Totem 2016 - Gannon University by Gannon University

2016

Totem is Gannon University’s annual studentproduced literary-art magazine containing poetry, short stories, prose, artwork, and photography submitted by the students, faculty, and staff of Gannon University. Totem strives to highlight the creative talents of those in our university community by sampling a diverse range of artistic media and perspectives. No part of this magazine may be reproduced without written permission of the artists and writers whose works appear.

Gannon University 109 University Square Erie, Pennsylvania 16541-0001 814.871.5886 www.gannon.edu

Totem 2016 | POETRY

Totem Totem 2016 |2016 POETRY

CREDITS

Totem 2016

Editor

Bethany Lewis

Assistant Editor Kelsey Ghering

Advisor

Berwyn Moore

Creative Director Andrew Lapiska

Marketing Editor Kayla Villano

Chief Proofreader Bethany Lewis

Poetry/Prose Judges Kathryn Kapp Berwyn Moore Julie Ropelewski

Art Judges Kelsey Ghering Carol Hayes Angela Jeffery Phil Kelly Doug King Bethany Lewis Berwyn Moore Harshal Mehta Penny Smith Jennie Vaughn Kayla Villano

Totem 2016

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Totem 2016

Many thanks go to all of the following people who had a hand in producing this year’s Totem. Berwyn Moore for her deep knowledge of everything needed to make Totem come together, and for her determination to keep the process organized, on track, and moving forward. The Totem staff: Kelsey Ghering, for her everfaithful support and flexibility, Kayla Villano for her social media savvy and enthusiastic spirit in both calls for submissions and promoting the finished product, and Angela Jeffery and Harshal Mehta for their presence and willingness to help. Andrew Lapiska, for helping turn a hazy vision for the design of Totem into a beautiful reality, and Patrick Celline for bringing it to life as a physical object. Kaustav Mukherjee and Carolyn Baugh for their language expertise, ensuring that the nonEnglish text in this year’s Totem is accurate. Katie Kapp and Julie Ropelewski for their input as to which written works should be included in Totem, and the members of the English department who helped with selecting among the artwork. The decisions are never easy! All the members of the Gannon community who submitted their work to Totem this year. Totem would not exist without your creativity and your courage. To you, and to all those who have encouraged and inspired you over the years, thank you.

Totem 2016

EDITOR’S NOTES

Totem 2016

Notebooks have always been a symbol of creativity to me. I have stacks of them, falling off bookshelves and filling a crate in the basement. They’re filled with stories, poems, thoughts, and musings. Whenever I see someone else writing in a notebook, on a bus, or in a waiting room, or in one of the armchairs in Palumbo, I wonder what they’re filling their pages with. Those in more objective majors may not see the connection between notebooks and creativity right away, picturing notebooks as packed with numbers, units, diagrams, and other “cold, hard” data. But even in this creativity can be found, from sketches of new innovations to humorous explanations to simple questions that lead to complex new theories. What better way to showcase the creativity of the Gannon community than to place it in a notebook? As I watched the book take shape, bringing the variety of works together and selecting which ones should be placed side-by-side, I was reminded of a story I wrote around 6th grade. Writing in the personas of six classmates who keep a journal together, I carefully selected a font for each character’s “handwriting” that symbolized, in a way, who she was. The written works in this year’s Totem are not published in the authors’ handwriting, but each piece found in these pages bears the creative fingerprints of its creator. Maybe after reading one of them, you’ll feel the desire to grab a notebook and do some creating of your own. I know I always do. Bethany Lewis

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Totem 2016

POETRY

Totem 2016 | POETRY

POETRY

Totem 2016

3 ‫( ﺷﻜﻞ اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬Shape of the World) | Dunya Mikhail 4 Know Thyself | Lee’a Thigpen 5 Don’t Call Him John | Christine Peffer Still Haiti‫ |ﻟﻮ‬Cristiana Sibley 6 ‫اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ‬ ً ‫ﻣﺴﺘﻮﯾﺎ‬ َ‫ﻛﺎن‬ 8 Perpetuity | Sara Nevas ‫ﺑﺴﺎط‬ ‫ |ﻣﺜﻞ‬Kelsey Ghering Cast 9‫اﻟﺮﯾﺢ‬The All Right | Todd Paropacic 10‫ﻟﻸﺳﻰ ﺑﺪاﯾﺔ‬ .‫وﻧﮭﺎﯾﺔ‬ َ‫ﻟﻜﺎن‬ 12 A Dream | James Moran (Wishes) | Harshal Mehta 13 ख्वाइश /Wishes Ford Sestina | Chloe DiRaimondo 14 ً ‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎنَ اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺮﺑﻌﺎ‬ ज़िन्दगी को खल ु े आसमान मे उड़ान दे ने की चाह है Craig 15 The Body | Stephen अपने अल्फाजों को अब ज़िन्दगी के फड़फड़ाते पंख बनाने की ख्वाइश है ‫اﻟﺰواﯾﺎ‬16‫ اﺣﺪى‬Computer ‫ﻻﺧﺘﺒﺄﻧﺎ ﻓﻲ‬Crash | Tomee Barnes अंजCover ान सीMy खब सड़क Roose पे चलने की चाह है (Don’t) ु 6स|ूरतKaitlyn 17 ककसी .‫اﻟﺤﺮبُ ﻟﻌﺒﺔ اﻟﻐﻤﯿﻀﺔ‬अपने ‫ﻟﻌﺒﺖ‬ ‫ﻛﻠﻤﺎ‬ बोल से उस सफ़र मे धनक और ताल भरने की ख्वाइश है | Elizabeth Raindrops Rodriguez 18 Between Call You Later, Okay?” | Bethany Lewis 19 “I’ll तरं गो से भरी मझधार मे नाव चलाने की चाह है Web-Head Todd 20 अपने शब्दों को| उस नदीParopacic मे पतवार बनाने की ख्वाइश है ً‫ﻟﻮ|ﻛﺎن اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺪورا‬ 22 Almost Madison Hudzicko Translation To The Boy Who Walked Me Home | Sara Borro 23 ‫أﺣﻼ ُﻣﻨﺎ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻌﺎﻗﺐ ﻓﻲ دوﻻب اﻟﮭﻮاء‬ ‫ﻟﺪارت‬ is wish give life a flight Harvest Timeto| Angie Jeffery 24 There With my words I want to give wings to life ‫وﺗﺴﺎوﯾﻨﺎ‬ | Kaitlyn Falk High 25 .ً ‫ﺟﻤﯿﻌﺎ‬ A Light of MytoOwn Rachel Webb yet beautiful road is wish walk| on a unknown 26 There my words I want to fill that road with rhythm and beats Fridays with Frank | Kelsey Ghering 27 With | Mariana Self-Rescue 28 ‫ﻣﯿﺨﺎﺋﯿﻞ‬ Want to‫دﻧﯿﺎ‬ sail my boat inPalade a riverSyrotiak with waves and currents my words to make a rudder in that river Language Lost I| want Sara Wevas 29 With 30 You and My Cigarettes | Sara Borro 31 Legacy | Kelsey Ghering 32 Sixth Street During the First Snowfall | James Marsh 33 Messages | Carol Hayes

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Totem 2016 | POETRY

‫ﻣﺜﻞ ﺑﺴﺎط اﻟﺮﯾﺢ‬ .‫ﻟﻜﺎنَ ﻟﻸﺳﻰ ﺑﺪاﯾﺔ وﻧﮭﺎﯾﺔ‬

ً ‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎنَ اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺮﺑﻌﺎ‬

If the world were flat like a flying carpet, our sorrow would have a beginning and an end.

If the world were square, we would lie low in a corner

‫ﻻﺧﺘﺒﺄﻧﺎ ﻓﻲ اﺣﺪى اﻟﺰواﯾﺎ‬ .‫ﻛﻠﻤﺎ ﻟﻌﺒﺖ اﻟﺤﺮبُ ﻟﻌﺒﺔ اﻟﻐﻤﯿﻀﺔ‬

whenever the war plays hide and seek.

If the world were round,

.ً ‫وﺗﺴﺎوﯾﻨﺎ ﺟﻤﯿﻌﺎ‬

‫دﻧﯿﺎ ﻣﯿﺨﺎﺋﯿﻞ‬

on the ferris wheel, and we’d all be equal.

Translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid

ً ‫ﻛﺎن اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺮﺑﻌﺎ‬ َ ‫ﻟﻮ‬

‫ﻟﺪارت أﺣﻼ ُﻣﻨﺎ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻌﺎﻗﺐ ﻓﻲ دوﻻب اﻟﮭﻮاء‬

our dreams would take turns

.‫ﻟﻜﺎن ﻟﻸﺳﻰ ﺑﺪاﯾﺔ وﻧﮭﺎﯾﺔ‬ َ

‫ﻣﺜﻞ ﺑﺴﺎط اﻟﺮﯾﺢ‬

ً‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎن اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺪورا‬

ً ‫ﻛﺎن اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﯾﺎ‬ َ ‫ﻟﻮ‬

‫( ﺷﻜﻞ اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬SHAPE OF THE WORLD)

Dunya Mikhail

ً ‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎنَ اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﯾﺎ‬

“The Shape of the World” from The Iraqi Nights. New York, New York: New Directions Books, 2013. Used with permission of the author.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

KNOW THYSELF

Lee’a Thigpen

For my future son You were born a prince. Bronzed and golden, blessed by the blood of Mama. The struggles and triumphs of your forefathers coursing like the Nile through your veins. Wear your crown proudly. Be thee not deterred by the small minded whose shrouded bigotries collude to dethrone you. As your grandfather, of several generations of fathers, bore branches expansive as the redwoods reach – so that you may believe in your greatness. Navigate this journey wisely, young king. Your lineage has risen from eras fraught with fruit so strange that Junior quietly acknowledged the reaper. And this love rains upon you. Blossoming in your soul. Cresting your ambition. Your chalice overflows with the strength of a people – cherish it. Dare not succumb to the wantonness whims Of Crystal, Molly and Mary Jane. Their heady and salacious lures, inviting you to worlds of flashing brights and the tinkling of silver bracelets. You are more than a number, far greater than the degradation this brings. For you, my love, were born a prince.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

DON’T CALL HIM JOHN

Christine Peffer

My mom tells me you used to be a scary guy. She told me of her panicked attempt to pierce her own ears in your tiny bathroom on Revere, door shut, water running, so you wouldn’t know. She showed me how her earrings now sit at different heights, because she was shaking so badly she botched it. I wonder how you learned to be a parent, if you can’t remember your own. When you shed part of your last name, what else did you leave behind? Your friends called you John because they couldn’t say Janko. I wonder if this made you angry, or if maybe you liked the nickname, sometimes. If you ever went out for beers with those other mechanics. Could they understand your deep, gravelly burr, the one thing you’ve kept with you?

My mom tells me you used to be a scary guy, but mostly I think you are quiet. She orders your meals for you, because the waitresses never understand. We turn on the Masters during holiday gatherings so you can watch, straight-backed, in silence. You stare for minutes at a time out the semi-circle window in the front door, gazing out at the lawn, and the sidewalk, and maybe beyond. I want to ask you how all this silence feels after a life spent filling in the empty spaces. But mostly, I want to ask, when you stand there at the window, hands deep in the pockets of your slacks, biting the inside of your stubbly, brown cheek, what is it you’re looking for?

I bet they all had rough, callused hands, like you— but I wonder how many of them were missing half their left thumb, and the tip of an index finger. I bet they, like you, had their stories to tell— but I wonder how many of them heard and ignored their sick mothers’ calls, when they were too young to understand death, but wise enough to understand contagious. 2015 Gannon University Graduate Poetry Contest, First Prize

Totem 2016 | POETRY

STILL HAITI

Cristiana Sibley

After Patricia Smith’s Blood Dazzler 1. Prologue: Poverty Owns Everyone There is never a day off. Sweat always seeps into cracks, mocking ravines, tendrils of salt poking pure whites of eyes, weaving threads of vein. No rest until death. The sun beats like a hammer on the dried earth. The crisp, tan mud chips and cracks with each strong blow of another windless battle between hearts. Life is a privilege

reserved for those statues of democracy. Sitting on TV with white teeth on display, behind mechanical lips of lies, they state, “Our people come first.”

Her dark brown hair lay atop her head like a nest. The wrinkles looked like cracks that made her face into a puzzle of little pieces of hope that were shattered. Sigh. My sister was a nuisance. A pissy, sissy, sassy sister who Lives only to eat my food. When my belly growled, it was sounding a warning to the girl with the noisy braids who always ate half my plate. “Here,” I sneer. “Don’t choke and die.” 3. Earthquake 4:53 P.M., Tuesday, January 12th, 2012

Exploited for the blackened acres of dirt enriched with microscopic vessels of life. Mixed with dark red blood, it fed the sugar cane you eat in your Trix. The stepchild that no one wanted, but had, left to burn in Hell like the island of all that is wrong in the world: poor and hungry. But, we are still Haiti. We still fall to our ashen knees in His name, raise every hoarse, heavy voice to the Heavens to remind Him of His island of workers, wipe away our sins. 2. A Family Dinner “Share with your sissy,” Mama’s voice was always stern.

“A killer quake of magnitude 7.0 strikes 10 miles west of Port-au-Prince, causing untold deaths, collapsing thousands of buildings, severing roads, putting the city’s main seaport out of operation, crippling the city.” –Palm Beach Post, FL The rays of sun danced in a soft, baby blue sky the hue of the eyes of God himself as portrayed in Western Bibles. The rhythm of life tipped-tapped on the crust surrounding my heated, molten lava veins. Large feet plunked, tiny toes tipped, wheels skidded on the dusty streets as many pairs of little nostrils flicked and flared and lungs bloated with the smell of beans and rice for dinner. Little tummies rumbled with a sinister, shadowy echo. How long have I remained a prisoner in a

Totem 2016 | POETRY

shackle of silence? My structure is made of moving parts: rivers that rage after the downpours of April, the surging power of water pirouettes along curves of valleys. Click clack shoes echo through the sharp, geometric maze of canyons as my pure blood pulses into the clarity of the salty oceans. When will it be my turn? When can I claim myself as the sum of all my moving parts? Today, under the yellow twinkle of Mother Magma in the sky, a tap of the foot, a roll of the waist, a flip of the hair, I will reclaim my parts. Break the shackles. Make you proud, Mother. 4. A Family Dinner (Intermission)

Every rock roared. Every stone moaned. Every pebble pleaded. Cries and curses filled the silence of destruction. The voices had no bodies. Sure, there were bodies, but not for the voices. The bodies were dolls. Ghost dolls, thin, frail limbs coated in a clean layer of ivory dust. A little, delicate Tinkerbell had flitted along the streets and sprinkled white fairy dust on top of sleeping bodies. Or a large, economy-sized container of baby powder lost its cap. Right below Port-Au-Prince. Clean up on Aisle 5.

Silence. Crumble. Water dripping. CRASH. Breath. “Sissy!” Silence. Breath. “Mama!” Silence. Breath. Silence.

God himself had squinted and winked and blinked, but no longer could read the secret message written on the silver screen, framed in fire truck red. And with a shake, shake, shake, it was as if he were erasing his Etch-A-Sketch, leaving behind a flattened grey screen of nothing. Nothing but bodiless voices floating high above their tangible torsos and limbs lost below the screaming stones and rubble.

Breath. CRASH. “Robert!” 5. Voices Totem 2016 | POETRY

PERPETUITY

Sara Mashayekan 8

We fall like dusk upon daylight; from the spring of youth, emerging. The sun’s retreat darkens us, casts shadows, elongating our figures into stark, distinct silhouettes. In days long past, when sunlight lingered, kissed our skin so lightly— When our eyes were wider and our fruit sweeter and our feet uncalloused, untraveled, the world was gentle. Milder. We were whittled into finer shapes with time. We are elegantly carved, but less of us remains. We think fondly of a perpetual sun as Atlas forces his burden onto us. But we face the setting sun with courage. It will return, after all.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

THE CAST

Kelsey Ghering

The type of boy who couldn’t tell the difference between M&Ms and raisins in trail mix, so he left both. The type of girl who spoke in decades, soft and honest, until everything blended together. And he loved that she was always first to undress. He had eyes dark as olives, stoic and deep as the oil wells behind his log cabin house. And she lived for that smile, the laugh that made him lower his arms, if only for a moment. They crashed with the serendipity of catching a first fish, wondering if the hook really does hurt.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

ALL RIGHT

Todd Paropacic

Loud lights, Loud, loud lights Are lording high Above this roaring night. Let them shine And raise a sign For soul-swept singers To play the pine. And I’ll be fine. Yes, I’m all right. Under loud, loud lights, On this fate-filled night, The tabs are stacked high, Not a glass left dry, And a cheering And a singing, Cell phone screens swinging An audience roaring An uproarious wave. There’s a sudden chill. My voice is too shrill, Swilling, Spilling into the air. This night, This shadow play, Lite-Brite sight, It’s all right. I demand it, be all right. Streets, like pounded meat, Delete in rocky sheets,

Windswept, Cracking Under snow. Melting, packing, Attacking As elements attack. A wave of whipping wind Tears my open skin, Scattering a littered loss Of loose land. And this city’s all right. It frowns and frets, Forgets, But really, it’s all right. This gruesome sight, A simply slaughtered space. Who trashed my place? A can of mace, An empty guitar case, Bits of lace, And a place Where books build heaps And clothes forget Where the hamper is. Quarters and magazines And shirts, and socks, and trousers Sprawl over speckled floorboards Flecked with a film Of extremely lived in. But it’s all right. A wreck, but all right.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

I live in skin, All pale and white. My eyes see through A pool of night, And might has skipped My arms, Leaving room For a head to grow. I always say I know, When in honesty, As I often speak, I know not what I be Nor what I see. I really don’t know me. I try to show me. They always ask for me, But I hide. It’s not me inside. I have no pride. I’m neither tall nor wide. And I tried, Oh how I have tried. No I haven’t tried. I lied. Never enough. Never enough. Never enough. But it’s all right. I know, in the end, It will be all right.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

A DREAM

James Moran

In memory of my Grandmother, Anne Moran, 11/3/26 - 11/25/13 A shimmering glow before this parallel state. Black. The moon, spotty white, sure of its glide across the plain. The first stage; waves colliding now singing their song. I’m dying. Goodnight, or hello again? I have seen you before, you’ve become so beautiful. A tingle. The door, a revolving slate brushing past my control, your touch mustn’t be fake. I have seen you before, you’ve become so beautiful. A linger. The seat, a rocking brake, my unconscious cannot mistake. The final stage; waves give way as the course is reversed. I’m alive.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

अपने अल्फाजों को अब ज़िन्दगी के फड़फड़ाते पंख बनाने की ख्वाइश है ककसी अंजान सी खब ु सूरत सड़क पे चलने की चाह है

अपने बोल से उस सफ़र मे धनक और ताल भरने की ख्वाइश है तरं गो से भरी मझधार मे नाव चलाने की चाह है

अपने शब्दों को उस नदी मे पतवार बनाने की ख्वाइश है

Translation There is a wish to give life a flight With my words I want to give wings to life There is wish to give life a flight With my words I want to give wings to life There is a wish to walk on an unknown yet beautiful road With my words I want to fill that road with rhythm and beats There is wish to walk on a unknown yet beautiful road With my words I want to fill that road with rhythm and beats Want to sail my boat in a river with waves and currents With my words, I want to make a rudder in that river Want to sail my boat in a river with waves and currents With my words I want to make a rudder in that river

Totem 2016 | POETRY

अपने शब्दों को उस नदी मे

ज़िन्दगी को खल ु े आसमान मे उड़ान दे ने की चाह है

तरं गो से भरी मझधार मे

अपने बोल से उस सफ़र मे

ककसी अंजान सी खब ु सरू

अपने अल्फाजों को अब ज

ज़िन्दगी को खल ु े आसमा

(WISHES) ख्वाइश /Wishes

Harshal Mehta

ख्वाइश /Wishes

FORD SESTINA

Chloe DiRaimondo

“Do you like the Escape or the Expedition?” she said. But his focus was on the Ford Fusion, which is too small a car for the kids. “Used or new?”

would stop the kids’ fusion of laughter in the car— moments that would escape. She wiped tears, focusing now on their lives brand new— on an expedition,

She said, “We’ve saved for new.” He searched for an escape from her, from buying cars. Nightly expeditions have destroyed this fusion. Family out of focus,

in their Expedition. He now drives the Fusion. Finally with his new girlfriend, condo, and car— family out of focus. Once a week, he escapes

he stared at the Focus dreaming of a life brand new— creating a fusion with this car. He escaped to thoughts of expeditions with his mistress in a car.

his life brand new, takes an expedition to see who he escaped from. A fusion of thoughts in his car interrupted – “Daddy, focus!”

His wife looked through the car. Coming into focus, “So, no Expedition?” she asked, and now she knew. She realized escape from unfaithful fusion

Totem 2016 | POETRY

THE BODY

Stephen Craig

A glimmer of dew drew my gaze to a line of shrubs beside the halfway house on 9th. You know the one. It gathered like rhinestone on the corpse of a bird enshrined in a needled embrace next to the sidewalk. I had noticed it before. For three days, walking back from my white collar life to my one room home I saw the body of the bird and thought someone should move this. The beads sent miniscule rainbows spiraling out from rotten feathers and exposed bone mingling with smoke from the tenants flocked near the idol where I walk. I’m glad they left the body. A corpse for passers-by. A vain ornament by the sidewalk.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

COMPUTER CRASH

Tomee Barnes

I think she might have loved you once. There you are, in disposable camera photographs, But you don’t translate. You are not the same man. Data syncing to phone. Thoughts in cloud. Glowing wires transmitting Server bits to paper. Cancel submission. Reboot necessary to continue. Restarting in 15…14…13… She’s tucking your dirty dishwater hair, a lace dress Sun shining gently on the grass It looked cool that day You are fading. Drive full Memory error. Cannot scan to computer Wireless connection lost Please plug in to continue. Critical battery warning Seven percent remaining. Did you know you’d be here now? She would never have guessed That you’d let the world down So swiftly - without remorse. You don’t even know what you’ve done. Screen pixels reduced to standard definition. Audio card has failed to restore settings. Hard drive internal error Eject Reject.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

(DON’T) COVER MY 6

Kaitlyn Roose

To the front line, private, you are assigned. Comrade, did you not hear the vedette? No soldier left behind. Your mission is always first, thus, you have been primed. Every morning you move as a robotic statuette. Forget not, private, to the front you have been assigned. A perfect soldier, you were designed To win each day’s survival roulette. No soldier is ever permitted to lag behind. You are an American Soldier; defeat all enemies you find. You rely on the men next to you, your octet. The front line is your constant reminder. To discipline and courage, you are inclined Look to the receivers of the blue rosette, You mustn’t leave a soldier behind. This duty is a constant grind. You live to serve. But to actually live, you forget. We will leave you behind, soldier. Let your soul rise, unconfined. The front line will give you peace of mind.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

BETWEEN RAINDROPS

Elizabeth Rodriguez 18

The rain falls to the ground like bombs, Bursting in puddles all around me. The air is warm, but I feel cold. People pass by, looking off into the distance. They walk side by side, yet miles apart. No one says a word, fearing the response. Unsure of the thoughts in our heads, We walk away, saying no words. Yet, always wishing, wanting, to say something. The rain falls to the ground, Making the only noise between us. 2015 Gannon University Undergraduate Poetry Contest, Second Prize

Totem 2016 | POETRY

“I’LL CALL YOU LATER, OKAY?”

Bethany Lewis

He hasn’t called me because his phone is broken. He hasn’t called me because his phone was stolen. He hasn’t called me because he gave his phone away to a soldier who just got home to a little girl lost to a lonely homeless man. He hasn’t called me because a talking pangolin invited him on an adventure to save the world, and who could resist such a sweet, scaly face? He hasn’t called me because he’s under suspicion by the FBI for a crime he didn’t commit, and so is anyone he speaks to, and he wants to keep me out of their sight ‘cause I’ve got a Calculus final Monday and don’t need more stress.

He hasn’t called me because he’s been kidnapped by terrorists from some foreign country and is in their secret underground lair, where they’re going to brainwash him into the Manchurian Candidate. I’m so not ready to be the First Lady... He hasn’t called me because, unbeknownst to me, our families have been enemies since the 16th century and his mother will disown him should he speak to me again and from now on this relationship will be built on secret moonlit meetings until we try to get married, die for each other, and become a symbol of tragic yet true love forever and ever and ever. He hasn’t called me because he hasn’t called me.

Totem 2016 | POETRY

WEB-HEAD

Todd Paropacic 20

Long ago, I forgot how to think. At least that’s what the doctors, The nurses, They told me Something about synapses. I said that I was a good Christian, That I loved God And hated the sin, And even though “ass” is In the bible, Jesus resurrected a man Named Lazarus. I’ve liked Batman Since I was five years old. For a long time, I wanted to be like Ras Al’Gul And go for a swim Whenever I got tired. But my youth is being restored as the eagles. This is the day The Lord has made And I will rejoice In the father, The Almighty, Maker of My son visited me Last week. At least, That’s who he said he was. When I asked him for his name There was weeping and gnashing I wish I had my teeth. I lost them somewhere Along the way. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. I think I lost them On the left one.

A man who called himself My son Said that I have a grandson Who just lost his first tooth. I told him That I lost my last one Yesterday, All my troubles seemed so far away For far too long. I read Spider-Man Into my fifties. That was the best generation, When boys became men Their mothers wept. Peter Parker lost his parents When he was young. I wonder if that’s how He became Web-Head. You could call me that, Web-Head. I wear mine Every day I forget what happened Yesterday. I’ve almost forgotten myself. There should be a song To remind me Of who I am, To sing my body electric. The birds and the trees, And the flags flying, Typists typing. These days, Computers are everywhere. I’ve never used one My son tried To teach me how To weave the web But the arthritis Hurts especially in my knees today. Can you help, Doc? Wait.

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What? Who are you again? Oh. My son? Are you sure? I never had a son. At least, I don’t remember Having one. I’m just Web-Head. Who would have My son?

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ALMOST

Madison Huzicko 22

On a warm, sultry night with salt in the air, I looked to my left and with fear I stared. Oh! A black and white creature staring right back, Tail straight up, looking ready to attack. Nervous and anxious, I knew to stay still; I had to remain patient in a battle of wills. If this skunk were to spray its goodbye to the beach, Soap, water, and tomato soup need be in my reach. So still as a statue on the edge of the pool, I sat and in my head I told myself to stay cool. When fear is the issue, it’s up to the mind. Just dig really deep, and strength you’ll find. I turned to that skunk—looked it straight in the eye. He sniffed me once, and turned, tail down. Goodbye.

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TO THE BOY WHO WALKED ME HOME

Sara Borro

I am not fond of the feeling of blindness I have while looking into your mind, but I will use every bit of fire I have inside of me to illuminate every dark corner of it. I will pour myself all over you, dripping down your flesh, hot and thick like the blood that is racing through my own veins. I will seep my way into every crack you have in your soul. I will iron out all the wrinkles and folds you have in your tired heart, and I will map out every constellation that clutters the galaxies glittering in your eyes. I will get to know the bones where you reside. I am still getting used to the way your fingers feel as they twine between mine, but soon I will leave their prints on every inch of anything that makes you who you are.

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HARVEST TIME

Angie Jeffery

A day just like any other So many things to take care of Dry cleaning, appointments Emails, work Dinner, Soccer games I really need to go for a run There you were, in the midst of everything Like a trustworthy Uber driver I didn’t know I was going anywhere Although you knew it all along Watching and waiting for the right moment You crept up behind me and whispered “It is time for your appointment.” “Well, damn,” I said “No man knows the day or hour,” you sighed Not the hooded figure I expected Only an usher Holding open the door I thought I would have to knock on I just keep thinking What will become of my empty shell Who will fill the space Like a hand in a bucket of water When pulled out No gap is left behind Merely a ripple And then nothing

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HIGH

Kaitlyn Falk

insatiable craving; unattainable need Hope is your drug take a leap & you’re flying— trippin’ hallucinations that will never be a reality every hit takes you higher shoot up & you forget what it’s like to be in despair the high can last for hours, days, weeks. however long you can hold on. but when it doesn’t happen —& it never happens— you crash and burn out. shaking, sweating, the withdrawal leaves a pit in your stomach you want you need one more hit, one more chance at Hope

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A LIGHT OF MY OWN

Rachel Webb 26

I swore that I got my light from the North Star When I was just a flicker in the rolling fields of dark satin. I prayed to the sky, “Grant me a dimmer backdrop So that I may rise out of it.” I prayed to the star, “Cast me a brighter light So that I too, can lead the lost.” It illuminated me, Punched and choked out all of the darkness within me, Streaming to the roots of my being, Dazzling, blazing, A gleaming testimony to my triumphs. I stood at last next to the North Star, No longer yearning for its brilliance But instead dancing a waltz with it. My glorious counterpart And I whispered into the black abyss, “I am my own star.”

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FRIDAYS WITH FRANK

Kelsey Ghering

Praying for the leaves to come back, he told me most of us can’t know the love of our life until they’re gone. It was a dark outlook for someone talking with a whole day’s worth of sunlight displayed behind his head.

The problem is that I don’t know what the hell due diligence is. My professor’s face had gotten so dark when I mentioned cancer, the kind of fear that turns hazel eyes into old news ink. He’s been playing poker with mortality since his first kidney stone.

I realized my favorite professors arranged offices with their backs to the window, so the light around them made words appear wiser.

Carol said she hated the thought of him selling his house. The empty office at the end of the English hall was bad enough.

There is an apple on the windowsill and I’m still trying to decide if it’s been there all along. Temptation is no more than an “if,” after all.

Everything is fleeting and I’m counting the flower buds on the trees outside my window. There might be just enough to hope for spring.

If it’s a sin to worry about tomorrow, how can we get to heaven? The argument is that uncertainty is exciting and “due diligence” isn’t anything like indecision.

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SELF-RESCUE

Mariana Palade Syrotiak 28

My Self fell into the pit of my stomach today, Deep, really deep. I tried to pull my Self up and out of there. Nope…that pit is a slippery slope, I tell you. I tried to trick it to come out by itself. “More coffee?” “Some tea maybe?” “Dance music?” “Ok, chocolate!” This always works, I know it. Nope, nothing worked. ... I was about to give up But then I took a deep, deep breath. I looked out into the horizon. “How beautiful! How beautiful is the horizon is today!” When I exhaled, I felt myself lighter. My silly Self managed to climb out of the pit And got out through a smile. “Curious Self you are! I knew that you could not resist seeing how life looks today, But now I wonder: why did you get in there in the first place?”

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LANGUAGE, LOST

Sara Nevas

I’ve lost the remnants of a native tongue To years of careless disuse. The words are stilted in my cobwebbed lungs. They once poured from my lips relentlessly, As if I was a pitcher Filled to the brim with an endless sea. Time, in its casual cruelty, wages wars Of ruinous attrition. I felt the torrent lull beyond its shores. I am lesser for its absence. This loss Betrays an ancestry And entombs it within New World chaos. My heart mourns this disconnect. The words fell From mouth, from memory, Tasting of petals and chiming like bells.

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YOU AND MY CIGARETTES

Sara Borro

You and my cigarettes go hand-in-hand because I had never lit one up before I met you. I’ll smoke one for every time you’ve kissed me and for every girl you’ve loved before. Two for every moment I’ve missed you and for every night I’ve felt alone. Three for all the times that you’ve said you love me, but four for all the times that you haven’t. Five for every finger that you’ve laid upon my body and six for every second that you’ve consumed my brain.

No amount of nicotine coursing through my veins will ever feel as satisfying as when you’re lying next to me, but I’ll light up an eleventh because the other side of my bed is as empty as the bottle in your hand. Everybody’s got a bad habit, but I guess I’ve got two: smoking all these cigarettes and being in love with you. I’m turning my lungs black to match what you’ve done to my heart, But despite all the poison that I am giving myself, it’s not the cigarettes that are killing me, darling, it is you.

Maybe by the seventh I won’t miss you quite as bad, but I’m reaching for number eight, just to fill the space between my fingers where your hand should be. By the ninth I can’t really breathe, but it’s only you that’s stealing my breath. Number ten, and I’m a mess, but not as messy as I am when you’re gone from me. 2015 Gannon University Undergraduate Poetry Contest, Third Prize

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LEGACY

Kelsey Ghering

You told me about the ashes of your grandfather’s Air Force uniform buried next to his headstone. I wonder if he preferred Jamison or Hennessy, and what your grandmother must have felt the night she told your mother to hide all the guns in the woods. Did she keep folding her laundry or did her hands hit the table loud enough for her children to hear outside? I wonder if your mother feels the same pang as your father slams the refrigerator door when it’s missing Yeungling, just like the time Grandpa ran to the fridge when you asked about Vietnam.

I can picture her running away, taking your father by the hand to the courthouse. Grandma taught her about having a voice, especially when it quavers. Maybe she shoved her diamond in his face, the only defiant thing a daughter can do. I wonder what it was like to tinker on planes that brought fallen soldiers home, not knowing if the passengers were Jimmy from next door or John from California. No wonder he burnt his uniform.

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SIXTH STREET DURING THE FIRST SNOWFALL

James Marsh 32

The snow fell gently in the yard. The cold fell fast upon my heart. I could not cry. The snowflakes Falling on my face Melted – trickled down my skin As tears for past mistakes.

And sinners too he treats the same. I heard the preacher call my name And offer me a crust Of bread. I looked into the falling snow – My voice was resolute and low – And sang into the winter wind, “O night divine, what might have been May yet still be!” The wind blew harshly over me

The snow did not conceal my sins. It did not hide my soul, my heart Or my imagination, But as the tears fell from my face Through time and space I was a new creation.

And drew from me a silent tear That spoke of hope but whispered fear, For those he calls he justifies But those he loves he crucifies.

They froze and when they hit The still-bare pavement, lit By streetlamps, or by God’s own light, They shattered. (The shepherd taken in the night – The sheep are scattered.) I stood in bitter, frozen air Which flew around me, through my hair, And sent A piece of ice which rent The veil that kept me From my truer self. The snow upon the tower and roof Impelled me to discover proof That God sends rain upon the just

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MESSAGES

Carol Hayes

Saturday, 7 a.m. Eyes and ears alert. Sun is strong. Toast is Toasting. Coffee steams. House to Home section, Erie Times-News, awaits; NBC, on air.

“…Richard Engel in Paris with the very latest… Suicide bombers…terror rants are going viral…” Here’s a house in a new Subdivision. The address: “13 Lyme.” Disease! Are there others? West Measles Street? Mumps Boulevard? Scarlet Fever Road? “…Surviving victims are telling their tales…blood up to ankles… Exploding brains…gunmen in tunics – black and tan…” Once, in a drive through New York, We passed a place named East Pudding. “What are the main streets?” he asked. “Tapioca and Rice,” I said. “Bread and Banana,” he countered. “Vanilla and Butterscotch.” “No, Chocolate and Plum.” “…Criminal records…trained operatives…scenes of panic… Charlie Hebdo…Bakery…Vive la France!...” So much for House to Home This week. So much for toast. But Barbarians, take note: While you’re preening, slashing, We will play with words; Melodies; soccer balls; Magic cards; Life.

…Even while you bring us more after these messages.

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ART

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37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

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WINTER SUNSET

Natalya Toennies

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BEAUTIFULLY BROKEN

Arianna Wos

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THIS TOO SHALL PASS

Maria Loya

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LOOKING THROUGH A LENS

Chelsea White

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VIKING HOMECOMING

Natalya Toennies

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SWALLOWS AT SUNSET

Catherine Caulfield

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JUST BREATHE

Yassar al-Fatlawi

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LIGHTHOUSE

Madeline Summers

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MIRAGE OF HOME

Yassar al-Fatlawi

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A NEW DAY, A NEW LIFE

Abdullah Abdulaziz Alshaie

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STANDING IN THE WIND

Augusta Deacon

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SPRING CROCUSES

Catherine Caulfield

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GREAT ESCAPE

Nikki Anderson

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JAR WITH LID

Roman Denisyuk

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ERIE LAKE

Vikas Doddi

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LA COTORRA

Maria Loya

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OUR STORY...

Roman Denisyuk

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THIRSTY WINGS

Vikas Doddi

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WANDERLUST

Madeline Summers

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JUST BREATHE...

Yassar al-Fatlawi

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ART BENCH

Roman Denisyuk

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PROSE

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61 68 71 73 75 77 78 79 83 88 90 92 94 97 102 103 105

The Sunlight Warrior | Kaitlyn Roose • Ostrózka (Larkspur) | Christie Szymanowski

Mysterium Caritatis | James Marsh Of War and Hope | Lin Qatuni Two Girls Listen to Music | Tyler Carnegie

THE SUNLIGHT WARRIOR

Kaitlyn Roose

An excerpt from a League of Legends Fanfiction A new dawn rises and the war begins… Leona’s armor clicked together and her heavy boots crushed the ground beneath her as she ran aside her teammates. Leona’s purple undergarments covered her body and her golden armor contrasted against the dark color. The symbol of the Solari covered her chest and was the dominating symbol on her large triangular shield. Her zenith blade, blessed by the sun, dragged slightly on the ground as she slowed and her team had reached their starting spot for the battle. Every time she set foot on the Rift, she remembered her journey as a child and how she ended up in the League.

“Finish him off, Leona! What are you waiting for? You have him pinned!” her father would shout at her from the stands. Every time she refused to kill her opponent increased her father’s dissatisfaction and her distance from her family. Killing was not in her blood, but killing was in her father’s, and he never understood her. Her father knew she was different. No warrior in Mount Targon had Leona’s mindset. Leona appreciated a masterful battle with skilled swordsmanship and a worthy challenge, not adding another number to her kill count. Her best friend Pantheon respected her rationale. “What goes through your mind, Leo? What keeps you from doing it?” Pantheon would ask her as they dueled with dull swords. His silver helmet hid his scratched and scarred face but could not hide his curious brown eyes. They would take turns “winning” duels because they were so equally matched, but their styles were completely different. Pantheon’s focused on strength, power and offensive tactics. Leona’s focused on tactically anticipating and defensively striking. Their styles did not counter, but were a reflection of themselves.

“It’s not my place. Someone like you is meant to be the last person that they see. I am meant to be your sidekick. I get them down on the ground…” She laughed heartily and tripped Pantheon. She straddled him and ripped off his helmet; Leona was the only person that was allowed to see him without his helmet, “and you finish them off.” She jokingly made a stabbing motion with her blade then dropped it to play with his hair. He jokingly yielded. “Well played, m’lady,” Pantheon smiled, kicking his feet out from under her and rolling backwards until he flipped up. “I think you’ve beaten me up enough today, and tomorrow is the big day. We both must be well rested and well fed for the tournament.” He walked over to Leo to help her up. She extended her hand. He was her strength, as was her mother, but she could not provide the physical intimacy that he could. Leona grabbed his rough, scarred hand and pulled herself up. She knew that he trained himself to death. He was well-prepared for tomorrow, almost too prepared. He was favored to win the tournament, but everyone knew that; what they didn’t know was that Leona was planning on putting up quite a fight. This tourney was to her advantage: you didn’t have to kill your opponent but you had to fight until they yielded (or you did) or until someone died. “Clean yourself up and hurry to the gate. We will be late for dinner and we both know how my father takes to lateness. But as long as I stroll in with you, my father will soften his heart. You’re the son he’s never had and has always yearned for.” Her face flushed with a mild fury and an ounce of jealousy as she jogged off North towards her castle. Pantheon solemnly picked up his spear and Leona’s blade as he watched her rush off into the distance. He slowly walked towards his stone house to ready himself for dinner.

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Leona waited anxiously at the gate for her friend, her long wavy brown hair blowing in the gentle wind. Leona was always radiant, just like the sun; Pantheon would always tell her this. She found herself pacing back and forth, her hands shaking subtly. Looking at her kingdom, she calmed down slightly. Mount Targon was beautiful in the evening. It was still blessed by the sunlight for it glowed in its splendor; banners sporting the Solari pattern waved in the wind and the rustic gold buildings glistened. She immediately noticed Pantheon emerging around the large fountain at the base of the stairs, marching with his broad shoulders back and his shiny silver helmet gently bouncing with every step. His iron chest plate was complemented with a deep red cape and his muscular legs were covered by thick black pants. His iron-plated boots clinked as he sped up the stairs to meet Leona. Her cheeks were stained with a rosy glow and he offered his arm to escort her inside. Leona and Pantheon entered into the dining room of the castle linking arms. The two warriors knew how to interact with royalty; it was almost a dual life for each of them. Pantheon was essentially the King’s favorite warrior in Mount Targon and Leona was his least favorite, if he even felt she was one at all. Their friendship remained strong despite Leona’s familial tension. “Pantheon! Welcome, my son!” Leona’s father separated her from Pantheon as he embraced Pantheon in a strong hug. Her father used to hug her that way, before her mother passed away. “Your grace,” Pantheon bowed respectfully and extended his hand, “it is an honor to be in your presence and an honor to be sitting at your table. I appreciate…” “Har Har Har! My son! No need to greet me so formally!” The King chuckled heartily,

causing Pantheon to join in. “Please have a seat.” Her father’s eyes shot towards her as she stood there shyly with her head hanging down. “Leona.” He walked over to her sternly and she reactively met his gaze. His lips offered a slight smile to soften the blow of his gaze. “Your grace,” Leona curtsied awkwardly and bowed her head, waiting for her father’s permission to join the table. In her peripheral she saw him walk away and sit next to Pantheon. Leona sauntered over to the chair next to Pantheon but was beaten to it by the general of the Targon Army. Soon enough, every chair at the table was taken except for the chair at the opposite end of Pantheon, next to the forbidden secondary head of the table. Her mother used to sit there; the beautiful Queen was Targon’s favorite woman. She was just, charismatic, radiant, charitable and intelligent: beloved by all. She died protecting the castle from a foreign invasion. The leader of the invasion and several of his best soldiers managed to reach the throne room. A small battle ensued between the Queen, the King, and the five members of the King’s guard. Because Leona’s mother and father were known as the King and Queen as well as two of the best warriors in Mount Targon, they were not afraid to take up arms for their kingdom. The King’s style, focused on strength and power, complemented the Queen’s tactical and agile strategy. Leona’s parents took down several of the invaders with ease. The Queen would attempt to disarm and distract while the King would take advantage of any missteps or mistakes, resulting in the invader’s death. Neither of them was without faults. The leader of the invasion charged at the King from behind, but the Queen was too quick. She countered his strike, struggling against the man’s power and his jagged blade,

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their blades sparking against each other. The invading commander and the Queen continued to struggle as the King finished off the final invading soldier. She managed to back up against a marble column, quickly ducking and forcing the commander’s blade into the marble. She stabbed him in both calves as the King shouted, “Finish him off! What are you waiting for, darling? Kill him!” The Queen could not do it. The commander screamed in anger and pain, loosening his grip on the blade and slowly sinking to the ground. Killing was not in her blood. She motioned for the remaining guards to take him into the dungeons below. Before the Queen could take another step, the commander extended his leg back, swiping it and turning on his knees, facing her. His chest rapidly rose and fell and his knees shook on the ground. The King charged after the commander as he brought his blade down into the Queen’s heart. A small gasp escaped the Queen as the King pierced his sword through the commander’s heart, twisting it as the rage exploded inside of him. Screaming, the King watched his beloved Queen breathe her last and close her eyes. She imagined her mother sitting there, beautiful short brown hair and green eyes. She saw her mother smiling at her, but then she quickly snapped out of it. The King softly met Leona’s gaze and she quickly made her way to the end of the table. Servants pulled out her chair and helped her sit down. She hated that. She hated when people treated her like some glorified human being, at least on the battlefield there was a mutual respect and equal power. Conversations about war, training, kill counts, and strategy filled the room while glasses clinked and servants replaced dishes. Pantheon’s eyes almost never left Leona, and he managed to keep his glance subtle so the men could not sense it. Leona only rarely took advantage of the opportunity to return

his gentle gaze, but when she did it gave her a moment of fleeting happiness: being noticed and purposefully attended to by someone that she loved. She thought she loved him. The way they interacted reminded Leona of her father and mother. Her father was reluctant at first to allow Pantheon into his daughter’s life, but the Queen insisted in Pantheon’s character and the King lifted his suspicions. When her mother died, the King found comfort in Leona and Pantheon’s relationship. Knowing that Leona could marry a warrior that would protect her gave the King peace of mind. The King could not protect his wife, his support, his Queen; he feared that he could not protect Leona either. Leona had taken on her mother’s greatest weakness, the weakness that had cost her her own life: the inability to kill. The King’s fear had come true. Leona was about to excuse herself when the topic of the Grand Tournament arose amongst the drunken men. “Pantheon’s the fan favorite!” “You’re going to destroy your opposition!” “There’s going to be a new record of yields!” “No doubt you’re going to take the title! And all of the gold!” Men threw compliments at Pantheon in between laughs and Pantheon simply nodded his head honorably. “If you win this tournament you’ll have your pick of every beautiful bachlorette in Targon! Don’t let a pretty face distract you, though!” The general shook Pantheon and filled up his glass with more ale and the King firmly grabbed his shoulder and nodded towards Leona. The three of them shared a small moment. This moment of happiness was short lived, but Leona refused to let it go. She wanted more moments like this and she knew

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they each did too. She hoped that if she won the Grand Tournament that her father would soften his over-protective side and would be proud of her. For once. He loved Leo, but with every action she took, he only saw her mother. He prayed that the Solari protect her. The men’s laughter and chatter began to dissolve and that was her cue to leave. Leona quietly pushed her chair back. “Excuse me, your grace, General, gentlemen,” curtseying for each group, “and Pantheon…It was an honor to dine with you. I apologize I must…” “Leona, thank you. Please take my daughter to her room.” The King addressed a guard. He quickly beckoned for her and she turned to face her father. “Oh, and darling. Don’t worry about tomorrow. I spoke to the General and you will be exempt from fighting for the reason that you are too sick and injured to fight. Understand?” The King nodded, satisfied, as he laced his fingers together in front of his mouth. Leona gave a quick final curtsy, walking away to the eruption of laughter. The roar of voices echoed through the hall, and through her mind. Leona walked to her room and punched her pillows, eventually missing and hitting her headboard. She shook her hand in pain and pulled it into her chest, falling asleep with blood staining her dress. Leona woke up to the sound of horns. These horns represented the beginning of the Grand Tournament. Leona had two options: to stay in her castle and watch the battles from her room or to fight. She called her servants into her room and hatched a plan. She undressed and her servants went to work. They bandaged her chest so it would appear flat and would fit under her armor. Her arms and legs were powdered to appear more muscular, tan and

mildly scarred. Leona had one of the servants fetch some armor from the armory. She pinned her hair in a tight bun so it would be easily hidden under a helmet. She reached for her sword in her sheath. “Oh no,” Leona gasped. “I left my sword when I dueled with Pantheon. Now I don’t have a sword.” She pounded her fist on her vanity, causing perfumes and jewelry to crash to the floor. Leona thought of her mother. Her mother had a special sword forged for one of Leona’s birthdays. A few weeks prior, Leona approached her mother asking if she could train in swordplay with Pantheon. Her mother laughed and promised that her time would come when she could dance with real steel. On her birthday, her mother came into her room with a specially wrapped present. This sword was beautifully crafted and Leona could see her reflection in the steel. “You need a blade as radiant as you are, love. You are your own sunlight.” Leona’s mother kissed her forehead gently. The Queen placed the sword back in its decorative box and slid it under Leona’s bed. The Queen told Leona to promise not to tell her father and that it would be their little secret. “Warrior to warrior?” she asked, embracing Leona in a tight hug. From that day, Leona refused to use the sword that her mother got her. She thought it was too special to see a real battle, so she stole one from the armory to train with Pantheon. Sometimes when she felt discouraged she would look at her reflection in the sword. This always made her think of her mother. This reflection became more important to her once her mother died. Pantheon challenged her physically and mentally, and she always asked her mother for strength. The one physical connection she had to her mother kept her going. She needed her mother now. She took the sword out of its box, looking at herself

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briefly in the steel blade, and sliced straight through the footboard of her bed. The wood snapped in half; the cut was perfect. The maids came in with an iron chest plate, a silver helmet, thick red pants, and black iron-pleated boots. After getting armored up, Leona needed to quickly make it out of the castle unnoticed. She covered herself with a large red cloak, covering her helmet and her sheathed sword. The maids created diversions to allow Leona to escape. Leona uncloaked herself and continued down the path towards the tournament festivities. Ditching the cloak in a nearby bush, Leona needed to blend in. Keeping her shoulders back she grazed her sheath and adjusted her helmet. Once she was immersed in the crowd, it was a simple nod to keep herself involved. She needed not to talk to anyone, but if she was forced to, she would call herself Mason and claim to be an orphaned warrior from out of town. That was if anyone asked, but usually people didn’t care about stories, unless killing was a part of it. The booming sound of the King’s voice quieted the people as the attention turned to the the center of town. “Today marks Mount Targon’s annual Grand Tournament! We gather together to praise the Solari and give thanks to the wonderful blessings that she has bestowed upon our kingdom. We offer the bravery of the warriors that are participating in this tournament and we offer their dedication to the glory of the battle. I ask that all warriors please step forward.” The King beckoned the men to enter into the center of the makeshift arena, standing before the king. Leona stepped through the crowd, moving into the line of fifteen other men. Almost instinctively, everyone bowed and Leona was not a second behind in doing so. “Welcome, warriors. Be strong. Be brave. Be glorious. We salute you.” The crowd cheered loudly as horns sounded.

“Let the tournament begin!” the king exclaimed waving his hands in the air in celebration. The rules were simple: man-on-man duel. The winner was determined by the death or yield of his opponent. The winner moved on to the next round. If a man yielded, he was to be publically flogged until the General deemed his punishment appropriate. Any weapon could be used and hand-to-hand combat was encouraged. Leona had to defeat two people to reach the finals, and she knew who she would be facing. Pantheon’s first duel started the tournament. His opponent was a scrawny, unskilled warrior wielding only a tiny axe. Pantheon dodged several wide attacks and kicked his opponent to the ground, forcing him to drop the axe. He quickly screamed “I yield!” as Pantheon dug his spear into his skinny leg. Pantheon rose, pulling his spear out of the man’s leg and wiping it on his pants. The tournament proceeded with Pantheon’s side of the bracket first. His second battle was not much more of a challenge, however; his opponent managed to scrape his upper thigh with his lance before Pantheon hurdled his spear through his hip. The man had managed to yield before he fainted, hitting the ground with a thunderous thump. Pantheon grunted as he yanked the blood-stained spear out of the lifeless body. Dust blew in the wind and the crowd continued to cheer for their favorite warrior. How was Leona to defeat the greatest warrior in Targon and her best friend? Leona was shoved into the ring by a tournament captain and met her first opponent: a tall, slender man wielding a slim, long sword. Leona retreated to the opposite end of the arena and they exchanged a respectful nod, indicating the beginning of the battle. Leona approached cautiously as the man shuffled from side to side, bouncing towards her. Their swords met with a great clank, repeating several times before the man

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made a grave mistake: attempting to thrust his sword straight through her stomach, Leona turned into him and broke his arm back. The man dropped his sword as Leona shoved her sword in his foot, slowly twisting it. He collapsed to the ground, yielding. She was quickly sent back into the arena to face a broad shouldered beastly man. This one was quick, for her opponent had been badly wounded in his last battle. His first swing was straight up and down, allowing Leona to step on the sword and stomp on his left wrist. The man groaned in pain as his right arm whipped around, punching Leona in the gut and sending her into the ground. He swung at her once more and she quickly deflected the sword and it pierced the ground. Leona kicked her right foot out and it bent his right kneecap back with a bone-shattering sound. The man grazed his sword across Leona’s midsection, pulling his hand down to his knee and falling to the ground. The man yielded, realizing that he had two broken legs and probably didn’t stand a chance. Leona’s vision suddenly blurred as she knelt down and threw up a brownish-yellow color that soon became stained with blood. This isn’t me. I…I can’t go on fighting. Fatigue consumed her damaged body and poisoned her mind. She contemplated yielding before the fight; it could be seen as somewhat respectable to yield to a worthy opponent such as Pantheon. Her mother appeared in her mind, taking up arms to fight alongside her. If I’m going to die, it will be of honor…just like mother. She extended her hand to her mother, grabbed onto her sword in the ground and hoisted herself up. The crowd began cheering Pantheon’s name as he emerged into the arena. She met him in the middle of the arena and simultaneously bowed towards the King, then towards the audience. Pantheon turned towards her. “May the the Solari grant us the glory and protection in this

battle.” She looked past his helmet and into his dark brown eyes. This moment she had relived every day: the moment of respectful and intense competition. He never looked at her like a delicate girl. He saw her as a warrior, nothing less. This moment ignited the fire in her. She wanted to prove herself to him as she did every day in the fields. Their moment began fleeting, and Leona knew it was time. She shook his hand, slowly marching to her end of the arena. Drums and trumpets sounded and Leona and Pantheon nodded. Pantheon twirled his spear, marching towards her intimidatingly. She stood frozen, blood dripping down the front of her armor. Her stomach was empty and her head was clouded. He won’t kill me. He won’t kill me. Leona knew how he fought. He wouldn’t kill his opponent outside of the battlefield unless there was a risk of losing. Pantheon slowed as he got closer to her, holding his spear above his head and bringing it quickly down, just grazing her arm as she dodged his attack. He shoved his spear horizontally across her chest and she kicked her foot clockwise, shoving his knee sideways. Pantheon gave a quick and powerful thrust with the handle of his spear before he dropped it and Leona collapsed on the ground. He knocked the wind out of her. This reminded her of when she knocked Pantheon on his back in the field and she sat on top of him. He would playfully yield and she would take his helmet off, losing herself and her breath looking into his dangerously gentle eyes. Although her breathing had not fully recovered, she sloppily kicked her feet out from under her and picked up her sword, waiting for Pantheon to get back into range. Their weapons danced intimately in the air, quickly, then slowing down and becoming more exaggerated and powerful. They were both getting tired. She

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was anticipating his every move and he was becoming more frustrated. He had had enough of this. He faked her out a couple of times with short thrusts, then swiped his spearhead across her midsection. The pain of her last match suddenly hit her. Her midsection was being stabbed simultaneously with thousands of daggers and her heart was sinking to her stomach. He never practiced that with me. Leona cried out in anger and pain as Pantheon swung his spear higher, hitting her in the head and knocking her helmet off. She felt her mind shut off as she crashed to the ground. After her thoughts returned to her, she quickly tried to get on her hands and knees; Pantheon aggressively kicked her over, holding his spear right above her face –only Pantheon had been closer to her. Leona’s hair slowly came undone from its bun and the wind blew it out of her face. Her cheeks were flushed with a rosy pink and her long bangs were draped with blood. Leona’s head slowly jerked as her chest shook her body as she coughed. Her peaceful expression countered her battle-torn body. “Leona!” Her father screamed, rising from his chair. He ran to the edge of the platform and firmly grasped the wooden barrier. His eyes watered and his breathing became shorter and more intense. Leona struggled against the pain. The limited strength she had was quickly fleeing from her body; however, she felt her mother’s presence getting stronger within her. Pantheon began to shake with his spear cocked above him, his muscles tensing with each passing second, and his expression softened. His carved chest pumped faster and his bloody thigh twitched. The crowd gasped and began to softly chatter among themselves.

she felt the last bit of life in her, she became immediately engulfed in a warm beam of sunlight. The outline of her body dissolved into the stream of light and her soul began to rise, taking on a new form. “Leona,” her mother’s voice spoke to her, “the Solari had chosen me to protect you, and now you know the reason why. You have been blessed by the goddess. Show the people what it is like to live through the light. Be their Sunlight Warrior.” The beautiful voice faded away, yet Leona felt her mother’s presence in her heart. Leona had been rebirthed by the light and renewed to her worldly form. This ritual was something that was taught in school, something that was merely an ancient tale. Children learned of the Sunlight Warrior’s virtue and strength. Parents used the tale as a way to discipline their children, warning them that the Sunlight Warrior knew both justice and mercy. Great warriors claimed to have been blessed with her skills, and therefore claiming the title of the Sunlight Warrior. None of them were saved. This was not a title to be won in a contest nor earned by hours of training. No kill count would indicate the next Warrior. The Solari chooses the noblest of hearts. Mount Targon had waited for the Sunlight Warrior for hundreds of years, but the people had never expected it to be Leona, except for her father. Emerging from the beam of light, clothed in brilliant golden armor and bearing her zenith blade, Leona emerged as the Sunlight Warrior.

“I…yi…” Leona softly groaned, her breath beginning to escape her. Her head dropped to the right and her muscles loosened up. Just as

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OSTRÓZKA (LARKSPUR)

Christie Szymanowski

Amy kicked her legs against the couch as she pulled a Jolly Rancher away from the Bit O’ Honey to which it had adhered itself, wrinkling her nose as she struggled to unwrap it. She plopped it in her mouth, puzzled by the odd mixture of caramel, strawberry, and chocolate it had taken on from sitting in the candy jar for months. It would probably make her sick, but at least it provided a distraction from the TV. Grandma always kept the volume at ninety, and Amy had no interest in listening to Bob Barker drone on about the price of a new grill. It was the same thing every day, all summer long.

“Don’t you have any books?” Amy stared up at the ceiling, tapping her feet against the floral patterned couch. Grandma looked up from the socks she was mending and peered over the scratched panes of her glasses. “What kinds of books?”

“You know, like novels?” “Novels?” “Yeah.” “I got gardening books, but they’re all in Polish.” The old woman stood slowly from her recliner and steadied her withered frame against the wall.

Grandma’s shrill whistle echoed through the valley, and Shadow slumped away. “I’m sorry,” Amy said. “I tried to get him to stop, but–” “I know ya did.” Grandma got on her hands and knees to examine the damage. She picked up a frilly, purple bunch of flowers that Shadow had dug up. “Know what this one is?” Amy shook her head. . “Ostrózka,” the accent rolled off her tongue. “What’s the English word?” “I dunno; my mother never told me.” Her wrinkled, clawlike fingers scooped a hole in the dirt and patted the flower back into place. She picked up a mangled plant with several small, white flowers blooming on it. “It’s gonna take some time to save these zawilec. Wanna help me after we eat?” “Maybe we can cut the flowery parts off and put them in water.” Amy plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between her thumb and index finger.

“No thanks,” Amy grumbled.

“Flowers ain’t here to pick. Why would ya bring ‘em inside if ya can just go outside, or look at ‘em through the winda?”

“Ya wanna go outside instead?”

“It’s pronounced window, Grandma.”

Amy scampered to her feet, rushing past her grandmother as she hurried out the door. Shadow ran circles around her, and she tackled him to the ground, scratching behind his ears and burying her fingers in his scruffy, black coat. He jumped up and ran across the yard, Amy trailing behind. “Shadow, no!” she yelled as the dog ran into one

of Grandma’s flower beds, kicking dirt and petals into the air.

Grandma gently wrapped her hand around a sapling, hoisted herself back onto her feet, and walked with Amy back toward the house. “How ‘bout some lunch? I got some placki batter left from breakfast.” Amy ran ahead and swung open the screen door, tripping over the sagging linoleum floor as she sprinted to the refrigerator. Her

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shoulders slumped when she opened it. Fresh fruits from the orchard and vegetables from the garden. Apples, pears, and plums. Snap peas, rhubarb, and green beans. She dug to the back, but besides the batter for potato pancakes, there was nothing to eat.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” “I – my – my grandma –” “I can’t hear you,” the woman’s voice was calm. “Can you turn the TV down?” Shaking, she picked up the remote, her fingers struggling to press the power button. “Okay. It’s off.”

“You want it, then?” “Yeah, I guess.” “Get it out, and grab a plum for yourself while you’re in there.” Amy wrinkled her nose. “No thanks.”

“Good. Tell me what happened, hon.” “She fell down the stairs... I think.” “Who fell down the stairs?”

Grandma reached past her and took the ripe, purple fruit from the crisper drawer. She wiped it on her dingy button-up shirt and took a bite. “Ya gotta learn to like everything. Even your brother likes plums.” “He likes throwing them at me.”

“My grandma!” Amy repeated. “We need an ambulance!” “Okay. Do you know her address?” “3551 Washington Road.” “Is she awake?”

“Oh, that sznurek. Ya gotta toughen up. I got a tin a’ cookies upstairs if ya want some a’ those.” Amy nodded eagerly, and Grandma walked away to grab the cookies. Pulling the cast iron pan out of the cupboard, Amy heaved it onto the stove and turned on the gas. Even though she was almost nine years old, Mom never let her use the stove unattended like Grandma did. She dropped dollops of batter onto the pan, licking her lips as they cracked and sizzled on the scalding iron. If nothing else, Grandma had taught her to make really good potato pancakes. A muffled thud sounded from the living room, and Amy set down the bowl of placki on the counter to investigate the noise. Grandma was sprawled out at the bottom of the staircase, her glasses smashed against her face. Amy turned on her heel and rushed to the phone, winding the numbers on the rotary.

“I don’t know. Just send somebody!” Amy dropped the phone, and it swung back and forth on its cord as she rushed to the staircase. Grandma was crumpled on the floor, but she had pulled herself into a seated position, resting her head on the second stair from the bottom. She reminded Amy of the bird that had flown into the closed window last year. Amy had wanted to nurse it back to health, but Grandma insisted on snapping its neck with her bare hands. Afterward, she’d just tossed it in the back field like it was nothing. “I’m fine.” She lifted her head off the bottom stair, exposing a bloody gash on her left temple. She knelt next to her grandmother. “There’s an ambulance coming.” Grandma stared up at her, eyes determined and unblinking. She reached for Amy’s hand and squeezed it.

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For a moment, Amy froze. Then she pulled away. She let go of her grandmother’s hand and ran through the living room and out the door. Shadow jumped up to greet her, and she hugged him tight, waiting for the sirens to sound through the hills.

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NEW DAY

Angie Jeffery

The day he threw his wife in front of the moving truck had started like every other day. The alarm screeched in its mocking, monotonous tone. It was really indicative of his life, monotonous, tedious, and totally predictable. The drive to work was the same as always, he got stuck behind every school bus in the county on his 20 mile commute no matter how hard he tried to time things differently. Some days he wondered if the bus drivers waited on side streets, watching for his car, so they could pull out in front of him and start his day off on a miserable note. He wondered what time they got up in order to pull this off, and if they even really took kids to school, or if perhaps they all just went to some recreational facility and celebrated the success of ruining his day every day. He went to work and executed every task just like he had a million times before, he was on automatic pilot. Muscle memory from the years of tedium took over and he was free to dream about what could have been. What if they had never met? Maybe he would’ve gone to art school, or music school….hell, maybe he would’ve done both. He would be that guy with the gallery show or that guy listening to his latest hit song for the zillionth time as it wafted in the background over the radio waves. That guy. Instead he was the guy that worked 60 hours a week, went home to a manic depressive wife and a perpetual mess. The drive home from work had a different kind of dread, the anticipation of the tedium of home life, but at least there were no buses out. The drivers and their young passengers were all tucked in their houses, worn out from their celebration, dreaming of new ways to torment him and better activities for tomorrow’s party. He saw a state trooper who appeared to be taking a nap on the side of the road. He passed the old hitchhiker woman who kept the jack knife tucked in her sock.

He pulled in the driveway, just like every other night before. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except the sun was shining. After three months of nearly constant rain and gray skies, the sun was peeking through……“maybe things are changing for the better” flashed through his mind. He wondered if that was God’s voice. People talked about God speaking to them, maybe God decided that after almost 40 years, it was time to talk. So, he sat in the car for a few minutes waiting to see if God was feeling chatty. After ten minutes, he decided God had fallen asleep. When he got in the door, he wished he had given God longer. He couldn’t turn around now, his wife had already spotted him and had that “Have I got something to bitch at you about” look in her eyes. “Maybe if you get her out of the house and away from the mess and into the sun, she will shut up.” He looked around to see if God had followed him in the door to whisper this bromide into his ear. God remained invisible, but the man gave thanks as his wife smiled and accepted his invitation to walk. It was a great walk, they chatted like friends instead of angry conspirators who were stuck on a lonely messy trouble filled desert island. He remembered why he approached her the first time they met. So when he saw the truck coming toward them, he really wasn’t prepared for the next word from God: “Shove her and see what happens.” How about that?! God had a funny streak that he had never known about. He watched it happen, and like the life flashing before your eyes scenario he had heard about in books and movies, it was in slow motion. He loved her in some way, had he just killed her? He wouldn’t have killed her. The driver of the truck stopped when he heard the thud, he looked at the man and shrugged as he pulled away, “I understand man, I’m married too!”

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The man knelt by his wife; she didn’t really look injured, but she wasn’t moving. But for the first time in 20 years, he felt like he could move, and he did. As far as anyone knew, this was a terrible accident. As the sun sunk into the night sky, he knew he wouldn’t be going back to work. He thought of the bus drivers and wondered how they would pick their next target. It was nice knowing that part of his life was behind him. He did his best Bing Crosby trying to remember all of the words to “Blue Skies” and when he made his way into bed he slept peacefully for the first time in years.

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ANGER’S JOURNAL

Nick Fagen

My name is anger. I fill the rage inside my person each day, when his world has come crashing down; I am the only one there to help him through the cruelty of the cold world. I approach quickly with a smash as if to kick down the wall of emotions, covered in enormous flames. I do not know how other emotions behave. Curiosity confuses me, while sadness annoys me. Happiness is something I have never had the privilege of grasping.

unexpected visitor. She calls herself sadness, and says that her job is quite similar to mine. We work together to see that our owner lets out all his true emotions on this one evening. It seems to us that he is in a process of grieving of some sort. We begin to wonder if the woman who made him so happy has upset him in some way. Perhaps merely her missing presence is the cause of this emotional roller coaster.

My name is anger. Today I am hard at work in my owner’s head. It rages with heavy music and a shattered mind. A clustered head with what seems to be blind hope. My owner has let me loose and I have taken full effect. I have traveled through my owner’s mind and have taken a physical aspect. He throws many objects from glasses to bottles to his very own fists. He grasps his pillow with all his strength, screaming into it as much as his lungs and throat can bear. His apartment lurks with the scents of cigarettes and lingering alcohol. I am out of control, and my owner attempts to harness me, but I am in full effect.

Regardless, we continue to do our work. As he screams to the skies and curses them, sadness does her job and tears stream down the sides of his face. As I look through my owner’s eyes, I wonder if the setting is a coincidence of his current behavior. Not often do I work with another emotion, so this must be a special occasion of some kind. Rain continues to fall from the sky upon the grass on which he kneels. The significance of what lies in front of him seems to confuse me, what looks like a stone with an engravement of some sort. I continue to go to work as my owner clutches the grass for dear life and rips it from its roots. Sadness has him lay his head on the stone, with flowing teardrops and a runny nose. I do not understand why he acts this way, but I continue to do my daily duties.

My name is anger. Today, I try to make my presence known in my owner’s head; however, he just won’t budge. Something has struck him, and I’m not sure what. It occurs to me that the presence of this woman might be what has led him to his complete and utter happiness. It confuses me, however, because it is just a mere conversation with this other human being while sharing a mutual walkway. I am beginning to wonder how to pursue, since it is my job to bring my owner to show his anger. Today, however, he is insistent on listening to music with upbeat rhythms and walking with his head up towards the sky. I cannot help but wonder why. Nothing significant comes to mind today. My name is anger, and today I am again in full effect. While at work, however, there is an

My name is anger, and today sadness is no longer beside me in the workplace. However, the setting remains the same. My owner kneels in a beautiful area with abundant flowers and a stone that lies in front of him. He clutches his heart as a small tear streams down his face, and I wonder what is happening. How can he be shedding a tear if I’m the only emotion here? Before I can think twice, as my owner grabs his chest and lays flowers to rest, another emotion appears to my side in full effect. She says her name is love and explains to me what her job is, to have our owner feel deep affection towards certain objects and

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people. She explains the idea of romance and how someone can feel lonely without that one person to keep them company. I think I understand now. I think I know why my owner has such a mix of emotions. It is my owner’s love for this woman that drove him through such extreme measures, for love is no simple emotion. As love tries to explain her job to me, I realize an extreme sense of abstraction. I am just a mere aspect of her full job, and I will forever be in debt to her for showing me what it is to be in love. My name is love, and though I may not always be the smartest or the nearest emotion, I am always there for my owner, and always will be.

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ORANGE JUICE ORIGINS: ADVENTURE EDITION

Cristiana Sibley

The silence outside is a constant reminder of exactly how early it is on this midsummer day. It’s not that the silence is piercing; actually, I can barely hear the silence over the rambling of a five-year-old. Excuse me; he is actually six now (as he has already reminded me multiple times). His name is Henry, and he is my boyfriend’s little brother (though I wish I could call him my little brother). It would not be far-fetched to say that Henry was one of my best friends that summer. Ever since the first time I was invited to a “sleepover,” Henry learned that I tended to be the first adult awake in the house. And bonus: I also wasn’t a bad breakfast cook. This morning Henry and I were eating French toast while he updated me about his soccer career. I nodded along, but my mind began wandering the moment he started graphically explaining his game-winning goal. He had power-kicked the hexagonal plated ball into the upper left of the net like a regular old David Beckham. It was too early in the morning for tall-tales. I was brought back to Earth when I could suddenly hear the silence again.

“Everything okay, Henry?” I asked. He was holding his cup of orange juice above his face, observing the pulp in the bottom of his glass. “Where does orange juice come from?” He swirled the cup and then took a little sip. His little brown eyes twinkled as he waited for me to share my wise, old sage-like knowledge. “Well, it comes from oranges, which come from trees. They just squeeze the juice and then send it here.” I tried to be specific and short with my answer. Who doesn’t know where orange juice comes from? Henry’s face showed his dissatisfaction

with my answer. His voice reflected his disappointment. “Is that where all of the orange juice comes from? Even the orange juice with this dust in the bottom?” This was an opportunity, and I was going to seize it. “Wait! What does your orange juice have in it?” I grabbed his glass, and let out a dramatic gasp as I examined the pulp. “Oh my, Henry. Do you know what this means?” Henry’s face lit up again. He sat up straight and demanded an explanation, “No! What are you talking about?” “Somehow, just somehow, your mom must have found a way to get Tropicana Orange Juice!” I whispered to him, for effect. “What’s the difference?” He was growing impatient to be in on my secret. “Well, Tropicana Orange Juice comes from the land of Tropicana. Few people even know where the island is. It was lost a long time ago on the maps of the ancient world! This is unbelievable!” Henry was hanging on every word that oozed from my mouth. There is no audience more captive than a child listening to a good story. “Just a few years ago, this island suddenly appeared again. Few explorers who step foot on the island can return to tell us what they found. But there are a lucky few who make it back to us, bringing us the treasures of the island. Because, ya see, there is this dragon that lives there. This dragon’s only job is to protect the orange trees there.” “A dragon? Does it breathe fire?” Henry had jumped out of his seat and was now standing beside me. “Of course it breathes fire! The dragon is camouflaged with orange and green, so

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it blends in with the trees. Waiting for an explorer to come along with the intentions of taking its oranges away from the island. It lies in waiting…” Henry exploded into a roar: imitating the protector of the oranges. I jumped out of my seat and rolled under the table, which had now become my only cover from the 6-year-old dragon. Henry roared again and tried to get through the chairs which I had used to barricade the entrance. He scurried out of the room, carrying his cup of orange juice. I crawled after him on my belly, my face to the ground as to not stir the mighty beast. I could hear the echoes of the dragon’s feet on the hard and trampled ground. After making it the few feet to another temporary shelter, I caught a glimpse of the terrifying beast. He had acquired a narrow purple gun, with an entire magazine of long foam darts. The cup of orange juice sat on the ground in front of him, waiting for anyone with enough courage to make a break for it. I devised a plan to ambush the dragon. With his back to me, he was the perfect target for my new method of slaying the monster. With swift movement, I jumped from my hiding spot and sprinted, arms ready for defiance.

right to my side. The force of it brought me to the ground, and I could hear the laughter of the dragon. How dare he! I reached out my hand, shaking the rifle free from his hands. With his own weapon turned on him, the monster had no choice but to throw himself at me. Hand to hand combat was my weakness. He grabbed my hands, and I rolled over to my stomach. I tried to crawl away. The cup of orange gold within reach. All I needed was one sip, and I would go down in history. With a final roll, a final stretch of the arm, my fingers touched the glass. “No!” Henry let out a cry as he tried to stop the inevitable, but it was already too late. I had made it past his guard. I lifted the cup with a victorious cry, and then had a sip of the orange juice I had just won. I stood up, and watched as Henry whimpered in defeat. I gave him a pat on the back. “And that’s where orange juice comes from,” I said with a smile on my face. Henry looked at me and with a swift phrase, the dragon got his final kill shot, “I know none of that is true. I’m not five anymore, ya know.”

I heard a thud and felt the pressure of a bullet

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STAND BY

Tyler Carnegie

Author’s note: The voice for this piece is the unnamed chief gunner of the Death Star (AKA the one who fires it) in the sci-fi series Star Wars. He is officially named Master Chief Gunnery Officer Tenn Graneet in the Expanded Universe, and it’s elaborated that he suffered immense guilt for firing upon and destroying a number of planets (including Princess Leia’s home planet of Alderaan) and causing the death of billions of lives, effectively making him the worse mass-murderer in history. When it came time to destroy Yavin IV, where the rebel base was located, he attempted to stall the firing as long as he could in hopes something would prevent him from doing so, repeating the order “stand by.” His plan worked, as his stalling would give Luke Skywalker the few precious seconds he needed to destroy the Death Star, killing Graneet and everyone else on board, saving Yavin IV, and providing a key victory for the Rebellion against the Empire.

“Rebel base in range.” “Commence primary ignition.” I had never realized how quick seconds could be, and at the same time, how long they could be to others. I always knew how it felt when they degenerated, though. Time may be a key factor aboard this station, but it becomes an instant and insignificant factor to whatever we set our sights on. In this gray room lit by consoles, chip lighting, and computer screens marking the power behind the ultimate power in the galaxy, masked controllers sit behind their respective stations, ready and awaiting my word. “Stand by.” That is the only word that leaves my lips. I continue to stare at the readings, and the God’s-eye view of the moon below, silently praying to whatever deity was out there that could spare me a chance. I even considered praying to Lord Vader’s magical Force and found myself wondering what exactly it could do here. The only thing I could think of was it

wrapping around my throat at a distance from Lord Vader’s hand. “Stand by.” We’ve just picked up a new group of signals: Enemy fighters coming our way. The Rebel wolves are clawing at our door. Our attention is diverted to activating the Star’s defense system. Towers with guns akimbo are not exactly difficult setting in motion, but we do it in much longer time than required. Then I find myself back in my command chair, the screens welcoming me back. Another call from the bridge: Deactivate the towers. Lord Vader will be taking care of things himself. I leave it to the boys to deactivate the towers; my own mind too conflicted to even focus. The gun is fully charged, prepped to fire on the suspecting moon below. The realization of how much power I have at the tips of my fingers occurred to me long ago, but the heaviness of it all never came full force as it does now. My own helmet feels smaller, more suffocating. Sweat trickles down my face and I can’t wipe it away. My men are still patiently awaiting my orders, trusting my judgment. I find myself rooting for the Alliance. “Stand by…” Explosions outside the station become closer and louder. The radios go dead. No word from the bridge. My subordinates become restless. No more stalling. Now I’m forced to face my own judgment, and hope something falls in my favor. I pull the switch, pulling the trigger on the ultimate weapon on the galaxy, sealing my fate and theirs. Something explodes. My guilt is gone.

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CORRESPONDENCE FROM AN ODD FELLOW

Christopher Leonard

Ode to Alexander Pushkin Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) is considered as Russia’s greatest poet and the father of modern Russian literature, whose influence continues to shape the Russian literary world even today. Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852) was a Ukrainian/Russian writer who attained fame through his odd professional relationship with Alexander Pushkin. They were contemporaries who mutually respected each other’s craft, but never became close friends. Pushkin started a literary magazine called The Contemporary that not only introduced the work of many new Russian writers of the time, but also gave Gogol’s stories good reviews and even published “The Nose” which was rejected by another publication. Eventually, Gogol attained stardom but could not handle the success. After meeting with Pushkin to read the manuscript of his novel Dead Souls, Gogol left Russia and the two never met again. Although the two men were never that close in the way of a friendship, they did maintain a cordial correspondence that inspired generations of literary champions.

Dear Nikolai, The circle is complete! I have at long last found the ideal place to retire. A community content with seclusion from the outside world. God! After so many years of toiling with the curse of overpopulation. Solitude finally! Truly, the answer to my sufferings. The neighbors are very calm and reserved and courteously keep to themselves. The neighborhood itself consists of a vast array of both domesticated and wild flowers, with plenty of trees and shrubbery that decorate the terrain. There is not much community interaction, and the nights are noise-free and serene. What’s more is that many serfs are provided to landscape and ensure tranquility. Moving in was completely free of difficulty, due to the fact that the Czar not only prearranged the transport, but even paid in full so I could enjoy the luxury of comfort first class. Perhaps the finest aspect of this venture was the house warming party that the family cooked up for me before I made the journey to Mikhailovskoe. I was pleasantly surprised to see in attendance many relatives whom I had sorely missed that my family had invited which I had not seen in ages, alongside many friends and strangers. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday’s best, showering me with well-wishing elegant praises and heartfelt sentimentality before taking their leave. I tell you, to be blessed with such communal commensality is definitely a feather in my cap! After the festivities of receiving my pardons and my graces, when all was said and done, I cherished the fact that I could reconcile to my new dwelling with the confidence of blissful peace. Hopefully, any future moves will be elevated, but for now I’m rest assured that this will be my final destination. Yours, Alexander

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CASUALTIES

Cristiana Sibley

BREAKING NEWS: Body found on shores of Red Lake at 8:54AM on Tuesday, October 15…Officials are trying to identify the body now…For more updates visit: WXMJ.com/breaking news…

____________________________________ Thursday, October 29th:

“Enemy fire, enemy fire! Get down!” Boomer’s voice sliced through the air. My body obeyed without question. The ground sighed its dusty annoyance as our bodies both crashed downward. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as I waited for tactical Marshall to kick in. Isn’t that what they said? That instinct would just take over? Our inner Rambo would pulse through our veins whenever we were trapped under enemy fire? I waited. “What the hell are you doing, Marshall?! Get up off your ass!” Boomer’s hand smacked the back of my helmet (or brain bucket as he liked to call it in the chow hall). He was crouching in the small ditch that was protecting us from the shrapnel that floated amidst the higher air. His right hand clutched the smooth, black barrel of his M4 while his left hand cradled the trigger guard. He had always taken pride in being a southpaw. “Are you okay?” My voice cracked as I took inventory of his body: two arms, two legs, one head, no holes. “Yeah. I’m fucking grand! Ain’t no way their shit bullets will pierce these abs of steel!” He chuckled nervously as he inventoried my body: two arms, two legs, one head, no holes. “Did you see how many there were?” I asked. “I think there are 5 or 6?…They know we’re here.”

I barely noticed the heat of the sun beating down on the back of my sunburnt neck as my blood ran cold. Boomer’s blue eyes focused on mine. The streaks of salty sweat were the cleanest part of his face. The rest of his skin hid behind gritty sand and bits of dried blood. He was wearing the most authentic kind of war paint, but I could still see through it. I could see straight through to the hopelessness that rested in his stomach. I just hoped to God the men that were coming to kill us wouldn’t see the same fear in his eyes. I wanted Boomer to die in the same glory that he had lived. As our eyes locked on each other, we seemed to mutually accept what our futures held. We knew this was the end. Most people do, you know. I reached out with my right hand. My tanned and oil-stained fingers blended in with the sand that would soon be our grave. Boomer grabbed my hand fiercely. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Marshall,” he said. I never knew Boomer to say anything nice. “Same to you. I’ll see you on the other side, Boomer,” I replied as he tightened his hand and then pulled it away. We sat for a few seconds of solace as we prepared for our last mission. Boomer broke the silence first. He ripped the charging handle of his weapon back: locked and loaded. “Fuck this shit!” He yelled as the fire in his eyes began to pulse through his veins. He flipped his weapon from Safe to Burst and exploded out of the ditch. I could barely understand his wild howls over the sound of the flying rounds. I knew he was probably shouting profanities as if they were

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as effective as his rifle. It’s strange how a bullet can change from being a piece of metal to something powerful enough to rip apart a body. A fleeting pull on a trigger causes a firing pin to tickle a live round and then, on impact, your body just falls apart. Because of a tickle. Just a tiny little tickle and you’re dead… Thursday, October 29th: “And what happened next?” Dr. Howard looked at me from behind trendy, squareframe glasses, “What happened after Boomer decided to engage the enemy targets?” I glanced down at my hands. My skin looked pasty white against the awful burgundy couch. Little beads of sweat had formed between the hills and valleys of my fingerprints. The sun coming in through the window glinted off the beads, just like it used to glint off the sand in Iraq. “Joe? Joseph? Joe Marshall?” Dr. Howard tried to grab my attention. Sometimes my first name didn’t even feel like it belonged to me anymore. “Yeah? Oh…Sorry, doc. I think the medicine makes things cloudy sometimes.” “What do you mean?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned in closer to me. “Sometimes I just feel…detached. Like…I wasn’t even there. Like I’m not anywhere.” I stuttered as I tried to find words. Any words. “Well, Joe, that’s because you weren’t there.” Dr. Howard’s voice was soft as he leaned in even closer to me. We both sat in silence as he observed my reaction. I glanced down at my hands again. They were tanned and oil-stained. The oil was from the Humvee that I had spent all morning repairing.

“Joe?” “How much are they paying you, Dr. Howard? If that’s even your real name…” “Joe, you have never been in the military. I know that you think you are an infantryman. But Joe, that is part of the problem.” He leaned back in his oversized, leather chair and picked up his pen and notepad. The lines and circles of his scribbles were unclear to me. I could feel my chest constricting. I was trapped, under enemy fire. Where were my Rambo instincts? I glanced down at my hands again. Two pasty white hands were connected to two pasty white arms which were connected to a pasty white head; no holes. “What are you doing to me? What did you do to my hands?” I tried to keep my voice clean of panic. Enemies feed on panic. Panic causes missteps. “Joe, if you can’t remain calm, then we’ll have to end this session early.” I finally felt it. I looked down at the veins in my wrist. The twisting and crossing strings of dark blue throbbed: my survival instincts were finally kicking in. “What the fuck did you do with Boomer?!” I launched my body across the asinine coffee table that separated me from the man who was holding Boomer hostage. I tightened my suspiciously clean hands around his smooth, hot neck and squeezed until I could feel his Adam’s apple pressed solidly against my fingers. The door to the tiny sterile office flung open, and three militants in doctor’s garb ambushed me. The one came from behind and pulled my sweaty hands from the neck of his leader. He smashed my body into the ground and dug his knee into my back. Within a few moments, my body was surrounded. Their words blended

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together as they shouted orders back and forth. They were quite an organized militia. I thrashed my arms and legs in an attempt to get some leverage. I threw my elbow into the wall beside my head, and a framed picture clashed to the floor, missing my head by inches. The knee in my back dug deeper, and I let out a groan. “Calm down, Mr. Marshall. We’re going to help you sleep now.” The softness of Dr. Howard’s voice remained the same. I felt a pinch in my arm. And then nothing. The doctors pulled my paralyzed body away from the glass bits that showered the floor by the solid oak frame. As they worked to drag my body, I rolled my head to glance at the picture. The beige frame had protected an image of Red Lake. The surface was smooth like a sheet of glass. The sun sparkled on the surface like little speckles of gold; just like it had in the sands of Iraq. I had been to Red Lake many times. I had even taken Boomer with me. Red Lake had been our own part of heaven on Earth. The greens of the grass and foliage surrounding the lake were emerald, like little jewels that thrived on the divinity of the lake. My eyes began to droop as I remembered the feeling of the water on my skin. The coolness of that water always took my breath away the first time I jumped in. “He really seems to be losing ground, doc.” “Well, that’s the problem with dissociative identity disorder. You never seem to be talking to the right personality.” I closed my eyes. I could feel the little bits of seaweed get caught between my toes. It was like the lake was trying to tell me something. Come deeper, Boomer. And bring your friend. I can cleanse all sins.

“I just wish he would drop the Joe personality, so we could finally talk to Boomer. I just wish I could find out if he has any idea where Joe went. It’s terrible that he made it home from war in Iraq only to run into the likes of this creep and disappear. I feel awful for his family.” I floated on my back and stared at the blue sky. The water’s surface was once again restored to its smooth glass surface. I was just glad that I could share this piece of heaven with Joe. And for now, I’d close my eyes and sleep. ____________________________________ BREAKING NEWS: Red Lake body was identified by officials on 11:16AM on Wednesday, October 16…Officials identified the body as Joseph Marshall of Johnsburg…Officials have ruled the investigation as a homicide… ____________________________________ Friday, October 30th: “I miss him so much.” My voice sounded weak in the crisp, white room. The doctor’s white robe draped around his body and gave him an angelic appearance. “Then why did you do it, Boomer?” Dr. Howard’s eyes pierced through my mask. He knew everything. How could I lie to an angel? Was he going to open the pearly white gate for me? “Because you told me to. All of you. I knew that I was chosen for the job. He was my best friend. I did not want him to die as an unclean sinner. I know the power of water. Pure water can clean even the ugliest of murders.” I tried to convey the divine message I had received. It did not seem as holy when it dripped from my lips. “Why did he need to be cleansed?” The doctor’s voice floated high above my head.

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“I heard the stories. I felt like I was right there with him. I felt the pain of every single round that exploded from his barrel. It was sinful. All the destruction. He was my best friend, and he didn’t deserve to live with that.” It was at this point the doctor’s pen came alive with the weight of my words. It danced on the tablet as my memories swirled in my head. He rose to his feet and pulled the starch white robe around him tighter, like he needed the protection. Like Joe had needed that protection. “I think we are done for today. I’ll have one of the nurses take you back to your room.” Dr. Howard wisped out of the room, and I was left to stare at the picture of Red Lake. A smile crept across my lips as my accomplishment sank in. Just like Jesus, I could cleanse sins. I felt anticipation bubble in my chest as I thought about being united with my glorious Brother and my Holy Father. Oh, how proud they’ll be.

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SIMULATED

Bethany Lewis

from Dead Air Dead Air takes place in 2025, in an alternate timeline in which NASA received funding to begin a new space program, Project Aquila. Its eventual goal is to send humans back to the moon on a more permanent basis. Rookie astronaut Josie Reiner, who has been following NASA since she was a child, finds herself training to fly a mission with one of her childhood heroes, veteran astronaut Peter Cross.

“Aurora, Houston. You’ve got a go for docking.” The voice was Christy Anderson’s. As the Capcom on duty, she was the voice of Mission Control, the astronaut on the ground who passed its instructions up to the ones in space. In the seat next to Josie, Peter shifted to click on his mike. He was so close she nearly had to lean aside to allow him room for the gesture. One of the few things she was not looking forward to on Aquila VIII was being in such a small capsule for the better part of the day, three days of a week. “Aurora thanks you, Houston,” Peter said, and clicked right back off. His choice of name for the LARM this mission was excellent. The sound was beautiful, as was the mental image of the Aurora Borealis called up by it. The name for the ELTB, Exodus, was rather ugly sounding in comparison, but it hadn’t been their choice. Today had been such an easy day Josie had had time to think about things like that. “Think this is almost over, yet?” she asked Peter hopefully. Peter’s hand cupped the control stick, its usual resting position. He shook his head violently. “Ain’t no way, Jos. Nothing’s gone wrong yet.” “So a twenty-minute delay for the go for rendezvous is nothing?” For her and the rest of the crew, it had been nothing: twenty minutes of sitting around idly chatting. Meanwhile, Mission Control had been

discussing the fuel indication blip. Apparently, for less than a second, their display had shown the fuel level three times lower than it should have been. Eventually they’d decided it had been a momentary error. “As sims go,” Peter said, his voice a little too patient, “that’s nothing. Yes.” “Hey, Aurora, Exodus,” called a voice over the comm, across what would be the void of space if this was the real Aquila VIII mission. Sitting in a simulator with Aquila VIII about a year away, ‘space’ was only the distance between the LARM simulator, where Josie and Peter were strapped in, and the ELTB simulator, where the rest of the mission crew were similarly strapped in. “Yes, sir, Exodus, whatcha need?” Peter called back. The voice from the ELTB, now recognizable as First Scientist, Billy Hunter, answered with a mock-deferential, “Oh, all-powerful Commander…we’d like you for to dock that thing. If it please your Lordship.” Peter grinned. “Copy that,” he said leisurely. “We’ll get around to it.” Josie gave him a not-so-happy look. “Relax, Jos,” he said. Over their several months of training so far, Josie had noticed Peter was a nicknamer. If you normally used your nickname, he’d renickname you something shorter if he could. “There’s a little room for comedy here.” “Well...” said Josie. She wasn’t sure which comment to make. For one thing, she didn’t think they should be talking so casually during a sim if they weren’t going to in space. For the other, this was the first time they’d gotten this far into a sim without something disastrous

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happening, and...

her, “Manual Control on standby.”

“You just want to get this over with, is that it?” asked Peter. “That’d be nice.” Peter’s eyes weren’t optimistic. “Checklist?” “Yep.” Back to the mission plan. She grabbed it off the velcro on the wall. “We were...” Her eyes skimmed down until they found where to start. “KYROs, all three, off.” “Off,” Peter confirmed. “Check alignment of... Oh, we did that before.” “Alignment of VC is fine,” Peter agreed. “That checked out.” Josie glanced sideways at him. “You’re expecting something else to go wrong, aren’t you? Ready Manual Control.” “We’re set there. Josie, this is a sim. If everything went right, that would mean the SimSups were asleep and we’d have to do it over.” The SimSups were Simulator Supervisors, whose name sounded more passive than their actual role. SimSups had control of the simulator and ran training according to Murphy’s Law: if anything could go wrong in space, they could and did make it go wrong in the simulator. Solve the problem wrong and you’d run it again and again until you got it right. If you could handle it in the simulator, you could handle it for real. “Aurora, Exodus,” a voice interrupted over the comm. It was Jeff this time: ELTB Pilot Jeffrey Merritt. “You all set yet?” “Just hold on one sec, there, Exodus. We’re getting there.” Peter released the button on his microphone control and, tactfully reminding Josie of what she should be doing, repeated to

By the time the words were out, she was ready with the next item. “Verify FLIN pressure at three and a quarter.” The acronym-dripping chant of the checklist went smoothly now, each of Peter’s responses followed almost instantly with Josie’s next challenge. When the last item was finished, Peter gave everything one more cursory glance and then reached for his comm switch again. “Ready for docking, unworthy peasants,” he said, not over the comm but to Josie, with a grin. Then he actually clicked on his mike and made the call. “Houston and Exodus, Aurora. All right, folks, we’re about ready to dock this thing.” “Sounds good, Aurora,” Christy answered from Mission Control. “All go from here,” said Jeff from the ELTB. Lastly, Peter looked at Josie. “Ready?” She nodded. “Okay.” “Let’s go hot mike.” “Right.” As Peter did the same, Josie reached for the microphone control at her waist and found the switch on the bottom that changed it from push-to-talk to always-on. Pressing it in and sliding it, she gave Peter a nod. With everything programmed in and verified, all Peter needed to do was push the button for ignition. He did it firmly, almost sternly, with a look that dared it to fail. A slight vibration began around them as motors simulated the ship’s engine rumbling to life. “All right,” Peter said. His left hand settled between them, lightly gripping the control stick and nudging the ship into motion. “Okay...”

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Josie watched the window in front of them. It was actually a screen, its “view outside” digitally created. Among the glitter flecks of stars hovered the ELTB. Looked at from the side it was a long chubby cylinder. Since they’d be docking with it they were staring at the short end of that cylinder: a circle with an inset hatch ringed by docking pins. Currently the circle took up a quarter of the window, filling more as Peter guided them closer. Looking down a little, she let her eyes flick across the readouts. “Okay...” she echoed, ten seconds in. “You look good,” Jeff ’s voice called over the comm. His tone was so light he might have been commenting on Peter’s choice of polo shirt. A moment later he added, less casually, “A little–” Suddenly the voice of Vanessa Shaw, the fifth crewmember, broke in briskly– “Peter, watch–” sounding as if she intended to go on, but then catching to a stop. Peter muttered something sharp under his breath. Torn, Josie raced through a once-over of the panel in front of them. Switch after switch in the right place, screen after screen showing the numbers they should be showing... Then she noticed the velocity reading. She sucked in a breath, gave in to the sinking feeling in her chest and looked over at him. She saw no sign of Peter’s usual finesse. He was jerking sharply at the stick, his eyes flicking rapidly between the screens on the panel and the view outside. “You’re coming in too fast!” Jeff ’s voice barked in their ears. The window was bright as the ELTB loomed closer and closer. It wasn’t real, Josie told herself. It was just a digital representation. Just like a movie. She unpinned her gaze from the not-real danger racing towards her and focused on what she could do about it.

“Exodus, Aurora, I am aware, I don’t think I have control.” Peter’s hand flew off the stick to a screen on the panel in front of them, tapping to switch to the numbers they’d put in minutes before. “Aurora, Houston, stand by,” said Christy’s voice. “Quickly...” answered Peter in an anxious vibrato. Josie’s eyes swept the panel again. The numbers they’d programmed looked fine. According to those numbers, this shouldn’t be happening. Docking wasn’t extremely time-sensitive; nothing to lose by backing out and starting over. “Let’s try shutdown?” Josie suggested, her hand already hovering over the button. Half a nod from Peter and she smashed it. The ELTB on the screen rushed ever closer. Damn it, he needed to cancel out the speed. Burn in the opposite direction. Obviously, not with the thrusters they didn’t have control of… Josie found the appropriate switch and flicked it. “Backup thrusters on,” she told Peter. Her eyes strayed back to the window. “All right.” Peter’s hand throttled the control stick and he yanked it to one side. “I’m not sure we’ve got time...” The silver skin of the ELTB filled the screen, made their faces glow. “...to save this one...” Instinctively, Josie shut her eyes. A few moments later, Christy’s voice in her headset called, “Um, Exodus, and Aurora...” “We’re dead,” Jeff said flatly, not waiting for her to finish. Christy was silent for a minute, and then

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said slowly, “We think...” Clicked off. After a moment of silence she was back on. “We believe there was a wrong number somewhere that we didn’t catch. We’re currently not sure if it was noticeable during the pre-burn checks.” So probably it was partly her fault. They’d get back to her on that. Josie forced herself to open her eyes. Of course there was nothing worth seeing. The displays were all blanked, the ‘windows’ completely black. A dead ship. It might not look this dead yet, if this had been real. But if this had been real it would be pointless to look anyway, because she herself would soon be– She jumped when she felt a hand on hers. When she raised her head to look at Peter, he asked in a voice low with concern, “Okay?” She rubbed her free hand over her eyes. “Yeah,” she lied. “Fine.” Peter tilted his head a bit. “Hm,” he said, tapped her hand lightly, and returned his to rest around the control stick. “It’s not fun. I know.” Just in time she remembered the hot mike. She didn’t answer until she’d flipped the switch back to push-to-talk. “Not at all.” She took a deep breath and pushed it out in a sigh exasperated with herself. “And I know, I’ve been through it how many times before, and I know, better in the simulator than up there, and I know, got to get used to it, rookie, but– I don’t know what it was, maybe it was seeing it coming like that–” Christy’s voice over the comm interrupted her. “All right, you guys can get out of there. We’re going to have the backups run it once.” “Uh-huh,” mumbled Josie, with a glance at

Peter, and then clicked on her mike. “Okay, Christy, thanks.” “Well,” said Peter, reaching down to unstrap from his seat, “shall we?” Eyes automatically skimming over the screens again, even though now there was nothing to see, Josie undid her own restraints. When the two of them ducked out of the simulator hatch and started down the ramp, Meghan Powell and Brooke Rossi were already waiting at the bottom. “I hear you’re dead,” Meg called up to them in a mock sorrowful tone. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “How can you be sorry for his loss if he’s the one dead?” Brooke asked. “Hey.” Meg defended herself with a shrug. “He lost his mission, he lost his ship, he lost his life... I think he’s got plenty he’s lost, thank you very much.” “Thanks for your concern for the walking dead, oh Cuckoos.” First Peter ‘insulted’ the two with the teasing nickname for their astronaut class. He then assumed a stiff-legged, armsoutstretched position and clomped down off the ramp towards them, groaning something about blood. Brooke giggled. “I think you’ve got your mythical monsters mixed up, Peter.” “Well,” announced Meg, starting up the ramp, “we must go. Enjoy the afterlife, vampirezombie-thing.” Brooke followed, still laughing and shaking her head. Peter chuckled. Josie didn’t realize until he turned to face her that she had been studying him quite so closely. You could do that when the guy was on TV or in your history book. In person it was just weird. She moved her gaze to neutral territory

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off to his left. He came over to her. “We’re nowhere near done with that scenario,” he said. “So.” “Right.” She would rather forget about the last iteration, and her utter lack of composure, as soon as possible. Dwelling on it was not going to make it easier the second time around. She flipped the topic back to levity: “We’re the walking dead?” The smile on Peter’s face faded. He didn’t answer at first, just looked off at nothing in particular, his mouth a thoughtful line. “Well, Jos,” he said then, meeting her gaze, “you’re going to die in that thing. No question there.” “Yes.” Her voice was steady on the word. She hoped. “So. Some of us take it to heart, and then some of us clomp around like a zombie and...” He trailed off, nodding as in, you know where I’m going with this. She did. Self-consciously she finished it for him. “...don’t.” Peter shook his head. “Pretend not to.”

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VOICES FROM THE PAST: AN AUTHOR, A PUPPET, AND ME.

Angie Jeffery

Two days after I turned six, Studs Terkel visited the high school that all of my siblings attended. My brother’s name appeared in the New York Times and my mom and dad were in various newspapers around the country. I was just really excited about the rabbit puppet I had gotten for my birthday. I named the puppet Bosley. What was exciting about turning six was that I was going to get a crown, since I had one of the later birthdays in my class at school, I had seen several other kids get the crown, made out of the colorful construction paper of their choice with the gorgeous glittery 6. Six! It was like a whole new chapter of life, so grown up. Although I had made this transition into newfound maturity, I was not invited to attend the school board meeting where Mr. Terkel made his appearance. It now puts me in a state of awe that he was there addressing my parents. He was speaking to others as well, but my parents were two of his biggest critics that night. It has been a long time since I thought about Mr. Terkel’s coming to town, although it shaped my life events considerably. I was too young to fully understand the implication of his actions, and too young to know that I would one day be a major fan of what Mr. Terkel stood for when he appeared in Girard, PA, that snowy February day in 1982. Mr. Terkel had come to town to defend his book Working and its place in a senior high school classroom. It is interesting that my parents opposed this book, as my father could’ve been one of the people that Mr. Terkel featured in his book. The book tells the tale of American blue collar workers, their difficulties and trials, their humanity and heart. Mr. Terkel did not censor any

of his many interviewees. He laid it all out for the world to understand the inner workings of the backbone of America. An English teacher in Girard, PA, saw fit to assign Working as required reading to her students who were attending the Vo-Tech program, preparing to move into lives much like those described in the book. Two young students, who weren’t particularly inclined to reading, saw the book’s raw language in the book and knew that their fundamentalist parents would never approve of such coarse language. One of those young men was my brother Jim. Jim was right, as was his friend Bob, and our parents contacted the school and demanded that the book either be pulled from the classroom or an alternative book be assigned to kids whose families didn’t have loose morals. I wonder how Mr. Terkel heard about it. This tiny town, like so many others across the country, was full to overflowing with simple people trying to adhere to their perception of God’s ways. However even as a child I realized that adherence to “God’s ways” sometimes held a double standard. Take these memories as examples: I remember hearing several choice words around the house when my dad was angry. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs with my rabbit puppet listening as my parents raked my brother over the coals one Saturday night, well, early Sunday morning really, when he came home beat up and drunk. Another night, at the top of the stairs, I remember that I listened to my mom cry as my brother and his girlfriend told my mom and dad that my brother’s girlfriend was going to have a baby. I suppose it was a lot to process at six, but I had more exposure to adults than other kids, so even then I was piecing

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together inconsistencies. So, anyway, somehow, Mr. Terkel heard about this small town Pennsylvania protest. He decided that he would make the 400 mile trip from Chicago to address the concerned parents himself. I can only imagine what it was like. Based on other life events, I can make a picture in my mind, the devout people, standing for something, so they don’t fall for anything, keeping their blinders on in order to guard their hearts from the devices of the devil. In other words, they were closed minded. And Mr. Terkel, a voice of reason, knowing that the kids who didn’t want to read his book probably had said “fuck” more times the day he was at the school than the book itself contained. Through his frustration, from what I have read in newspaper accounts, Mr. Terkel remained composed, explaining the importance of free expression, even reading pieces of his book to the audience. My parents, having already made their decision, were quoted in the Pittsburgh Gazette saying Mr. Terkel was a “smooth talker, but his book had no place in a high school.” That February night was the beginning of many things. I don’t think my parents were ready for the onslaught of media attention, and really kind of wished that the whole thing would just blow over. But that isn’t really part of standing for something, is it? One day my mom received a phone call from the producers of the Phil Donahue show. She declined their invitation, but a few of the teachers from Girard accepted.

long drive, will find something to entertain themselves, and that day stealing my puppet was the fun factor. It was all fun and games until my puppet flew out the window onto the highway. I think that was another lightbulb moment for me. If these boys cared so much about the morality of curse words in a book, how on earth could they be cruel enough to throw my puppet out the window? The puppet was recovered, and honestly that is what I remember. The news clippings say the case was settled before the trial time that day in Harrisburg. I guess that was the end of it, but it was also the end of my time in the public school system. My first grade year saw me in a small Conservative Christian School. Like I said, Studs Terkel shaped my life in many ways, but in the end, it may not have been the ways my parents hoped. I spent a good share of my time in the private school system with the label “devil’s advocate.” I think I still may be. When my twins were little, I found Bosley at my parent’s house. I gave Bosley to them. Because he was a good friend, he listened and gave me a voice, and I wanted them to have that experience as well as I did. I think Bosley reminded me that I have a choice, I can be a puppet, or I can give voice to something. It is a lesson I hope I (and Bosley) have passed on to my children.

By early May we were headed to Harrisburg, where some sort of lawsuit that the parents had brought against the school board was going to be decided. What I remember that day is sitting in the back seat of the car between my brother and his buddy, Bob. I had my rabbit puppet with me. Brothers and their friends, when they get bored on a

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Julia Fulton

CHAUCER, GERACI, AND ME

“Good morning you uncultured little swine,” Mr. Geraci said as he slammed the door and came into the classroom that November day. “Who here has heard of Chaucer? That’s right, none of you. But today, class, today is a wonderful day, the day that you will learn!” Mr. Geraci had something that was just a little off about him. This perhaps could be attributed to the fact that he always matched his apparel to the lesson of the day, or that he was a washed up actor, mind you still very talented in that aspect, or he was still feeling deep sentiments from his not so recent divorce. All of his peculiar quirks aside, I found him to be one of my favorite teachers from high school. Honors British Literature from junior year of high school taught me more about British Literature than I could have possibly wanted to know, but in its own effect I feel that it has become a part of who I am and the diversity of how I came to appreciate all forms of literature. And so that November day began like most others, Mr. Geraci belittling the class in some form or fashion. However, before this could happen we began with a daily writing of the journal. This included copying a prayer from the board in cursive and then always some topic that seemed unrelated but it always made sense at the end of the lesson. The journal of that day was on the topic of spring break, not a foreign concept to anyone in the class, but perplexing considering it was November and all. I don’t remember any specifics of my journal entry that day, but I do remember the prayer to be pastoral; I later learned what that term meant through The Canterbury Tales. It’s probably not uncommon that many high school age students have to read this tale, but perhaps not as many had to discover its internal story in the way that we did in my class. As the daily handouts came back the rows after

the journal I looked at the paper and silently laughed. “This cannot be written in English of any sort,” I thought to myself as I read over what would soon be one of my hardest endeavors of junior year. The words on the paper were poetic in nature but words I have never before seen. It began: “Whan that aprill with his shoures soote/ The droghte of march hath perced to the roote…” Never before in my life had I ever read anything more confusing that seemed to be English but at the same time made me question all of my literary knowledge. It blew my mind when I finally realized that we were going to have to learn and comprehend this crazy Middle English nonsense. The first thing we had to do with the poem was figure out what the words actually meant. This was no small feat for man or scholar alike, especially considering that I was neither of these, just a developing English student. Somewhere at my house I still have the paper where we actually went line by line to figure out what the words meant. It’s pretty funny to me to go back and read it considering that I know what it means now. After reading through and deciphering what the actual text meant, the most shocking part of our lesson in Middle English came next. Mr. Geraci said, “My pupils, you are bright individuals. This is why I now give you a wonderful task. You have until a Friday from next to recite the prologue in Middle English to me either before or after school. It seems like a daunting task but one day you all will thank me. I got out of a college class one time because I was able to recite this, meaning that it is indeed important to your lives. Have a good day and see you all next class.” “Well expletive!” I thought to myself as I packed my stuff to go to lunch. There was no way that I would ever be able to undergo this

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crazy feat without divine intervention because it just seemed to be too much; that is, until my best friend gave me the best suggestion. “Why don’t you just do a YouTube to MP3 conversion on that bad boy and listen to it over and over again?” she said. That was probably the most genius thing I had ever heard in my life. So that night when I got home I did just that. After the download I put the file onto my iPod and listened to it as much as possible over the course of the next few days. By Friday of that week I was able to recite the required lines of the poem. Because of my quick memorization I was able to receive extra credit for having the task completed before the deadline required by Mr. Geraci.

verse via Snapchat. A special place is held inside my heart for British Literature taught by Mr. Geraci and his weird quirks, but I know I made the best out of a weird situation. Every once in a while the audio of the prologue still comes on my iPod that I use for music in my car and I remember I’m the coolest red convertible driving down the streets of Lexington, Kentucky, listening to the words of Chaucer.

So one might ask, “What’s the point of memorizing something so irrelevant to daily life?” I also pondered this question while struggling along the path to memorization. I can say now in retrospect that this might just have been the most relevant task I ever had to undertake to become a superior reader and writer. Analyzing words that don’t seem to make sense in the moment led to being able to do this in other situations, which helps in multiple aspects of the writing and reading processes. Being able to grow as a writer because of The Canterbury Tales has helped me to become wellversed in classic literature. This, I believe, has assisted me in the overall understanding of the English language and its multiple uses. A part of me will always remember the struggle that I had to overcome to be able to say that I can recite this piece of poetry, but I will always know that it will be worth it. One of my friends from high school will once in a while send me a snapchat that says “whan that aprill” and from then on we finish the Totem 2016 | PROSE

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Haley Pizineki

A young star came from the East, flitting with a specific haste about all of creation. She grabbed at clouds and tossed their wisps over the shoulder. They whipped in small furious currents, violated. Something was happening, and she wouldn’t dare to miss it. A scene began unfurling at a frantic pace in the near distance, in which two small things discovered that the other one existed. This information was, of course, lazy gossip that trickled back from the stars at the front to the back of the crowd through shrugs. Two things appeared to be fussing.

“But you can’t take her before she’s ready!” protested Life, wretched. He was one of these things which nobody had a name for. “It’s too late,” said the girl. Her name was Death, and she was the other thing. “But why?” “Because I can, for it is my right. My job, if you will,” she said. “Well, yes, but what about my job?” “You just waste time. My time,” said Death. “Her time,” she said, looking down at the dove, slack in her hands. Life looked at the bird, which resembled a depuffed cotton ball at this point, and sniveled. “You’re an afterthought, a boring end result. Nobody likes you,” said the boy. He didn’t mean what he said, but tears rimmed his eyes, and his pride, having been dormant all this time, stirred within. “I’m not wasting her time,” he said. Life motioned in silence for the bird and it rolled from her hands to his. He held her close to his chest, weeping, and in his smallest voice said, “I’m just as important as you, even if I

am just temporary.” An intrinsic voice told Death that she was not at all nice to Life, and that ladies and gentlemen do not behave like that. She didn’t know what a lady or a gentleman was, the words did taste foreign on her tongue, but she felt sorry on her own. All children, no matter how fantastically clever or significant, need guidance. She sighed and pursed her lips. “All right, all right. Maybe you are important. Please stop crying so hard. It’s okay to be temporary,” she said, palming his face. It was hot with tears. Perhaps, the First Tears. “Why?” he asked. “Because temporary means fleeting, usually. And fleeting means that things are more special. I’m forever, so in a way, I’m the boring one. Understand?” Her reasoning, filmy even to her at first, cleared up midway through her explanation. He did not understand, but his mind was elsewhere, particularly on the dove. She sat in a squishy puddle in his hands, alive and parting her feathers. “See here? She wasn’t meant to leave me just yet. Her downy is soft and white. When it’s grey and thin, and she’s not as plump, then you may have her. She’ll be my present to you, and then you can play with her forever. She’s great fun, look,” explained Life. The creature blushed in his palm and began to sing a song so delightful that white drops began to bud in the open valleys and dips of Heaven. “I guess you’re right. She’ll come when she’s ready to be pillow stuffing,” she said with the tone of one settling for something if they must, but in secret delight. The young star watched among others as Life and Death met for the first time. Their

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capacities and convictions were tested with the dove, though no one is sure where it came from. Two transparent, glassy husks shaped like a small boy and girl stared at each other for a considerable eleven seconds, and then burst out in giggle fits, stood up, and chased each other in a circle, including the bird, which bobbed on Life’s shoulder. All the stars in attendance, and those not, released a collective breath they did not know they were holding. The universe constricted inwards for a moment before expanding back to its shape.

his chin. “Only if you say I’m better than the old.” “I’ve never had a best friend, or any friend for that matter. So now I have two.” The two bounded through the universe, towards the asteroid belt. On occasion, one of them, usually Life, tripped from sheer excitement over a roll in the cosmic fabric. The young star hung back in the clouds and drifted off to sleep. She dreamt of a similar love for herself.

“Where did you say you were from?” Death inquired, now lying in a heap beside Life. “I really can’t say, only I don’t remember anything from this morning until I met you.” The words stumbled off the cliff of his lip, and crimson bubbled to the surface of his cheeks. “That’s ok. I can’t remember either.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. All testiness melted away, and, presuming he had one, his heart hugged itself in smug bliss. In later eras, Marc Antony would feel this same love for Cleopatra, although at a fraction of the simplicity and with too many ornaments and weighty baubles. Many others would follow suit, but humanity would never live up to its origins. Life looked around, recognizing the possibilities as they transpired like fields before him, and felt alive. “Look at those!” he said, pointing to a pair of floating monoliths. “I bet we could make something spectacular.” He sprang to his feet and held out his hand. “I like that idea,” said his new leading lady. A smile could be felt in her answer. “Would you like to be my new best friend?” She made no bother to curtsy around the issue or ask with a dainty touch. He raised an inspective eyebrow and curled up Totem 2016 | PROSE

Bethany Lewis

GIANTSLAYER

“All right. Now that we’re inside, it’s time to get serious. Get close together.” The three girls clustered, the one who had spoken slightly closer to the middle of their circle. “I shall now speak the words that activate our powers,” she said. “Meribaloo, shananoo, ambera—”

“So what’s up over here?” Jamie dropped her hands to her sides and shot her sisters a look. She was going to say “Nothing,” but by eleven years old you knew better than that. “We’re playing a game,” she said, keeping her voice normal as her stomach snugged into a tight ball. “What’s up with you?”

“Just wondering what you were doing,” said her cousin, pulling her long hair, which had been blowing into her face, into a temporary ponytail with one hand. “I’m getting kind of tired of all the grown-up talk, you know?” She nodded down the hill at the picnic pavilion where the rest of the grown-ups had been sitting and talking since dinner. Allie was a grown-up, as far as Jamie was concerned. She was in college. She was going to graduate, like, next year. “Well, like I said, we’re just playing a game.” Question answered. Allie was supposed to leave now. “What kind of game? Can I play?” “We’re magic princesses who have the power to transform!” yelled Gina. Jamie winced. It sounded absolutely ridiculous and dumb. Of course, that was because nobody other than her and her sisters was supposed to know about it. You had to worry about making logical and realistic stories for English class. You did not have to worry about logic for secret games with younger sisters. Allie pulled a hair tie from her pocket and started twisting it around her hair. “Sounds like fun! Can I be a princess, or should I be like... your lady-in-waiting or something?”

“Well, we’re not all princesses of the same place,” Bobbie explained patiently. “And nobody here knows we’re princesses. I’m the princess of this kingdom that floats on this lake, and she’s”– Gina, who by this point had picked a clover and was trying to tie the stem around her finger– “princess of this kingdom in the woods, and she’s–” Jamie herself, who was shifting from one foot to the other, not looking at anyone– “princess of this kingdom that’s really pretty normal but it has a bunch of tunnels to get places.” “So. I could be lady-in-waiting for one of you. Or I could be the princess of somewhere else. Or I could be... I don’t know, it depends on what you’re doing. How does the game work?” Jamie’s stomach was starting to uncurl. It didn’t sound like Allie thought they were silly. Or the game was silly. And after all, she was going into sixth grade and she was playing, even though she knew it was silly, so if someone almost out of college felt like playing...“Okay,” she said. “So you can be a princess... Well.” Maybe she was worried about the logic of it after all. “We got to be honorary princesses by saving the kingdoms. You weren’t there for that, so you can’t be a princess. But maybe we found out you have powers too so we invited you to come with us.” “Sounds good,” said Allie, nodding. “So what are we trying to do now?” “We’re sneaking through this underground cave to try and catch the bad guys!” Gina said, still overflowing with enthusiasm. The clover dropped to the ground, and she immediately dropped after it and began rummaging around in the grass trying to find it. “Just pick another one!” said Bobbie impatiently. “You’re wasting time.” “No, I know what she’s looking for.” Allie’s hand moved so fast Jamie couldn’t tell if she’d actually found the original flower or picked a new one. She held it out, stretched between her hands, to Gina. “I recognized it as soon as you found it. It gives you, um, extra defensive powers. Right?”

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She was into it, Jamie realized. She was totally going to do this. Okay! “Really? I didn’t know that. That sounds useful, actually. See any more of them?” The new girl finished tying the flower onto Goldie’s finger and gave the cavern floor a quick sweeping glance. “Not right here. We might find some if we keep going, though. Which way were we going?” “Well, we were going to activate our powers. Do you have to activate yours?” “Good idea. I’ll do that right now.” Sienna watched as the girl dropped to the ground, placed her hands on her knees, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back to the sky. Then she turned to her friends, who were also standing and staring. “All right. Will you come here so we can get powered up already?” When they had gathered into their usual circle, she locked eyes with each of them before beginning the spell again. “Meribaloo, shananoo, ambera celindia.” She could feel her powers kick in: a little bit of extra energy, a fizz dancing in her palms. Normally she’d jump or send off a bolt of power just to make extra sure, but they were trying to be sneaky here. “Don’t test them,” she warned her friends, just in case. The new girl opened her eyes and got to her feet. Goldie asked her, “What’s your name?” “Elisabetta,” she said, rubbing her hands together like she was washing them. “Lissie works fine. What are your names?” “I’m Sienna, and this is Sky and Goldie.” Sienna pointed at her friends as she named them in age order, then started to walk deeper into the cavern, letting the others fall in behind her. “So, what are your powers?” “Yaaarrr!”

Allie’s boyfriend Gabe came running towards them from the pavilion. Bobbie and Gina shrieked and started to run back up the hill. Jamie cringed, sure that Gabe was here to mock them. As she watched, though, Allie planted her feet and glared at him. “I wouldn’t mess with us if I were you! We have powers!” “Beware!” growled the enemy, storming towards them. He was a giant, big and bald with glowing blue eyes. “Zzzt!” Lissie’s power flowed from her hands, creating a giant fizzling circle that wrapped itself close to the giant’s body. It didn’t stop him, though. “Zzzt! Zing!” “You will face your doom!” the giant boomed dramatically. Lissie ran forward to meet him. “Back me up!” she yelled as she grabbed each of his enormous muscley hands in one of her own delicate hands and shoved him backwards. She must have some kind of super strength power. Even though he was at least twice her size she managed to keep him mostly in one spot. “Fwtchhh!” “Zap-zap-zap!” Sky and Goldie had returned, sort of. They were still a good distance away, but they were now aiming blasts of power at the giant, too. He howled and stumbled forward, forcing Lissie back. “Thia-mine is dominating!” yelled Gabe. Allie was obviously trying not to laugh, but a giggle had snuck into her voice. “SnowDayLight is godlike!” she retorted, throwing her weight against him to force him back again. Sienna aimed her hand at the sky and sent a blast of crackling golden power shooting upwards out of her palm. She blew into the pillar of energy, curving it into an arc that missed Lissie’s head and came down right on top of the giant’s. For a moment it didn’t seem to have worked.

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Then the giant threw back his head and yelled, a pain-filled battle cry. “Grrrraaa!” Sienna couldn’t see what happened next, but suddenly Lissie was on the ground with the giant towering over her. She had to move fast. Channeling all her power into her feet, she charged toward the giant, angling herself right at its side. At the last second she whipped her power upward into her hands, releasing it just as she touched him so it slammed into his body. The giant was so stunned by the jolt of pure energy that for a moment he froze in place. That gave Lissie just enough time to roll out from under him before he crumpled to the ground– “Bleh...”– defeated. “Wow,” said Lissie, staring at Sienna with something like awe in her eyes. “That was amazing! Thank you.” “Oh, don’t worry about it,” said Sienna, pulling her power back under control. “You’re with us now.” “Ahem.” Lying in a tangled sprawl on the ground, Gabe cleared his throat. “I think this is a good time to mention that I was sent to tell you guys the cookie cake is being cut.” Bobbie and Gina took off running before “cake” was out of his mouth. Laughing, Allie offered her boyfriend a hand and pulled him to his feet. He growled mock-angrily in her face and she giggled and stuck her tongue out at him. “What is going on out there?” Aunt Julie appeared at the edge of the pavilion, shaking her head. Allie turned toward her mom, still with a jubilant smile on her face. “Nothing to worry about, Mom,” she called down the hill. “We’re just having fun.”

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NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE COME THE MULLIGANS

Christopher Leonard

After his usual night cap, Peter Mulligan was falling fast asleep in his bed as the full moon began to peek through the clouds after the long day’s rain. While their cats played on the back porch, his wife Agnes was straightening up the kitchen just before retiring for the night. A brisk October wind shook the foundation of the house a bit, but everyone in the house ignored the din of the seasonal winds. Not much excited the couple or the dwelling, other than the cats’ ripping-up the furniture or knocking the plants over. At half past ten, the cats started running wild on the back porch hissing, fighting, yowling, and destroying everything in their path. When Agnes heard the commotion, she ran to see what their problem was, but when she reached the porch, she tripped over one of the dumped garbage cans and fell into stacks of the cat’s empty food boxes. Scrambling back to her feet, Agnes herded the cats to one side of the room and peeked her head out the back door trying to find out what was spooking her animals. She couldn’t see anything, but heard struggling and frightening shrieks coming from the O’Malleys’ property next door. Terrified, she slammed the door, causing the cats to run wild again, and ran as fast as she could to the bedroom. “Peter!” Agnes screamed, kicking open the bedroom door and slamming it into the corner of the bed. “The cats are bayin’ at the moon and outta control!” “Christ almighty, Agnes, ya crazy old bat!” Peter yelled, clutching his chest as he fell out of bed. “Don’t burst through the damn door that way! I almost jumped outta me skin! Now, what in the hell’s wrong with ya?” “It’s the cats! They’re singin’ ta beat the

band and runnin’ all over the back porch; creatin’ a havoc. There’s sumethin’ goin’ on over at the O’Malleys’ place.” “What the hell do ya want me ta do about it?” He asked, picking himself up off the floor and sitting on the side of the bed, holding his head. “I’m daft, from still bein’ half in the bag.” “Just check on her,” she said. “Ya know she’s been all alone since Jack passed, and Dalton went off ta school.” “Damn it all, woman!—All right. Get me hat and coat, and I’ll grab me rifle.” “Yur rifle, what for?” “Well, if there’s sum kinda funny business, I can spook off who or whatever’s causin’ the commotion, by firein’ a few shots inta the air.” “Peter, that’ll bring the damn police again!—and ya know how Brian warned ya the last time!” “Well, woman! What do ya want me ta do then? I’m either goin’ back ta bed, or runnin’ this fool errand ya been naggin’ about. Ya got five seconds ta make up yur mind, cause’ after that, I’m marchin’ me pretty arse back ta bed, and ya can let that O’Malley hag worry about the commotion.” “Peter, that’s a horrible thing ta say about her!” “Five…Four…Three…” “Okay! Okay! Please go check,—and be careful!” “Yaw! Yaw! Relax, mother paranoia! I’ll be right back.” When Peter walked out the front door,

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Agnes made her way to the back porch to calm the cats. The Mulligans’ cottage was located on a rural strip of land bordering a farming community near the central coast of Ireland, called Pog Mo Thoin. Although it possessed the many luxuries of living in the Modern Era, it still resonated with an Old World flair. It had the typical bedroom, bathroom, kitchen with the fireplace attached to the stove, living room, a cellar for storage and an enclosed back porch, where their fifteen cats enjoyed frolicking until it was the Mulligans’ time to turn in, which was about eleven at night. Peter and Agnes were a bit more than a tad eccentric and well into the autumn of their years. Peter was a tall, thin harp of the oldstock, with the map of Ireland strewn across his face, a full head of white hair, and about twelve teeth ready for retirement. Agnes was the female version of Peter Lorre (missing the humpback, but maintaining the gap in the front teeth), with long and stringy yellow hair that she always tied up in a bun, and a garlic aroma so strong it could choke a horse. They were harmless but superstitious and nosy, so it’s no surprise that when the cats went crazy, the Mulligans were sure to follow suit. Once Agnes got the cats settled, she began to wade through the feline sea, straightening up their mayhem, and reassuring serenity. “Ok, now,” Agnes said. “Take it easy. Peter’ll make sure that everythin’ll be fine.” While she continued to console the cats, Agnes could hear Peter yelling in the distance. All of a sudden, two gun shots rang out followed by alarming squeals and a loud yelp. The cats scattered, knocking Agnes over. “Agnes! Agnes!” Peter hollered, running toward the house. “Open the door! Open the door!” “Jesus! What were ya shootin at, Peter?” Agnes asked, quickly opening the front door as Peter

stumbled in. “It’s Banshees!” “Banshees?” “Yaw, Banshees! Close the damn door!” Closing the door, Agnes heard a woman’s loud wail. “Ya see, woman!” Peter said, flashing his eyes. “There they go! Banshees! Bring in the cats and barricade both doors. I’m goin’ ta get more ammo. So in-case they come for us, we’ll be ready ta blast ‘em!” “Peter, for heaven sakes!” Agnes said. “What the hell happened out there?” “Hold on!” Peter uncorked a whiskey bottle and took a few belts. “Ok now,—when I crept over ta the O’Malleys’ property, it was dark as hell. All’s ya could see was what shown from the moon light. Hearin’ sum fussin’ goin’ on closer ta the house I begun walkin’ that way, when right in front of me, three ungodly creatures jumped outta the dark attackin’ each other. One were a red-haired Banshee as ugly as a dog, and the other two were pitch black devils; who stunk ta high hell. They didn’t see me, so I tried sneakin’ away. But when I tried ta leave, I tripped over a branch and went flyin’ on all fours; droppin me damn gun. After crawlin’ around for about a minute or so, I found the fool thing. That’s when I felt sumethin’ pokein’ me in the arse; makin’ sniffin’ sounds and growlin’. Jumpin’ up, I screamed out for the Good Lord ta protect me, turned around, and unloaded the rifle. It made awful noises, but I didn’t stick around ta find out what happened. No! Once I started firein’, I tore outta there as fast as me legs could carry me. I do think they got old lady O’Malley, though. ‘Cause as I was runnin’ away, outta the corner of me eye, I saw another haggish,

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this time grey-haired figure, duckin’ outta the O’Malley’s front door, and floatin’ across the lawn.” “Sweet Mary, mother of God, Peter! Are ya sure that’s what ya saw?” “Damn straight, woman. That’s the whole of it. What we need ta do now is block up the entrances till’ mornin’. Then, me and Michael Feeney’ll dally on over ta the magistrate, ta address the situation.” “Faithin’.” Agnes said, screwing up her eyes and making the sign of the cross. “Michael Feeney, is that right?—the devil’s own.” “Yaw, Michael Feeney!” Peter bawled. “Now help me batten down the windows and bolt the doors.” When Peter and Agnes finished securing the house from certain invasion (by herding the cats into the living room, and locking and blocking every possible entrance), Agnes retrieved her rosary from the bedroom and said a few prayers before lying down on the couch. Peter sat upright with his legs in the air in the recliner facing the T.V. with his favorite cat Oliver in his lap, and propped the loaded rifle between his feet on the leg lift, securing one finger on the trigger. After about an hour of T.V., Peter and Agnes dozed off until three swift knocks at the front door caused Oliver to dig his claws into Peter’s crotch and jump for cover behind the couch. Peter, slumped forward, jerked back and squeezed the trigger, completely blowing the T.V. apart. The rest of the cats tore throughout the house, scrambling for any kind of shelter. Agnes, jumping up and flailing her arms in the air, accidentally threw the rosary across the room and began cursing the very day she met Peter. From the outside of the front door, someone

began to holler, “Jesus Christ, people! What are ya doin’ in there? Open the damn door!” “Brian?” Agnes asked. “Yaw, mum!” Brian answered. “Brian, sunny-boy, hold on,” Peter said straining to talk. “Oliver ripped off me goddamn clackers. S-So I can’t walk at the moment.” “What?” Brian asked. “Hold on,” Agnes said. “I’m commin’.” Agnes opened the door and Brian walked in, giving her a hug. Looking around, Brian saw the T.V. utterly destroyed with no sign of the cats and the house in complete shambles. Brian was their thirty-two-year old son and the chief investigator for the county’s local magistrate. He stood about five eight with salt and pepper hair, and walked with an abnormal swagger from left to right due to an old donkey riding accident. Although his job required his total attention and dedication, Brian spent most of the time covering up and fixing the calamities caused by his dad and Michael Feeney. “My God, people,” Brian said. “It looks like Rommel and the gang used the house as a shortcut back ta the mainland, for Christ sakes.” “Well,” Agnes said, “it’s no wonder with Clint Eastwood here, and his merry, flea- infested cavalry.” “Oh, blow it out yur arse, woman!” Peter said. “If Brian here, knocked like a normal human bein’ and not like Mickey Walker tryin’ ta get a first round knock-out, the cats wouldn’t a gone berserk and forced me ta execute the T.V.—By the way, there boy. What brings ya this way at such an ungodly hour?” “Well, Pop. Back at the station,” Brian said, “the phones were ringin’ off the hook with

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complaints from hysterical neighbors about sum maniac shootin’ up the O’Malleys’ property. So, we decided ta investigate, and upon arrival, we found that someone blew away the O’Malleys’ setter, along with two skunks. Don’t suppose ya know anything about that now,—do ya pop?” “Um—ah, yaw, ah—I believe, ah—I believe, I— ah, heard sumethin’,” Peter said. Smacking Peter’s shoulder, Agnes hollered, “Now look what ya did, ya damn fool. Ya killed poor Chloe while she was fightin’ off two skunks!” Looking towards Brian she said, “‘Banshees’, he says,” pointing at Peter, “fightin’ with two black devils, no less!” “What about the Banshee I saw duckin’ outta the O’Malley’s house and floatin across the lawn?” Peter asked. “That weren’t no Banshee, dad,” Brian said. “It was the widow O’Malley in her night gown, commin’ ta see what in the hell was happenin’ with her dog.” “Nah,—couldn’t-a-been,” Peter replied. “Did ya talk ta her,—or, or did she—uh, s—say sumethin’?” “No,” Brian said. “’Cause after ya shot her damn dog, the poor woman went into cardiac arrest after seein’ her mutt’s arse blown in half. I’m assumin’.” “What do ya mean, cardiac arrest?” “Well, when we first arrived, we found her body slumped over face-down on the lawn. So we called the paramedics immediately and had ‘em haul her off ta the nearest facility.” “Ya don’t say?” “Banshees!—Sniffin’ and pokin’ your arse. Is that right there, Petey old boy?” Agnes asked, smacking Peter’s shoulder again.

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“Cut that out, woman!” Peter said. Then he turned towards Brian and asked, “So, are ya here ta take me in, me boy?” “What?” Brian asked. “No. Nobody saw a damn thing. Everyone thinks it’s sum sorta asinine prank, gone haywire.” “Thank Christ!” Peter said, flashing his eyes and heaving out a deep breath. “I thought for sure they’d string me up for this one!” “Peter!” Agnes said. “Have ya no remorse, ya clumsy moron?” “Yaw, pops,” Brian said. “For the luv a God! What possessed ya ta be out there with yur rifle anyhow? Did Feeney put ya up ta this?” “Hell no! Nuthin’ like that. But, if ya ask yur mum, she can tell ya all about it.” Peter smiled, tilting his hand towards his wife, and bowing his head in accord. “The floor is yurs, luv.” “Don’t go blamin’ me for this!” Agnes said. “I didn’t force ya ta shoot nuthin’!” “Like hell, ya didn’t!” Peter said. “If ya weren’t so nosy about the goin’s on of everyone else, I could be sleepin’ off this damn hangover, and we’d still have a workin’ T.V.” “That’s enough! The both of ya!” Brian said. “What I’m goin’ ta do is write this up as a dreadful prank by unknown assailants. Meanwhile, mum, mind yur own business and let others fend for themselves. And pop! Make the damn gun disappear at Michael Feeney’s or sumethin’! Get what I mean? I can’t keep doin’ this, old man! One of these days, the captain’s gonna nail us both for yur shenanigans, and then our arses’ll be in a sling! Make the gun disappear, and behave!” “No problem, there, sunny-boy,” Peter said. “But, hey, before ya go. Do ya want a belt or two of the good stuff ?”

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“Nah. I got written up for smellin’ like I took a dip in the Connemara River last week durin’ work hours. If it happens again, I get a three week unpaid vacation. So, I ain’t tryin’ ta tempt fate.” “What about the widow O’Malley?” Agnes asked. “Hell, mum, I don’t know,” Brian said, shrugging his shoulders. “Send her sum flowers or sumethin’. It’s in the Lord’s hands now. Let him sort it out.” “Don’t ya worry, boy-o,” Peter said. “Next time we’re in church, I’ll be sure ta light a candle and say a Novena for the dear soul.” “Yaw! I’m sure ya will dad. Right after ya cure fuckin’ cancer.”

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James Marsh

MYSTERIUM CARITATIS

“All the members ought to be molded in the likeness of Him, until Christ be formed in them.”

towards the best aspects of one another.”3 We enter into relationships with other people because they make us better; and friendship with Christ, above any other relationship, is what makes us better people.

Lumen Gentium no. 7

The Church has prayed for me, that together with my brothers and sisters I might be conformed to the “mysteries” of God’s “mighty love.”1 This prompts me to wonder in what sense God’s love could be considered mighty. Certainly it is mighty in its comparison to other loves – it is constant and abiding rather than transient; it is pure rather than ulterior; it is satisfying and fulfilling rather than disappointing; and it is inclusive and steadfast rather than arbitrary. So God’s love is mighty relative to human love.

I believe salvation is constituted by this long, gradual, and sometimes painful process of becoming a better person. The character formation and development of virtue entailed by friendship with Christ produces in us humility and self-knowledge. This selfawareness, in turn, leads us to confess our sins and cry out for salvation. Finally, the Christian lifestyle encourages us to live a moral and interior life that builds virtue by following the commandments and being people of prayer. Maybe the Christian, with his deep sense of personal sinfulness, is really not that far removed from the agnostic who is trying through self-awareness to become “a good person.” Perhaps when the Church claims that anyone can be saved, she means that anyone, no matter his religious status, can be conformed to the mysteries of love.4

God’s love is also mighty in an absolute sense, when considered on its own, because it is identified with divine personhood. Therefore, if I pray to be conformed to the mysteries of love, I am asking first of all to gain some sort of access to or knowledge of divinity. But the idea of being conformed suggests something stronger. It implies that, in order to know and understand love, I am willing to be changed.

Salvation is a gift that comes through faith, but character matters. Virtue matters. Our actions and decisions matter. Who we are, the kind of person one chooses to become, and the relationships that facilitate this becoming, all matter tremendously. In the context of such relationships, every person should seek to save his own soul by knowing, manifesting, and celebrating the presence of love in his life: Deus caritas est, et ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.5

How do we go about being conformed to this mystery? Christ said to the apostles, “You are my friends if you do what I command you.”2 We become like our friends. We can and should be friends with people who are already like ourselves. But we should also cultivate friendships with people whose characters balance our own, who keep us from going too far in the direction of our worst impulses. In other words, we should spend time with people who bring out the best in us. “Friendship . . . is most accurately defined as two people moving

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“May our prayers rise up to you, O Lord, together with these sacrificial offerings, so that, purified by your graciousness, we may be conformed to the mysteries of your mighty love.” –Collect for the Sixth Sunday of Easter

John 15:14

Elementary (CBS), Johnny Lee Miller.

“All men are called to be part of this catholic unity of the people of God which in promoting universal peace presages it. And there belong to or are related to it in various ways, the Catholic faithful, all who believe in Christ, and indeed the whole of mankind, for all men are called by the grace of God to salvation.” –Lumen Gentium 13 God is love (quoted from 1 John 4:8), and where charity and love are, there is God (an allusion to the Holy Thursday liturgy).

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God they were still alive; but most prayed to go back home.

“Of War and Hope” is taken from the middle section of a novel. At this point, the family (Intisar, Aisha and Amal) have been living in the camp for 10 months.

“Lunch,” my mother, Intisar, called. We all sat in a circle on the floor, passing plates of lentil soup and loaves of fresh-baked bread around. Bismillah Al Rahman Al Raheem, in the name of God the Most Merciful the Most Compassionate, we murmured and started eating. Everyone was quiet, no stories were shared, no jokes laughed at. Meals weren’t for quality time anymore, they weren’t for catching up; we ate to stay alive, no more no less.

Lin Qatuni

OF WAR AND HOPE

A Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan 1950

When helium is cooled to absolute zero, it becomes a liquid that flows against gravity. The known universe is made up of 50,000,000,000 galaxies. Humans shed about 600,000 particles of skin every hour. It was a new habit of mine, going through facts I know, to help me sleep at night. Two forty-five a.m. and I was still awake, curled in a fetal position under a thick blanket, a blanket too rough for my eczema-covered skin. Exhaling air into my little blanket cocoon, I attempted to warm myself, but it was January, and not enough warm breaths or blankets could warm me up, at least not when I was sleeping ten centimeters above the ground in a canvas tent. Then I felt it, the warm wetness; Amal again. She had formed new habits herself. I woke her up, making sure nobody else woke. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I whispered. I changed her and then removed the sheets under her to wash them before the stench of urine spread in the overcrowded tent. I put her back to sleep on my mattress, “Good night, habibti.” I kissed her forehead.

“Aisha? Is this home now?” she asked. “Only for now, for a short while,” I reassured her, but mostly reassured myself. I slept with no underwear or sheets that night. It was still dark when I woke up again, this time to pray fajir, the first prayer of five. The whole camp came to life, cold water splashed away sleep, and prayers were murmured into the darkness before the dawn. Prayer, just like exile, united us; we all stood next to each other, finding peace and comfort in a prayer rug. Some prayed for forgiveness, others to thank

I was scrubbing the pots when Amal, a ghostly figure now, came up to me. “Why are we here, why can’t we go back home?” she asked. How could I explain to a seven year old what occupation is? How could I explain massacres; homes, lands and lives taken away when I didn’t even understand it myself ? It was unfathomable. “We’re explorers now.” I made stories up. “We’re on a trip, exploring lands near us,” I lied. “Is that why we had to walk?” “Yes, because what kind of explorers would we be if we didn’t walk? That’s what explorers do; they walk and camp in tents.” I lied and wished I believed it myself. I never had the time to think about what had happened; it never registered until she had asked me that question. It all came back to me, slamming me harder than I ever thought I would experience. I was biting my lip so hard I could taste blood, trying to keep myself from crying. I was so angry I thought I could kill a man. I didn’t know it was even possible to experience such sorrow or rage. If baba was here he would have told me to wash and pray, but he wasn’t, and he would not ever be. Not since a cowardly soldier with a rifle thought my dad’s life was expendable. Not since he was made an example because he refused to

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leave his land. That night I didn’t care about my frozen limbs or my bloody diseased skin; all I cared about was going home, the right of return. We had a strategy in the camp, a set of rules to survive the wretched place. We worked ourselves till we were so exhausted we didn’t have the energy to think, we prayed to God day and night, and we waited. We didn’t try to get too comfortable; that was an easy one, but if we did we’d lose our desire to go back. The golden rule, however, was to never lose hope; if we gave up hope that meant we were already defeated. And so in the muddy, miserable camp, we clutched on to hope like a baby clutching to her mother; we made room for life. My mother was braiding Amal’s hair, and I couldn’t help but stare at her. Thick dark eyebrows complemented her rich copper tinted skin, eyes as big as galaxies framed with black kohl. She still hadn’t lost her stubborn Bedouin look, even after years of struggle. I thought of how she had lived up to her name, Intisar: victory. I was going through facts in my head when I heard it, the sound of the naai; a sound so melancholic it could make rocks cry. I went outside to see who it was; he was sitting on a big rock outside a tent not so far from mine, a black and white kofeyye wrapped around his head and neck. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was twilight, just enough light for me to make out who he was. I shied away into the tent before he could catch me looking. Not enough facts could have gotten me to sleep that night. His name was Hasan; I’d seen him around before. I’d heard his mom, Em Hasan, mention him to my mother a couple times when we first got here. “He’s the light of my life,” she had said. He had a muscular build, broad

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shoulders; the body of a young peasant. He always had the kofeyye wrapped around his neck. I tried to steal glances at him while working outside. I knew it was inappropriate at that time; we had more important things to worry and think about. I couldn’t afford being naïve, but I was intrigued. Every morning, after we all prayed fajir, I would stay up till he started playing his naai. It was funny how the saddest notes made me smile. Those few moments of twilight were the highlight of my day; I got to be happy, even if it was for a short while. I was no longer in a UN-stamped refugee tent when he played; I was still home. Still at the white shores of Yafa, collecting sea shells with Amal. I was still walking in the shade of the orange trees in Yafa’s orchards. I was still playing cards with baba.

Glossary: Aisha: an Arabic girl’s name; (literal meaning) living, one who is hoped to live a long life. Amal: an Arabic girl’s name; (literal meaning) hope. Baba: dad. Bismillah Al Rahman Al Raheem: (literal translation) in the name of God the Most Merciful the Most Compassionate. A prayer Muslims say before eating or starting anything. Em: mother of Fajir: (literal translation) dawn. Also, name of the first prayer Muslims pray in a day. Habibti: (literal translation) beloved one; a commonly used Arabic term of endearment. Hasan: an Arabic boy’s name; (literal meaning) of beauty and goodness. Intisar: an Arabic’s girl’s name; (literal meaning) victory, to triumph over hardship. Kofeyye: a black and white, often embroidered, scarf worn originally by Palestinian peasants. It has later become a Palestinian national symbol. Kohl: Arabic eyeliner Naai: a type of flute usually made from reed or wood, that figures prominently in Middle Eastern music. Yafa: a city in the Palestinian west coast.

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TWO GIRLS LISTEN TO MUSIC

Tyler Carnegie

Maximum volume yields maximum results (Found in linear notes of Sunn O)))’s albums) Ophelia gently put her over-the-ear headphones on Lita, as gently as if she were a mother putting a veil on their soon-to-bemarried daughter. They were a tight grasp around her head and ears, but Lita kept quiet. Ophelia, smiling a crooked smile, put her CD into the player and turned it on. The brief pause as she heard the CD wind up was unnecessarily suspenseful as Lita braced herself, expecting just about anything. Except a spoken intro, with the subtlest sonic background of atmospheric noise going off behind it. The speaker sounded old and masculine, like a professor giving a lecture. Like Ophelia he had an accent, but much less exaggerated. Lita thought it was Middle Eastern.

“Under the hill of Golgotha, there exists a void, an ever-expanding void that grows little by little the more man sins. Every year, on the day he died, Jesus Christ walks a broken cobblestone path to it, carrying a giant wooden cross that He will be pierced on. He passes the same people, the same people who betray Him, wash their hands of Him, laugh at Him, mourn for Him, wipe His brow, help Him carry the cross and crowns Him with thorns. Every year the climb up the hill gets harder, the nails hurt more and the spear which pierces Him makes Him doubt more and more. Every year, He wonders why He does this, wonders how long the pain goes on for, wonders why His Father has forsaken him, and hopes that the day will come that the next walk will be the last.” She was so blind-sided by the morbid and philosophical speech that she was further caught off-guard by the impending noise apocalypse. Total utter chaos. No…chaos with form.

It caught Lita by absolute surprise, and she hoped it wasn’t totally obvious to Ophelia that she jumped. To Lita’s knowledge, this was just the intro. For the time being, Ophelia chose to set the stage, paint the background as a foreshadowing of coming chaos. The production was surprisingly good for a selfmade album, very layered and dense, which allowed Lita to look past the music as mere “noise.” There was so much under it, but you had to get past the wall of sound first. She heard more samples, less forerunning than the previous speech. “I—I can’t see. What’s going on? Who’s there? I know you’re there!” “I am offering you the kingdom…and all that’s holding you back…is your own fear.” A loud explosion that she felt vibrating her ears. The vibrations of the headphones from the intensity of the music eventually started to bother her, so she had to turn the volume down, doing it as casually as she could in hopes that she wouldn’t offend Ophelia. While she glanced sharply at Lita’s hand as it moved to the volume control, her expression didn’t change. Lita looked at Ophelia. She was just sitting there, kneeling and balancing on her knees, totally unreadable in expression. It took Lita a few moments to comprehend the unbelievable fact that this sonic equivalent of pure hatred and disgust at herself and the world was all constructed by her, the architect a beautiful French teenager. It was surprisingly fitting. Ophelia was not a nice person, Lita could look past her tinted girlfriend lens to see that, but she was still charismatic and cultured. It seemed, though, that whatever ounce of humanity she had was only on the surface, covering a void much like

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the one described at the start of the album. Here, Ophelia exposed the mind-bending, maniacal darkness within and it threatened to overwhelm her. It threatened to shroud over her, blackening out the sun and making her forget her girlfriend was made of anything tangible aside from the darkness. It was almost…serial killer-like, in a way. The intro seemed to be at its end. When the noise died down, there remained only a droning screech of guitar feedback that grew in intensity and volume until it gave out and fell away into an echoing collapse, as if the ground it stood on gave way. The next song also started with a sample, albeit one much shorter and apropos, synonymous with Lita’s current feelings. “Oh, my god.” This time, it was a woman saying it. British, it sounded like. Crashing drums were the signs of the coming storm, played solo until the rest of the instruments joined in. The keys were more prevalent this time. They were the softer dynamic of the song, barely audible past the drums, adding a fake sense of melody; a guitar riff crawled out of the wall of sound like an insect out of the murk. The song was less dedicated to causing as much of a ruckus as possible and sounded more like an actual song. Not by much, but close enough. Lita heard something in the background, a distant, but ever-present anomaly that climbed the intensity scale to throat-ruining levels. It cut through Lita like dangerous, high-velocity winds lined with broken glass. Compared to other aspects of the recording, it was buried in the mix with not as much emphasis put on it, but somehow that made it more devastating. Is that her? Lita thought. Jesus Christ, she doesn’t

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even sound human. Lita was well familiar with Ophelia’s clean singing. She was never particularly good at it, at best flat and at worse flat-out robotic. In the risk of sounding elitist, she didn’t think this could be considered “singing” by purest definition, but at least she didn’t have to worry about being flat. No…all she cared about was destruction. The rest of the album, short as it was since Lita noted only a half-hour went by, carried on in a similar path, only reprieves in the form of sudden experimentations in instruments, such as acoustic guitars and a violin. There were brief moments of ambiences and soundscaping, as if the music itself was contemplating how it could finish itself. Lita was more of a fan of the ambient sections. Not because she couldn’t tolerate the harshness of the rest of the album, but because it seemed that was where Ophelia’s ability shined the most. Compared to the rest of her album, she restrained herself, but at the same time, she allowed herself to channel her power, rather than unleashing it all at once in a maelstrom of extremity. The guitars were less a threat and more a warning. Rather than the background, they appear at the forefront, but still create the atmosphere around her. The drums were what kept you alert, kept you grounded to reality, so you didn’t lose yourself. Every once in a while, she would interject with an acoustic guitar or a violin, and it reminded Lita how well-learned Ophelia was. What a virtuoso she was. They shouldn’t have, Lita knew that, but the vocals grabbed her attention the most. Her scary shrieks turned into hollow wisps, like ghosts haunting a dead house through the walls. They were androgynous, but she would occasionally remind the listener who she was

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by emitting what sounded like a very feminine shriek or wail. “Hey.” Ophelia’s voice shook her out of her inner contemplation, and she had realized with bashfulness she was barely even thinking about the core of Ophelia’s music, only the ornamentation. She noted the girl sitting less stiffly, a look of concern on her face. Perhaps a fear of criticism? “It’s okay to say you don’t like it. I understand zis music is not for everyone.” So modest. “Well, it’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just…hard to judge. I mean…it’s clear you put a lot of thought into it. But there’s so much going on. Like…more than one layer to it. Plus, there’s so much emotion put behind it.” “Really? I figured it would be too detached to sense any emotion behind it?” “Are you kidding? Just the way you were screaming, you sounded so angry. Some of the riffs –especially the one at the end of ‘A Whisper of Hatred from Stitched Lips’ sounded so sorrowful. Then you got the ambient sections.” “I would not say ‘ambient,’ just…subdued? I don’t know. I did not want to just ‘ave endless brutality.” “Is it, like, another side of you? Some artists do that, like Devin Townsend or Mories.” “Mories is definitely an inspiration, but zat was never my intention. I just want to…je ne sais quois…test my abilities.” “Well, critic-mode switched off, I think you did an amazing job, regardless. Like I said, I can’t really judge it well myself, but I hope my approval is all right.”

Ophelia smiled meekly. “I do not sink it is zat great, but I appreciate your words. You said I liked ze ambient parts more, no?” Lita nodded. “Why don’t we try zis next?” She took the CD out, put it gingerly back in the case, and dug out another one from her library. The cover was less reprehensible compared to the previous, which filled Lita with intrigue. Ophelia dug out another pair of headphones, wires and all. They looked similar to her own pair, but white instead of black. She inserted the wire into the second jack of Lita’s pair of headphones, then the opposite end into her pair. She couldn’t help but gush over the symbolism. Sharing music, connected by a single wire; the concept on its own sounded romantic. Ophelia shot Lita a winning smile and it was all Lita needed to know that she realized the same thing. There was no sample introducing this CD, only heavy winds with the faintest riff of a guitar played deep in the fog. She heard drums play sparingly in the background, in a war-like fashion. The rest of the song carried on like this, preparing for the war that would never come, or rather, the war that already came and went. The war that finally found them. If the previous album was destruction, this was desolation, but there was something bittersweet about it. Lita couldn’t help but admire it, how Ophelia was able to separate herself by album, reshaping herself into a different person as often as she so desired. She looked over to Ophelia, who was gently strumming the air, replaying her work on instinct. It seemed like the dark thoughts she had about her girlfriend were so long ago. Now, instead of unwanted fear, she felt pity. Sorrow. She wished she could apologize to Ophelia for having such a hard life, as if it was her own fault, but she couldn’t, so she didn’t.

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Instead, she felt another slowly growing desire: To be the best girlfriend she could. Lita gently planted a kiss on Ophelia’s lips, and the French girl, though surprised, warily responded back. Meanwhile, the distant song crescendoed from music into an overwhelming wall of white noise, before cutting out completely into silence to continue to the next one, which did start with recorded words. “Do you believe in anything at all?”

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

Yassar al-Fatlawi Junior, Biology (LECOM 4+4 Dental) “Just Breathe” I was stressed out. So I painted something warm and bright to relieve some of that stress. Sometimes the meaning behind paintings really doesn’t need to be deciphered so intensely. Acrylic. “Mirage of Home” On black paper, I brought this piece to life to serve as a reminder to never forget who you are or where you came from. His shemagh is worn to represent a Middle Eastern background, like mine. The twisting of his shemagh represents frustration in lack of acceptance for who he is, but his relaxed facial features suggest pride in his background. Home is what he is looking for and is depicted as something as simple as a living room in the reflection of his sunglasses. Prisma colored pencils. “This Too Shall Pass” This piece was created as a reminder that storms and strong winds eventually pass, which corresponds to obstacles and emotions we endure in our lives. They are temporary. They end, and we move on. Watercolor. Abdullah Abdulaziz Alshaie Freshman, Electric and Electronic Engineering “A New Day, a New Life” Every day is a new day. We should remove all the doubt about ourselves, our families, and our friends. Societies should wish only and all the best to happen in everyone’s lives. Canon EOS 650D. F-stop f/3.5, exposure time 1/100sec, ISO 100, focal length 50mm Nikki Anderson Freshman, Undeclared “Great Escape” While walking through the woods this summer, I found this bridge hidden through the trees. It appeared as though anything could have lain on the other side of it. Maybe something magical, or maybe someone’s great escape. iPhone 5. Tomee Barnes Gannon ’11, B.A. English “Computer Crash” Sara Borro Junior, Secondary Education/English “To the Boy Who Walked Me Home”

Tyler Carnegie Senior, English “Stand By” I’ve been a Star Wars fan since day one, having seen all the movies, most of the cartoons and am familiar with the (now non-canon as of the release of Episode 7, unfortunately) Expanded Universe. One such tale is of the man who controlled the main gun of the Death Star, who supposedly felt so guilty being a mass-murderer with a death toll in the billions that he stalled the firing of the rebel base on Yavin’s moon for as long as he could. There was no story written on it, so I figured I should take a crack at it. This fic is a couple of years old and was written before knowledge of the seventh movie, which was awesome by the way. “Two Girls Listen to Music” This prose is a small part of a bigger piece I want to write called “Where No Light May Pierce Us,” my attempt at writing an unorthodox romance novel based personally on my stint being a metalhead and listening to the most unorthodox music from the deepest crevices of someone’s mind. Ophelia herself is based on various personalities in the underground metal scene, namely people like Jeff “Wrest” Whitehead (Leviathan and Lurker of Chalice) and Maurice “Mories” de Jong (Gnaw Their Tongues, Aderlating, etc.), the latter of whom her music is based on, so check him out if you want a good idea of what Ophelia’s music sounds like (I recommend “For All Slaves... A Song Of False Hope” for the heavier stuff and SSpear Of Gold And Seraphim Bone Pt. 1” for the lighter stuff, respectively). Also, the names of the girls are based on the names of two characters from the video game Brütal Legend, which introduced me to metal. Catherine Caulfield Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies “Spring Crocuses” With this piece I was inspired by the first flowers to appear in our garden each spring. Often they begin to bud, but then another snow falls and covers them. I love their strength in surviving the frosts and snow, as well as the beauty of their new life, even amidst the cold snow. Oils. “Swallows at Sunset” (cover art) This piece to me is a snapshot (which is why I added the willow branches hanging down: as a frame to capture the beauty we see in nature). I think that art allows us to highlight to others the things we find beautiful so that others may see them too. Acrylic.

“You and My Cigarettes”

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Stephen Craig First year, Master of Arts in English program “The Body” Several days during the fall I walked past the Lodge on Sass and saw a dead decomposing bird on a shrub at about hand level. I kept seeing it and one day it was coated in beads of dew glittering in the sunlight and that was the impetus for me writing the poem. Augusta Deacon Freshman, Early Education PreK-4 and Special Education PreK-8 “Standing in the Wind” This piece was a total accident! I was trying out a new brand of oil pastels and was doodling with them. Through different color combinations and layering techniques this piece was created. Ta-da! Oil pastels. Roman Denisyuk Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies “Art Bench” These children are drawing with crayons for the first time and don’t even want to draw on a table. They simply made their bench into a table. They are together, learning and experiencing the value and joy that art brings to the heart. This is one of many reasons why I create art; it gives peace and happiness. Graphite. “Jar with Lid” This is a wheel-thrown jar that I made during my time as a guest artist at McDowell High School. I was teaching students the process of making wheel-thrown pottery, and how to develop their skills. And this particular piece is not meant to be anything more than just a jar with a lid. It could be decorative or not. Or it could be a cookie jar. Ceramics. “Our Story...” The old man is telling his grandson his life story, their family’s heritage, and is teaching him the meaning of identity. The child is both confused and intrigued. His eyes understand pain but have overcome it. To me, this drawing shows peace of mind and spirit in the midst of chaos and the importance of telling and knowing one’s story. As I learned in Dr. Menkhaus’ class, our identity roots from telling our story, and the story becomes our identity. Graphite. Chloe DiRaimondo Junior, English “Ford Sestina” This is my very first sestina. It was influenced by my parents’ used car lot that I ran around as a youngster.

Vikas Doddi Second year, Masters Mechanical Engineering “Erie Lake” Life is beautiful at this lake. NIKON D5200, F-stop F/8, exposure time 1/250 sec, ISO 200, Focal length 55mm. “Thirsty Wings” Insatiable desire to fly over the horizon towards the end of the world. NIKON D5200, F-stop F/7.1, exposure time 1/200 sec, ISO 200, Focal length 55mm. Nicholas Fagen Junior, English “Anger’s Journal” “Anger’s Journal” is one of my favorite pieces. They say that sometimes current emotions in your life can bring out the best in your writing, and I think they really came out effectively here. I wanted to convey the inner turmoil that can occur within a human being from loving that one person. Kaitlyn Falk Junior, Nutrition and Human Performance “High” Hope has always been thought to be a powerful emotion, a strong emotion. And yes it is those things, but when you pour your energy into hoping for something and it doesn’t happen, you are left empty, sick to your stomach, and just entangled in the idea that you need something else to hope for. To me, you can get addicted to hope, almost like a drug. Julia Fulton Freshman, Biology and English “Chaucer, Geraci, and Me” The first thing I’d like to do is apologize to Mr. Geraci. My story made him sound kind of scary but really he’s pretty cool. Some of the details were enhanced, so that’s probably why it comes off like he’s crazy, but in reality he’s an actor as well as a British Literature teacher. So Mr. Geraci, I hope you understand. Also, without the help of Dr. Vaughn I never would have written something this fun and lighthearted or even added a second major of English. Finally, to answer that outstanding question of whether or not I have Chaucer audio on my iPod: it is indeed true. Kelsey Ghering Junior, English “The Cast” This was something I wrote by tying together snippets of details from the kids I traveled to

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Philly with to report on the Pope and my own experiences. “Fridays with Frank” I would like to dedicate this to Frank Garland and John White, who helped me decide to change my major to English and survive the hell otherwise known as organic chemistry. “Legacy” “Legacy” is adapted from a true story my boyfriend told me about his grandfather’s attitude on war and the Air Force. Carol A. Hayes Instructor, Department of English “Messages” The poem grew directly from the Saturday morning experience of learning about the terrorist horror in Paris. While recognizing a familiar sense of helplessness in the face of a shattering event, I also felt an increasing stubbornness about allowing lords of destruction to claim victory over civilization. A poem can be written, I thought.

“I’ll Call You Later, Okay?” I often have worries that seem silly spoken aloud, so for this poem I decided to take that idea to the extreme. Note on The Manchurian Candidate: after writing this poem I looked up the movie and discovered that the brainwashed character and the candidate were not the same person. However, I decided that the incorrect reference works in the poem.

Maddy Huzicko Freshman, Nursing “Almost” I was assigned to write a poem about an encounter with an animal for my college composition class and decided to tell the story about my skunk encounter on vacation. It’s a funny story now that I look back on it, but it was definitely a scary moment. It would have been the worst vacation if I had to spend it in tomato juice.

“Simulated” I’ve been working on versions of Dead Air since early in high school. When I brought this scene to a writing workshop class, I received some feedback in the form of questions that helped me understand and articulate Josie’s character and challenges better. I had shown her struggle with seeing the veteran astronauts she works with as superhuman, but now I also recognize the struggles caused by expecting perfection of herself.

Angela Jeffery Senior, Psychology “Harvest Time”

Maria Loya Second year, Doctor of Physical Therapy program “La Cotorra” Since visiting Costa Rica, I have been fascinated by the vibrant colors of tropical birds. Though I wish this was photo was taken in the tropics, the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo allows for a great opportunity to see various tropical birds, especially parrots that enjoy having their picture taken. Canon EOS Rebel T1i digital camera, auto settings.

“New Day” “Voices from the Past: An Author, A Puppet, and Me” Christopher Leonard First year, Master of Arts in English program “Correspondence from an Odd Fellow” This story is my contribution to my undying love and veneration for Russian literature. “Never Mind the Bollocks, Here Come the Mulligans” Being a wild Irishman with a sense for the absurd and tragically comedic, I wanted to share this farcical tale with all who will venture to read it.

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Bethany Lewis Senior, English “Giantslayer” I’ve written many stories about Jamie and her imaginative games. About to graduate college, I started wondering what would happen as Jamie gets older. I grew up surrounded by creative people, and I chose to go into a creative field, so I’ve never felt like it was a necessary part of maturing to stop imagining and creating. Knowing Jamie’s future career, I figured she might need a memorable lesson. I included a League of Legends reference, as another example of “grown-ups” using imagination; so I love that this story appears in Totem with a piece of League fanfiction!

“Fountain of Youth” This photo was taken in Washington Square Park in New York City on a miserable, hot summer day. While trying to find some relief from the heat by sitting near the fountain, this little girl was not hesitant to jump right in and cool off. This photo captures the essence of the carefree, child-like spirit within one of the most chaotic cities in the world. This photo was also chosen as the cover photo for The John Carroll Review,

Totem 2016

Spring 2014 edition. Canon EOS Rebel T1i digital camera. James Marsh Senior, Political Science “Mysterium Caritatis” This piece, written in a coffee shop after Mass on a Sunday morning, is my small contribution to the perennial dichotomy of grace and free will. It was born of a conviction that, divine omnipotence notwithstanding, human decision, character, and virtue somehow have to matter in life–and in death. “Sixth Street During the First Snowfall” On a November morning I awoke and realized it had snowed during the night. Looking out the third floor window of the Bishop Donald W. Trautman House, where I lived at the time, I was immediately taken with the beauty of the Sixth Street buildings, particularly the Presbyterian church, covered in snow. The poem took on a rough form that morning, rolling through successive drafts from a heart grateful to be covered by grace as by a snowfall.

uses forms such as reportage, fable, and lyric to record the traumas of war, exile, and loss, and to address the effect of censorship on her work. Mikhail writes in Arabic, Aramaic, and English. Mikhail currently lives in Michigan and works as an Arabic lecturer for Oakland University. James Moran Gannon ’15, B.A. English “A Dream” Sara Nevas Junior, Biology “Language, Lost” This piece is about how I have forgotten a language I used to speak fluently. I grew up bilingual, but I haven’t spoken anything but English in several years; now I can barely get through a two-minute phone conversation when my relatives call from overseas. “Perpetuity” This is a poem about growing older and how bittersweet the transition into adulthood can be. We have to experience both disillusionment and self-discovery before finding our places in the world.

Harshal Mehta Freshman, Mechanical Engineering “ वाइश /Wishes (Wishes)” ख् Todd Paropacic I wrote this when the routine of life had become Senior, Theater and Communication Arts too boring, and I just wished to break the routine “All Right” to do something different. ज़िन्दगी को खल ु े आसमान मे उड़ान दे ने की चाह है “Web-Head” अपने अल्फाजों Dunya Mikhailको अब ज़िन्दगी के फड़फड़ाते पंख बनाने की ख्वाइश है Guest Poet Haley Pizineki (pseudonym) “ ‫ اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬अं (The World)” ‫ﺷﻜﻞ‬ ककसी जान सी Shape खब त the सड़क पे चलने की चाह है “First Impressions” ु सूरof Dunya Mikhail was born in Iraq in 1965 and earned a BA at the University She अपने बोल से उस सफ़र मे धनक of औरBaghdad. ताल भरने की ख्वाइश है Lin Qatuni worked as a translator and journalist for the Sophomore, English Baghdad Observer before being placed on Saddam Hussein’s enemies list. She immigrated तरं ग ो से भरी मझधार मे नाव चलाने की चाह है ً ‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎنَ اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﯾﺎ‬ University of Madaba Exchange Student to the United States in the mid-1990s and अपने शब्दों को उस नदी मे State पतवारUniversity. बनाने की ख्वाइश है earned an MA at Wayne “Of War and Hope” ‫اﻟﺮﯾﺢ‬Mikhail ‫ﻣﺜﻞ ﺑﺴﺎط‬is the author of The Iraqi Nights (New This piece is an excerpt from a historical fiction Directions, 2014); The War Works Hard (New novel. It’s Aisha’s story, but it might as well Translation Directions, 2005), shortlisted for the Griffin have been the story of any Palestinian who has .‫ﻟﻸﺳﻰ ﺑﺪاﯾﺔ وﻧﮭﺎﯾﺔ‬ َ‫ ﻟﻜﺎن‬named one of “Twenty-Five Books to Prize and suffered from exile. It is a sensitive issue to me Remember” from 2005 by the New York Public personally, since my own grandparents were There is and wishDiary to give a flight Library; of Alife Wave Outside the Sea (New refugees, and it is critical for me to put the story Directions, 2009),I which won thewings 2010 Arab With my words want to give to life out there. Storytelling is a vital part of Palestinian American Book Award. Her honors also include culture, and through this story I intend to keep the UN Rights Award for Freedom of ً ‫اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺮﺑﻌﺎ‬ َ‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎن‬Human tradition living. There wish to on Artist a unknown yet beautiful the road Writingis (2001) andwalk Kresge Fellowship (2013). for hertosubversive, innovative, With myRenowned words I want fill that road with rhythm and beats Elizabeth Rodriguez and‫ﻻﺧﺘﺒﺄﻧﺎ‬ satirical poetry, Mikhail speaks about her ‫ﻓﻲ اﺣﺪى اﻟﺰواﯾﺎ‬ Sophomore, Secondary Education/English experiences growing up in a war-torn country, sleeping on the family’s home during Want to sail myroof boatofinher a river with waves and currents “Between Raindrops” .‫اﻟﺤﺮبُ ﻟﻌﺒﺔ اﻟﻐﻤﯿﻀﺔ‬the ‫ﻟﻌﺒﺖ‬ ‫ﻛﻠﻤﺎ‬ sweltering summers until the air raid sirens This poem was written after I was walking home With my words I want to make a rudder in that river sounded, and losing her father, not to violence from class one day with a friend and realized how but to the lack of adequate medical care. She

ً‫ﻟﻮ ﻛﺎن اﻟﻌﺎﻟ ُﻢ ﻣﺪورا‬

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easy it was to stay quiet when you have a million things to say. It’s really about the conversations people have in the silence. Katy Roose Senior, Psychology “(Don’t) Cover My 6” I passionately support our military and hope to one day be able to help the soldiers. Knowing the psychological effects that a war environment can have on a soldier inspired me for this poem. This piece is from the perspective of a commanding officer who is very concerned for one of his soldiers. This soldier has been trained for war, yet his mind is already in the heat of battle. The front line represents an opportunity for this soldier to nobly fulfill his duties and release himself from the war in his mind. “The Sunlight Warrior” This fanfiction is based on one of my favorite video games: League of Legends. Leona is known as a “support” character, which involves assisting the rest of the team in getting as many kills as possible and winning the game. In the community, supports are the unsung heroes, receiving the least amount of credit and having an extremely stressful job. Being a “support” main myself, I wanted to give one of my favorite characters an opportunity to shine in her own world. Cristiana Sibley Gannon ’15, B.A. English “Casualties” This was an assignment that I wrote for Creative Writing. While I was writing it, I was expecting for the story to go in a completely different direction. However, once my logical brain quieted down, my creative side gained control and somehow this creepy thriller ended up on my computer screen! “Orange Juice Origins: Adventure Edition” I wrote this after I spent Christmas at home with my boyfriend and his little brother, who is now 8. I was so blown away by his imagination! I knew I wanted to get the experience on paper. Children are such amazing sources of creativity. “Still Haiti” I wrote this as one of my assignments for Creative Writing during my senior year at Gannon. The prompt was to mimic an author’s style. I chose to mimic last year’s English Awards Night Guest of Honor, Patricia Smith. I wrote this with her collection of poems Blood Dazzler in mind. I wrote this after my Alternative Break Service Trip to Haiti. It was such an emotional experience. Seeing how the devastation from the 2010 earthquake is still visible in Port-Au-

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Prince pushed me to write about the devastation. I hope every student at Gannon University takes advantage of the trips abroad as well as the domestic service trips. They are such a meaningful experience that can help shape our respect for globalized thinking. Madeline Summers Senior, History “Lighthouse” Acrylic on canvas. “Wanderlust” Acrylic on canvas. Mariana Palade Syrotiak Director, English as a Second Language Program “Self-Rescue” This poem was written to acknowledge those feelings that sweep over us without a good reason, and that can’t be explained nor pursued to change. All we can do is observe and honor them, and let them find their way out into the sunshine. Christie Szymanowski First year, Master of Arts in English program . (Larkspur)” “Ostrózka Lee’a Thigpen Second year, Master of Arts in English program “Know Thyself ” If I were to ever have a son, I would impress upon him the importance of truly knowing his history. To have pride and appreciation for those who came before him, what they experienced and accomplished in order for him to be able to pursue his dreams. This poem is for “my son” and the others like him. Natalya Toennies Freshman, Nursing “Winter Sunset” This painting was done in the beginning of this winter. The sun doesn’t get too high in the winter time and this is what really amazes me about it. I was trying to show how the sun reflects in the water and then balance that throughout the whole painting. Acrylic. “Viking Homecoming” The idea to create this painting comes from my huge passion for seascapes, ships, and extraordinary tales of the sea. This is my own fantasy creation from those tales. Oil (Amsterdam, Van Gogh and Rembrandt) on canvas

Totem 2016

Rachel Webb Junior, Social Work “A Light of My Own” This poem was inspired by self-empowerment, for those who wish to shine on their own. Chelsea White “Looking Through a Lens” Arianna Wos Freshman, Occupational Therapy “Beautifully Broken” This photo was taken on a path in Williamsburg, Virginia. My stepsister pointed out the butterfly on the path, and I pulled out my phone to take a picture of it. I was sure it was going to fly away, but it just stayed still. After inspecting the photo a while later, I realized the poor thing had a torn wing. Droid Mini phone camera.

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COLOPHON

Totem 2016

Totem 2016 was designed by Bethany Lewis, Editor, and Andrew Lapiska, Creative Services Director in Gannon University’s Marketing and Communication department. The cover art, “Swallows at Sunset,” is an acrylic on canvas created by Catherine Caulfield. This year’s Totem contains acrylic painting, colored pencil, digital photography, earthenware, oil painting, oil pastel, pencil drawings, and watercolor. Headline text was set in Felt Tip Roman and body text throughout was set in Garamond. The section covers and color artwork were produced in full CMYK builds. The cover is printed on 110# Endurance Silk Recycled paper. The divider pages are printed on 80# Neenah Astrobrights Galaxy Gold cover and all other pages are printed on 70# Williamsburg Offset text. The layout for Totem was created with Adobe InDesign CC 2015; photographs and artwork were prepared for publication with Adobe Photoshop CC 2015. This journal was printed, bound and finished by the Gannon University Press with the assistance of the Totem staff. The die cut on the cover was produced by Printing Concepts, Inc. in Erie, Pennsylvania. Funding is provided by Gannon University. Totem is distributed free of charge.

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