Theoracle by Lindsey

vin o L d ha

Acknowledgements Thank you to our faculty sponsors, Dr. Rickey Cotton and Professor Paul Corrigan, for faithfully leading the Oracle. The magazine would not have been possible without their support. A huge thank you goes to this year’s dedicated and passionate Oracle team— Emilee Rosell, Christian Faux, Hannah Crowell, Georgia McMillen, and Lindsey Messenger—for piecing together this unique collection of poems, short stories, and visual art. And, of course, thank you to Southeastern University’s creative writers and artists for contributing to our magazine. Sarah Nicely, Editor

Table Of Contents Poems

Colors Counting the Seconds Freedom Hypnagogia I Once Saw A Frog Infinity Maestro Randy Maybe Two Modular 7 Mystical Physics OR The Cafe Critic The Presence of the Storm Willow Tree Resistance

8-23 8 9 10 11 12 13 14-15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Table Of Contents Short Stories

24-34

There Is Healing in My Hands

C is for Cookie The Story (excerpt) Make It Go Away Souke (excerpt)

Ekphrastic Poetry

Introduction Introspection Done for the Night Into Morning Intervention Red Serenata Introspection

25 26-28 29-31 32-34

36-43 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Poems

Lindsey Messenger

Colors

by Emily Pickles Warm reds, cool purples, and those emerald eyes Sparkling, shining, shimmering Luring me in, making me ponder... I knew it wasn’t real. I knew it wasn’t alive. I knew it couldn’t move— and yet I wondered... I wondered if by some spell or potion could this dragon find a way to breathe? Could this monster twitch and groan then flutter into existence? I think he could if he really wanted to. If struck by the desire to live would he spring into motion, breathing fire and clawing the ground? I think he would if he really wanted to.

Counting the Seconds by Hannah Elise Crowell Her eyes, like pools of crystal blue water, gaze into our faces. Her own countenance worn with the evidence of many years gone by. The lines in her face tell the story of hardship, triumph, struggle. She recounts those stories in her fading but melodious voice. The pools of blue overflow and run like streams in the etches of her aged cheek. No time together is guaranteed. We tell stories as the clock in the kitchen counts the seconds.

Freedom

by Georgia McMillen The warm, gentle breeze wound its way up the ancient stones of the hidden castle. It crested at the top of a guard wall, twisting to wander along the narrow walkway nestled there. Frayed feathers littering the path lifted and twirled as the wind said hello. The woman, a frail statue with her marble face turned upwardsbasked in the golden rays of sunlight. Her lips twitched into a contented smile as her fiery curls lifted and settled again. Too long had she been enclosed in the subterranean cell. Too cruel were the slavers she had escaped. She would revel in this freedom, in this new life, until she was ripped from it, one wayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; or another.

Hypnagogia by Bethany Glasser I close my eyes, take a deep breath. Here comes the plunge. Wind rushing, lunging to devour, racing to envelop, as the bottom dissolves. One last chance to live. To feel alive. To know I am not a void— empty— emotionless— The ground appears. I scream, close my eyes. I wake up. Pressed against my bed. Only to realize— I am falling back into me.

I Once Saw A Frog by Matthew Chenoweth

I once saw a frog crossing the road. Hippity hop, hippity hop he moved across the street, in front of my large SUV. He had not a care in the world nor a concern for traffic; he wasn’t thinking of anything, other than of being a frog, of getting to the other side of the road, one step close to his destination. I worry that this frog’s careless disregard for our state’s traffic laws might one day lead to his demise. But I hope, that he grows big and old, crossing many streets, reaching many destinations. I want this frog to see the world— or at least whatever frogs consider to be ‘the world’. I hope that one day he’ll have kids and grandkids, to whom he’ll recount his crazy adventures and numerous travels, encouraging them to be explorers, telling them to just focus on being frogs— the best frogs they can be. But, even if he never makes it that far, even if his death is not from old age, but rather from a poorly timed jump across a busy street, He’ll have lived a life worthy of any frog, without fear going where he pleased, as he pleased.

Now I’d say that’s a life worth living.

Infinity

by Rebecca Mee Back in the day Summer was everything we lived for. The scorching heat during the day, those warm nights spent singing around the campfire accompanied by the choir of crickets. We felt infinite. Those days that were spent down the Jersey Shore. Waves knocking us down, off our feet our bodies were thrust face-first into the coarse underwater sand by a force more powerful than ourselves. The painful sunburn and the soothing power of aloe after a long day spent out in the sun. We felt infinite. Heading south for those family barbeques. My young cousins doing cannon-balls into the pool, we were surrounded by family, laughing and smiling. Joy was created and love was shared. We felt infinite. These memories are stuck, frozen in time. These treasure troves of happiness from the past will flood my heart and mind every now and then. How I yearn to go back in time to the glory days of youth and freedom. They were infinite.

Maestro Randy by Kami Rose

The most beautiful composers are the forgotten. Beethovens in cardboard boxes. He doesn’t need your money, he’s asking for tips Jingling Styrofoam cup Pennies for percussion And gleaming piano keys for teeth His smile constructs original melodies For you. Appetite consisting of Symphonies for breakfast, and Ballads for lunch No, he doesn’t want the rest of your leftovers He hungers for you to notice his dignity Nestling behind protruding rib cage A heart resides His existence is his music He has no possessions Because his music is jealous No showers He inscribes his pieces with the dirt on his flesh He is not less because he does not have a home He chooses to be homeless Leaving room for only live performances

Maestro Randy Invitations to his concerts are commonly misread for desperate signs They are NOT desperate signs May each charcoaled letter burn Into the fabric of your un-tattered being Applaud him with Solid feet Steady eyes Anxious ears After you give him your full attention Ask him about his story His dreams Ask for his name and remember it These are his flowers This is his standing ovation And he deserves it A magnificent maestro such as this Creating music only deaf hearts could hear He is a composer Composing love inside of me for the homeless When I thought there was none at all Randy was a composer And now I see outside a little differently… I see Bush curtains Sunlight spotlight Concrete street stages I see those signs and read: “Welcome to the show, tips are appreciated.”

Maybe Two

by Matthew Chenoweth It’s ironic how when I was younger all I wished was to be older. Now as I’m getting older. all I wish is to put off growing up for a year, maybe two.

Modular 7

by Chelsea Miller White Black Grey slab Speckled sky A dark portal against drab walls Slits of light peeking through A red corner Black straight backs lined in uniform rows A quiet symphony of pencils scratching, fingertips typing A flutter of papers The low, steady breath of artificial wind flowing from above Mouths moving silently Bodies stilled by lack of thought Blank stares Subtle sighs Blinking Beating Breathing Life within a box

Mystical Physics by Jon Geniesse

What a wonder is this universe, which began as pure energy, erupting at the genesis of space and time. From that progenitorial event radiation proceeded, expanding and cooling until, in the wrinkles of space and time, it could collect. Those wrinkles became wombs for stabilizing nebulae which birthed and raised the galaxies that now rear stars and planets. What a wonder is the Earth, from which life was born and by whom it is sustained. What a wonder we areâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the conscious energy events in the interstices of space and time. How strange it is to think that we are now our own, just patterns within the cosmic arras. We are of the world, we are the world, and the world is us. All in One, One in all We are, I am Relational, Relative

by Jamie Paton It’s not a difficult job. A Band-Aid does not require much. No team of surgeons, no staff of nurses, Not even a prescribed medication.

Where sutures cease And gauze gives way, It is a difficult job. Healing requires much attention.

You can take care of yourself. You can be a rock. You can be an island. You can convince yourself of anything.

You could be honest. You could be vulnerable. You could admit brokenness. You could seek repair.

Be an actor, committed to your role. Forget it’s a role, adopt it as a lifestyle. Makes them believe it. Stick with the Band-Aid.

Be a human, committed to the struggle. Forget the loss, adopt hope as a lifestyle. Make yourself believe it. Rip off the Band-Aid.

Train your brain to tell you lies In the case of an emergent situation. Survive. No more, no less. The struggle to function, to keep breathing.

Train your heart to counter crisis. To circulate and beat, to oppose arrhythmia. Thrive. There is always more, refuse to accept less. The ability to recover, to keep breathing.

Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. Convince yourself the trauma Sustained was not Severe. Stick with the Band-Aid. Trust that your frantically invented “Solution” is Enough.

Inhale freedom. Exhale resolve. Convince yourself to move forward. Remind yourself that it is Worth it. Rip off the Band-Aid. A frantically invented solution Will never be Enough.

The Cafe Critic by Luke Shemeth

The critic stopped writing and stared as the waiter brought the first course. The beginning is presentation â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Taking in the colors from the browns, reds, and yellows, the collection was the masterpiece. The median is taste â&#x20AC;&#x201C; The richness of the broth with the sharpness of the spices provided the beautiful base for the course, nutty bread. The consensus was published in the morning paper.

The Presence of the Storm by Bethany Glasser

The sky—ashen hills in the distance Lightening crackles on the fringe Wind churns the water into rolling waves my hair lashes at my face. I wrap my coat about myself I quietly observe my surroundings. A sandpiper scurries for a bramble shelter. Crabs nestle under rocks, while a seagull cries overhead— destined for a distant lighthouse. I stroll along the rocky coast this chaos and the calm of the storm gives a momentary peace, a luxury I rarely afford. For a moment life seems too quiet in the all-consuming majesty of nature. The waves lap at my feet, and the wind pulls me—pushes me. The sand melts away, but the rocks stand and do not sway under the pounding pressure of the waves Perhaps the cleansing rain will bring rebirth. A fresh wind to sail to the horizon, the clean slate to a new beginning. So I will take this moment to wonder— But I am here—just simply here On the fringe

Willow Tree by Rachel Tackett Arms long and tender, so frail. Undisturb’d she sways in solitude. Beauty is her known worth, but there’s more— much more. Everything is seen between those draping arms. She soaks it in, telling only the hushed buckwheat beneath her limbs. Until a man lies underneath, for somewhere quiet to write his words. She tells him secrets through the wind and he writes them down thinking they are his.

Resistance by Jamie Paton

Rain falls on all of us. The just and unjust. And we are marked by our attempts to avoid it. Collecting scars like stories, collecting drops in our hands. Could it be that I am not The eternal pessimist? Could I hang up that stereotype Long enough to explain? Perhaps I choose to Subscribe to your idea of Negativity because I understand The power it can hold. Perhaps I see the glass as half-empty Becasue those who see it as half-full Often fail to see Past themselves. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the burdended, heavy laden, beaten down Seek community from those who share their emotions and experiences? Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the ability to carry on come By way of testimony, by learning to believe again? So if you cannot see past your hurt To take part in their optimism, then I will share my own. And we will Keep moving forward.

Short Stories

Rebecca Hodgson

C is for Cookie by Lindsey Messenger

It’s a Friday, and I get out of class early. I walk back to my dorm full of life and happiness because it is the weekend! And there, standing in front of the Café, is a man eating the most luscious cookie I have ever seen. It is gorgeous! I can feel myself staring longingly at this golden delicacy he brings to and from his lips. I feel the awkward situation setting itself up, and there is nothing I can do about it. He catches my gaze—well, he doesn’t quite catch it because I will not take my eyes off the cookie. But I can tell that he thinks this longing look—that my whole body has now taken over—is for him. I don’t know how to escape it, I just want to steal his gorgeous cookie and leave, but now I am trapped by his newly found self confidence. How am I supposed to correct a mistake that is so far off base? My thoughts are consumed by the cookie, and I lick my lips. Wrong move, body! Get out before it’s too late! Keep walking legs of mine! Why won’t my head turn around straight—STOP STARING. Oh, why is he nodding at me…can he not tell this is my cookie face, and not my “come hither” flirt face? Oh great, he looks like he wants to say something. Please brain, listen to me. Turn around, walk away, and don’t look back…NOW. My brain feels like over achieving and showing off I suppose. That is the only logical reasoning for how fast I turn myself around—so fast that I trip. Good bye persona of a well composed person. Good bye dignity. Good bye cookie.

The(excerpt) Study

by Emily Pickles After the first block, Alina stopped running, knowing that she was out of her mother’s sight. Even though she couldn’t wait to begin exploring that abandoned house she had discovered last week, she wanted to enjoy the peaceful mile between there and her own house. Ambling along, she thought about how her grandmother had described her neighborhood. According to her it used to be quite a pretty place, full of gardens and neighbors that knew each other by name. According to her history teacher, the war hadn’t really affected this section of the country. Even so, Alina couldn’t count on both hands the number of buildings that lay derelict on her path to the clearing or even the ones that had just been foreclosed on and hadn’t had time to decay. When the Party had been elected, repairs were promised; unfortunately matters of state and such had caused the repairs to be slowly put off and eventually to cease completely. Alina could still remember playing carefree in her yard without supervision years ago, when she was five, but now her mother barely let her out on her own, and on the weekends when her mother actually did give her some freedom she always had to come back home before dark. “Maybe she thinks crime takes the weekend off,” Alina mused to herself. She had heard whispers of people rebelling in the name of some guy named Harper but doubted that they were true. In any case the rebels in the stories never made it out alive. Of course, if any of them were still alive Alina wished them well. Despite their promises, she had never heard of anything good the Party did. “Although, I guess I’ve never heard anything negative about them. Maybe I just don’t watch the news enough. After all, the teachers at school do nothing but praise the Party. Especially Professor Meitzmeyer in that stupid class on “How to Be a Good Citizen.” Something was definitely off about that old guy. Whatever, it didn’t matter now; soon she would be out of the city and into the clearing and then the woods. Two weeks ago, she had gotten lost while hiking around and stumbled upon an abandoned mansion. She had almost gotten home late, which was probably why her mom was so worried this weekend. It had taken her all of last weekend to find the house again, but now that she knew the way, Alina couldn’t wait to see it again.

Emily Pickles’

The Study

An hour later she finally broke through the final line of trees that marked the edge of the mansion’s property line. Excitement filled her as she rushed toward the front door of the house. A large H in fancy calligraphy on the front door was nearly illegible due to the rotting of the wood. With a small shove the door fell in, allowing Alina to pass inside. The roof of the house had long ago succumbed to the wear and tear of nature. Large portions of the ceiling and outer walls were missing lighting the room just enough to make everything easily visible. After a minute of internal debate she decided to check out the long corridor to the right of an enormous staircase. Alina felt along the walls of the hallway examining the bare walls and broken doors. Her eyes wandered over everything and then settled on a door towards the end of the corridor that looked like someone had hastily attempted to board up. Alina couldn’t resist the urge to check it out. Unlike the door at the front of the house, this one had held up a little better to the weather and required her to throw her entire body up against the door. On the third try the door gave way unexpectedly. With large crash, the door fell to the floor with Alina close behind. “Oww!” moaned Alina. “Why do I have to be so clumsy?!” She picked herself up off the slab of rotting wood that in another life had called itself a door and clamored to her feet. She brushed off the front of her t-shirt, examining a few scrapes and bruises. Swinging her backpack around onto the floor, she thrust her arm inside. Her bag was a jumbled mess of assorted objects she probably wouldn’t need and things she was too lazy to throw away: a mirror, Party ID, old bus tickets, a half-eaten protein bar. At last she felt the smooth plastic cylinder she had been searching for. Releasing the backpack from her grasp, Alina pressed the protruding button near the end of the flashlight. A beam of light shot forward immediately, illuminating a large rectangular stack of … something. After a moment her eyes registered what she was seeing, and she realized that she was looking at something she had never laid eyes on before. Books. Old books, worn and weathered. Their spines peeling and brittle. Dulled golden titles written in ancient swirling calligraphy were printed onto faded colors – Charlotte’s Web, A Tale of Two Cities, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Iliad and the Odyssey, Romeo and Juliet, The Great Gatsby, Cinderella, and Jane Eyre. The classics alongside fairytales, although at the time all she knew was that she had found something special. The books were piled high and wide, stuffed into every crevice the small room had to offer, creating a small but benevolent labyrinth of

Emily Pickles’

The Study

wonder and treasure. A few piles worked together to hide a large oak desk from view. Long threads and ropes of cobwebs laced together several of the stacks that lay near each other, fashioning a wandering highway that Alina, were she the size of an ant, could spend a lifetime exploring. Covered in dust, long forgotten in some nameless man’s disremembered study, these books sat decrepit and derelict but not dead. No, not dead—alive. But not just alive; no, they were living. They teemed with adventure and hinted at mystery, whispered romance, and breathed foreign air. Those books held more than ink and paper, more than words and grammar and sentences and pictures. More than you could imagine. These books our young heroine had found held stories. Stories tragic and true, lovely and false, of different worlds and time. Of people real and imagined. Sweeping away the remaining cobwebs from her clothes, Alina slowly extended her arm away from her torso, toward the nearest heap of books, intending to touch them. Her fingers inched closer, reaching out, craving to touch the columns of magic that seemed to glow in the light of her flashlight. She stopped in sudden realization. Could this room actually be what she thought it was? Before she died, her grandmother had told her stories of a room that her father, Alina’s great grandfather, had had. A room filled with stories. “What was that word again? Limberg? Lilac? Libern? Library! That was the word!” Her great grandfather used to own a library. She had always wondered what one looked like. “That means these must be stacks of…BOOKS!” Alina had always been curious about what books really were. Her grandmother hadn’t been able to tell her much about them before mom had shushed her. No longer able to resist, Alina snatched the top book on the pile nearest her and read the title out loud. “Invisible Man.” Caressing the cover, Alina opened it with great care and began to read

Make It Go Away by Zachary Varnum

I don’t often try new things, but two weeks ago I ordered sushi for the first time at Tokyo Sushi. My brother pressured me to go because sushi is his favorite food. He promised me that I would just love it. I knew I wouldn’t. Folks always tell me that I can’t know until I try it, but people like me always know. Paradoxically, the most timid person you’ll ever know is also the most stubborn. I picked a table by the window and sat down. After I ordered, I leaned my head against the glass and looked at the buildings across the street. A dark alleyway found itself right in my line of sight. In that alleyway, situated about fifteen feet above the ground, was a garden-variety banana spider the size of an office desk. I might not have seen it if it hadn’t moved, but it just so happened to be readjusting itself when I looked out the window. Its legs moved up and down, one after the other, like a southern belle waving her fingers tantalizingly at a love-crazed suitor. Then it was still again. Its orange abdomen had been slightly camouflaged against the brick building, but I couldn’t help but see it now. I know you don’t believe me, and I didn’t believe it either. I said nothing, didn’t make a sound, but my eyes screamed for me. I looked down at my skinny, suddenly spider-like hands, and I decided I needed a bathroom break. I was bone dry, so I only pretended to actually use the bathroom. I returned to my table, and the spider was still there. I didn’t know if I was relieved or frustrated. I’d rather not hallucinate, but now that I know that giant spiders can exist in this reality I don’t sleep well at night. This time I allowed myself a closer look at the beast. It was suspended in the alleyway by a nearly invisible web constructed between the two buildings. The web filled all the space between the ground and the third-story level. It was the worst thing I had ever seen, and I had watched my parents get a divorce. I felt crazy. Why was this not being addressed? How long had it been there? I looked at the cars and the pedestrians in the vicinity, and no one was batting an eye. I was apparently the only one who had noticed this thing. But I knew it was there. I had to figure out what to

Zachary Varnum’s

Make It Go Away

do. No one had noticed the spider because it hadn’t attacked anybody yet. My first thought was to call the police, but I ruled that out as quickly as I had thought of it. I could just hear myself explaining to whoever answered the phone that there was a giant spider out in the open and that no one else had noticed it. That’s a mistake from the movies that should never be made in real life. The waitress brought my food to the table. I looked at my plate and was suddenly glad that I hadn’t ordered the spider roll. The waitress asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you?” I gave her a thousand-yard stare and decided to ask her to look out the window. Someone else had to know. I was the wrong person to be alone with this. If just one more person knew, a solution would be put into motion. She would scream, or something, and the whole restaurant would know that there was a giant spider out there. Someone else would be dumb enough to call the police. The police would come, see the spider and tell everyone to clear the area. The whole block would be evacuated and sealed off. Everyone would be safe, and I would leave with a valid excuse as to why I still hadn’t tried sushi and never would. “No, thanks,” I said. The waitress walked away without a word. I looked back out the window. There weren’t that many people out there. It was an average night. The spider was still there. I counted roughly a dozen pedestrians at a glance. Most of them were far enough away from the alleyway except one man who was strolling aimlessly straight toward it. He was jay-walking. The fact that he was doing it aimlessly would have boded the worst for him even if there hadn’t been any spider. Regardless, there would be no missing that web for him if he stepped into that alleyway. If nobody did anything about this, something bad was going to happen. I started to get up to try and stop him, but I was too close to the table, so my midriff tipped it upwards. My sushi almost slid off the table. I sat back down. I looked back out the window to check the man’s progress. He was about ten steps from the mouth of the alleyway. I was about nine steps from the door. By the time I got outside and shouted across the street, he would be caught. It took the man three steps for me to complete that thought. I sat silently while he took those last seven steps. He got caught in the web, and the spider rushed down in less than a second and sunk its fangs into his squirming body. Now everybody could see it. The aimless man didn’t make a sound, but the street was immediately filled with the screams of onlookers. Two cars crashed.

Zachary Varnum’s

Make It Go Away

The police came, cleared the area, and shot the spider. I haven’t seen in the news what is being done with its body. This is the only incident of its kind to be reported anywhere so far. I had been hoping that the aimless man was only temporarily paralyzed, like a normal insect would have been by a normal spider. But bugs have exoskeletons. Humans don’t. The force of the bite broke the man’s spine, killing him instantly.

Souke (excerpt)

by Esterline Vielot He waited for the soft steps of his mother. When they didn’t come, he began to cry. The bad men were going to get to him before his mother, he thought. He curled his body, burying his head between his knees. He felt the chills creep up his small spine. He remembered when he was younger; his haven of choice was the closet until one of his friends said that the boogie man lived there. He didn’t like the closet much. It was too dark and it usually made him more paranoid. His father didn’t approve of his tendency to be scared easily. To his father, it was pathetic. His son should be outside playing a manly game of futbol with the tough boys, not running away from his own shadow. Often times, he blamed Johnny’s mother for babying him. He shunned the way she cradled him in her arms as if he was a newborn. “The boy is grown, Misa. Put him down, please,” the father would say. “Let him be, Marc,” Misa would reply. “You’re making him weak,” he growled. “I’m making him strong with my love. A mother’s love cannot make someone weak.” Misa entered the small house. She immediately noticed the scattered books as she heard faint sniffles coming from under the bed. Johnny was home. She placed the basket filled with fresh fruits and vegetables on the ground where she stood. She wondered how long he had been under there and what could have caused this sudden refuge. She lifted her brown skirt just above her ankles in order to face the occupant underneath the bed. A small, shaken body, curled up like a fetus, lay in front of her. She reached out and touched his knee softly. He flinched. “Johnny, chérie, come out from under there,” Misa requested. “No, Mammy. It’s not safe.” “Safe? You’re scared of your own house?” she asked. “Outside of it,” he whispered, careful not to let his voice fall upon the wrong ears. Misa grew worried. She hated seeing her son like this. She hated

Esterline Vielot’s

Souke

seeing him so captivated with fear that it crippled him. He spent most of his day fearful rather than playful. This wasn’t the life she wanted for her baby. “What happened, Johnny?” “I saw it again, Mammy,” Johnny choked, fighting back tears. “What did you see, chérie?” She held in her breath, preparing herself for the worst. “Dead bodies, two of ‘em,” he informed her, his voice revealing a tint of weariness. Sadly, this was a relief for Misa. Her son was spared from seeing demons and ghosts. At least the dead bodies were physical things of this Earth, but no such thing a young boy should be exposed to. “At least there were two, that way they could go to heaven together,” Misa attempted. “They were bloody, Mammy. They can’t go to heaven bloody.” “Of course they can, the bloodier the better. Jesus was bloody before he went to heaven.” Johnny pondered on her last words. It was comforting for a fleeting moment, but realization struck him. His brows furrowed. “Do I have to be bloody?” he asked. “You don’t have to be anything, Johnny,” she assured him, “Just my little boy.” “Am I gonna die, Mammy?” he wondered. “Only really old people die and when I do, I’ll take you to heaven with me, chérie,” Misa promised. She reached out and pulled Johnny in her arms. She kissed him on the forehead. His limp body sat on her lap. “You promise, Mammy?” he inquired, resting his small head on her bosoms. “I promise, chérie.” His mother’s last words were all he needed to hear. He rested a while, hearing her heartbeat, so steady, so soft. She began to tenderly rub his back. She loved her child. He was a miracle after two miscarriages; Johnny was the one to come out strong, kicking and screaming. It was the best night of her life. God still performed miracles and one was given to her. “Johnny, chérie, I need to go get water now, okay.” She rubbed his head. She could already sense a sleepy boy. “Can I go with you, Mammy?” he asked, his droopy eyelids fighting him.

Esterline Vielot’s

Souke

“You’d better sleep, Johnny. You had a long day. It won’t take long.” Misa gently placed Johnny on the bed. She kissed him on the forehead, admiring his long lashes and big dark eyes. He looked like her father. She missed him so much. “I love you, Johnny,” she said. “I love you too, Mammy,” Johnny replied. Misa grabbed the silver bucket and placed it on her head before she went outside. Johnny turned his body around to face the window where he could see his mother depart. Johnny watched the grace she carried as she walked on mountainous rocks that surrounded their house. Her brown skirt danced with the wind, moving furiously around her ankles. Suddenly, the slapping of her skirt stilled. The earth stood still for a blinking moment. His mother looked like a still image before the ground shook, pelting her to the rocky ground. The earthquake was powerful and merciless. Johnny had no time to recollect his thoughts of his fallen mother. The earthquake played with him, bounced him around and then tossed him. His body slammed against objects, his mouth filled with an irony taste, his world was spinning, and it was crumbling before him. He didn’t know how long it lasted, but when it stopped, he hit the ground and rubble covered him. It wasn’t too long before his consciousness fell into darkness. Johnny woke. His head throbbed and his body ached. He couldn’t get up from under the rubble. It weighed too much compared to his small body; it limited his breath. His house no longer existed for he was lying outside, covered in ashes. He searched his surroundings, nothing but rubble and ashes, brokenness and darkness. And something that made his empty stomach churn. A foot buried in rocks.

There Is Healing in My Hands (excerpt)

By Jennifer Swygard I began to stir the soup, sloshing the broth to and fro, making the oregano flakes chase the chicken cuts, and breathing it in with my new nose. I have 54-year-old hands attached to my twenty-year-old arms—right at the wrist, but you cannot really see the line at which they connect. It makes me wonder if there are decades in each of the skin cells progressing to my hands or if my wrist itself is just a 37-year-old mediator. I wonder if others ever noticed the change. It hadn’t always been this way. As a matter of fact, we didn’t even have a stove or soup to eat when it happened. I think I was about fifteen—maybe fourteen—the last time I remember actually living in our old house. A shack, really, but it was my home. Our home. The broom handle echoes a clank as it falls to the ground. I quickly snatch it up and continue sweeping water into the dustpan, battling gravity to raise the liquid to the bucket. My fingers are like prunes, but the ankle-deep water that once flowed into the laundry room and over to the bathroom is now collected in about four linoleum squares. Mom walks in, but I can’t remember what that looks like. I can picture the Kelly green towel with yellow bleach spots laying soaked in the corner amid several lavender towels. I see the bright yellow broom with its charcoal black grip beginning to peel away. The red table stamped with barely distinguishable text on the finish that sticks each time I set my homework down—but I cannot see her. I know she once stood upright, she had to, or else how could she have reached the spices on the top shelf? I remember coming out of the shower, my body steaming, my hair still damp, and running to her side when she had first returned home. My arms outstretched hugging her before bed, I closed my eyes to feel a second arm wrap around me in return, but it never came. I opened them to see if Sam was lying in his spot beside her, playing a trick on me, his red scraggy mustache halfway concealing a yellow smile, and instantly I am embarrassed—Sam is gone; Mom is paralyzed; how did I forget? I tell myself I will never become used to this, that there is healing in my hands. I can remember that I used to remember, but I cannot remember what any of it looks like. I will lie down on the cold, concrete floor of my room, pressing my cheek against it, taking it all in.

Ekphrastic Poetry “Circle B” Georgia McMillen Alexis Gauthier

Introduction by Dr. Cotton

This February Southeastern University’s Department of English and Foreign Languages had the privilege to partner with the Polk Museum of Art in an event that joined students’ original poetry written in response to the lightpaintings of internationally esteemed artist Stephen Knapp. Traditionally this kind of writing has been known as ekphrastic poetry, poems that respond to or comment on art in another form. Students spent time with many of the lightpaintings, entering into an artistic dialogue with their chosen pieces. They then presented their poetry to the local community at New Light, New Words: New Poets Respond to Stephen Knapp’s Lightpainting, a celebration of creativity, both visual and verbal. Collected here is a selection of the students’ poems.

Introspection

by Etta June DeLanoy I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really have a way with words, but You make me feel like Fabric softener. The lavenders And spring greens of your complexion Cause me to blush a pale pink. I fear the brown in your eyes Reflects the doubt I hide That you will never see me. Notice me. I just stand here. Admiring you, Wishing I could somehow Take you home with me. Look at you every day. Call you mine. But, that would shatter your worth. You are meant to be free. Everyone deserves the right to look upon you. Learn from you. Adore you. You are priceless. This is my conclusion. My introspection: You are beautifully And wonderfully Made.

Done for the Night by Hannah Elise Crowell At the end of the day I kick off my shoes becoming one with the sinking sun sighing I am done for the night no amount of persuading could take me from this haven of my own comfort this state of relaxation of meditation of warm slippers on tired feet I am done I have paid my dues to propriety spending my very last words on excuses and remembering to mind my manners When responsibility comes knocking and opportunities arise please send them away with the message: I am done for the night

Into Morning by Alexis Gauthier

You have fireball for a mane As you glide off into morning Ready to take on whatever hurdle presents itself. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a daily challenge, Maintaining that sort of superhero persona you have; It takes a certain set of skills To mix all the hues you do So perfectly -- without compromise. Your vibrant cape waves victoriously As the ripples of wind travel in gusts So great that even Goliath is thrown off by your majesty.

Red Intervention by Christian Faux

Blue, somber, waiting on the fringe. Green, enviously watching on the edge Shades of white curling, curving around the cynosure of color The rare purple proudly stands to the side Yellow, royal and true stands at arms, gaping for attention. Even blended colors, the Teal developed from blue coolly relies on others to stand. At the center of the colors At the core of the display The heat of passion A vivid crimson fervor holds a point of prestige Untouched by all but the proudest gold.

Serenata

by Bethany Glasser Fragments of light Colorful—vibrant— lifelike Flames of inspiration Passion, desire, symphony—song. Serenata, I cannot hear the song your shaper played But instead, I see the sound of your cymbals clashing. There! Birthed in sea green light I see the sound of clarity, clothed in chimes. There, splintered in white beside cerulean Prisms entangled in the silent sound of light Serenata, movement of song Twilight in flight of navy blue, of violet light The sun a flame of orange and daffodils Reaching far to the horizon still The cast of golden light outlined By rosen pinks of soft delights Blue-eyed cobalt and emerald’s swirling beneath the waves Serenata, evening song Night has fallen wrapped in royal silk Diamonds refract starlight The song fades but to sweet memory Your life is not gone it continues Leaving me breathless, solemn and still

Introspection by Kami Rose I never manifest pure simple truth at least, not within introspect I can carve purity with unclean hands sing hymns through profane lips even paint perfection with bruised brushes I am refined in the art of fabrication. Artistic false religion Virtuous exploitation is uncomfortable So I amputated emotions Axed the gunk from my flesh Extracted fresh oil Slit the wrists of my past Then poured hues of broken rainbows Churned and churned honesty In the pit of my stomach Until I got a taste of identity Threw up Because I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stomach it anymore Within introspect I could never construct Pure.Simple.Truth. So like any skilled artist I forged it And crafted you.