The
Phoenix
Volume 64 \\ 2020–2021
Inside cover: Calm in the Topsy-Turvey \\ Molly Piwonka Front cover: Dreaming \\ James Dunmore
Staff
Co-editors \\ Claire Whetzel Sydney Howdershell Advisor \\ Kevin Seidel
Special thanks to Kate Szambecki Those who submitted their work EMU SGA EMU Print Shop
The
Phoenix Literary and Visual Arts Journal Eastern Mennonite University Volume 64 \\ 2020–2021
Enjoy.
Contents Front cover Dreaming \\ James Dunmore Inside front cover Calm in the Topsy-Turvey \\ Molly Piwonka 3 The Huckleberry Trail \\ Isaac Alderfer 4 sixteen \\ Stephanie Kniss 5 French Fries and a Milkshake \\ James Dunmore 6 it’s the last night of august in seodaemun \\ Claire Whetzel 7 Dystopia \\ Hannah Landis 8 Harvest Season \\ Kate Szambecki 9 Know Where You Stand \\ Mykenzie Davis 10 Better Than Two in a Bush and Aging a Northern Saw Whet \\ Isaac Alderfer 11 Journey of My Life \\ NgocHà Pham 12 Truth \\ Hannah Beck 13 Confidence \\ Joseph Whetzel 14 To My Hardest Days \\ Olivia Hazelton 15 Essay on Progress \\ James Dunmore 16 This is how much I hate you, Clara \\ Hannah Landis 18 Too Early for October \\ Stephanie Kniss 19 Cadillac Mountain Sunset \\ Isaac Alderfer 20 In Your Arms \\ Joseph Whetzel Poppies \\ Brint Domangue 22 Love letters to the simple things in life \\ Hannah Beck 24 Self portrait as windowsill flowers \\ Claire Whetzel 25 Corvuscherenschnitte \\ Brint Domangue 26 Love and Rain \\ Kate Szambecki 27 Haikus \\ Asha Beck 28 Contributors Inside back cover As Blades of Grass Through Snow \\ Elizabeth Miller
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The Huckleberry Trail \\ Isaac Alderfer
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sixteen Stephanie Kniss
Falling in love feels like socked feet on sidewalks Loose threads unravelling to chipped toenail polish As you balance on the ragged edges of the makeshift beam And learn the psychotic feeling of cradling a head between your palms Clumsy lips and disappointment and excitement Letting the snow pile up heavy on the windshield And unbuckling seat belts to stretch Because you haven’t left this parking lot in two hours anyway Sharing a soda in the park across town Cold grass scratching at your exposed thighs Fireflies released from the cave of your hands While you discover what brown eyes look like under the light of the moon Falling in love feels like day old rain on crowded city streets Panic attacks bathed in stale yellow light Fingers tracing eyebrows and boots trampling cigarette butts As you realize you only love yourself when they tell you how to do it
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French Fries and a Milkshake James Dunmore
French fries and a milkshake. Please, what size? Both large, I grimace. 6.95. The fries are always cold, milkshakes come out fine but now that she works here, I’ve been spending too much money and time waiting in line thinking, this time, this time, this time, I’ll say How are you and she’ll smile and say Just fine thanks I’ll introduce myself first and last name as I pull out 6 ones and exact change, real cool like and I’ll ask, When do you go on break, offering to buy two milkshakes And the next time I walk there, I recite my lines, down the sidewalk, cross the street, hop up the curb, wearing my nicest denim jacket, open the door. She’s standing at the register, waiting, no line, this time, this time, this time. Time gets away, standing staring at the menu as if I was unsure of what to order, what to say. how did my knees get this way, shivering and— What can I do for you today? French fries and a milkshake.
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it’s the last night of august in seodaemun Claire Whetzel
my legs are wet with rain. at the exit of the station, i buy fresh bread with walnut filling and pay the vendor with large, round coins found on the sidewalk. the bread is too sweet, but warms my fingers through a thin, paper napkin. the lights take too long to turn green. i wear a dress with pretty lace on the shoulders a and a small marker stain by the hem. my feet pale and unslippered and quiet in puddles, on oil-slicked pavement, careful not to step on broken bottles. it smells of smoke and sweat and perfumed wrists. my lips are chapped, leave my skin pink and warm after pressing them to the back of my hand. a strand of hair catches on curled and darkened lashes, slips into my mouth. it tastes of riverside and neon light. in the street, a girl kisses a boy with rolled shirtsleeves. a wide-faced man in a gray suit ducks past. i trace a cold metal railing with thin fingers and run lightly up wooden stairs. a woman on the corner stands under an awning, squinting into a handheld mirror. she dabs at her lips, powders her forehead and the tops of her cheeks. the moon seems very close. i press one foot against one leg to keep warm, lean against a rough, brick wall. my arms and nose itch with water. i pull the sodden fabric of my dress away from my skin, step on fallen leaves made translucent, plastered to the pavement. the rain will stop come morning.
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Dystopia Hannah Landis
Behind the white picket fence nothing grows. Kamikaze birds dare each other to break the sliding glass door— In the cereal aisle, Mother crosses her arms, choosing between negligence, $2.99, and pessimism, $3.75. Negligence is on sale. From the display by the door, Mother buys a tarp to fix the window, counts down the days until seafood is gone, and gives the plastic wrapper to the birds so they can bury their dead.
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Harvest Season Kate Szambecki
I sat for the sixth consecutive hour, fingers drumming on the too-big, perfectly round steering wheel along to the music. This was the first year that my tractor was equipped with an auxiliary cord. Still no air conditioning, but I could listen to something other than staticy country music. It made all the difference. My job each year is simple: wait for the crackle of my built-in walkie-talkie to scare the shit out of me. Listen for the faint voice of Kevin or Jerry or hopefully, McKee. Start the tractor, an earthquake. Lurch forward until I find my groove, creeping forward down my road, the stretches of already-cut wheat. Carefully pull up alongside the combine of choice. Watch the golden brown grain fly into my cart. Creep back, a couple of tons heavier. Fill up a grain truck. If needed, drive the grain truck into town and empty it at the co-op. Do this from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. or later. Repeat for two straight weeks, or until all the wheat is harvested. Go home. And so I drummed my finger and waited, one eye on the darkening northern sky. Menacing, quiet, the cloud stretched over almost half the sky it seemed. The farmhouse had buzzed that morning with talk of rain, the farmer’s nemesis in harvest season. Rain meant no more cutting for the rest of that day, maybe even the next. During harvests with several consecutive days of rain, wheat often rotted or became too dark, cookies in the oven a touch too long. But these cookies could cost a farmer their livelihood. I hoped today’s rain would be brief. If I was a better farmhand, I would have hoped that it would miss us completely. But I always selfishly, secretly prayed for a thunderstorm. Besides a break in the monotony, the farm sky was naked, beauty and chaos on display. And it seemed my silent prayer would be answered—the cloud threatened to envelop any lasting blue. It took a moment to realize that the combines were inching back towards me. I unplugged my phone and heaved the tractor door open to stand outside. The air was cool and quiet. I leaned back and breathed deeply. A small, quick drop kissed my forehead. And the sky cracked open. The rain washed down my body, running its fingers through my hair, pushing my shoulders as I stumbled down the tractor steps and my sneakers squelched into mud. My shirt was soaked through inseconds. Kevin was here and running, yelling over the roar for us to tarp the grain trucks. I ran, seemingly in slow motion, but they had already finished by the time I got there. “Take this truck; get back to the farm. Be careful,” Kevin yelled, already running off to the next task. I careened into the truck cab and desperately rolled up the windows, rain pummeling through them. When I finally straightened up to go, I couldn’t see anything. All there was was rain and the faint outlines of a road. I gripped the steering wheel and slowly began moving forward. The ride to the farmhouse was a blur. Wide-eyed and rigid, I squinted at the gray windshield and prayed I stay on the road. I should have been more scared. Maybe I was. But what I remember is the awe. I remember stepping out onto the squishy grass at the farmhouse and locking eyes with McKee and running. I remember the shrieking, giggling as the thunder orchestrated our dance. I remember all the water on the linoleum floor and the hot shower, the card games and beer all afternoon. I remember the chaos, the interruption, and I remember the calm of tired farmers, secretly grateful for their day off, but hopeful that we would be as we were tomorrow.
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Know Where You Stand \\ Mykenzie Davis
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Better Than Two in a Bush (top) \\ Isaac Alderfer \\ Aging a Northern Saw Whet (bottom)
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Journey of My Life NgocHà Pham
where i’m from is on the shore of distant seas. where generations gather over a clay pot of coffee or tea. listen to the stories the elders are reluctant to tell. for some of the stories cut as deep as a well. your story, my story, our story is long. and our relationships are strong. oppression, wars, conflicts will not break our spirits for our common threads connect us in each minute with the laughter of the innocence and the hope of benevolence as the heart is filled with gratitude to life, for life has given this heart much to thrive. it has given me the ability to walk with my tired feet, with them, i have traversed valleys and streets, mountains, oceans, deserts, and plains and the lowest place of my terrain. by the muddy river Nile, myheart touches joy and sorrow as it weeps, ponders, hopes, prays for a better morrow whether i come or go, i give thanks to life, to you, to all i know as i sense the gentle presence of my Beloved and the tenderness my mother’s love with the memories of yesteryear forever remain so dear.
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Truth
Hannah Beck I see people around me making themselves smaller making themselves quieter trying to reach just enough, but never too much and I’m angry, angry that the world has pushed us to do this to ourselves angry that I feel guilty about being angry angry that I’ve missed little pieces of richness angry that we’ve been convinced that the most important thing we need to achieve, is giving up the very thing that makes us who we are. We only silence ourselves because that is what the world has taught us. It is not about stopping, It is about beginning. Begin to stand up taller Begin to take up space Begin to feel your anger Begin to allow the anger to leave your mouth. You are not meant to be restrained You are not meant to be tamed You are not meant to be held down. I know the world is doing all of this to you so the first step towards escape is to find your powerful truth, and set it free. You hold the pieces of a revolution inside of you. —scratch that— You are the damn revolution.
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Confidence Joseph Whetzel
When you’re older And you’re sifting Through old memories one day You might come across some of mine A picture of me, maybe Of us, maybe Washing the dishes together Or laughing into each other Or standing under lights As a whole If you ever come across those memories If they ever flood back to you one day And you begin to recognize me, If my name ever escapes from Your mouth again, Remember me for one thing, If you could do that For me, please— —I always thought You had a great heart.
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To My Hardest Days Olivia Hazelton
Watch me catch the bird in my hands without killing her Watch me lull her to sleep without any of your words sung over my head I will sing my own lullaby, until she is still Nested away from you and the rest of things Watch me be so gentle Watch me brush the fears off of her feathers And whisper quiet hopes into bones not yet settled I will care for her like a mother does a grieving child Like a love that has nowhere else to go When she chokes on the shame you put in her throat Watch me grab fistfuls of air for her to swallow Watch me breathe every kindness I know into her So that when she finally spits up her lump of truth She will know I am listening Watch me fight for her Watch me confess to any hand that is offered to me That sometimes I cannot hold her by myself I will do the brave thing over and over again I will spill myself open if it means keeping her alive I will keep screaming angry and beautiful things into this world Until by God, it brings her home
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Essay on Progress James Dunmore
The economy is bad. So bad you’ve taken to whisking eggs, vinegar and oil because you’re too poor to buy mayonnaise in a jar. And Chicago isn’t too far from home, so in 1933, you head over to the World’s Fair and there it is: CENTURY OF PROGRESS. Big, bold and glistening with a hope you haven’t heard since the mid Twenties. Amidst the not-to-distant dreams, V-16 limousines and shiny, cigarette-smoking robotic machines, a glint of light sneaks into your line of sight, some sort of yellow, creamy sauce, glossy with vinegar and oil, and the taste, they say, has punch and zip. The tangy Miracle Whip, a condiment sauce for the new age, affordable, even with Depression wage. for sandwiches, salads, the fanciest aspic molds. Normal mayonnaise has become old and dated. You can see it now, moving over, giving up its seat for the new kid on the block. And it jiggles as you pick it up, as if it too is taking stock in your delight, both of you knowing this, this condiment, this progress, will save us all
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This is how much I hate you, Clara Hannah Landis
—The way you smiled after our team demolished yours, in the volleyball tournament— You smiled as brightly as the sun that wasn’t shining. Smug. Stupid. I wish I could wear your smile and zip it off your straight, white teeth and plug it into mine, and it would look doubly as good on me. That wouldn’t feel good, though, would it? To have your smile zippered on. Maybe it would feel like a popcorn kernel stuck in my teeth, in the back where it wedges under the crown and lives there forever, free of charge. Clara, on the volleyball court, you didn’t smile at all. I hate you, Clara. You didn’t smile at all.
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I take the smile you never wore, rip it straight off your pretty white teeth and paste it on mine, interlocking puzzle pieces. You scream, is this because I won the science fair in 6th grade and you dropped your volcano on the bus stop sidewalk? No It is not. It is about you and me and your stupid smile and your stupid white teeth and the stupid way you smiled even though you should have cried.
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Too early for october Stephanie Kniss
The swings creaked In a steady sort of rhythm Our bare feet brushing Sticky wood chips Calluses shielding toes From too many splinters The air was crisp with The end of summer Trees starting to shake out their hair A frosty morning Lurking around the corner The laughter of the night Had died off hours ago The ease that was left in its wake Beginning to sour The sun was setting too quickly An eerie quiet Felt heavy and all of a sudden Squeezing the sides of my head Like ear muffs Only then did I notice The cicadas had stopped singing
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Cadillac Mountain Sunset \\ Isaac Alderfer
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In Your Arms Joseph Whetzel
Agonal breathing. That was the closest Morgan could come to describing what he was experiencing now. Agonal breathing, a horrid gasp inwards that delivered no relief and instead only made his lungs burn. Agonal breathing, the same groan that the disease he and Marlow had caught on Bichichi had given him. The one where he and Marlow had spent weeks stuck on their ship, withering away with each other with raspy breathing and labored coughs and blood and then Morgan got better and Marlow died. This kind of reminded him of that. He had fallen a good forty feet or so, a fall that without the capsule underneath him to cushion the blow, would have probably killed him instantly. The capsule had absorbed the blow pretty well, and instead had left him in a lot of pain and with a cracked visor.. He thought about taking a page from Marlow’s book and just calling it quits, but he had already gotten this far, so he supposed he could just keep going, right? He reached up to the visor of his space suit and sucked in as big of a breath as he could before pulling the visor off. His lungs were on fire. He reached down into his bag to grab a replacement only to find that they too had cracked in the fall. Morgan’s face fell, and he breathed in. And sweet, sweet oxygen flooded into his nose. Thank God.
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Poppies \\ Brint Domangue
Getting up off the ground hurt a whole lot, but so did everything else, so he got up anyway. The suit began reading off an injury report to Morgan, and he wiped the screen aside. The capsule. It had just clicked in his head that he had landed right on it. He looked down, and thank God, the capsule was alright. It had nestled itself partway into the ground as a result of the fall, but the outer casing looked fully intact. Morgan hoped he could say the same for the inside, but he didn’t open it. From his pack Morgan pulled a winch, and he began wrapping it around the cable. He gave the cable a tug and it stayed firm in place, and Morgan began to pull the capsule from the ground with the winch. When it was all said and done, he heaved the capsule onto his back and looked around. His fall had landed him halfway down a narrow canyon. Morgan looked up to the surface; the ground had crumbled away as a result of his weight. No chance he was risking climbing back up. His only choice was further down, which, upon examination, would prove to be difficult. Aside from the place he landed, a small patch of ground that jutted out from the cliff face, there was barely any footing. Great. Morgan shoved the winch as far into the ground as he could, and pulled hard on the cable. The winch stayed buried. Morgan took great caution approaching the edge of his little island, and thanked the stars above when the ground didn’t collapse under his feet. He looped the cable around his waist and crawled off the side. The journey to the bottom of the canyon proved arduous and was only made harder by the encumberment of the capsule strapped to his back. By the time he reached the bottom, his fingers were bleeding and his arms and legs had turned to mush. He unstrapped the capsule from himself and promptly passed out. When he woke up, Morgan’s cheeks were wet. He wiped them off and blinked twice as his eyes adjusted to the light. In front of him was a small pool of water, a deep blue that seemed to stretch down as far as he could imagine. Small stones made the edge of the pool, and around them, mosses of the most vivid green blanketed everything. Morgan limped into the cove and slumped onto his knees. This could do. He pulled the capsule off his back and set it at the edge of the pool, just enough for it to touch the water. He pressed down on the surface of the capsule, and it hissed open. For the first time in years, he looked down at Marlow, lying in a bed of white and yellow flowers, her body still perfectly preserved in stasis. Morgan planted one final kiss onto her forehead and pushed the capsule out into the water and then sat. And then suddenly the capsule trembled, and the water trembled, and Marlow’s spirit leaped into the air with an explosion of colors and floated over to Morgan, its lips on his in a majestic display of affection and gratitude. Or maybe Marlow herself rose from her bed and jumped into the pool and swam to Morgan, and Morgan rushed into the water to her and they embraced after such a long time apart. Neither of those happened. Morgan really wanted them to. He waited for a long time, sitting there, just really wanting something to happen, really wanting some sort of goodbye or thank you or “I love you” or just any closure at all. But he didn’t get any. He didn’t get anything. So he sat there, picking at the grass, letting a whole world of grief crush into him.
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Love letters to the simple things in life Hannah Beck
Dear Light, Even when it seems that you’re gone, I can still feel you speckled through my soul. Thank you for teaching me to fight. Sincerely, Your friend, the light-filled human Dear Birds, Every time I see you soar through the air, I must tell you that I’m jealous. I imagine myself taking off running, bending my knees, and just flying. Perhaps fish want to walk like me, perhaps you want to swim like them. I know I’m not alone in wishing, but sometimes I feel alone when I see you so far above me. I’ve wanted to fly for as long as I can remember, so please don’t take it for granted. Sincerely, A proud owner of wings in another lifetime Dear Flowers, Someone once told me that I’m a flower. I’ve been in love with you for quite some time, but now, I’m falling in love with her too. Sincerely, The one who will always stop to smell the roses Dear Darkness, I must admit that you are one of the things that scares me the most. In that fear though, you push me to find light. I am pushed to seek comfort in the people I love, and now, I have so many lovely memories of you.
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Tears, contented smiles, stillness, sounds of life that continue unseen, long, meditative walks, short, giggly walks, laying on the cool grass and taking in the stars, moments shared with the ones I love. I must say that after spending time with you, you make me appreciate the light so much more. Thank you for the challenges you bring. Sincerely, A tentative friend Dear Water, I am in awe of you, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because you make me feel free. Sincerely, A free flowing soul Dear Sun, You have this beautiful ability to effortlessly fill a day with light, and I love you for it. Even if you get to be a bit much sometimes, I miss you when you’re gone. Sincerely, A sun sponge Dear Rain, I adore you and the way that you give life to the world. Your gentleness and power provide a shower of new beginnings. Plus, you’re lots of fun to dance and sing with. Sincerely, A soaked and smiling girl Dear Tears, You are a beautiful and much needed release. Thank you. Sincerely, A tear-stained face
Dear Music, You are ethereal in the way you wrap up the world in your embrace. Time and time again, you fill my soul with what seems like magic. Even when you’re not in the air, you’re swirling through my mind acting as a companion for my thoughts and emotions. Sometimes I forget that there’s a difference. When I’m drowning in a loss of words, you’re there with a lifeboat. Thank you for saving me countless times. Sincerely, A heart full of song Dear Time, When I am with those that I love, I wish you’d go away, and yet, when I am uncomfortable, I wish for you to speed up. I know I can be a little unfair to you at times, so now, I’ll take some of my precious time to say, thank you for keeping the world spinning and for pushing me into the new. Sincerely, A wish for time to stop, just once Dear Stars, I am humbled as I stand under your magnificence. You make me feel small, but remind me that I’m not alone, even in the darkness. Thank you for your light. Sincerely, A pair of starstruck eyes
Dear Sleep, I long for you nearly every day, and I feel you tugging at my sleeve, usually at very inconvenient times. I’m sorry if I confuse you by running away, even when I need you. Sometimes I think the world needs me more, and I forget the power you hold. Thank you for wrapping me up in your warm embrace, and leaving me refreshed to begin anew. Sincerely, Droopy eyelids Dear Dirt, I think you’re quite an artist, a creator of sorts. You make magnificent flowers and trees and food and homes for all the little ones within you. I also love the way you feel on my bare feet. You help me feel grounded and at one with the earth and all that you connect me with. Thank you for all the ways you bring the world to life, and also me. Sincerely, Two bare feet Dear Pen and Paper, I decided to write to both of you because you’re like two peas in a pod. You are the ones I entrust with my deepest fears, random meandering thoughts, and an occasional poorly drawn doodle. Thank you for holding these pieces of my mind safe until I share them with the world. Sincerely, An ink-stained hand
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Self-portrait as windowsill flowers Claire Whetzel
i am blueweed, columbine, queen anne’s lace. i am wildflowers of the valley pressed between wax in heavy books, placed by berry-stained fingertips in a blue glass jar on white-painted windowsills. i am yarrow, monkshood, bitter dogbane. i’m the smell of chamomile, but the flower, not the tea, never the tea. i heard that trillium grows at the bottom of the mountain and i go, cut the stem neatly, don’t twist. at night, i am sure to draw the curtains and place the vases on the table. i am lupine, pearly everlasting, and the blue, bell-shaped blooms that grow on the side of each gravel road, but what are they called again? i am bay windows framing bottles of single blossoms and cicada skins and dried pine needles and dulse, still smelling of the sea. i am rapeseed, ginkgo, and cherry blossom their petals translucent and plastered by oil to city pavement. i’m market bouquets poorly haggled for and panes streaked gray with summer rain and the smell of dust blown in from the west. i’m bud and leaf and blossom, snipped and pulled and placed. i am sugared water, tied stems, slow-wilting heads, and fine, yellow pollen collecting on white-painted windowsills, swept away by a red, damp rag again and again.
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Corvuscherenschnitte \\ Brint Domangue
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Love and Rain Kate Szambecki
In September of my fifth grade year, I started going to a bluegrass festival with my best friend and her parents. They were a part of a group of college friends that went every year, bringing all of their kids with them. We all knew each other already (the kids, that is) from church or school, and we would race around the campsite or the concert venues, playing tag or frisbee with minimal supervision. It rained for two days straight when we first arrived, and the air became perpetually heavy with moisture. I never minded. It enveloped our little camp so that each time I came out of my tent the smell of damp air and last night’s campfire mingled together to greet me, a gentle whisper. It was my dream, to be surrounded by rain and music and my friends and the stars, but the most important part was the boy. I knew him already and I also knew that this would be the first time we’d see each other outside of school. When I arrived he was in the middle of a tag game with the rest of the kids. It was one of those moments where the person in your mind is suddenly there, right in front of you, in the flesh. He materialized and tapped me on the shoulder, a smug smile gracing his lips, and before I could say a word he was gone again. The tag game didn’t cease until night came and we all sat on folding chairs and bleachers at the main stage. A band I had never heard of was playing. The adults told us that we had to sit, at least for the first few songs. We had to be respectful. He sat next to me. It was the same thing—one minute, he was real only in my mind, the next, he sat inches away. And the first song began. We fell in love to the sound of a mandolin. We fell in love in that smoky, damp air and on the dewy morning grass. I don’t remember a word that we exchanged but I know that those September evenings marked the beginning of my first love. The next year when we went, we were “dating,” and we held hands on the bleachers. We sat and had some of our first real conversations around the fire, late into the night. Sometimes we just sat, his fingers plucking lazily at guitar strings and my eyes trying not to linger on them. But that smell was always there. Every time I step outside in late spring or early fall and the air is damp and cool, I think of the festival. And every so often, someone has lit a campfire nearby or even just smoked a cigarette, and the added smoky tinge forces me to pause. I stand, inhaling, trying desperately to take myself back to that time, that place, for as long as I can. My chest aches with what could have been. It’s as if the air around me is urging me to fall in love. And if the breeze hints of rain or the grass gently grazes my toes or the faintest hint of smoke floats past me, I consider it.
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Haikus Asha Beck falta del sueño juntarse con el lago reírse el sol el amanecer de las profundidades se me pintando aún las arrugas en valles plateadas muestran montañas -
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Contributors Stephanie Kniss is a junior double majoring in Sociology and Writing Studies. Isaac Alderfer does a lot of stuff with a camera, hiking shoes, a bike, running shoes, and waders, often several at the same time. James Carolus Dunmore dirty stinker of a boy. Mykenzie Davis is a Digital Media and Communication major, class of 2023, from Lititz, Pennsylvania. Enjoys working with cameras and loves capturing the human experience. Molly Piwonka is a 2nd year, junior art education major with an environmental sustainability minor. I hope to promote art activism through my work and encourage others to find a voice through art. Hannah Landis is a Spanish and Writing double major with too many hobbies. In a conversation, she would LOVE to see pictures of your pets, discuss deep questions, or be offered a plant cutting. Kate Szambecki is a junior majoring in English and Writing Studies. She likes crossword puzzles and laughing and mini m&ms. Ask her about her dad’s band. NgocHà Pham is a missionary nurse of The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic, who has deep gratitude for the people she has served for teaching her the beauty of life. NgocHà currently appreciates her new learning in the master’s program of counseling. Hannah Beck is a psychology major, lover of life, and a master napper and rapper... well, she can only rap Hamilton, but really, nobody could beat her in a napping contest. Joseph Whetzel is a second-year Writing major. Olivia Hazelton is a PXD major from Oregon who loves goats, art, and telling people she’s from Oregon. You can find her crafting up a storm or reading poems she found while scrolling through Pinterest. Asha Landes Beck is a Digital Media & Communications major with a Spanish minor. She has a very cool birth date, but it’s hard to explain. Ask her about it sometime. Brint Domangue is lab coordinator for the biology and chemistry departments, and part-time instructor in the natural sciences. He enjoys the outdoors and spending time with friends and family. He’s also crafty, but not in a bad way. Elizabeth Miller is a senior Spanish major with interests all around. Her biggest joys are training on the triathlon team, visiting her sisters, eating ice cream, and all things outdoors and with other humans. She finds writing to be a sweet solace to engage depth and emotion.
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As Blades of Grass Through Snow \\ Elizabeth Miller
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The
Phoenix
