The Quad – Summer 2018 by Grove City College

Dear Readers, SENIOR EDITOR: Kathleen McAlister JUNIOR EDITOR: Anne St. Jean SECTION EDITORS Poetry: Annie Dupee Casey O’Brien Delaney Martin

Short Stories: Holly Ahrens Caitlin Salomon

Essays:

Drew Santa Noah Gould

Creative Nonfiction: Abby Opst Hannah Spatz

Book Reviews: Eric Gardner Josiah Aden

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR: Nicole Mingle CHIEF COPYEDITOR: Katie Shilling COPYEDITORS: Katheryn Frazier Katie Shilling

It’s funny how much sorrow spring can inspire. All the bright yellow daffodils and echoing laughter can’t distract me from the fact that everything is coming to a close and none of it ending in the way I had envisioned it. This is my last ever Editor’s letter and I want it to be perfect, to encapsulate all the joy and challenges of my time with The Quad. I want a grand gesture. Instead it sounds saccharine, dripping with all the dreaded sentimentality I’ve worked so hard to avoid.

Growing up in Kansas, I always think of this time of year as a rather tumultuous one. Storm cells hit the Midwest hard, the parched ground suddenly flooded, pock-marked from hail, crops stripped and flattened by the wind and precipitation, and the country daily hanging under the looming potential of tornadoes. We wait for sun and rain all winter long, only to get too much at once. And yet, the biggest employer in the state of Kansas is agriculture. Why would anyone choose such an unpredictable profession? Life is unpredictable. We plan our days, weeks, years, but it hardly ever goes according to that plan. Why would farming, or any vocation, including writing, be any different? In “Tales of the New Creation,” an essay graciously penned for us by Pete Peterson, based on the lecture he gave at the Christian Writers’ Conference, our creation as writers is not only a present one, but a future context for God’s ultimate New Creation. Alumnus Dan Rzewnicki reminds us that while we are awaiting this new and final creation and king, culture is at work in creating something out of us, in his review of the final installment in James K. A. Smith’s Cultural Liturgies series, Awaiting the King. Katie Shilling draws a striking picture of the prophetic call of Isaiah in her poem “Isaiah ben Amoz,” showing us how God not only calls us to a life, but compels us—our words cannot be contained. This isn’t the goodbye I planned, but it is the one God planned for me. I am so thankful that you will be in the very capable hands of Anne St. Jean and Noah Gould, hands that will continue to cultivate a space on this campus for your creativity to grow and flourish. I have been so blessed to dig alongside you as you harvest the fruits of your labor. The weather of writing is unpredictable and at times down-right dangerous, but it is a blessing from God, teaching us to rely more every day on him. Sincerely,

COVER ART: Courtney Moletz ADVISORS: Dr. Joshua Mayo Dr. H. Collin Messer EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD: Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller

Kathleen McAlister Senior Editor

Volume 10, Issue 4 Summer 2018 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source. Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process. Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, but leave off your name on your submission. Times New Roman, 12 pt, single spaced in Word Document form is preferred; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors.

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VOLUME 10 ISSUE 4

Shattered Grandeur During the Exodus Poem

Prufrock's Awakening Short Story

Isaiah ben Amoz Poem

Awaiting the King book Review

Ode to Overalls Poem

Tresspassing Poem

Tales of the New Creation Essay

Eponymous Poem

A Daughter Short Story

Ocean Breeze Poem

Killarney Poem

The Lakeside Hotel Short Story

A Symposium Poem

Daring Chocolate Cake Creative Nonfiction

Ash Wednesday Poem

Hunting Island, South Carolina Poem

CONTENTS 04 05 10 11 14 17 18 23 24 30 31 32 36 37 40 41

Eric Gardner Chloe Mobley Katie Shilling Dan Rzechnicki Kathleen McAlister Holly Ahrens Pete Peterson Erin Balserak Kathleen McAlister

Eric Gardner Paige Kraynak Philip Herzig Grant Yurisic Sarah Horn Katie Shilling Kathleen McAlister

SHATTERED GRANDEUR DURING THE EXODUS Eric Gardner

Each rain leads them to surface— entranced, escaping. They pour from beneath the swollen soil and stretch, churning on cement blocks near the crosswalk (they never check both ways) in an attempt to avoid drowning in dirt. Sprawled next to more of the same, they soak in droplets that slide around their smooth, segmented bodies. Ten lie still on the dampened beige below a streetlamp— illuminated, opaque creatures who don’t know the sun is coming. The puddle-water pools in deep mud-grooves where someone walked. A thin stream trickles through the cracks in the sidewalk and races down the darkened street through a metal-mesh grate and into the great confluence of the city. Some make their way there too, swept away in a nighttime downpour— lost to the light, drowning in the depths.

ERIC GARDNER ('18) IS A SENIOR ENGLISH MAJOR WHO ENJOYS LONG WALKS ON THE BEACH, STEAK, AND A GOOD BOOK.

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PRUFROCK’S AWAKENING Chloe Mobley

Alfred liked his coffee black. He told his nurse every morning with the mouthing of one word – black. From his wooden chair by the window he watched as she spooned the grounds into the filter. One, two, three, four, five, six spoons exactly. He turned back to the view outside as the coffee brewed – the machine steadily gurgling, a stream collecting in the pot. The sun had not risen yet. A thick fog covered the street, turned yellow from the glow of the street lamps below. It billowed up against the panes that blocked it from entering. The sound of the neighboring inmate singing England’s national anthem echoed into the room from the hallway and through the thin walls. The nurse’s footsteps joined the morning’s chorus as she paced back and forth behind him, making preparations for breakfast, tidying, telling the day’s schedule. She told him that it was Wednesday – the middle day of the week – while she opened the blinds. That he was assigned three hours in the community lounge as she stooped to pick a mug from the bottom shelf of the coffee cart. And that today during community time he would be getting a visitor. “Visitor,” Alfred repeated, looking up, but not at the nurse.

“Yes,” she replied, looking his direction while pouring him a cup. “Your new caseworker will be coming to see you.” She put his cup on his side table, then bent down and helped Alfred roll his pant legs up so that they fit him properly. She went over to his closet, picked out a pair of brown loafers for him and set them next to his feet. “He’ll want to talk with you, you understand? So get ready to move those fine lips of yours.” She rolled her cart toward the door. “I’ll be back with your eggs and toast.” Alfred watched the door close. His hand slowly moved up to touch his lips. j

J.P. walked up the steps to the Institution. His collar was tight around his neck. His tie – neatly pinned on – was the only decoration to his plain suit jacket and trousers. He pressed the button beside the entrance and waited to be admitted. There was a loud thud of the lock being turned. The steel door creaked open to reveal a guard waiting for him on the other side. J.P. stepped across the threshold and turned back to look out at the street as his view diminished slowly with the closing of the door. The young man watched as the guard turned the mechanism on the inside of the door to lock it once more. The outside could now only be seen through a small window of reinforced glass with steel bars. After receiving his visitors badge from the woman at the front desk, the guard led J.P. through the building.

“This your first time inside the bin?” asked the guard with a mocking smile.

“I’m sorry, what?” J.P. said. His cheeks were still flushed from the crisp October air outside. His gaze had been meandering along the edges that made the up stark white hallway before them. “The looney bin. Or ‘the home,’ as they call it, to make people feel better about it.” “Yes, this is the first case I’ve worked in the Institution.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like the movies in real life. Don’t let the noise scare you; we keep them controlled.”

J.P. gave a half-smile and they fell back into silence as they continued along. The florescent lights buzzed quietly over them. They came to a set of steel doors with another small reinforced window. The guard put his I.D. on the scanner and the door clicked open. Another hallway, and another door – but as this one opened there was the low sounds of conversations going on. A woman stood next to the two guards by the door.

Her arms were crossed, but when she saw J.P. she unfolded them and walked forward.

“Judy,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be the new caseworker. Your name – ?” “J.P.”

“J.P… Interesting name,” she said.

“My initials. That’s what I go by. I don’t use my legal name,” he said.

“Alright.” She turned away and started down the hall. “I’ll show you to the common room.”

J.P. followed silently. The nurse told him that Alfred didn’t talk much, but he could talk. That she’d been working with him since he arrived there six years ago and he hadn’t changed much. He had a routine and he stuck to it. “Most of the time he’s not really all there anyway – he gets really in his head. Talk to him, though. Just tell him about yourself and maybe he’ll communicate.” The common room was full of sounds. There were two gentlemen putting a puzzle together. A woman coloring in the corner. Another whispering to herself, and another moaning. Alfred sat in a chair in front of a large painting on the far wall. His hands were folded upon his lap, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “I’ll leave you to it,” said the nurse, nodding in Alfred’s direction. “He’s over in front of his painting.” She turned to leave. “Good luck.” J.P. stood still for a moment. He looked around the room at all the patients, some accompanied, but many on their own, amusing themselves. He drew in a breath, exhaled, and started forward toward his client.

He pulled up a chair, sat down next to him. He watched Alfred, who was totally engrossed in the painting before him. J.P. looked at it himself. There was depicted in oil paints an artist who was painting on a canvas. Around him were women. Some seemed to be looking

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on, and others were merely passing by in groups seeming to be talking to each other. “What is it?” J.P. asked. “What do you see?”

There was no response from the old man – no sign that he had heard the words spoken to him. J.P. waited a few minutes. The murmurs of the other patients filled up the silence between them. “I’m going to be your new case worker. Basically I am assigned to make sure you are receiving proper care here, although I’m assuming you do since you have committed yourself … voluntarily.”

There was a pause. J.P. again searched the old man’s face but saw no change. There was a loud scream. It came from the woman coloring in the corner, and she had begun to throw her crayons and papers everywhere as nurses and guards surged toward her to pacify her. J.P. turned his head toward them and watched as they carried her tranquilized body out of the room. The room went back to its murmuring. A man in the corner had begun to cry softly and his nurse knelt beside him trying to coax him to eat some pudding. J.P. turned back around. Alfred still sat expressionless, eyes toward the painting. “I am to come once a week to see you,” J.P. said. “I hope to converse with you… sometimes… about the state of things… maybe this can be a way of giving you some, some socialization.”

Alfred blinked. With eyes cast toward the ground he slowly rotated his head toward J.P., who leaned closer intently. Alfred’s lips rolled inward slightly. A faint “m” sound came from him. His eyes met J.P.’s own when he glanced up. But then his lips unrolled and he turned away again, resuming his vacant stare. J.P. looked at the painting, looked at his watch, looked toward the door. “I’d best be off soon,” J.P. said. He let the words settle amongst the noises in the room. Then he took one last look at the paint-

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ing and his client. He stood up and paused a moment adjusting his tie. He felt the pressure of a hand softly grasping at his arm.

“Michelangelo,” Alfred said. J.P. turned and their eyes met. Alfred’s gaze was steady. Now it was J.P.’s mouth that opened and uttered a noise that was cut off at the last second. There was another pause. J.P. sat back down. “Women,” Alfred said. He extended his arm and pointed vaguely toward the women passing the artist in the painting. “Michelangelo,” he repeated.

“There’s a great art museum not far from here.” J.P. offered, “My girlfriend and I go there all the time… She loves art… We could visit sometime – if you were up to it.” “Thank you… but no,” Alfred replied. They exchanged glances again; there was a sense of longing on the old man’s face. “Tell me about it…next time…?” “Next time,” J.P. repeated. He stood and held out his hand toward Alfred with the intention of shaking hands. Alfred’s brow furrowed as he looked at the outstretched hand. After waiting a moment and receiving no reciprocal hand J.P. put his arm down. He nodded briefly at Alfred and left the room. j

Upon the young man’s second visit Alfred sat once more in front of the painting. J.P. took residence beside him again in the chair. This time J.P. sat next to him and did not attempt conversation.

“You remind me of someone,” Alfred began. The words were spoken softly, but clearly. “Who would that be?” J.P. asked. They made eye contact. The old man’s eyes seemed to have clarity in them that was not there before. “You would not wish to know,” Alfred replied, turning back to the painting.

“Tell me something,” said the young man. “About your old life.”

“My old life…” repeated Alfred. He looked at J.P. again. His eyes flashed with some acknowledgement of the command. “There is nothing out there for a man like me. I used to be. But being is…” His sentence trailed off and he seemed to recede. “You never stopped! You can’t stop being… If anything, it’s a choice.” J.P looked over his shoulder to take in the rest of the room for a while. All the walls were bare besides the one with the painting. “Choice?” Alfred turned again to him.

“Choice.” J.P. insisted, “I stand before the mirror every day and prepare my expression. I fix my face, get ready to meet the other faces I’ll see that day.”

“And do they see what you want them to see?”

“Well, no – at least not all the time… But maybe if they knew me better…” There was silence between them. J.P. straightened his tie and brushed his hand self-consciously through his hair.

“You used to curate art,” said J.P. He wanted to change the subject.

“Curate, yes. I saw them all. All the greatest works. And I was good.” “What made you so good at it?” J.P. asked.

“Because I saw them – I saw the people, their true desire. Do you know what man’s true desire is? It is for others to see their pain. For someone to understand. True connection.”

He stopped and gazed back at the painting. He seemed lost in thought. “There it is,” said J.P.. He drew his hand up in front of him and shook his pointed finger out abstractly. “True connection – You see, maybe I can’t change the way everyone sees me… but there is someone in my life who I

hope to have that connection with.”

“A woman,” Alfred said. His eyes were resting steadily on the women in the painting.

“Yes, a woman… say, did you ever have that relationship with anyone? That connection?” “There was a woman. We had a lovely life together. With every cup of tea, every sunset watched together, every jog to the doorstep out of the rain, every evening spent side by side – I anxiously awaited the fulfillment of that desire. All for a feeling – those nights in the cheap hotels, the plates full of food that’d be half eaten then thrown away. Even our arguments were tedious; her impassioned words were turned stale. She would ask me if I was content with the sunset, the tea, her love. I wanted to tell her – that’s not it. No, that’s not it at all. But it didn’t seem worth it… Would it have been worth it? It’s too late now. I grow old. Well, I grew old.” Reaching up slowly with one of his hands, he felt the bald spot on his head where hair had ceased to grow years ago. “You speak profoundly,” J.P. said.

“I speak obtusely. I am the Fool, not to be fooled by,” Alfred said. He put both hands on the arms of his chair and pushed his frail body up. He began to walk away toward the door. The nurse intercepted him there and led him back to his quarters. She returned to fetch J.P. and explained that Alfred had wanted to lay down for a while. J.P. told her he was leaving anyway. j

The next time the two of them met, Alfred sat in a large armchair, a copy of Hamlet in his lap. J.P. sat across from him and waited expectantly. “It is your turn. You can be Prince Hamlet,” Alfred said. “And I – your attendant lord.” J.P. chuckled slightly, then caught himself and looked around. He put on a serious face.

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“Ok. And how shall you attend me?”

“Attend with advice. Tell me what troubles you.”

J.P.’s face fell. He thought of their last conversation, and he thought of the brush stroked women in the painting.

“I have a great relationship, with a wonderful woman. I’d like to spend the rest of my life with her, in fact.” J.P. paused and glanced toward Alfred. He had his head turned in his direction and his hand over the words of his book, so he seemed to be listening.

“But time has continued on, and I have not asked. I can’t bring myself to ask… It’s such an overwhelming question. I can see a great life in front of me. All I have to do is reach out, and take what has been extended to me…” He reached out his hand in front of him as if he would pull something into existence. “But I’m afraid,” J.P. said, concluding his speech.

The old man did not move for a long while. He was staring at his hands as they rested upon his lap over the words of the book. Finally he lifted them and closed the play. “There is time for everything, but everything will not be fulfilled by time,” Alfred said. He closed his eyes. J.P. watched as he drifted off to sleep. j

They sat together in front of the painting again. The old man had not spoken a word or acknowledged J.P. sitting beside him since J.P. had arrived. J.P. sat as still as Alfred. The two mirrored each other.

“I understand now,” J.P. said. “I get why you choose to stay here. I mean, you’re not a danger to society – you probably could’ve gotten by out there. But I realized – why not? The world is wrapped up in madness anyway. I have seen it… In truth, this is a hard job. I am pinned

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down – by those above me, by my clients, and worst of all, by myself. I am already fixed. They’ve got me pinned down and I am at their mercy… Alfred, I understand now. I didn’t ask her… I couldn’t ask her the question.”

He closed his eyes. The darkness swallowed him. He drowned in its shadow. j

“J.P.!” called the nurse. Her patient hadn’t stirred, he had hadn’t moved from his chair by the window – it seemed he had dozed off. She tried again. “Alfred!” When there was no movement she walked up and stopped right in front of him. Standing there quietly for a moment, she watched him sleep. He was not in his latter years – though he already wore his pants rolled, his hair was only just beginning to thin, his face was not yet marked by time’s lines. His collar and tie were so tight up against his neck they seemed like they’d choke him. She set his breakfast plate on the side table, then bent down and gently loosened the tie and undid the top button of the collar. She rested her hand on his shoulder and tried a final time to wake him.

“J. Alfred Prufrock!”

With the calling of his full name his eyes opened. “Black,” he mumbled.

The nurse looked over at his cup and saw that it was empty. She picked it up, and went back to her cart to make him a new cup. Though the sun had risen the fog still obscured the view of the street below. There was nothing to see out the window but the blankness of its white wisps. The light which shone through was dulled against the somber grey hue of the walls in the room. England’s national anthem was still being bellowed by the man next door.

Prufrock gazed steadily out the window, not hindered by the sound. “I have known them all,” he said.

“What’s that?” replied the nurse. She opened the can of coffee grounds and measured out the spoons. One, two, three, four, five, six. “I’ve known them all.”

CHLÖE MOBLEY (’19) IS A ENGLISH – SECONDARY EDUCATION MAJOR FROM THE CITY OF PITTSBURGH WHO CAN BE FOUND MOST OFTEN AT YOUR LOCAL COFFEE SHOP.

ISAIAH BEN AMOZ Katie Shilling

I have been given a terrible gift. I have seen things— Adonai, sitting on a throne, high and exalted; the seraphim, burning, with wings covering their faces and feet. I can still hear their voices, calling to one another Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh And Adonai’s voice, speaking to me, giving me words to say to the king, to my people, words that writhe and strike and scald. If I speak, they will come for me with stones and mobs, but my mouth is filled by the primordial deep over which Haruach Elohim is hovering. I clamp my lips shut, stubbornly, but Adonai’s words are too fluid, spreading and swelling, covering the face of the earth— I cannot contain them.

KATIE SHILLING (’18) WOULD WEAR A COMFORT COLORS T-SHIRT EVERY SINGLE DAY.

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Q AWAITING THE KING

Dan Rzewnicki

In a way, we might say that the wisdom of Augustine’s City of God is like a stance lesson for the church as it journeys through the saeculum toward its destination, kingdom come. Augustine doesn’t advise us to stay at home; he counsels us to buy a ticket for the journey . . . Indeed, for Augustine, the saeculum— the age between the fall and kingdom come—is one that is essentially permixtum, an age where the church and world are thrown together, intermingled and mixed up in overlapping territory. (49) Have you considered that voting for public offices might have more of an effect on you than the election? Or that arguing for or against gun control, abortion, or marriage equality might shape you more than it shapes others? In the third and final volume of his Cultural Liturgies series, James K. A. Smith takes up these ideas and others as he surveys public policy and Christian discourse. While the book seems to stand apart from the series in some ways, it serves as a reminder that our government and political culture form us just as much—if not more—than the secular liturgies that Smith explored in the first volume of his series. The Pledge of Allegiance and the National Anthem form us as we are immersed in them; they orient our lives toward a particular vision of the good life. When Smith published Desiring the Kingdom in 2009, he set out to “communicate to students (and faculty) a vision of what authentic, integral Christian learning looks like, emphasizing how learning is connected to worship and how, together, these constitute practices of formation and discipleship” in a project that came to be known as his Cultural Liturgies series (11). The first volume describes Christian education and worship as primarily formative rather than informative, and examines the ways through which such formation occurs. In the second, Imagining the King, Smith sought to explicate the ways that worship works through our imaginations. This final volume, Awaiting the King, examines political theology, the place of civil involvement in a secular world.

In the introduction to the first volume, Smith promises an “accessible” account of Christian formation and education and cited “students” as well as “pastors, campus ministers, and worship leaders” as some who might be interested audiences. Yet, if these are audiences Smith seeks to reach, he has missed the mark. I have yet to discuss Smith’s work with anyone without a graduate degree at least in progress. Far from accessible—a point Smith concedes in his introduction to Imagining the Kingdom—the volumes are riddled with footnotes and double as a GRE vocabulary refresher. (Smith’s You Are What You Love, on the other hand, fares far better in the accessibility category and serves as a helpful companion to the series.) This final volume stands somewhere in density between the first and third volumes, and is certainly not a beach read. However, the work is rewarding. Smith’s final cultural examination is at turns pointed and moving, and, in typical Smith fashion, manages to mix dense philosophy with a real understanding of grace. As he asserts throughout the series, Smith reminds us that we are driven by one ultimate love, one vision of where we are heading. The entire series draws heavily on Augustine, and Awaiting the King is no different, informed largely by a close reading of Augustine’s City of God. Smith reminds us in the opening chapters that there is no dual citizenship for us; we are either citizens of a heavenly or an earthly city. Smith recognizes, though, that these terms have been largely

misunderstood and he labors to define them. The city of Man, writes Smith, “is not coincident with creation; it originates with sin” (46). Smith affirms the goodness and gratuitousness of the embodied, material world as well as God’s desire to see it flourish. The rival cities are distinguished not by physical place or geography but by their loves. In the same way that the individual “soul intends the world in love and thus is identified by the object of that love,” says Smith, “so too we find that Augustine, not surprisingly, says that a ‘people’ or ‘commonwealth’ is defined in the same way: by the objects of their love” (48). This line of thinking clearly connects to the rest of the series, and suggests to the reader that her orientation toward the heavenly city is as much influenced by cultural values and tendencies as it is by movies and shopping malls.

Always a careful surveyor of vocabulary, Smith dissects the “political” and calls into question what we normally associate with the political realm. “The church’s worship is always already a political intervention in the world,” says Smith (58). As Christians, we repeatedly profess a certain idea about who we are and whose we are that involves a continued withdrawal from the comings and goings of the world. For Smith and Augustine, political statements extend far beyond voting red or blue. In an argument that draws similarities to the “Not My President” movement, Smith asserts that “the doxological claim that “Jesus is Lord!” is also a political act in its refusal to say that “Caesar is Lord!” (58). In this way, Smith suggests that the Christian might identify more with the political stance of Jesus and the disciples and the liberal “Not My President” movement than with passionate—and many times unqualified—support for a particular political party or presidential figure.

And yet, Smith will not allow his Christian readers to simply disengage from a government that they may find unjust or that simply does not have hold on them the way that political allegiance to a heavenly city does. He will not permit any shrinking “to a kind of minimalism” in the corners of society (142). Instead, he urges Christians to follow God’s command to “seek the welfare of the city” even in the political realm. “If we are convinced (convicted),” he says, “that in Christ and his Word we know something about how to be human, then shouldn’t we seek to bend social practices and policy in that direction for the good of our neighbors” (142)? This is perhaps the crux of Smith’s argument. He does not urge us to slam our heathen neighbors over the head with the words of God’s Law in an attempt to instantiate Kingdom Come, however, he also does not allow us to shrink away from public society as a place where our convictions have no ground. He calls us to recognize that “forging a common life in the midst of deep directional diversity requires specific dispositions of tolerance, humility, and patience” (146). And of course, Smith’s collected works are essentially a theory of how these dispositions come to be; they do not appear out of thin air nor do they come about by reading a convincing argument. Dispositions (or habits) always come about through the things that we repeatedly do, and Smith would argue that we have a call to bend society in such a way as to produce virtuous ones.

In this vein, Smith draws strong parallels with Neil Postman’s argument in The End of Education. In this deeply thoughtful and helpful book, Postman seeks to deconstruct schooling in the US by considering its values and the values it instills in its students. Nearly identical to Smith’s comments

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in Awaiting the King, Postman asserts in his book that “public education does not serve a public; it creates a public” (18). Postman uses the book to ask “what kind of public does it create” (18)?

Like Smith, Postman is concerned with bending the schooling system to create a certain kind of public, and he posits a variety of theories about how one might accomplish this. One such theory is the “Spaceship Earth” theory, in which students would be brought up in a narrative that sees our planet Earth as our last “spaceship,” the wellbeing of which we depend on to survive. Based on this narrative, students would come to see themselves as “stewards of the Earth, caretakers of a vulnerable space capsule” (64). This human story “makes clear the interdependence of human beings” (64). Smith would likely take to Postman’s philosophy like a fish to water, as both of these narratives play into the argument that we have an obligation to our fellow travelers and that public policy has a unique way of instilling within us the proper dispositions toward them. Further, Postman’s spaceship Earth narrative paints a picture of Earth as our ship on the voyage between times. These intertwining arguments lead to Smith’s admonishment to “recognize penultimate convergence even where there is ultimate divergence” (218). In other words, even if our neighbors are oriented toward a different telos, we still depend on the wellbeing of the earth—and on each other—for our welfare.

But how does this play out in our lives? How do we go about seeking the welfare of our city among neighbors who have such radically different views for what makes the earthly city well? I think here we may take a cue from Postman, who says that “a sense of responsibility for the planet is born from a sense of responsibility for one’s own neighborhood” (100). Here we have an opportunity to put boots to the ground. Not all of us can have a hand in lobbying on Capitol Hill for changes to public education or policy, but we can all have a hand in cleaning up and caring for our neighborhoods, assisting our neighbors who may need assistance, influencing our local government, or educating our neighborhood’s children. In this way, we have a hand in orienting our neighborhood—and then our world—toward particular loves and virtues that will carry us in the between times in which we live. And so Smith leaves us with the close of his cultural examination. I highly recommend this book—and the others in the series—to anyone willing to put in the work to finish it. While the writing is dense, it is also enjoyable. Further, these final remarks on political theology could not have come at a better time. Smith’s cries for civil dispositions of tolerance and humility come at a time when civil discourse is fraught with intolerance and hubris. This is an excellent work for students to examine along with their professors (or parents, worship leaders, or neighbors). Smith’s final Cultural Liturgies work does not disappoint.

DAN RZEWNICKI ('16) GRADUATED WITH A DEGREE IN ENGLISH BEFORE MOVING ON TO WORK FOR A COHORT STUDY AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH AND STUDY PUBLIC HEALTH. HE HOPES TO ENTER MEDICAL SCHOOL NEXT FALL.

ODE TO OVERALLS Kathleen McAlister

I stood in the dressing room, shifting from Foot to foot, glancing at the pale face And denim-clad reflection with trepidation, My mother’s voice, heavy with skepticism Hidden in its hesitation, echoing in this tiny Cardboard stall.

“You’re not eight years old anymore” She says slowly, gingerly, careful Around me and my sensitive tear ducts. “And,” she gently wheels me around To see my five feet of grass-fed beef-fed, Reluctant runner and cake baker shape; My sturdy midwestern frame, handed down Through generations of Germans and Scots, Norwegians and Irish, built for long winters And excruciating summers, hips perfect For bouncing babies, shoulders broad for the plow, “We just can’t wear some things.” But I remember, wearing these overalls, The summers of hot concrete and chlorine, The garden languishing in the sun-What hadn’t been eaten by rabbits-Until all we had were a few tomatoes For BLTs for you and BLs for me. I remember hot nights of grass stains And skinned knees as I slid into home Plate, safe, and you cheered from the stands. I tried hard and you were happy, not like Those other softball moms, always yelling. I can smell sunscreen and melted popsicles And the sharp scent of fireworks exploding Above our quiet little block and the feeling Of riding one into the stars to sparkle there Before fizzing out and falling back to earth. I remember the sweet prickle of hay bales As we scrambled up to jump the row For a better view of the Solomon Valley. And I remember my fear of that corn snake Slithering into the street from Marianna’s yard And your comforting arms.

You meant well, I know that now, in your Glass words and cautious excitement, Seeing in me all your own fears and hopes. Maybe I’m not eight years old anymore, But if I were, you’d still be the very best mom. Looking in the mirror, I see your smile And tug my Little House on the Prairie braids. These overalls suit me at any age. KATHLEEN MCALISTER (’18) OWES MANY THINGS TO HER ROCKSTAR OF A MOM, STEPHANIE, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE CORRECTION OF HER UNFORTUNATE LISP AND A LIFELONG LOYALTY TO THE UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS JAYHAWKS.

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TRESPASSING Holly Ahrens

I used to love the taste of rust in my mouth. Bitter and tangy and isolating, leaving me Alone in an old train tunnel, Surrounded by collapsed parts of the ceiling, Iron rebar sticking out of concrete, Fallen bricks broken through ice Creating a splash pattern of orange mud. Here in the dark there’s no one To point out that my boots are sinking with every step, Or that rust tastes like blood. I wish I could hear the echoes of roaring trains, That would be better than this graffitied silence. But I keep walking, And up ahead, There’s moonlight.

HOLLY AHRENS (’18) WOULD LIKE TO CLARIFY THAT SHE HAS NEVER ACTUALLY EATEN RUST. IT’S A METAPHOR.

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TALES OF THE NEW CREATION Pete Peterson

In eternity, this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets. Because I don’t imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me to try.” –Marilynne Robinson, Gilead “Tradition” is a word that can come with a lot of negative baggage. We often equate it with “old-fashioned” or “out of date” or “things our parents made us do.” It’s a word we often apply to things that have passed beyond their former relevance, possibly even things moving toward irrelevance. Traditional publishing. Traditional music. Traditional education. Traditional family. Traditional values. You get the idea.

However, in an essay called “Tradition and the Individual Talent” T. S. Eliot argues that the word “traditional,” especially as applied to art, is not a negative label, but is instead a positive and even desirable one. He writes that “no poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.”

Art is, by necessity, “traditional.” New works are built upon the old, each new poet standing upon the bones of the dead. Out of the Impressionists come the Post-Impressionists. Out of the Blues and Gospel music comes Rock and Roll.

Eliot assures us that tradition is important, and to be “traditional” is not to be old-fashioned or conservative, but to be informed by and to stand upon the long history of literature and art and creativity that has come before. Even if an artist rejects tradition, he’s still building upon the thing he chooses to reject. An artist or writer is always in conversation with the whole community of creators who precede him.

There is, perhaps, nowhere that this is more apparent than in poetry. If Paradise Lost, for instance, were the only piece of poetry you’d ever read, you might still

consider it a masterwork of thought, language, and imagery, but you’d be missing half the story, because when a work like Milton’s is taken in its historical and artistic context, it’s elevated to its full power by virtue of the foundations on which it stands—foundations like Virgil, Homer, Ovid, Isaiah, and Job. Works like Paradise Lost or Dante’s Divine Comedy are strewn with allusions to the works of elder poets and writers. They are packed with references to myths, legends, historical figures, and historical events that we’ve all but forgotten. Which is why Eliot has said that the immature poet imitates, but the mature poet steals. A writer or artist builds his work out of bricks fashioned by his forebears. And this is right and good.

Bono writes something similar in one of my favorite songs, “The Fly.” “Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. They all kill their inspiration, and write about the grief.”

That last part is a bit dramatic, but the rest is right on. And it’s true of all art. What we create draws its power from context. Art, both in its creation and its consumption, requires a knowledge of and participation in tradition in order to be fully realized.

And now, let’s imagine that we are living, as Marilynne Robinson says, in Troy, within an epic poem. I want to suggest that the world, our world, our present, is itself a work of art, and that our lives are paintings and poems, sculptures and songs, all founded on that which has come before us. What might that have to do with the New

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Creation that the Bible promises us is coming? If our creative work is given depth and meaning by its relationship to its context and tradition, is it possible that we are, at this very moment, the tradition and context out of which God’s new work is going to be forged? Is it possible that we are metaphors, symbols, and nearly forgotten tales waiting to be grafted into the work of an age yet to come? I’m going to come back to that suggestion, but before I do, I want to change direction one more time. We’ve just talked about tradition, or the importance of the past, in art and literature. But let’s talk for a moment about the opposite end of the spectrum. What about the importance of the future? Great stories exist, not merely within the boundaries of their presentness, but often beyond it. Tolkien is a great example.

The Lord of the Rings has a very clear sense of tradition. Tolkien calls it the “Cauldron of Story”—the great soup of ideas that have been sloshed together and stewed into stories down through the ages. Throw in a dash of Beowulf, a pinch of Germanic myth, a handful of World War I, and a dozen other flavors and influences and Professor Tolkien scoops out a hearty bowl of ? —The Lord of the Rings. That Cauldron of Story, that soup is the story’s past, the tradition it’s built on.

The “present” of the story is the tale it tells, and with which I assume you are familiar. But it’s the story’s future, its end, that I’m interested in.

It ends as lots of great stories do, not with finality, but with a new beginning. The Third Age of Middle-earth has passed away, and the Fourth Age has begun. But Frodo and Gandalf don’t simply end, do they? They sail away to Valinor, beyond the boundary of the story proper. And where are

we? We’re left on the shore, left to wonder. If it’s a good story, we’re often left with wonder. When we turn the last page of the Lord of the Rings, it’s hard to escape the feeling that the story is still going on somehow, even though we aren’t privileged to its details. The same can be said of the Chronicles of Narnia. “For them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” Storytellers lead us just so far along a road, showing us sights and marvels along the way, and then, on the last page of the book, the author plants a signpost, as if to say, “The story goes on that way, just over that hill,” and there are untold tales that we will never know because, sadly, we must follow another road back into our own world, into our own present.

We love to mourn the end of a good book. We love to imagine what might be if only the author had kept on writing. But all we have are signposts left behind to point us toward things we can only dream of.

But these “signposts” are important. Personally, spiritually, culturally, they mark the ways we’ve come and the ways we hope one day to go. And the well-built signpost endures, becoming in time like an eroded marker left by a long-forgotten civilization. The well-built signpost, the well crafted work of art, may even become a tradition.

Flannery O’Connor wrote hundreds of letters in her lifetime. She’s one of my favorite writers, and only days before her death at the age of 39 she wrote the following words to a friend: “I don’t know when I’ll send those stories. I have felt too bad to type them.”

She died a few days later and those untold stories went with her. She left that letter behind her like a signpost planted in the road as if to say, “the stories go on, but I, for the moment, cannot.” Is that why that death feels so wrong to us? Death ends a tale that we know is meant to go on. When someone dies, we’re left behind to stand on the shore—and we wonder.

We wonder because death is itself a signpost, an Ebenezer stone, a marker left to map the way from dust to dust, testifying to the length, breadth, and depth of the Fall. But if we look closely, we can see more than merely an endpoint. We can see instead an arrow. Because a signpost does not announce a journey’s end; it proclaims the destination lying further up along the road. And these signposts we leave behind, whether stories, or individual lives, or entire civilizations, are becoming, every moment, the legends and poems and monuments—the traditions—out of which a future age will draw a new masterpiece.

N. T. Wright says that “all Christian language about the future is a set of signposts pointing into the mist.” You see, we are standing every day in the presentness of a story, of an epic. It’s going on all around us. It’s full of wars and miracles, love and hate, great beauty and terrible suffering, and it’s so big that none of us can comprehend the fullness of it. We live in the present story built on the bones of our dead. But just as the hope of Abraham and Israel led to a new covenant in Christ, so is our own hope, our own story, the foundation of a greater work yet untold. Because in this story, in our story, the Author is not dead. He’s got stories left to tell. There are signposts all over the world, planted down through the Ages, that tell us the finale is still up over the hill, “soon to be released,” as it

were. You and I are the tradition out of which the Author is building something new, an epic for the age to come. And what’s more, I believe our stories, our works of art, our collective acts of creativity are helping him to build it. The job of the artist in the here and now is to reach backward into tradition with one hand, anchoring herself there in order to reach forward into the mist with the other—then she closes her fist, taking hold of all she can, and brings into the present a new signpost and plants it firmly. That signpost, that work of art, may one day become the anchor onto which other artists will cling and reach even further.

As Eliot said of art, a new masterwork does not simply do away with the traditions out of which it’s born. New work is built on work that has come before it and it is known and understood in that context. Jesus says very much the same thing in Matthew: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill them.”

In Christ, the old is not merely done away with. Creation will not be swept away and forgotten. It will be redeemed. Just as the old traditions of our art pass into and are redefined by new works and new traditions, in Christ, the matter of Creation itself will be put to new use, shaped into brighter, newer forms—swords into plowshares, lions laid down with lambs. As Christians, this is our hope isn’t it? Because in the end we aren’t leaving this old place to go and live with Him. He is coming here to make it new, and to stay and live with us. The dwelling place of God will be with man. What we create in this world, what we do, who we love, and how we live, will all one day be the context for God’s New Creation. We are the tradition out of which epics, folk-tales, legends, art, and songs of ages to come will arise. And that means that what we create here

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and now matters. Our food matters, our stories matter, our architecture and music and poetry all matter. All Creation waits to be redeemed, to be shaped into its truest and final form. So if I write a story, I want it to point out into that mist where the Author of my faith is laboring over things that my mind cannot yet fathom. If I build a boat, I want it to leave someone with a longing to sail it, because that longing points toward undiscovered shores in the distance.

In everything, I hope to leave signposts that will point toward the world to come. It’s not my job to define that world. It’s my job to leave behind the bricks and mortar with which the Master will build new wonders. It’s my job to leave the Ebenezer stone, to erect the signpost that points and says “It’s that way, just over that hill.” The Author isn’t done with this old place. I couple of years ago, I wrote a play called The Battle of Franklin. It’s about a Civil War battle that’s often referred to as the Gettysburg of the West. It was the bloodiest four hours of the entire war. In order to write it and do justice to the people who lived through the battle, I visited the site, saw the bullet holes, talked to historians, read newspaper articles and dozens of letters from eye witnesses and survivors. And because it’s a musical, I also listened to a lot of music of the time period. I even found a number of poems written about it, not to mention all the paintings and maps and military diagrams that helped me build the reality of the play.

The story deals with issues of slavery and family and our inability to listen to one another and see one another as human beings. I was reading and re-reading Eliot’s Four Quartets a lot at the time and that influenced the story as well. I want to read you a brief excerpt from the end of the play. In the scene, a young soldier,

the narrator of the play, has come to the end of his life and has learned at last to see many things to which he was formerly blind. In his moment of final revelation, he sees the mist clear ahead of him, and this is what he says:

How is it we paid so little attention to one another. We could not see one another for who we were. We were strangers together in the same house, unseeing, unknowing, unloving. If time could wind back this war and I could live at home in peace, I don't intend that anybody would make a better son than I, a better brother, a better friend.

I would spend, with all these, many a happy day, if only this scourge would pass me over. There will be a life beyond this vale of tears, won't there? A land where we will outlive all sorrow and gloom, where all shall be joy, and love, and peace? I will see you in that blessed land where the weary are at rest, and where war shall trouble us no more.

We shall be reunited, a family unbroken, if not in this land, then in that other. Thenceforward and forever.

My end is in my beginning, but I shall make of my ending something new.

Time spins us 'round, through memory, through pain, and in these moments allows us grace enough to stand at the pinnacle from which we may survey the unshadowed valley beyond.

I see a river there. It runs free and clear to the shining sea. And that is why we come. Over and over, we remember again, hoping each time that we will climb high enough to catch a glimpse of the land we are tumbled ever toward. And with each glance from the mountaintop we learn to see that valley

more clearly, to expect it more anxiously, to take some part of it with us when we go.

Time has allowed us to journey together for only so far, and now it carries us along different streams into different histories and possibilities yet to be discovered. You have been fine company, and I regret that we must part so soon.

Tomorrow we shall hope again that some happier homecoming reveals itself---and we shall not cease from our exploration until time itself falls still, and all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. History is now. History is Franklin. But as for the present, I must bid you farewell.

I use this as an example of what I’ve been talking about. The play is built on that which came before it—a battle, letters to loved ones, songs of longing and grief, lives lost in unimaginable violence. And beyond that, it’s shaped by the poetry of T. S. Eliot. It’s influenced by the plays of Tennessee Williams such as The Glass Menagerie. And because it’s a play, it’s shaped

by the craft of a director, the art of the set designer, and the performances of the actors.

Each of the creative acts that came together to form The Battle of Franklin, have reached into the mist and attempted to pull something back, each planting signposts pointing the way of the human soul and its longings and aspirations, and now, through this communal work I have added my signpost to theirs, hopefully pointing farther and higher toward the unseen destination that lies around the bend. The road, you see, is taking us somewhere. Pain and loneliness and suffering and hatred will not have the last word. What is the Cross if not a signpost on which is written: “Come this way. Come over this hill?”

The Author of our faith is fast at his work, and he invites us to join in that work with him. He’s left his signpost, and he calls us to leave them too. He calls us to remind the world that it’s going to be remade. It will one day be rewritten into the epic of the universe, and we will sing it’s ballad in the streets.

PETE PETERSON LIVES IN NASHVILLE WITH HIS WIFE, JENNIFER, WHERE HE'S THE EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF THE RABBIT ROOM AND MANAGING EDITOR OF RABBIT ROOM PRESS. HIS PLAY, THE BATTLE OF FRANKLIN, TAKES PLACE IN ONE OF THE DARKEST PERIODS OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR AND EXPLORES THEMES OF FAMILY, HISTORY, AND FAITH. THE FOLLOWING KEYNOTE ADDRESS WAS GIVEN DURING THE ANNUAL CHRISTIAN WRITERS CONFERENCE AT GROVE CITY COLLEGE ON MARCH 23, 2018.

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Erin Balserak

EPONYMOUS

Time, a dissection; one and one and one and one, stop, breathe, think, you are going to die. Time, a cremation; feel the seconds fizzle out, solipsism slips into my irises, puts up a for sale sign, and poses just one question, (there was only ever one question if we’re being honest) the one being the question of anonymous versus eponymous, dancing in celestial agony, entropy, a maelstrom of strings set in motion by invisible fingers sometime long before cognizance. Critics can’t quite decide, mixed reviews manifest in lengths of rope and flowers on tombs. Blurry voices rushing past form a cacophony that in turn forms us, the clay is wet under fingers and easy to shape, spinning swirling into derivatives on derivatives (homo sapiens can be defined as creation continually creating) and still we spin, dizzied stumbling scintilla popping in our vision; look up and out and away and occasionally, just for a moment, you will feel it, but not see it, and that is all you will be given. (In the secular age we have turned from the stars to one another, but we have not found peace.) Do not be fooled, this is merely regurgitation, tentative designation of banal platitudes scattered across the continents, listen carefullyall of this is already written in ink on the soles of your feet.

ERIN Balserak (’20) IS A SELECTIVELY OPINIONATED PHILOSOPHY AND POLITICAL SCIENCE MAJOR WHO FIERCELY LOVES WORDS, UNANSWERABLE QUESTIONS, SPY KIDS 2: ISLAND OF LOST DREAMS, AND G. K. CHESTERTON.

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A DAUGHTER Kathleen McAlister

“We will begin boarding Flight 1811 to Boston in five minutes. Five minutes until boarding for Boston commences. Thank you.”

The cool female voice echoed through the nearly empty terminal, before being swallowed up in the silence of a pre-dawn airport. A pair of women, bleary-eyed, shifted their purses onto their laps, before sinking back into the black leather seats and breathing deeply of their coffees. A young mother slowly rose, her tiny son’s blond head lolling against her shoulder, his eyes tightly shut, his rosebud lips puckering for a moment before drooping open again in a quiet sigh. Arthur Quinn stood and stretched his trick knee out. This flight was going to be hell on it. Not as bad as Ireland, though, he reminded himself. He bent over to pick up his backpack and felt a hand on his back. “Are they boarding?” Maggie Quinn quietly asked her husband, shivering. Airports were always so cold. In response, he straightened and held out her sweater, which she gratefully pulled on, before slinging her purse over her shoulder. “It’ll be a minute or two,” he said, “You know, if we’re flying east, sun’s gonna be right in our eyes.”

“If we’re flying east? We sure better be. I can’t imagine trying to get to Boston any other way.” “Okay, smart-ass. I’m just saying—”

“I know,” Maggie laughed, slipping her hand into his, “I’m sorry. It was low-hanging fruit.” The rest of the gate stirred, groaning and stretching. A crooked line began to form; the Quinns rolled their single bag over, falling in line behind a family of four. The parents stood silently as the pair of teenage sons tried to fall back asleep standing up. Turning around, the mother attempted to smooth down the taller boy’s wild red curls.

“Hey! Cut it out” the boy batted her hand away, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide the offending hair.

“I wish you would have showered this morning,” she said, “Your hair is just such a mess.” “We left the house at three!”

“Yeah, why’d we have to leave so early?” the other boy chimed in, suddenly not only awake, but alert, sensing an opportunity to voice his complaint, “And why does it matter how we look? Ashley doesn’t even graduate until tomorrow. This is so stupid.” “Hey, don’t be rude,” the father said, “And you had better both shape up before we land. I won’t have you ruining Ashley’s graduation.” The boys sunk back into a sleepy sulkiness. As he was turning back around, the father caught Arthur’s eye. “Kids,” he said, rolling his eyes, “They do have a point about these early flights, you know. All the later flights are so much more expensive. Just another way the airlines get to bleed us dry, you know. High prices, extra fees for bags. You’d think they were losing money. But we have to get out east for our daughter’s graduation. Harvard, you know. What’s taking you to Boston?” “We’re on a way to a graduation, too,” Arthur replied, rubbing his eyes and turning slightly away from the man. “It’s that time of year. What school?” “Boston College.”

“Oh, good school. Ashley looked at it before she settled on Harvard. Catholic, though, you know,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “You like the Pope?”

“Kurt!” his wife swatted him, shaking her head, “Don’t be so nosy. I’m sorry,” she said with a smile to Maggie, “He’s such a people person and he’ll say anything, so he doesn’t understand

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when a question might be a little personal.”

With that, Kurt’s wife forcibly turned him back around, the question of the Pope’s popularity with the Quinns hanging unanswered in the air. Arthur looked down at Maggie and winked. She gave his arm a squeeze and then reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. “Any updates from Nora?” Arthur asked.

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m checking,” Maggie scrolled through her phone, peering at it over her glasses, “Aw,” she held out her phone to Arthur, “Doesn’t she look sweet in that photo?” “She sure does.”

“She’s such a beauty. I hope she’s enjoying these last few days with her college friends.” “I’m sure she is. It’ll be real nice to see her again.” “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year,” Maggie paused. “Do you think--”

The line began to move, her thoughts trailing off, lost in the sudden shuffle to board. Arthur rolled their bag forward, fishing in his shirt pocket for their boarding passes.

“Have a nice flight,” the agent smiled, scanning their passes. “Thanks,” Arthur said, and they stepped into the tunnel, leaving Iowa behind. j

Like the Liffey River, the streets of Dublin never seemed to go in a straight line. Winding in from the sea and out into the emerald countryside, the river was a reminder of the fairytale world outside of the bustling European city that Dublin had become in the past few decades. The streets, however, were just a nuisance. Maggie was sure they would never go a day without getting lost. At least the Irish were all very friendly and happy to direct a couple of directionally-challenged American tourists.

The tour group decided to take a morning off and forgo Dublinia in favor of St. Stephen’s Green and the Iveagh Gardens while the morning was still quiet. Much of the group, not quite over the jet lag yet, opted to stay back in the hotel and sleep. Maggie, however, was determined to see as much of Dublin as possible on her own and by that, she meant with Arthur. By some miracle on that cool, grey morning, the Quinns found themselves actually at St. Stephen’s Green. Except for a thousand pigeons and a few swans, the park was nearly empty. Sitting on a bench along the path, Arthur and Maggie watched a couple of joggers pass. A few minutes went by before Arthur’s stomach interrupted their shared reverie. “Sorry,” he grinned, “just ignore it.”

It growled again, a little louder this time.

“Come on,” Maggie said, standing up, “I need some real coffee anyway. The instant stuff just doesn’t do it for me.”

“Where are we going?” Arthur said, limping after her. Maggie stopped, smiling, and held out her hand. “I don’t know.”

They made their way through the park and out onto the street. Turning left, Maggie led Arthur further from the bustle of city center into a neighborhood of brick row houses, the front doors all distinctively vibrant.

“Mags,” Arthur said, “I think we would have a better chance of finding someplace back where all the stores are.”

“Trust me,” she said, squeezing his hand. Turning a corner, the smell of fresh bread and coffee hit them. Tucked away among the houses, a small café overflowed with bright flowers and the happy chatter of regular patrons. “The Morning Dew. See.” A large crowd of young professionals,

dressed smartly in suits, exited as the Quinns crossed the street. Now practically empty, the little café seemed smaller, a tiny white room with dark wood floors echoing with the constant bubbling of coffee percolating. “I hope we didn’t scare them off,” Arthur said to Maggie.

“Ah no, ye didn’t. The bus leaves from the next corner at half-eight,” a young woman, wiping down the tables to the left of them, said smiling. Her grey eyes sparkled darkly out of her pale face and she flipped the long braid of silky auburn hair behind her as she straightened, “Y’alright?” “Yes, we’re fine,” Maggie said, peering at the small print on the menu hanging behind the counter.

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come out of the oven ten minutes ago.” “We’ll try that.”

Maggie and Arthur chose a small round table in the corner with a view out the front windows of the drowsy sylvan street. It seemed that they had stepped out of 21st Century Dublin and into the past, back when it was a truly Irish city of homes and not just tourists.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The girl set a glass carafe in the middle of the table, covering the grounds with a splash of hot water. Expanding in the filter, the grounds bubbled and the warm, earthy scent of coffee bloomed, swirling and rising with the steam. She poured the rest of the water in after a few seconds and the coffee began dripping into the carafe.

Something about this amused the girl and she gave a contained chuckle. “Sorry. I meant what can I get you?”

“It is lovely. This is more what I was expecting Dublin to be like,” Maggie said. The girl’s eyes laughed, she noticed, but no reply came, “Is this what you were expecting when you first arrived?”

“You’re American,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. Arthur looked at her in surprise.

“Where are you from?” Arthur asked, passing a mug to Maggie.

Her voice suddenly sounded different, Maggie noticed. The accent that had colored her first statement, slid off her voice, the vowels becoming long and narrow, the lilt giving way to the staccato of an American accent.

“And so are you,” the girl said simply, tucking the cloth she’d been wiping the table with into the waistband of her jeans and walking around behind the counter. “I expect you’re looking for real coffee.” “Well, yes, actually.”

“I recommend getting the pour-over for two. It’s better than the drip coffee,” Maggie nodded. “Would you like anything to eat?” “Do you have any recommendations?” Arthur asked, eying the pastry case.

“The scones are good, but I like them better with tea. The barmbrack’s nice and it’s just

“It’s what all Americans expect. This or little white-washed cottages with low-stone walls and a view of the sea. And sheep. Lots of sheep,” she said, placing the kettle of hot water on a hot pad, her cheeks flushed from the steam.

“I’m from Boston,” she said, “You?” “Des Moines. Iowa.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Iowa,” she tilted her head to the left, knitting her eyebrows together. “No. I haven’t. I’ll get you a couple of plates and the barmbrack.” “Thank you…” Maggie asked. “Nora.”

“Thank you, Nora.”

The Quinns enjoyed that morning more than they had any other in Ireland. The cafe tucked away in the cozy neighborhood that they later discovered was called Portobello was un-

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hurried and every bit as Irish as they could have hoped. Except for Nora. She was American.

Every day for the next week, Maggie and Arthur found their way back to The Morning Dew at half-eight. Nora always greeted them with an easy smile and a fresh pot of coffee, their corner table set and waiting. After a few minutes tidying up, she would join them, at once both curious and reticent. She talked of the city, the cafe, Yeats, her flat-mate, Siobhan. She took a few weeks off, back in March, she told them, to tour Ireland. The West Coast had been her favorite--the wild ocean crashing off the rocky cliffs, deep blue-grey against soft white and eye-wateringly green even in late winter. It was a place she dreamed of now, she said, every night as she fell asleep. She had tried painting it, but it just didn’t do it justice. But she never talked of home. So the Quinns did. They talked of Iowa and the bad winter, their neighbors, and of their dream of seeing their homeland. “But it doesn’t really feel like coming home,” Arthur said one morning. “Doesn’t it?” Nora tilted her head.

“Not really. It’s been a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong,” Arthur popped the last corner of bread into his mouth, “but it’s not home.” Nora smiled sadly. “No, it isn’t,” she said simply, the bell over the door jingling. She stood up, her hair redder in the yellow light. “Hiya,” she called, the meticulous accent thicker than before. j

Jolting awake, Maggie’s head popped up off Arthur’s shoulder somewhere over Ohio. From the look in her eyes, she’d had her dream again. Arthur smoothed the hair away from her face, tucking a blond strand behind her ear. She laid her head back down.

“It was only a dream,” he whispered over her.

“I know,” drifted up to Arthur, thick with sleep and sadness. He kissed the top of her head. A minute or two later, he felt her relax again. He stretched his bad knee out and looked around. He could see the wild red curls of the boy from the gate sticking up above a seat a few rows ahead. Across the aisle, a little girl colored quietly, stopping to take a sip from a juice box and show her mother her progress on the ninja fairy princess. Arthur caught the mother’s eye and smiled at her.

Once upon a time, he had imagined every mother he saw as Maggie. She was born to have kids, with her endless patience and nurturing spirit. And he couldn’t imagine anything better than to teach a son how to pitch a fastball or tag a calf unless it was to hold a daughter in his arms to sing her to sleep or twirl her around the dancefloor at her wedding. Maggie never believed him when he said that all he wanted was a daughter, but it was the god-honest truth.

For years they had picked out names, painted rooms, and made a lifetime of plans. But the baby never came. It just wasn’t meant to be, Maggie had said once, as they sat silently in their car in the parking lot of the hospital after another miscarriage. God just has other plans for you, their pastor had told them. Arthur felt cheated. But he couldn’t imagine what Maggie felt. The last pregnancy--their last hope--had been the hardest. He awoke one morning to Maggie moaning, their sheets stained in blood. Thirty weeks in, farther than they’d ever gotten before, they lost the baby--a girl--and part of Maggie’s uterus. As she had lain in the hospital bed, tears leaking from the corners of her blue eyes, Maggie had told Arthur about the dream she’d had before she had woken up to the searing pain. She was collecting the laundry from the line in their backyard, watching the sky turn green with an approaching storm,

when she began to hear a baby wailing from somewhere nearby. She knew it was hers, she said, but she couldn’t find it, couldn’t comfort it. Suddenly, to the west, a tornado touched down and at that very moment, the crying stopped. But she was rooted to the spot and could only watch in the deafening silence as the tornado approached, sucking up their barn, the chicken coop, their house. And then, right before it reached her, right before she woke up, she saw the baby, lying in the laundry basket on the ground, cold and blue. She still had that dream, all these years later. And Arthur couldn’t do anything about it. j

Perched on a rock off the Howth Head walking path, Nora studied the sea. Her sandwich, two bites in, hung forgotten in her hand. Arthur and Maggie polished off a bag of bacon crisps, their crunching and occasional words lost in the wind coming in off the water. The Quinns were leaving, going back home in the next two days, so Nora had taken the day off work to show them one of her favorite spots in all of Ireland, just a short train ride north of Dublin. With their packed lunches, they had wandered through the little fishing village before setting off on the walk up to Howth Head. The day was cool and windy, the sky a bright gray, and the cliffs glowed an almost neon green. Nora’s usual cheerful chatter had given way to an unexpected solemnity as they had approached the top. “D’you ever wish you could just throw yourself into the waves?” Nora’s voice broke the silence, her eyes fixed on the silver horizon.

“Well, we’re from Iowa,” Arthur said lightly. Maggie elbowed him between the ribs. “When I look at the ocean, I almost feel like it’s calling to me, calling me home. Not back to Boston. Somewhere else, somewhere

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I just can’t get to, somewhere inside the ocean or above it or . . .” Nora trailed off. Her words hung in the salty air for a moment, “But it seems as though it would be a nice place to rest, cool and gentle.” A seagull squawked. Remembering her sandwich, Nora quickly polished it off. She turned away from the sea and smiled at the Quinns. It was like the sun had come out.

“Why are you here?” Maggie asked Nora, as they stood up to head back to Howth, “In Ireland?”

“I took a gap year,” Nora gently reminded her. Maggie shook her head.

“Well, yes, I know that. But why Ireland?” “I had hoped it would feel like home. “It didn’t?” “It didn’t.”

The next day, the Quinns made their final trek through Dublin to The Morning Dew. As usual, the cafe was quiet and their table was ready. Today, though, a vase of flowers and a cake waited for them, Nora smiling beside it, her head quirked to the side. “All this for us?” Arthur asked as they sat down.

“Of course,” Nora said, pouring them each a cup of fresh coffee and sitting down, “I couldn’t let you leave without a little party.” “Well, uh, we got you something,” Arthur said, nudging Maggie. Nora’s eyes widened as Maggie pulled a thin, worn green book from her purse.

“We didn’t know what to get you, since all the touristy things seemed. . . wrong. But we stumbled across this little used bookshop the other day and I asked if they had any Yeats,” Maggie trailed off shyly, “I remembered you liked Yeats and the first poem in there ‘To a Child Dancing upon the Shore,’ well, it remind-

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ed me of you and the sea, so here you go. Thanks for hanging out with a couple of old folks.” Nora took the book, her eyes bright, and opened it gently.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, “thank you.” She cleared her throat and looked up, “You’ve been so good to me. Who knew I’d find a second set of American parents in Ireland?” Maggie blinked furiously and Arthur coughed. Nora just smiled. j

The Quinns stood in a corner, sipping punch and watching the crowd of Bostonians mingle. Nora’s graduation had been beautiful. She had been beautiful. And her family had been so kind to invite them to the party afterwards. But they still felt so out of place. It seemed like everyone knew each other.

When they had first gotten off the plane, Maggie had had doubts. What if Nora hadn’t really wanted them to come, but had just felt obligated to invite them, she had asked Arthur.

“Maggie,” he had said, “you cried when you opened the invitation. Do you want to be here?” “Of course I do.” “Well then.”

“But that doesn’t mean she want us here.” “Then she shouldn’t have invited us.”

They had spent their afternoon sightseeing, ate an early dinner, and were in bed by nine. But neither slept well. That, combined with another early morning and a long ceremony, was making it hard to keep their eyes open. They were discussing heading back to the hotel when,

“Maggie! Arthur!” Nora bounded across the room to them, her gown flowing out behind her, “You came!” “Of course we did,” Maggie laughed, hugging her.

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Arthur said, as Nora beamed up at them, “You’re like our daughter.”

OCEAN BREEZE Eric Gardner

The sea, the sky, the sun, a single shell— collected pictures faded on postcards. They catch me off-guard like a riptide pull that drags me out and to the right, and I enter the restless surf, the beating waves beyond the bar. It’s cold, you know— the sea. Maybe refreshing cool: a tender arm caressing spine and soul. I turn around to see the shore is gone, at least the part I know. It’s all new now for the current pulls me along its way. My way is past. I pick a postcard up; the cashier smiles. I hand to her my find: a piece of it. One dollar poorer; clutching, walking. Then I exit out and to the right. The rough boards beneath my feet come and go. The sea remains the same. I cross a dune; a cloud shades me as I walk on fine glass. I sit and write: “The ocean’s breeze seduces me to stay and watch the waves’ eternal-brief farewell.”

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Summer 2018

KILLARNEY Paige Kraynak

A nippy flow of the wind in my face gave me chills As I walked past the empty shops on that early weekend-morn. The luminous shade of yellow streetlights attempted to fill the void Of darkness surrounding me. Yet, they did not accomplish much. Frostbite licked my nose, I shrugged deeper in my scarfEnveloping me into a warm haven. A cloud of dread overcame me, As I searched for shelter I could find none. The shops surrounding me wouldn’t open for a while. There was no place to go. Nowhere to wait. I quickened my pace, matching the speed of my heartbeat— Adrift in a land of the unknown. Crows squawked out in rage as they flapped past each other— A chaos of black shadows shrieking, The only noise around me, Aside from that… silence. Dark and eerie— How I begged the sun to rise above me. Some say a stitch in time saves nine, But what if I am number ten?

PAIGE KRAYNAK (’19) BELIEVES THAT IT’S ONE THING TO LEARN ABOUT THE WORLD THROUGH BOOKS AND POEMS, BUT IT’S ANOTHER TO GO OUT AND ACTUALLY EXPERIENCE IT FOR YOURSELF.

THE LAKESIDE HOTEL Philip Herzing

It was close to midnight driving west on I-40, and I hadn’t been drinking. I need you to understand that before I tell you the rest: I never touched a drop, not when I was driving, not when I was in the lost hotel, and not when I staggered out of that cursed place. If you think I’m talking out of my ass, that’s your prerogative. But I was sober, God help me. I was tired, the sort of tired that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. It was in my bones, a feeling that had built up over months and months of working in the same miserable little town I’d been in since the summer. I needed to feel the wind on my face, I needed the heat of an Arizona night. So after work one day I just started driving west. Stopped in Oklahoma City before deciding I needed a couple hundred more miles before I felt myself again. After the sun goes down the highways are like ghost roads; just a few lost souls speeding through the darkness in search of the end of the line. I found mine at the Lakeside Hotel. I pulled over at a visitor’s center after I left Texas behind. The lady said that there was a good hotel and eatery nearby called the Lakeside Hotel, and at that point any bed would have been perfect for me. I was already beginning to realize I’d be driving back most of tomorrow, and day driving takes longer than night driving. I’d topped up my spirit at the expense of my body, but by tomorrow morning I’d be ready to face the world again. My tires crunched on the gravel drive of the Lakeside, and despite the name, there wasn’t any water to be seen. Guess that should have been my first warning. There was a shimmering light on in the window, so I parked in the tiny lot with only two other cars and locked up my car. I had to go

back and roll the windows up; I always forget to do that before I’ve gotten out of the car. I entered the Lakeside, unaware of what awaited me inside. The desk clerk was a dark haired woman who made that frumpy uniform look like a silk gown. Her skin wasn’t sun-kissed so much as sun-frenchkissed; it was the sort of tan that you get from living in the sun and not just bathing in it. Her voice was like a stiff drink—it burned going into my ears and warmed me up from my guts to my cheeks. “What can I help you with, señor?” she said. Her nametag said Marta. “Need room and board for the night,” I said. “Don’t suppose the kitchen is still open at this hour?” “We’re always open, señor,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile. “Will you be wanting the deluxe room or the standard?” “Just the standard.” She typed something into her little computer and then handed me a key. It was surprisingly cool to the touch, like it had been sitting in a bowl of ice. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll bring you to the dining room and let the cook know you’re here.” She brought me to a room with a few tables on the floor and mirrors on the ceiling. The walls were draped with some pink linen, there were no windows or other distinguishing features. A man was sitting alone at one of the tables, nursing a drink and a bad case of resting bitch face. “Lovely place you got here.” I said to the desk lady, who smiled and flicked a lock of silky black hair over her shoulder. “We’re always trying to make it better. We continue to strive for our guests to be comfortable.”

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“Right,” I said. “Someone will be out shortly to take your order,” she said, and turned around back to the front desk. I watched her go until the other patron spoke to me. “Well, that didn’t take much.” “I’m sorry?” I said, looking back at the man. “You. Didn’t take much to get you in here.” He quaffed his drink and wiped his mouth and mustache on his sleeve. “Just a pretty face, sultry eyes, and the old slut strut.” “Excuse me?” I said, my blood simmering beneath my skin. “Nothing personal, man.” The man pulled off his hat to reveal an older man with taut skin. “They get all of us one way or another; I was the same as you once.” I decided to ignore the man and seated myself as far away from him as I could. In a few minutes a server came out with a menu. “Can I interest you in our selection of fine wines and spirits?” she asked. “Yes, I—” I looked up and flinched. It was the same woman from the front desk. “Oh, no need for alarm, señor.” she said, laughing. “At night I pull double duty, and work the kitchen and the desk.” “Right, can I see the wine menu?” I said. I glanced over the list and pointed at a potent looking brew. “Ah, I’m sorry, señor, but the sixty-nine red is out of stock,” Marta said. “I can get you one of our other vintages, however.” I agreed and she clopped into the kitchen. I looked away pointedly, and I suspect I heard the other customer sniggering to himself. I listened to the clink of the ice in his drink, waiting for him to say something, but he was silent. My hands were still buzz-

ing with the vibration of the road; I shook them to get rid of the staticky feeling. In another room, I heard a piano start playing, and heard a few voices raise a cheer. Curious, I rose to seek them out. “I wouldn’t go any further in if I were you,” the other man said, brushing his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. I said nothing, and pushed open the door nearest the sounds of plinking keys. I followed a winding hallway, trying to find the music and the voices. Any company had to be better than the drunk in the dining room, and after his comments I didn’t feel right chatting with Marta. I turned left and right, through a hallway that seemed endless, but the music always seemed to be just a few feet ahead of me. Finally I pushed open a door and entered a room full of people in fine dress. The music stopped, and everyone turned to look at me. A man in a black suit threw his arms in the air at the sight of me, and said, “Welcome friend! We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” He gestured to the pianist, who resumed his playing with great enthusiasm. He plucked a drink from a passing server and pushed it into my hand. I grinned and accepted it; these people were obviously as sauced as the man in the dining room. But, free booze is free booze, so I decided I could pretend to be one of them before heading to bed. Some of the people started dancing. The ladies twirled their dresses and circled their partners before linking arms with one another and spinning. The men, not to be outdone, tapped their feet and leapt high, kicking their black shoes before landing on the floor with a clap.

I felt a finger tap my shoulder and turned to see a woman behind me. She wore a black dress with a satin sash across her hips, and a wide-brimmed hat that was lowered over her face. She offered me a hand, and nodded to the dancing couples on the floor. For a moment, I was wary, but a covert appraisal of the woman’s figure convinced me that dancing was a good idea. I put an arm around her waist and took her hand, entering the swirling mass of colorful dancers. I don’t know how long we danced, but I remember leaping and sliding and twisting to the music. When the music slowed, the woman pulled me away, handing me a drink. “Who are you?” I said, panting. “You know my name,” she said, her vodka-voice burning my ears. “I may know your name, but I don’t know who you are,” I said, wondering how Marta could work the desk, work the kitchen, and still come back here to dance with the customers. She threw back her head and laughed. “Too true, señor. The magic of a place like this is that we never truly know each other.” “A place like this?” I asked. “A convergence of travelers,” she said. Her lips were painted red, leaving a smudge on her glass. “We will never be together like this again; only chance has brought us to the same place tonight.” “Seems like an empty existence to me.” “Not if you live in the moment. You could spend a whole lifetime here, and wake up in the morning with a headache and not remember any of it.” She leaned close to me, saying, “I wonder what you’ll forget tomorrow morning.”

“I can think of a few things I’d like to remember,” I said, putting her hand in mine. The pianist switched songs to a tune I’d heard years ago, an Eagles song, although I couldn’t remember the name. I lifted up the brim of her hat and moved closer than ever, and blanched at the face under the hat. Eyeless sockets gaped at me, and brilliant white teeth grinned out of a pale skull. I tried to pull away, but she grabbed my arm with a skeletal hand and drew me in close. She held my drink to my lips and pressed the glass hard, trying to force it down my throat. I kept my lips shut and struggled in her cold grip. “Don’t you want a drink?” she said, her jaw clacking and creaking as it bounced up and down on her skull. “Here, try it.” She downed the drink herself and pulled me in by the neck of my shirt for a kiss. Impossibly, I felt a tongue trying to worm my lips open. I wanted to scream, but I felt deep down that I mustn’t open my mouth, that there must be something in the drink. I struck the woman in the head, and with a clatter she crumpled to the floor, dress wafting down to a pile of bones. Looking at the other guests, I saw that they too had turned from flesh to bone, sightless eyes boring into me, mouthless grins opening like the gates of Hell. I dashed from the room, down the winding corridor. I heard a rattling rush behind me, and my ears burned with Marta’s voice, “You can’t escape us señor. Stay, drink, forget. You might even enjoy yourself.” I gasped for breath and sprinted through twists and turns, swiping at my mouth to rid my lips of her sickening aroma. I burst into the dining room and saw the other man turn to me. His face was

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Summer 2018

as bereft of flesh as the others, but his mustache remained. His eyes glinted with a fell light, and he lunged at me. I threw a table at him, stumbling to the front desk. Marta was already there, her brown skin rolling off of her hidden form in great droplets. “Señor, please,” she pouted, “we just want to serve you.” I pushed myself to ignore her shapely figure and brown eyes, and ran out the door. I got into my car and drove east, and I didn’t look back until I’d crossed the state line. You can disbelieve me if you want, but I have the proof right here. This key is from the Lakeside hotel, and since that night I’ve not stopped moving. Every motel, every cozy little comfort inn could be

another Lakeside. This little hunk of metal pops up in my pocket no matter where I leave it. The hotel has my reservation, and one day I’m going to wake up screaming, surrounded by the dead, as my skin peels away and I become as empty and soulless as they are. But enough about me. Waitress! Bring me and my friend here a bottle of your sixty-nine red. Out again, huh? Well, no matter. Bring us that apple ale. You’ll like this drink; it quenches a thirst you didn’t know you had. Just about now, you look like you could use a refreshing drink. It tastes a little sour at first, but if you’re living for the moment, it’ll fill you right up, and you’ll never drink anything else.

PHILIP HERZING ‘18 HAS NEVER BEEN ONE TO MINCE WORDS, BUT HE HAS BEEN KNOWN TO DICE THEM FROM TIME TO TIME.

A SYMPOSIUM Grant Yurisic

a symposium: "it's bombs all the way down." — or something like that. who is afraid of it these days? don't you feel the earth trembling? it shakes, lights up, and drowns itself all the time — and now we can tell it to move. ekphrasis. icarus. we were the ones who melted his wings — what were we supposed to do? he was found in the crater left behind by elugelab, the island we erased; there wasn't an ark this time. he wore a scorched seabird around his neck, an albatross. now here we are; wrapping the earth in our nuclear ouroboros. if we keep stacking bombs, we will reach past the clouds eventually. if we don't, at least they won't reach it either. Note: Inspired by seeing a performance of "End of the World with Symposium to Follow" by Arthur Kopit.

GRANT YURISIC (’19) WANTS TO MAKE THINGS THAT MAKE PEOPLE FEEL.

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Summer 2018

Q DARING CHOCOLATE CAKE

Sarah Horn

Like any well-minded individual, I am a fan of consuming anything with chocolate within it. Honestly speaking, my mother would definitely respond the same to this matter. My memories of chocolate cake usually revolve around boxes of Betty Crocker and matching frosting cans. However, as I entered high school, I found my own love of baking. It first manifested in basic cupcakes or cookies, but my ambitions grew into six-layered cakes, or strange designs incorporated into them. I used to watch YouTube videos on bizarre things I could try and my mother wholeheartedly supported my endeavors in the kitchen. The following cake recipe I first made for a class in school. It was not a Home Economics class; I actually think it was for Mythology and I had just promised to bake a cake. Anyways, I went hunting for a good recipe because too often cakes from scratch ended up way too dense to be delicious. Robyn Stone’s recipe is by far the best one I have ever followed. Moving away from just cake talk, I am a big fan of tying literature into everyday life. So often great writers find the most beautiful and insightful thoughts in mundane tasks—like baking, for example. I could go with the classic, “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man,” by Mother Goose, but Noah Eli Gordon offers a bit more deeper integration of interest into the mundane. Noah Eli Gordon is a poet of the modern era who grew up in both Ohio and Florida. Throughout his schooling he earned a BA and MFA in poetry. He went on to later win the San Francisco State Poetry Prize for various works. He is well known for his fun yet combined style of text. Gordon’s poem looks at not just the mundane qualities of cake, but also the wash of emotions people may feel when experiencing it. He capitalizes on the mix of receiving what you want and discovering what you truly want.

Cake Look, you want it you devour it and then, then good as it was you realize it wasn’t what you exactly wanted what you wanted exactly was wanting

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THE BEST CHOCOLATE CAKE [EVER] Prep Time

15 Minutes

Cook Time

Total Time

30 Minutes

45 Minutes

Serves: 12 Makes: Double Layer Cake

Ingredients • • • • • •

2 cups all-purpose flour 2 cups sugar ¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder 2 teaspoons baking powder 1½ teaspoons baking soda 1 teaspoon salt

• • • • • •

1 teaspoon espresso powder 1 cup milk ½ cup vegetable oil 2 large eggs 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 cup boiling water

Instructions Preheat oven to 350º F. Prepare two 9-inch cake pans by buttering and lightly flouring the bottom and sides of the pans.

For the chocolate cake: 1. Add flour, sugar, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, salt and espresso powder to a stand mixer. Stir through flour mixture until combined well and evenly mixed. 2. Add milk, vegetable oil, eggs, and vanilla to dry mixture and mix on medium speed until well combined. Reduce speed and carefully add boiling water to the cake batter until well combined. 3. For the boiling water, you can traditional boil it on the stove or just heat up a cup of it in the microwave. The batter will be very thin after the water is added. 4. Distribute cake batter evenly between the two prepared cake pans. Bake for 30-35 minutes, until a toothpick or cake tester inserted in the center of the chocolate cake comes out clean. 5. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for about 10 minutes, remove from the pan and cool completely. 6. I love to do a frosting that is a mix of buttercream and cream cheese frostings. It is an easy job that usually consists of one 8oz package of cream cheese and three sticks of butter. Whip these two ingredients together, add a little milk, expresso powder, vanilla extract, and a cup of cocoa powder. 7. Then do a cup at a time of powdered sugar while the mixer is going. It’s hard to say how much to exactly use, I play it by sight and taste until I get a thick chocolate frosting.

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I swear by this recipe for any type of chocolate cake. It even works perfectly for cupcakes if a cake is too much commitment. I swear, if you bake this cake and decorate it to the best of your own abilities, your guests will be impressed. Not only is it a rich chocolate cake, but the texture is perfect. It has the same moist consistency as a Betty Crocker mix, but it is completely homemade. It is good to serve after the cake is cooled and frosted; however, the cake is even better if the slice is warmed up in the microwave for about 30 seconds. This action causes the cake to become more like a warm chocolate lava cake, but either way it is an excellent dessert that is ready to impress any guest.

A TRUE MINNESOTA GIRL, SARAH HORN IS CURRENTLY A FRESHMAN AT GROVE CITY COLLEGE WHERE SHE SATES HER LOVE OF LITERATURE AS A SECONDARY EDUCATION MAJOR IN ENGLISH AND COMMUNICATION.

ASH WEDNESDAY Katie Shilling

The pastor’s thumb is caked with ash, a stark, black contrast against his crisp, white robes. His hand hovers in the air. He whispers a sentence over me as he smears the ash on my forehead, with two quick motions (down, across) that drag against my skin in a marking that is smooth and yet abrasive at the same time. From every face in the room, the same cross confronts me. Directly underneath, a stranger’s bright eyes look out to meet mine, hesitantly. Remember, our gazes whisper, thou art dust.

My cross feels thick and heavy. The silence encroaches upon me. We both look away. Afterwards, I hold Liza’s small face between my hands and use water to retrace the pastor’s motions, lifting the ash from her forehead. She beams up at me and skips away, her feet barely touching the ground.

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HUNTING ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA Kathleen McAlister

Standing in the cold surf that final day, watching clouds drift out to sea, swollen and dark with salty raindrops the size of quarters, I longed to follow. Waves broke, rushing to shore, only to be pulled back as if on a string, the white foamy edge drawing lines in the sand, water pooling around my ankles. The rushing water, the persistent wind that animates the red flag flapping its warning from the safety of creaking palm trees, both pull impatiently on the hem of my skirtâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; persistent toddlers urging me into the tide. Looking out at the horizon, I feel the urge to throw myself into the waves, let them carry me out to that distant point where sea and sky become one, to be dissolved into that infinite swell, to ride on that everlasting crest where the ocean itself sings hosannas from its unfathomable depths, to reach the end of the world and taste the sweet water. The ocean roars, drowning the world out,

“Stand in the waves, feel the pull of the tide beneath your feet, the sand eroding between your toes. Stand in the waves, feel the world’s liquid turn as though time and space can be carried off by the brine. Stand in the waves, feel the call of the siren swimming just off the shore. Listen to her song if you dare. For in shining waves she hides the truth of danger and disaster, the hardness of water and the temper of the moon.” I turn and see Olivia’s red shirt shining from the top of the lighthouse, braving the wind and heights, leading me back to shore. the end may be near, but we can’t get there from here.

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Hearts & Minds Bookstore Dallastown, PA heartsandmindsbooks.com

the

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The Quad c/o Kathleen McAlister GCC# 1927 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127

Summer 2018

VOLUME 10 ISSUE 4