Shards of Light - Volume 4 by John Brown University

Volume 4

John Brown University’s l i t e r at u r e & a r t j ou r n a l

volu m e

Editorial Staff Caroline White Abby Babcock

m a n ag i n g e di t or p r o s e e di t or p oe t ry e di t or

McK inley Dirks

g r a p h ic s e di t or

Nattilie K irby

a s s o c i at e e di t or s

Cole Blagg Elisa Chan Lydia DeGisi Kelly Leamon

The world of creative content can be an exceedingly

dark place that promotes the estrangement of faith from creativity, but, as Christians we should strive to bring light and hope to our readers and viewers. Our work has the

Olivia Lee

potential to renew our culture and be a part of a greater

William Newton

dialogue, ultimately fulf illing our God-given mandate to

Rachael Oatman Julianne Petersen Kat Shaneck Reah Umlauf

further the K ingdom of God. With the hope of the Gospel and the grace of God, we seek to bring redemption in our words, in our art, and in our lives. We are Shards of Light

Contents

My Dad, The Bug Guy | Anna Noden 39

Merge | Sam Patterson 8

The Caregiver | Kezziah Clark 42

cedro y veviter e . br a n u m

Merge by Sam Patterson

Climate Change r e a h u m l au f

I think the earth is haunted? I was turning through my closet when something clattered to the tile. A little purple water gun. It’d been there for ages, perhaps, But still I saw condensation prickling against the inside of the plastic. Water Trapped Warm And a thought struck me suddenly, Like a childhood playground’s war games, Of the trillion restless souls Bubbling up against the atmosphere Wrathful Weightless Warm Scratching at the ozone, Screaming for heaven. And I wondered, sadly, If I was living on a funeral pyre. 8

El cedro, El vetiver,

Cedar, Vetiver,

La sensación de una mantis encontrada en los pinos.

The feeling of finding a mantis concealed in the pines.

La profundidad nueva, La envergadura nueva,

New sensations, New realizations,

La sensación de un durazno recogido durante el verano caluroso.

The feeling of a warm peach picked on a hot summer day.

La alma mayor y clara, La vida joven y brillante,

Soft old soul, Young bright eyes,

La sensación de una cama hecha de musgo protegido por un castro de mora.

The feeling of a bed of moss protected by a blackberry fortress.

La ideología anticuada y arando, La tierra novata y desamparada,

Old, tilling ideologies Young, vulnerable soil

La sensación de grava incrustada debajo de mis uñas.

The feeling of sandy, acidic dirt embedded under my nails.

La aprensión Queer, La piedra que cae,

Queer fear, Falling stones,

La sensación de insectos de la calabaza, minúsculo, joven y blanco al anochecer.

The feeling of tiny white squash bugs emerging at dusk.

El amanecer rosa, El roció multa,

A rose dawn, Fine mist,

La sensación de tierra

The feeling of earth

asentada.

settled.

To Last-Year Me mc k i di r k s

Where do I begin, my dear? Today is payday. For a week and a half, I’ve worked as a teller at Arvest Bank in Siloam Springs, Arkansas. It’s the location on Holly Street. You know, the same one you would drive past to get to McDonald’s on the other side of the highway at two in the morning during your first year of college? Yes, I wrote “teller.” I know it’s the job you thought you’d never want to do every time Mama suggested you apply for it. Turns out, hon, there’s a shortage of front desk positions in Arkansas, and I’m well past the high school years of fast-food jobs. Besides, being a teller is only a placeholder, a moneymaking position while I finish college and continue writing. You want to see behind the mysterious wall of the drive-thru lane, don’t you? The teller line is a narrow corridor of black laminate counters. There are rows of drawers and small safes, most of them locked. Some of them hold the cash boxes for each computer station. Others have blank debit cards, clipboards, and the robbery kit. At each station, there are two hidden buttons—alarms. (I’d like to tell you more about these “in-case-of-robbery procedures,” but I really can’t because it’s a security risk.) These buttons and their fellow alarm procedures are kind of anxiety-raising, partly because I don’t want to set off any alarms accidently, mostly because there might be scenarios in which I’m supposed to set them off. A wall of windows displays a flea market of lifted F-150s, peeling minivans, and royal blue Camaros idling in lines, waiting to be greeted. Oh, you’ll find this part most interesting. On the window side, there are two rectangular apparatuses suspended above the counter between the computers. These fixtures corral the drive-thru tubes. There’s a muffled woosh and a thump. Then, a glass pane slides up and we can retrieve the tube. A green arrow on the panel below the glass sends the clear parcel careening back out to the customer. It’s my favorite activity, but I’m always paranoid I’m going to send a tube up the wrong tunnel. Often, I check the number on top of the tube three times before I press send. You would love the people here, especially Samantha. She’s the temporary branch manager. This afternoon, I’m working the commercial lane—the lane that nobody wants to work in. Samantha nearly walks past me but stops. “Look at this, McKinley,” she exclaims. I pause from the transaction I’ve been attempting and turn to her. “Look how short I am!” She’s taken off her shoes, which we sometimes do in the afternoon of a long day (but don’t tell anyone). You know I’m not tall, but she’s looking up to talk to me. 10

As You Go by Katelyn Kingcade

“Well, Sam—” I glance down at my gray wedge shoes—“I’m wearing heels, and I’m standing on a cushy mat that gives me even more inches.” She looks a moment. “Still! I’m so short!” She gestures her hand from my shoes up to the top of her head. “It’s terrible!” But she’s laughing. She tussles a hand through her dark bangs. I giggle with her and—“Hey, while you’re over here”—hold up a customer’s check and ask her help to untangle the steps for this loan payment. She pulls her rose pink glasses down from her forehead and adjusts her mask. The masks! You have no idea, do you? Now I really don’t know where to begin.

So, there’s a pandemic this year. You know, the kind of disease in movies that’s super contagious and everyone might die—but probably not—but maybe? Yeah, one of those. It’s called COVID-19, or the coronavirus. It’s mostly a respiratory sickness, I think. Even the experts don’t seem to be certain. One of numerous changing regulations, wearing masks is a mandatory or strongly recommended accessory in any building or crowded outdoor place. I have to wear one to work every day. It’s dark blue with Arvest printed along the top. It sounds weird, I know, but really the biggest setback is how many times I embed my water bottle straw in the fabric when I forget about the mask. Writing more on COVID would take a whole other letter, so, back to work. For the basics, my work is a sequence of details—a long and never identical sequence—entered into the Encore computer software for each transaction. Let me show you. Sometimes I deposit the “chicken checks.” No, I didn’t make the name up. In northwest Arkansas, there are as many chicken houses and their respective processing plants as there are Starbucks in central Colorado. The alliterative describes the several paystubs for the employees at Simmons chicken processing plants. Even Marjorie, the assistant manager, calls them that. She oversaw my first experience depositing them. “Okay, ma’am,” Marjorie says. She taps the stack of checks on the counter to straighten them and lingers at my shoulder. I click away on the computer, queueing the steps in my mind: Select account type and enter the account number > Search > double click—CHECK THE NAME ON THE ACCOUNT—okay, now double click > Checking menu—Marjorie mhms > Personal Deposit without Deposit Ticket > Stamp the check and scan it—she inhales like she might say something, but she doesn’t > now enter the account number—Gee, could you type any slower while Marjorie’s watching?—and the amount of the check > Look over the numbers one more time > now Send. And repeat in numerous variations until you finish the stack or have to ask for help. Marjorie is . . . stressful, but she’d make you laugh. She’s very expressive.

A conversation between Samantha and Marjorie, standing at their computers: Sam: (casually) “I don’t really eat vegetables.”

On the Other Side by Shannon Maxwell Sam: (already giggling) “A meatball marinara.”

Marj: “Ma’am! Ma’am.” She throws her hand out toward Samantha. “You can’t just not eat vegetables! You can’t just get meat at Subway.” Her mouse clicks become more intense the more she talks, though I’m pretty sure it’s subconscious. “Their counter is covered in vegetables *click* and lettuce and things. *click* You have to get *click* something *click* green.” *click click* Sam and the rest of us are gasping with laughter. I have a question about cashing this $300 dollar check, though, so I suck in a breath and make eye contact with Marjorie. She’s smiling behind her mask, I assume, because her eyes wrinkle at the corners. She tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and flits to my station. “What is it, ma’am? Do you need help?” She calls everyone ma’am, including inanimate objects. Don’t ask me why, hon, I don’t know. So, except for having to navigate my straw under my mask to get a drink and asking three dozen questions and then a couple more every day, the new job isn’t too bad. Do you believe me? Really, I think my coworkers and I all find something to laugh about as often as I find something to ask questions about. But still, I wish I’d have known how much I’d miss working at the golf club. I’d have slowed down the days. Remind me, my girl, what it’s like to feel secure in your job.

Marj: (silent for a second, blinking and dipping her chin) “What! What do you get at Subway?” 12

I remember July of last year, your final summer working for Linda at the club. You loved taking those evening shifts: 3 to 11 pm. You plunked your purse down under the desk and typed the names of Mr. Josey’s guests into rooms in Cottage 1001 for next weekend. Linda, sitting at her computer behind you, marveled at the clack of your typing speed. “This younger generation,” she said. You turned in your swivel chair to hear her chortle. After she went home around 4:30, Dale came in and asked you to triple check Mr. Miller’s transportation to the airport on Saturday morning because he was nervous about the missing flight number. He had to ask you because he’d already bothered your managers too much about it, so they were annoyed. He adjusted his ball cap three times before he left. Head of the Transportation Department was a stressful position, you decided. Poor Dale. At some point in the evening, Travis the sous chef strode past the office. Wrapped in his perpetually stained chef’s coat, he waved and boomed a greeting to you. You flinched at his loud voice in the otherwise empty space, even though he said hi to you almost every evening. You called back a hello. “Tell your dad hi for me!” he added. His footsteps evaporated. Finally, around 10:45, the click-fall of dress shoes approached, and Simpson appeared at the desk, tucking his tie into his briefcase. Even though his first name was Mike, everyone called him by his last name to avoid confusing him with his boss, Mike Gilmour, who also went by his last name. Really, I’m not sure why we did that. “The dining room’s empty for the night, so we’re all leaving,” Simpson told you. As assistant dining manager, it was his responsibility to communicate with the rest of the departments. He glanced out the window to the dark valet lot. “Are you parked close? I could get your car and bring it up closer.” What kind, middle-aged fatherly instincts. He offered every time he left before you did. You declined with a gentle—”No, I’m parked close. It’s okay—” and a smile. I should have told him how much I appreciated the gesture, even though I never needed it. Several minutes later, you shut down the computers, locked the office, and punched out on the iPad time clock. This shift was another few hours of overtime for you, I’m sure. You said goodnight to the nocturnal cleaning crew and stepped out into the parking lot. Inhale a long breath of cool Colorado air for me, remember its smell. Pause outside your truck and wait a minute before you open the door. Stop waiting for the What’s Next of your sophomore year, 2020’s summer job, and the repercussions of a pandemic you can’t yet imagine. Steal another breath of this night’s air. Remember its coolness

Winter in Liechtenstein 15 by Kezziah Clark

On My Tiptoes

lemon in his coffee

The striking red checkered jar of your new favorite jam, Assorted jellies, spreads, and hummus all in the fridge, jam-packed.

grandpa likes lemon in his coffee that’s a lie he doesn’t actually it’s just a joke we tell

l e a h d ol l of f

Who are these dreaded newcomers? Pushing, pushing, Pushing the rest of us to the fringes, jamming, Cramming me against the back corners with the leftovers. Leftovers! What is an avocado anyway? Just look at her. Front row, feeling jammy. Here I sit, back against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with The ol’ eggs and milk. Meanwhile, that red-hot jam Sits pretty, within reach, on the forefront of shelves and Minds alike. I stand on my tiptoes, yet hardly seen. I’m jammed. Dear toast, have you forgotten You go perfectly with butter? With me. But I am old. And Red? She’s new— And she’s your jam.

p e t e r r e x f or d

i don’t remember how the joke started who said it first or if it was based on anything real (like archeology) but since no one ever laughed at plain black coffee someone still cuts lemons with breakfast and we still laugh

Psalm 17 23 by Sam Patterson

Queens rot in towers, too. m a k c of e r

the sun bruises my blankets with her shadows wrap like cats around my ankles Queens live like this Queens rot in towers, too. I can not do anythings but most of all I can not do little things. my sun washed memory whispers away the days the days I used to walk like the sun hushed colors of the earl grey tennis shoes that broil beneath the sun during June

the man in glasses said slow change comes in whispers our nerves regenerate themselves and that takes time and it takes time to remember how my body used to cradle me that outside of closed windows still, you can hear their hearts beating the echoes of worlds and worlds that spin without me rock me to sleep and stay warm when the sun is up

won’t you remind me when you visit and tell me about your runs the way your lungs catch fire and scabs itch what it’s like to touch your toes wash your hair and pick splinters from your hands how it feels to wake with an iron spine just to wilt over your bowls of cereal I don’t remember, can you tell me about the time you watched the stitches close against that cherry red carpet

Toni Morrison 19 by Madison Kunze

An Ode to the Furniture We Are Getting Rid Of k e n dr a c o ok e

One oversized couch, one loveseat (the size of some couches), and one armchair (the size of some loveseats). They aren’t much to look at. At one time I think they were green, brown and white striped, but the fabric has faded—even ripped in strategically hidden places. But these are the pieces that furnished my husband’s first home, when he got his first real job, after 2 years of grad school overseas. He bought them on Craigslist because he liked them and because the seller promised to deliver them for free. They are big and comfortable, even luxurious for a first home. I imagine his friends were sitting on them the night I first heard his voice recorded on my voicemail and I called him back. Our mutual friend Jordan had given him my number. I’d been on a blind date before and it didn’t go well. What did I have to lose though? So I told Jordan to go for it— skeptical that her friend James would actually do anything with my number. But he did, and when I called him back he left his living room where his friends were hanging out, so that he could arrange a first meeting with a girl he’d never met. The first time I saw them was a month or two after our first date. It wasn’t too long before I made myself comfortable there, getting to know a man who made second-hand furniture feel like first-class home. We married, and moved the chunky furniture into our first home together. We honeymooned in the Bahamas—magical! but even so, we looked forward to sitting in the big armchair we now called “ours.” The prospect of ordinary life together, like a comfy chair, enchanted us more than the glamor of a honeymoon resort.

Meanwhile, I’m afraid to say, the furniture grew worse and worse for the wear. Stains and splotches blended together in a greyish film. Admittedly, it was a little gross. Not surprisingly, I sometimes compared my furniture with nicer, newer stuff in the homes of my friends.

We snuggled into the charm of those drab cushions almost every evening of that first married year. We talked over the day, we puzzled over how differently we could think about the world, sometimes we cried, we watched our favorite shows, and mostly we learned to own a new way of life: life as “us.”

Perhaps though, this was one of the greatest gift of the furniture: that in its unfashionable, un-Pinterest-worthiness, it highlighted the true gifts gathering, of making someone feel at home, of resting easy at the end of a long day, of loosening my grip on trying to impress and learning instead to offer what my hands hold right now, not what I hope to grasp someday.

Little by little we made space for each other. I embraced the furniture that wasn’t quite the color I would have chosen, and he embraced the deep blue and yellow throw pillows I put on them. We left the rental when we bought our first house. It wasn’t far, but required us to move the furniture again. Fortunately, we had chosen a house with wide doorways. If our first house was about learning life as “us,” the second was about inviting others into that life. The furniture continued to fade, but our home brightened as people came in to sit down for a while: our church small group, members of our family from Little Rock, Kansas, Colorado and Arizona, a friend from across the street, or across town, and even sometimes from across the world. The two of us became the three of us and the once roomy armchair didn’t hold us so comfortably anymore as my pregnant belly grew. When our son was finally born, we spent hours holding him on that faithful furniture, supporting our arms with pillows and taking turns grabbing catnaps between feedings. 20

Fractals by Abigail Babcock

But someday, we knew we would want new furniture. The time came when neither my husband nor I actually liked our furniture anymore, and we finally admitted it to each other (there were a lot of feelings sewn into those overstuffed cushions, afterall). It’s hard to let go of where you are used to sitting every day—even if it’s a shabby spot. Furniture though, is just furniture. And so, dear oversized, overworn couch, loveseat and armchair, this is an ode to you. You’re worth your weight in life-lessons and sweet memories. Your service will never be forgotten. We wish you well. We are getting new furniture.

Comfortable Lives

ブルーミントドレス by Jessica Thompson

ly di a de g i si

content warning: non-descriptive mentions of suicide Bates was going to talk about New York again. Sanders could hear it in his sigh and could see it in his slacked work pace. Sanders nailed him with a searing glare as the two of them continued to shuck the peylep pods. The last thing either of them should’ve been thinking about was New York. “You know what I miss about New York?” Bates asked, tossing a handful of shucked pods into the woven grass basket. “Yes, I do: Everything but the murder. That’s how every single one of us feels about New York, so there isn’t any point in talking about it, now, is there?” “Well, I’d miss the murder, too, but you exude so much hostility that I feel right at home in that respect.” “Pining about going home can only drive us insane,” Sanders said. “Why am I the only one on this planet who realizes that?” “Nobody’s going to go--” Sanders glared at him. Bates quieted down and continued his shucking. He didn’t go any faster. Brighton had died a full two months ago, anyway. The junior biologist couldn’t survive the revelation that they would never, ever make it back to Earth. If the rest of them had survived that bombshell, you would think they had the psychological wherewithal to endure a few comments about New York, but Sanders was worried about the accumulation. With no way to leave this planet and no outside help, everything would accumulate forever. “I was going to say I miss the bagels.” “How petty.” If Sanders was foolish enough to pine over missing things (which he was not), he would’ve said he missed sleeping in a real bed. — They didn’t have a good place for meetings. The ship they lived out of had sleeping 22

quarters, a control room, and storage bay, and none of those spaces were quite large enough--but of course they weren’t. Space ships have to be built for maximum efficiency, otherwise they might break down on an uninhabited planet or something. And wouldn’t that be awful? So they would gather around a clearing they had made nearby the ship, somewhat resembling a camp site, but with fewer s’mores. At first, their meetings had all centered around arguing with the engineers over whether or not they were really stuck or not, but there wasn’t any way to win that argument--without hyperfuel, it was impossible to reach lightspeed, and there were no other habitable planets within a survivalable distance. And no, you really can’t synthesize hyperfuel on in the wilderness by banging together rocks and sticks like a caveman. Then their meetings moved on to discussing how to fix their communication devices to get a rescue crew, but the engineers eventually convinced them all that yes, that was impossible, too. The next meeting had been called by Grady, a junior pilot and the youngest member of the crew, who had prepared a slideshow for his presentation (he had projected it onto the side of the ship). The first slide read, “An Alternative Food Source: Let’s Eat the Engineers Already.” Ever since then, only Sanders would call meetings, and they were all on the same topic: how to sustainably survive away from Earth. This meeting, he started with the positive. He had learned to do that early on. “We’ve made a lot of progress here, everyone.” He swept his gaze across the group of men--23 in all, since Brighton was gone. “A few months ago, we were still scavenging for our food, one bad search away from going hungry. But we all worked together to find a way to cultivate the peylep plants--special thanks to the botanist team--and now the possibility of starvation is remote.” The group continued looking dour as ever. They must have been thinking about Earth too much--they couldn’t be content if they were still dreaming of Earth. So Sanders pressed on. “We’ve got food, we’ve got clean water, we’ve got shelter. It’s time to look ahead. What’s next?” A hand shot up--one of the engineers. “Yes, Fikkert?” “It’s hard to feel comfortable when everything’s so worn and dirty. Obviously, we’ve been trying to wash our things occasionally in the river, but nothing’s really getting clean.” 24

Thorn in my Side 25 by Sam Patterson

am so proud of what we’ve managed over the past week. The more we build and adapt, the more comfortable our lives are becoming. A special thank you to Suzuki for his work making peylep pods more palatable, to Weitzman for fixing the ship’s air conditioning, and of course to Bates, for heading up the construction for the new living quarters. It certainly is nice to have a little more privacy these days.” The crowd made general rumblings of agreement. “Now, if anyone would like to mention any new needs--” “I’m exhausted!” Grady burst out. “I’m glad about our progress, too, but how about trying to get to a point where we can afford to have some time off?” Sanders was about to dismiss Grady’s suggestion as the whining expected from the baby of the crew, but to his surprise, the rest of the men stared piping up in agreement. “Fine, fair point,” he said, cutting the others off. “We can’t keep pushing ourselves to our limits forever. Your idea can be our next goal.” —

The Empty Streets of Fort Worth by Brooke Baldwin “All right, noting that.” Sanders quickly typed the notes into his tablet. “Other issues?” Their habit was to come up with a list of a few problems first, then to move on to brainstorming how to solve them. “We need to find a way to weave more fabric,” one of the engineers said. “I mean, learning how to clean our clothes thoroughly is a good step, but eventually we’re going to need to replace our things entirely. I’m sure there must be native plants whose fibers we could use, but need to figure out how.” “That’s a bit more long-term, but still, noted.” The list at Sanders’ fingertips grew. Achievable, it was all achievable. They could survive. — Their assistant personnel coordinator killed himself two months later. The crew had finished their first successful weaving venture two days before. — 26

Sanders tapped his stylus against the tablet, a wide but professional smile on his face. “I

“I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this myself,” Sanders commented to Bates one day as they gazed at the swimming hole. “Leisure. Of course people are going to go a little… unwell without any leisure.” Bates squinted at the shining water. “I don’t think that’s the reason we’ve lost two men on this trip.” “Not entirely, no. We’ve also been thinking too much about Earth. And fine, fine, I’ll grant that it’s almost impossible not to think about what we’re missing--but still.” “You think those are the only two factors?” “Well, look at it like this: If we have some work and some rest, and we’re always making progress to things getting a little bit better--that’s not just surviving. That’s life.” “It’s not all there is to life, though.” “It’s how we lived when we worked in New York, wasn’t it? Work, rest, progress. That’s the formula.” “The formula for what?” — Sanders was the last person to speak to Grady, the junior pilot. Grady had been indulging in far too much reminiscing--and after they had been away from Earth for so long. 27

After they had built their new lives to be so comfortable. Sanders had to reprimand him, he didn’t want to reprimand him. Thinking about Earth was deadly. “And why even pine for it?” Sanders had said. “As I recall, plenty of horrible things happened on Earth, too. At this point, with everything we’ve built for ourselves, are our lives here any worse?” “That doesn’t help!” Grady had snapped. And now Sanders was thinking, was stuck on the thought, Usually, when someone young dies, they say he had so much to live for. But did he? Sanders had thought he did. He had thought they all did. Sanders hadn’t held any meetings in over a week. He sat on the ridge overlooking the swimming hole. Everyone else was working on something. He couldn’t quite remember what the project was. Footsteps. Bates sat next to him. Sanders did not look at him, but he doubted he was exuding any hostility this time. The water rippled under the breeze. It was very quiet out here, with none of the familiar Earth insects filling the air with their calls. “I never meant to be overbearing,” Sanders said. “I didn’t.” “We know you didn’t,” Bates said. “I just want everyone to survive. That all I want.” “And you’ve been doing a fine job.” “I don’t know.” Sanders scraped the surface of the table with his fingernails. “I don’t… Do you remember that secretary back in the research center, Rose? I used to flirt with her, and I thought she was flirting back, but then it turned out she had a boyfriend. That’s messed up.” “Sanders, are you okay?” “Every once in a while, you used to bring bagels in for everyone on the team. That was so nice of you. New York bagels.”

One New Year’s Night by E. Branum “Not anytime soon.” “But we’re all going to die.” Sanders had been such an idiot. It had taken him this long to realize it--but he had always known it, ever since he was a little boy. Secretaries and bagels had nothing to do with it, they had never been what he lived for. Their presence or absence was purely cosmetic. Bates shook his head. “Fine, Sanders, you were right. We shouldn’t talk about home. It just freaks you out. Nothing more about New York, okay? You’re right about it, anyway--our lives here aren’t so different from how they were there. Okay?” “Of course, I’m right, you’re right, we’re both right,” Sanders said. “We could just as easily be killing ourselves in New York, right, Charlie?”

Bates put a hand on his shoulder, a little too hard. “Sanders, please, calm down.” “But we’re all going to die.” 28

April Edition m a dis on h at f i e l d

Huddled on the floor of her foyer, Wendy, a tender and wrinkled woman, scanned last month’s People magazine for the twelfth, and last, time. She had shut the lights off and used the slim line of sunshine from the window of her front door to retake the “What Kind of Lover Are You?” quiz. Each time she had taken it before, she received the Sweet Talker, but she was determined to receive the Passionate Hottie. Something about being a sweet talker seemed off to her, manipulative almost. Passionate and hot, however, were two words that she had not called herself in years, and she longed to feel that way again. Wendy’s husband, James Frank Johnson, hated her People magazines. One night, as she cooked dinner and lamented Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s divorce, her husband, exhausted from working and listening, began to yell: “Those magazines are from de devil!” “They are not! You are.” “We aint spendin’ ten dollars a month jus’ for you to get crazy ideas in yur head!” “The only crazy idea I ever had was marrying your cheap ass!” “I am cancellin’ that damned subscription, and I better not see anuther one of em in this house!” She didn’t feel like fighting, so she plated his food, kissed him on the cheek, and subscribed with a new account and a stashed credit card the next day. James wasn’t a bad man; he was a tired one who had never learned to rest. His calloused hands were a dark gray from years of coal mining, and he used them to methodically flip the pages of his equally colorless newspaper. He believed that anything other than that newspaper was Satan reincarnate, even if paper, not flesh, made up his incarnation. Wendy knew he didn’t actually hate her magazine, but rather, he hated change. Because of that, he convinced himself that it was his divine purpose to avoid and denounce all things new and modern. So, every second Wednesday of the month, Wendy hid in her foyer, awaiting the postal worker who would give her that month’s magazine. Once she had the new one, she would throw out the old in her neighbor’s trash can. It was a ritual, and—whether it was the girls on the cover or the sneaking around—it made her feel almost young. After tallying up the last few answers on the quiz, Wendy finally received the title she longed for. Just as she began to skim the Hot vs. Not List of March, heavy footsteps echoed off the porch and through her front door. Jumping up, she waited expectantly for the doorbell to ring. James wouldn’t be home for a few hours, so she could conceivably take her magazine without fear. Yet, Wendy thought it entertaining to take the magazine in a suspicious, incognito sort of way. A few months into her secret magazine operation, the postal workers began to humor her antics. The doorbell would ring, and Wendy would open the door slightly.

Ruby 31 by Katelyn Kingcade

“Code?” she would ask, sometimes in a different accent, while peering through the small crack of the opened door. As if it was the most serious question, the postal workers always replied with one. They had never established an actual code, but that was part of the game. Sometimes the code would be the date or Mrs. Jenkin’s dog’s name, or George Washington. One time, a mailman with a straightened back, a stern face, and a patch on the side of his jacket, identifying his managerial position, came to Wendy’s door for the first time. He rang the doorbell, and she opened it just a smidge. The man with blue, unaged eyes and black hair, unmoved by the visible amounts of pomade in it, approached the door head-first. Eye to eye, Wendy could smell the cedar oak wafting from his head. “Code?” And, with all sincerity, the man whispered, “Papaya.” Ever since that day, Wendy keeps a stash of papayas in her fridge and gives one to Papaya Man every time he stops by. As she listened to the footsteps echoing off her porch, she hoped that he would be the one bringing the magazine today. Her papayas had just turned ripe. Once the footsteps reached the door, Wendy forced her sweet smile into a straight line. It was always hard not to laugh at this part, but it was necessary for the sake of the game. Then, three sharp knocks shook the door. None of the postal workers have ever taken it this far before, she thought, while stepping back with uncertainty. Rumbling knocks continued to pierce the quiet house, as if a thunderstorm stood on the porch as an overzealous house guest. When the knocking came to a halt, Wendy opened the door, afraid, yet slightly excited. On her porch stood, not a postal worker, but a young, magazineless man she knew as Harky Finn, a family friend and past employee of her husband’s. Wendy could see droplets of sweat slide down his furrowed forehead, against his cheek and onto his tattered flannel shirt. “Harky, how are you doing, sweetie?” Wendy asked, but she knew the answer. About a year before, Harky’s grandmother and unofficial-but-official adopted mother, Lorraine, died from bone cancer. The two women had known each other since high school. Although as teenagers they would have considered themselves enemies, as adults they had become great— maybe even best—friends. Lorraine had been the only parent Harky knew, and she taught him everything: how to be a man, how to treat a woman, and how to love God. She was the best alto in the church choir, had the greenest thumb, and was known for having the most fun after-church-small-groups. She offered the ladies tea at noon, and then vodka an hour later. A month after the doctors found cancer gnawing at Lorraine’s bones, Wendy sat with her in her screened sunroom after the late service of New Beginnings Baptist Church as they quietly sipped earl gray out of thrifted teacups. “Ya know, Wendy,” Lorraine exhaled, “I worry about Harky boy.” “1 Peter 5:7, ‘Cast your anxieties on the Lord,’” Wendy muttered instinctively, as if she had known where the conversation was heading. Lightplay 32 by Kezziah Clark

“I know you’re right,” she said, while stirring her nearly gone tea with her sugar spoon, hitting the side of the cup.

Quiet Pasture by Shannon Maxwell

Wendy peered up at Lorraine, who was making more of a racket with her teacup than the grandfather clock in her living room had made with its chimes just minutes prior, indicating that it was 1 o’clock. Wendy laid her pinky to rest, set down her teacup, walked to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Smirnoff, and set it on the table. “Are you gonna stir your tea till it evaporates, or are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Lorraine tried to smile, but reached for the vodka instead, pouring them both a shot into their tea. “Promise me you will look after him. When I’m gone, I mean. He needs—” she faltered and looked at the ceiling fan, praying that the wind would dry the tears still stuck to her eyeballs. “He needs someone.” The air hung thick around the room, and the two ladies sat in silence, soaking up the situation and the sun peeking through the screen walls. “Of course. I promise.” Lorraine smiled and raised her teacup. “Did you see that Anne Hathaway and her now ex—” Wendy interrupted as she followed suit, lifting her cup into the air, “Do not spoil anything for me, you heifer. I haven’t been home yet, and you know that damn magazine is all I got to keep me company.” “Apologies,” she snickered, “A toast. To us People-loving heifers!” They both snorted with laughter, clicked their teacups together, and downed the contents without a flinch. When Lorraine died sixteen weeks later, Harky unraveled. First, it was the alcohol (not just for Sunday tea), and then, he started to use drugs. His way of coping with the sadness was to forget there was something to mourn in the first place.

“Yur not my father!” Harky yelled, before walking out the door, and slamming it behind him with an aggression Wendy hadn’t seen since James quit drinking years before.

One night, while Wendy was hiding in the pantry reading about the best ways to get a summer bod, Harky and James argued in the living room.

James pressed his forehead against the door and sighed deeply—not his angry sigh, but his sad one. He could still feel the vibrations coursing through the mahogany, like it was sighing, too.

“Boy, I cannot have ya hurtin’ yourself AND my livin’!”

Wendy walked up behind him, her People magazine shoved into her pajama pants, and hugged his waist.

“I ain’t hurtin’ nothin’! Leave it alone, James. It ain’t your business!” Wendy pressed her ear close to the door and could hear James’s deep, controlled breaths. He did that when he was angry, and, more specifically, when he was right about being angry. “Harky, yur like a son tuh me, but I am not gunna reward ya for gettin’ in to trouble I know yur grandmama would disapprove of. I promised her that Wendy and I’d take care of ya, and sometimes that means doin’ the hard thing.” “What’s that supposed tuh mean?” 34

“Yur fired.” Wendy began to tear up as she heard James flip through his billfold. “Take this money, go tuh the rehab facility in Glendale, and get yurself some help. You’ll have a job when ya get better.”

“He ain’t a bad boy,” James exhaled. “He just learned heart break too soon.” “I know.” And now, months since that night, Harky stood on her porch, heaving like an agitated bull. Thinking that he didn’t hear her question over his own breathing, Wendy asked again, “Harky, honey. How are you doing?” 35

His anchoring breath was the only answer he gave her. Unsure of what was going to happen next, Wendy stepped in front of the door, using herself as a barricade. People typically thought of selflessness as a virtue, but for Wendy it was a vice. She would save the wood paneling of her front door before even thinking about saving herself. Suddenly, Harky lunged towards Wendy with his massive, coalmining arms. She hardly had time to think or to move or to scream before his hands were near her neck. She could feel the heat radiating from his face as he inched it closer to hers, and the sweat she had noticed dripping down his forehead earlier now perforated all her senses. But rather than grabbing her, Harky wrapped his arms around her gently and began to cry into her cotton, periwinkle sweater. His tears were timid, unsure if the sweater was an appropriate place to land, but then, the tears broke forward, leaving a dark imprint on Wendy’s collar. She didn’t know what to do. However, just as she would protect the house before protecting herself, she would hug a crazed man before pushing him away. Her arms— the ones that held her children and her children’s children—tenderly embraced the boy, quietly comforting him: “Shh, it’ll be okay. Hush, now.” As He sighed deeper into her embrace, and Wendy hummed a soft melody Lorraine had sung on baptism days. The tune seemed oddly fitting. As she hummed and rocked Harky, a postal truck pulled up to her driveway. A cleancut man with too much gel in his hair got out of the truck with a People magazine— dawning Robert Downey Jr. on the cover—in hand. Confused by the scene on the front porch, Papaya Man’s face asked a silent question: Everything okay? Wendy lifted the hand resting on Harky’s head, put a finger to her lips, and nodded. Not wanting to set the magazine in plain sight, Papaya Man stashed it in the bushes, waved goodbye, and drove off. Wendy smiled and asked Harky to come inside. “We’ve got tea and ripe papayas,” she said with a grin as she led him through the front door, leaving the magazine behind to age in the elements.

Moraine Lake by Karen Penner

My Secret k e l ly l e a mon

If you ever see me laughin’ with no “real” reason why; If you ever see me smirkin’ and think me pretentious and sly Don’t be fooled—no, not for a second, to think I scorn you as you pass. It’s just I have a secret; under my clothes I’m naked, right down to my toes.

We All Come from Water

My Dad, the Bug Guy

Down the hill my boots squeak on the styrofoam snow. The man on his porch waves to me as he lights up His cigarette. The town is hollow. No one knows where to get bread like There’s not a pound of flour in their cupboard somewhere. The exposed skin on my face tingles; I exhale vapor so the crowd can see my dragon breath. The stream exhales vapor like me too and I remember We all come from water.

“Oh, your dad is an entomologist? Is he working on curing Lyme’s disease?” asks any person who learns this about me for the first time.

jo se p h de i t z e r

I will make this walk longer than I planned. I shoveled this snow once. Landscapers had to “make hay when the sun shines.” Funny how snow means cash to some. Did God intend this? People without sleds go belly first. And on their backs. Can I do it, too? Is this His intention? I don’t ask. When I’m out of their sight I run just to laugh. I say I’m sorry to myself then I’m almost home.

a n n a n ode n

I smile. “Well, yes and all the other tick-borne diseases you can get. Lyme is not prevalent in Oklahoma, actually. He does more research on Rocky Mountain Spotted fever, ehrlichiosis, tularemia, and others.” I could also tell them that my brother has had two tick-borne diseases—one which, had he gone three more days without medical help, might have killed him, and one which has left him permanently allergic to red meat. I could tell them that having a microbiology-inclined dad affected the toys I played with. The stuffed animals I coveted most as a child were forbidden to me because they belonged to my dad. Yes, you read that right. My favorite one was a little, bright red, two-tiered-snowman with black shiny eyes. It was an enlarged representation of Streptococcus—the bacteria which causes Strep throat. In addition to Strep, my dad had a plush tapeworm and a mosquito puppet. When he did let us play with them, my brother and I would stuff our fists into the mosquito and pretend to give each other malaria. I could tell them that my dad has superpowers. His mosquito bites DON’T ITCH. Due to the millions of mosquitos he let feed on his arm weekly for the three years of his phD program, he is immune. He gave them the best care: a small, humid lab cage; weekly meals of sleep-deprived student blood; daily sugar water; and a death-by-dissection for the good of the scientific enterprise. His arms are pink and bubbly in the pictures from those years, but the itch immunity might just be worth it. I could tell them that having an epidemiology nerd father repulses dinner guests. Forget religion and politics. My family talks about diseases and insects’ mating habits at dinner. One time, he told our dinner guests about the roundworm, a common parasite in sub-Saharan Africa. “It burrows into the soles of your feet,” my dad wiggles his vertical pointer finger, “and travels up through your body to your intestines. It will live there for years. Imagine a seven-foot long worm living inside your—”

Stand 38 Off by Jeffrey Hernandez

Spread Your Wings by Katrina Reimer

Before you make a hotel reservation, do you research its bed bug record? My dad does. The best website is BedBugsBeware.com. When we came back from Florida this last Christmas break, I noticed that we were taking a completely different route home. “Why are we not going back through Arkansas?” I asked. “Don’t we normally spend the night in Little Rock?” “There were more bed bug reports in Little Rock than in Shreveport.” He shrugged. “It only added an hour to go through Louisiana instead.” Then, there’s our hotel room ritual. We stand outside the room while my dad goes in and inspects the bed boards and under the hem of the fitted sheets. He is looking for the black specks and egg sacks that will cost $3,000 to get out of our house if we carry them home. Once he gives the all clear, we lug in our stuff and collapse on the beds, more tired for having to wait an extra five minutes.

My mom clears her throat. “Um, love, let’s—” “They sometimes come out people’s eyes!” he says, animated. I act like I’m gagging, just to show the guests that I think this is gross too—don’t worry, I’m normal. They smile small smiles and my mom asks how they plan on spending Christmas. I could tell them that having a bug-guy for a dad affects our vacations. When you drive through Pottawatomie County, do you immediately remember a recent report of a fatal case of West Nile virus from that county? My dad does. “There have not been West Nile deaths since 2015, when ten people died!” My mom kisses her teeth. “Wow, that is so sad.” “It’s just sitting water, Myra. If you have a bunch of sitting water, you’ve got to expect Culex mosquitos to breed.” He shakes his head solemnly. “And they carry West Nile.” 40

We practice this ritual religiously everywhere we go. Except once. It was the fanciest hotel we ever stayed in—four-star, thirteen-floored, glass elevator, chandeliers-inthedining-area type of fancy. Once we had showered, plumped our pillows, were set up in our normal arrangement—my mom and me on one bed, my brother and my dad on the other—and were watching Andy Griffith on the oldies channel on TV, I let my eyelids close, relishing the cool sheets against my lotioned legs. My mom leaned across to turn off the bedside table light. Suddenly, she sat straight up. “Bruce, what is this.” It was a statement more than a question. He stood up and fumbled with his phone for too long before finding his flashlight app. “Yup.” His flashlight followed the limping black speck. “It’s a bed bug.” After the initial panic, we stumbled around, throwing our toiletries and clothes into our bags while my mom kept saying “don’t touch the beds,” “whatever you do, don’t touch the beds.” We had to switch out of the next room because it had bedbugs too. It was midnight before we finally were able to sleep. My dad’s flashlight kept turning on all night, searching the sheets. 41

The whole ride home, we had phantom itches. Each black crumb was suspect. When we got home, there was a strict protocol: wash clothes, bodies, and suitcases immediately. Don’t touch anything in the house—not even the walls. I could tell them that having an entomologist for a dad impacted my summers. Every summer of my high school years, my brother and I helped my dad collect ticks for his PhD students’ research. In post-graduate school, the advisors have to do most of the work, apparently. And the advisors’ kids. The best way to collect ticks on a July day in Oklahoma is to first wake up earlier than is summer appropriate. For us, this meant 6:30 or 7. Once you’re up, put on your longest jeans and tuck the bottoms into your long socks. Yes, you’ll look ridiculous, but at least you won’t get tularemia. Drive your sleepy kids to the nearest gas station. Go in and buy a heavy pack of dry ice. With your dry ice in the cooler in the trunk, you are ready to drive to Pawhuska or Enid or Chickasha to get started before the sun gets really bad. Make sure to pack long wooden poles with stained flannel baby blankets attached to the ends, extended like flags. Give each of your kids a flag, a little plastic vial filled with alcohol, and some tweezers. Then, spread out and begin rubbing every branch, grass blade, weed patch, and bush with the stained blankets. Each little tick that believes the whisking flannel is a deer hide will grab onto the blanket, only to be promptly picked off with your tweezers and drowned in alcohol. Put the dry ice on top of a white blanket in a thick patch of grass. Ticks think the misting CO2 is to die for. After about an hour, go back to the dry ice and pick off all the ticks that have collected on the blanket. Only stop collecting when your skin is blotchy, sweat is pooling around your deniminsulated ankles, or a pick-up truck starts stalking you when you get too close to a weed farm. The only compensation my brother and I got for our work was the appearance of our names on a couple dissertations and free lunches. My brother used to say that he only went for the free Dr. Pepper. That wasn’t the whole truth, though.

The42 Caregiver by Kezziah Clark

We went because it was so satisfying to watch a fat Lone Star tick bubble its way down to the bottom of an alcohol-filled vial. We went because we liked to wield blanket flags, swishing them across Oklahoma like sabers. We went because of how my dad came running to see the motherload we hit in the bushes across the creek. We went because he made us laugh when he sang Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”

View from Gruyères by Kezziah Clark

in thigh-high grass. I could tell them that having a science prof for a dad makes you nauseated at Thanksgiving. Every year, my dad orders edible insects for his students. “Eighty-percent of the world eat insects as part of their diet, so why don’t we?” he asked us at dinner one night. “It’s because we’re picky Americans who have bought into this idea that insects are gross.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. “Well, ten of my students ate the crickets this year!” There were 140 students in his class. It wasn’t enough for his students to eat the crickets, though. After our Thanksgiving meal this year, during the uncomfortably full interim between turkey and pie, he jumped up and fetched a small Zip Loc bag from the fridge. “Anyone want a chocolate-covered cricket?” He thrust the bag under my brother’s nose. “Ugh, Dad. Not now,” my brother groaned. My dad’s eyes crinkled deep when he laughed. “Ah, come on. Just one!” he persisted. I could tell them that a cricket tastes like how woodchips smell—earthy, hollow, slightly sweet.

The Cliff e l is a c h a n Wind whips through her hair, her skirts, her arms stretched wide to receive it.

its effects unfold all around, in all five senses, every day. And when

How does this unseen force have such power, such strength, such influence?

the clouds loom, she knows its beams are still there, somewhere, just waiting to be seen,

If sight says what’s real then this, this is not. But its gale force refuses dismissal.

The Cycle by Jeffrey Hernandez

Worms: Excellent Complainers but Terrible Swimmers

She lifts up her face to the Sun’s warm gleam. Despite its distance, it is there;

to shine through— so constant a body could never truly disappear. Even night can’t hold the Sun. Even birds can’t see the wind. And yet.

k e l ly l e a mon

In the rain, a little worm pokes its head from the ground. “It’s too wet up here!” the worm complained with a frown. So, he went back to bed and his little worm hole filled up with water and he died a painful death and he drowned. (PS: the moral of the story is to not complain or live in holes.) 46

The Average Housecat is Nothing k e l ly l e a mon

I think I’m dying— Can you choke yourself with snot and sobs The muscles in my neck spasm. I think I’m dying. I think I’m dying— Can your stomach eat itself away with its acid I feel my gut digesting I think I’m dying I think I’m dying— Can your breath crack your own ribs My diaphragm crashes in I think I’m dying. I think I dying— Can your thoughts kill you neuron firings splintering my skull eyes pushing from their sockets tongue closing the esophagus lungs swelling I breathe I think i’m dying If to die is to inhale with terror Then I am resuscitated each exhale

Lesson from an African Proverb by Shannon Maxwell

Pride & Prejudice by Trinity Andrus

Ephemera da n n y f r i e se n stardust blazes and blows across the void cosmos, swan’s neck, hunter’s bow, queen’s throne. ruptured life of shattered stars fused in supernovic bursts— blaze and blow across the void, the cycle the essence the life of everything

Calloused Fingers Make Better Music – April 14th, 1912 lu k e t r av i s

Sharp Atlantic air pinches my ears, black glass laps below me. Calloused fingers find the familiar patterns of sound, deformed by millions of miniature impressions, reformed by the love they make together. Cavalleria Rusticana swells up and over the flitting despair: Easy laugh, urgent whisper, puny wail— gone. Color-blotched rays of souls trimmed by human error or God. Stories boil down to petty amends, kissing goodnight, and “Daddy will see you soon, ladybug.” Truth drips from a candle burned at both ends. We’ve been lazy at good. Despicable at love. I nod off in the face of this humanity. The water feels warm.

Repetition 52 by Kezziah Clark

The Skies of Glencoe by Kezziah Clark

I don’t know what they’ll say at my funeral l e a h d ol l of f I imagine I have no choice but to attend. Do I have a choice in what they’ll say? I imagine it comes down to how I lived on a Tuesday. Will they mention the freckles or the peanut butter toast or my spicy perfume or my slightly-too-big-nose? Or my failure to say “help me” or the times I stayed in a scrap with my brother when I should’ve said “I’m wrong.”

That I fall for pyramid schemes and in love too quickly? Will they mention how the sun touching the side of a tea cup stirred my being more violently than any sort of “Wonders of the world?” Will I have lived for others enough that they are there to say it?

Everyone is a Painter ca m e r on sp e n c e r

It’s hard to trust what’s let you down: family, friends, and what they teach you when it comes back wrong. The Earth is not the fixed focus of the universe, the universe was birthed, and pleasure is frequently found in what they said was wrong. Some trusters of tradition have tried its truth, but were wrong and found wanting. Ideas are leaving us doubtful. We’re skeptics. We’re rather skeptical of our skeptic selves since we seem to be so certain. We should leave the gravity of certainty and certainly find ourselves floating through space and time with nothin more than a “why?” Can we trust anything we’re given or we create? What will wane our pain here alone on this darkening plain? Can we only trust ourselves? Information is a buffet of colors we use to paint our truth. Each man, painting until he likes what he has, but not yours. He’ll keep his and multiply six for his floor, ceiling, and walls. Paint it bold on bubble wrap canvas. Come in and be brushed in the ecstatic neon echo of a robed choir singing in unison the song of your heart. Come under its influence like a lotus eater. Retire morals. Resign responsibilities. It’s time to let go.

Lonely 56 by Grace Hutchins

White is the world where everyone’s truth is cyan, yellow and red, made by himself, for himself, revised by nobody else so it is right. He is safest in his home where he is born, fed, grown, and dead and his only colors— his only teachers—are the voices in his head. The teacher warns that there are many ways to walk and tread, taken by the fool whose fun damns him dead. There’s certain pleasure in what’s unsaid, but the end is the same; many highs mean many pains, illicit thrills mean searing stains. There are many ways that seem right but only one that leads to life. Paintings are pretty when promised the light. Long after the Son has died will we be lost, falling blind with our paintings through a starless perpetual night. Sensual pleasures stain our souls with troubles and pains that are quick to come but slow to leave like the bonding brain that’s quick to cleave Better a truthful wound than a deceitful kiss; no longer is ignorance bliss. when it is folly to be wise we’ll be unchained to fly with our echoing lies.

Elsewhere p e t e r r e x f or d

I had never noticed the hole When something is always there, it’s hard to see When something is always gone It’s even harder It wasn’t abusive or neglectful Not intentional or escapist Only elsewhere. Only vacant. I first noticed the gap in the assumptions: My ignorance around hubcaps and habits My hesitance around screwguns and sex drives That’s where the static appeared You loved us We loved you But your vocation, your paramour She was an incessant mistress Now I’m scared. Scared that I might Do the same Be the same. For I have found the same preoccupying arms And am absent

God’s 58 Love by Tara Warden

Death of a Radio w i l l i a m n e w t on The radio on the shelf reminds me of you. Once brand new, yet now he sits in dust, alone. Does that sound familiar? His once vibrant yellows and blues matched your eyes, but now they’ve faded, pale like your washed out skin. How I miss when you were still in color. I bring him down from his dusty deathbed, and crank him to life. A classic band plays through his

rusted speakers, scratchy like the sound of your name in my throat. I don’t blame the radio, it’s not his fault. He’s just outdated, like you and I, a token of the past. I spin the dial barely hanging on to his disfigured frame. All it brings me is static, a concussion of chaos, drowning out your voice in my memory. I turn the volume down. Some radios just can’t be fixed.

Angels in the undercarriage r e a h u m l au f

Divinity was leakin’ out the radiator Turnin’ the drip-pan golden like somethin’ Holy You were tryin’ to wipe it off your hands But this stain was more a creeping radiation Bleedin’ past your skin ‘til you’d swear by bioluminescence You thought that an angel might come peeking out between your fingers Radiance castin’ your bones dark against red flesh And you would close those bones like a cage catchin’ a lightning bug Walk outside at seven in the evenin’ barefoot in the black grass Open your hands to coax that angel out into the night air’s freedom And let that twinklin’ specter take its divinity back up to the sky Watchin’ your breath turn its sibling stars to nebulae Hands clenched on an absence you refuse to regret You don’t think Holy things belong where you can touch them

Not So Triune by Jeffrey Hernandez

Biographies t r i n i t y a n drus

For this design, I recreated two classic books covers so that they could have a fresh new look. I used Adobe illustrator to achieve the clean and unified style. a bb y b a b c o c k

Abby is a senior English major with a minor in Music. She comes from the vast prairie desert of Nebraska. Seriously, there’s nothing there except corn and cows...and maybe a tree? br o ok e b a l dw i n

Hey! I’m Brooke, I am a photography student at JBU. I grew up in Fort Worth TX and I love portraits, sports, and event photography!

ly di a de g i s i

Lydia DeGisi is a senior English major from Overland Park, Kansas. She is currently a recluse, but one day in the future, she will mature into a crazy old loon. She enjoys walking in the rain, listening to Billy Joel albums, looking at cool bugs, and watching cartoons. mc k i di r k s

McKi Dirks is a junior English major with an emphasis in creative writing. She is an only child who grew up in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. Her many interests include jasmine tea, existential conversations, and writing poetry. l e a h d ol l of f

I am an English major, and an art and illustration minor! I love poetry and I have memorized and analyzed poetry for a few years now. However, I had never written any myself until this year and I have found it quite life giving! da n n y f r i e s e n

e . br a n u m

Hi, I’m Emily (Emil) Branum. I am a senor spanish major with a soft spot for art. I am deeply passionate about LGBTQ+ representation in art. el isa ch a n

Elisa Chan is a tea-drinking English major who loves to get lost in the realm of story and dreams of bringing others along for the ride. k ezzi a h cl a rk

I’m Kezziah, and I’m from Scotland/US but I grew up in the Middle East. I’m double majoring in photography and psychology. I’m passionate about capturing the moments in life; the stories words fail to encompass. m a k c of f e r

My name is Mak, and I’m a junior digital cinema student from Colorado Springs. I love creating because it provides a space where it’s safe for the unknown to be known. k e n dr a c o ok e

Kendra Cooke likes to write from her home in Siloam Springs. She works part time at JBU and spends the rest of her time drinking tea, playing with her oneyear-old son, and otherwise adventuring with her husband, James.

I’m an English major from North Newton, KS, who likes playing disc golf and cello, and writing poems. m a di s o n h at f i e l d

Madison Hatfield is a Junior English major with a theatre minor whose greatest passions include being a part of and supporting art. She enjoys developing her theological understanding by engaging in true beauty. j e f f r e y h e r n a n de z

My name is Jeffrey, I am a sophomore majoring in graphic design, and I have a diverse skill set when it comes to creating art, such as digital illustration and fine art. Most of my artwork is original story ideas waiting to be shared after being inspired by other famous works of art. g r ac e h u t c h i n s

I am a sophomore Arts & Illustration student here at JBU. I also identify as an MK or missionary kid from Iraq. k at e ly n k i n g ca de

I am a 3rd year photography major who strives to create meaningful images that hopefully provoke emotion. Capturing authentic moments in time and displaying the hidden beauties all around us.

m a di s o n k u n z e

ca m e r o n s p e n c e r

k e l ly l e a mon

j e s s ica t hom p s o n

When I’m not tap dancing, learning sign language or teaching Zumba, I’m designing. I create in my free time and when I don’t have any time at all. I strive to glorify God’s creation and find beauty in everything.

“Who me? No, I’m just a worm.” sh a n non m a x w el l

I have served as a missionary school teacher for the last 30 years in W Africa. For the last 8 years I have been teaching a Fabric Art and Design (FAD) class. I love the colors of Africa! This year I am serving as the JBU Missionary in Residence. w i l l i a m n e w t on

Cameron is a sophomore psychology major with an emphasis in counseling. He works at the same rehab facility (Teen Challenge) that he attended years ago. He loves coffee, bbq, and sharing deep conversations.

I’m a JBU alumni who loves creating and illustrating. I’ve been working on learning digital art as well as honing my traditional art skills. lu k e t r av i s

I am a junior English major with a minor in film. i enjoy watching movies, curating playlists, reading, writing, and spending time outdoors. I love art because art is the only way I can make sense of the world.

I am a freshman English major, with a double emphasis in literature and creative writing. I am also a staff member of Shards of Light!

r e a h u m l au f

a n n a n ode n

ta r a wa r de n

Find me reading, telling others about what I’ve read, taking long walks, embroidering, cooking international foods, and blasting French music as I drive.

I’m an Illustration/Graphic Design major. These are neither of those things because they’re poems. We all have our flaws.

Tara is a Sophomore Art and Illustration student with a Spanish minor.

s a m u e l pat t e r s on

I love to use surrealism in my work to convey thoughts, feelings, and concepts to the viewers for my work. I feel it is the God given job of all artists to create work that can bring people to better understand Him, and through that, themselves. k a ren pen ner

I’m a senior Photography major from Chihuahua, Mexico. I enjoy photographing portraits and sports. k at r i n a r e i m e r

I am a sophomore double major in photography and intercultural studies. I love capturing the beauty of nature around me as well as authentic interactions of people. I am from Morocco in North Africa, and that is where my love for photography and for people began. p e t e r r e x f or d

I tend to overthink things. A lot. My poetry and songs are a direct product of that flaw. Ultimately, I enjoy the power of words and simply want to be a part of it.