Jim.
“I… I think that maybe, I might possibly… like that vegan girl.”
Jim laughed. “You don’t seem very happy about it.”
“Well, at first I thought I hated her,” said Lincoln.
“Yeah, she’s not all bad,” Jim said. “She’s trying not to be preachy about her beliefs, but I don’t blame her, I mean, if you feel that strongly about something, wouldn’t you want people to agree with you?”
“I guess,” said Lincoln. “But she’s not changing my mind.”
“Guess you’ll have to agree to disagree then,” said Jim and walked away. Lincoln tried to get back to work. He took people’s orders and fortunately wrote them down because he had no idea what any of them ordered after he left their table. His mind kept nagging him, procuring images of that vegan girl and the strange, butterflies-in-hisstomach feeling that came with them. He set down his notepad and pencil and determinedly walked over to the girl’s booth, hoping she was still there and at the same time hoping she had already left. His heart skipped a beat as he turned the corner and looked for her booth. She was still there. He
Keren Kabo
35
walked over, biting his fingernails, and stopped in front of her booth, not knowing what to say. She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something, but he continued to stare awkwardly at her. He felt his face growing red and he almost left, feeling stupid for even coming over here. Finally he managed to ask her: “What’s your name anyway?” He cringed at how rude that had sounded, but she just smiled that same soft smile and Lincoln didn’t think he could possibly tear himself away.
“My name’s Jane,” she said.
“Um, well, Jane, my, uh, my shift ends in an hour and I was just wondering, um…if you wanted to talk.”
“Sure,” she said, still smiling, “I’d love to continue our conver-“
“No!” Lincoln blurted out, a little too loudly. “I, uh, I mean, we could talk about something else. There’s got to be something we agree on.” “Really? Okay.” She said and Lincoln was surprised by how quickly she’d agreed. “Okay, cool,” said Lincoln. “I’m going to go eat a hamburger now, but I promise I’ll apologize to the cow. Jane rolled her eyes, but then smiled. “Okay, see you in an hour,” she said. Lincoln smiled back then headed back to the kitchen to get a burger, hoping the next hour would pass quickly.
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Mansion Another fucking poem about a sunset. Larisa Zehr
All day, I drank. I drank the rancid cider of a dream too long left outside, decaying on the porch. I drank the sharp green tea of diving into the center: the yoga knots and wet leaves. Â I drank the alcohol of a cocooned day: a smothering pillow and the strike of rain on my ankles.
Mike Sheeler
I chewed the grounds at the end of the cradle cup: soggy like old sheets. and, I drank the grey medicine that sank down the hill, tasting like gravity as it ironed the roiling in my belly. I broke down the door and vomited up to the near dark sky it caught I was. it was. it was. And it blazed with gut-heat until all that was left was a rip and a mottled scar as the sky slid down the last bit of blue.
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Megan Grove
A Womon’s Worth How do you spell the word womon? Do you spell it like your foremothers and forefathers spelled it, where man is the basis, the foundation? Where womyn can never attain, never overcome, never be equals? Where womyn are trapped by the confines of a patriarchal society where they will not, should not, cannot spell the word woman without man? In this world womyn are less than, worse than. Womyn do not stand up to men because it is just not done. As a womon you are the lower half of society. You do not dare to question a man’s decision because, as a man, he knows more than you do. You choose your profession, or lack thereof, based on the rules society has laid out for you. You do what the men in power say you should do, sometimes without even realizing it. In this world womyn are unequal. This is my world, your world, our world. These are my womyn, your womyn, our womyn. How do you spell the word womon? Do you spell it like society spells it, with an s-e-x? Where womyn don’t have minds, don’t have opinions, don’t have desires for why would they need those in a world ruled by the media? In this world womyn are a piece of property used for commercial consumption and sexual seduction. In this world womyn are pawns in the hands of the powerful men on the top of the pyramid. As a womon you are a commodity. Men grope you in public but that’s okay because society tells them that they are entitled to your body. You receive sexually degrading comments as you walk down the street but that’s okay too because men are just being men. You may even be raped because you dared to say no, because you dared to refuse, because you dared to have a voice but why would your rapist care when you are just another toy designed for his pleasure? In this world, you faithfully read every self help book and womon’s magazine you can find, for who else will tell you who to be and how to please men? In this world womyn are unappreciated. This is my world, your world, our world. These are my womyn, your womyn, our womyn. 38
How do you spell the word womon? Do you spell it like I do with a w-o-m-o-n, where you are free to have a word unto yourself, to be a person unto yourself, to become a womon unto yourself? Where o represents opportunity over oppression, where o represents overcoming over overtaking, where o represents the harmonious, continues circle of equality. In this world womyn are free from fear of oppression, violation, and rape. As a womon you are an autonomous individual, making your own choices about your body and what you do and do not choose to do with it. You have a mind and are a valued for it. Your words are worth far more than your body. No one cares about your looks because those are of least importance; people want to hear what you have to say. In this world, womyn are unchained. This is not my world, not your world, not our world. These are not my womyn, not your womyn, not our womyn. But they should be. In the world that should be womyn’s rights are not just about womyn, they are about my womyn, your womyn, our womyn building a society alongside my men, your men, our men. For when we live in a world where womyn are free to choose, free to express, free to be, our whole society becomes free. This is the world that could be.
Shades Of Gray Barbie Fischer
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Adam Posey is a 1st year studying Communications, from Poquoson, PA. Also, he plays baseball.
Hannah Patterson is a lover of life and all things wonderful. She also believes in showing not telling.
Adella Barrett a Culture, Religion, and Mission Major. She believes that God is most alive in children’s temper tantrums, ripe mangoes, and the tears of women.
Heathery is planning on graduating this spring, but would really rather be wandering through Welsh moors and exploring Scottish islands.
Andrew Hostetter is from just up the hill, and is a loyal Phoenix staff member. When he is not busy becoming a master banjo player, or studying biology like his life depended on it, he is fighting zombies with his bare hands, because his life depends on it. Dear Barbie Fischer, we looked for you. We sent out two ninjas, the world’s top private investigator from the Scotland Yard, and a pack of bloodhounds. You were nowhere to be found. So we made your bio for you. Cole Parks is a Graduate student from CJP, and seems like a really cool cat. Erika Babikow is a Biology majoring Lancaster County sophomore... lover of questions, wisher of more answers, and appreciator of the world as is. Han Park is a young Korean, who is poor at English. So he likes photography because “a picture is worth a thousand words”.
Heidi Long is a freespirited literalist, classically trained in exotic pottery, techno beats and tree house architecture. Heidi was raised by Stegosauruses in the ghettos of Newfoundland and spends her days dreaming of wood nymphs, playing the harpsichord with pomegranate-stained fingertips, and listening to the Flaming Lips. Lucas Schrock-Hurst is a junior from Harrisonburg, VA. He writes really great stuff, which you should read. Jessica Sarriot is a senior Peace building and Development major at EMU who enjoys climbing trees, being with friends, wine, and speaking truth to power. Though she has recently come to identify herself as Mennonite, she still hasn’t figure out how to be passive aggressive, and she consistently burns her granola. Other things Jessica enjoys are cheese, being in Jerusalem, and poetry. She hopes you will have joy in life. Jenny Hypes is a senior, from Waynesboro, VA
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Jim Bishop manages the department of redundancy department at Eastern Mennonite University. He must be good at it, as he’s been (mis) handling this assignment for 40 years. John Gullman, famous for once ordering 16 cheeseburgers in one order, is a freshman at EMU and majoring in Peacebuilding and Development. By the end of college he hopes to be tri-lingual, speaking Pidgin, Navi, and aboriginal Australian. He has successfully infiltrated the dangerous underground kangaroo insurgency, with the code name of Jumping Jolly John. He is in the process of keeping our country safe from kangaroo dangers abroad. Justin Roth is a junior Photography and Digital Media major from Northwest Ohio. He enjoys good talks, long walks and an epic game of Halo. His dream is to own a sick bicycle and take photographs until he’s too old to do so anymore. He hopes that you have a really good laugh today. Kaitlin Yoder, formerly known as Kaitlin Black, is a senior English major who is looking forward to the real world, warm weather, and no homework.
Karen Kabo is a first year student at Eastern Mennonite University. She is an art major. Krista Nyce liks to call herself a Literary Editor, but you should know better. Perhaps two years from now she will be in Peru where the sun will shine down on her pet llamas back as she rides through the hills of Machu Piccu. She likes to think one day she’ll pick a major. B. Lani Prunes is an independant first year from Philly, who is a secret member of the G.R.O.S.S. Club. She often thinks and speaks in an Englih accent, and her love language is touch. She makes pretty good cafe con leche, she rocks at Dutch Blitz, and likes to direct camps in her spare time. Larisa Zehr often imagines floating in the ocean. She likes chopping wood, all-black night biking, and calluses from both. If she could split herself, she would be both there and here. She says thank you. Laura Glick is a freshman Social Work major from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She is a lover not a fighter, an optimist not a pessimist, and doesn’t eat raisins because they remind her of old people. Laura likes loofahs, laughter, and other words that start with the letter L. 41
Luis Martinez is a 49-year-old seminary student in the Masters of Divinity Program. He has been married to his wife, Loly, for 22 years and has three children, Luis Jr., Lucia, and Mariana. Megan Grove is a senior Peacebuilding and Development major with a minor in Communications. She is a passionate feminist, immigrant activist, and civil disobedience advocate. Â Her post-graduation plan is to end the silence surrounding sexual violence. M.G. Giles is a strange man, with yellow glass eye and a hook a for a hand. His hobbies included breathing under water and yelling at trees. Sara Beachy is studying special education at EMU. She now works at Shenandoah Valley Community School. Sarah Parson is a freshman English major from PA. Her hobbies include Facebook stalking, wishing she could play Quidditch, and reading books instead of socializing. Taylor Gray Harrison is a sophomore photography major from Fredericksburg, VA.
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