Kula Manu 2020

KULA MANU 2020 2020

K U L A 2020

MANU

Front Cover: “To See and Feel the Ocean Breathe” by Nick Gruen Back Cover: “Mix” by Sugarmaa Bataa The perspectives expressed in Kula Manu do not represent those of the editors, Brigham Young University-Hawaii, or its sponsor institution, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All submissions were critiqued anonymously by the staff.

Special thanks to everyone who shared their work with us.

Copyright 2020 BYU-Hawaii Department of English. Copyright for individual work is retained by the individual authors and artists.

kula manu Faculty Advisor Joe Plicka Editors-in-Chief Angela Fantone Samuel White Copy Editors Sisilia Meli Sydney Springer Fiction Editors Jonathan Belen Alexandra Reed Non-Fiction Editors Isabella Reed Leiani Brown Poetry Editors Jordann Ah Nee Sarah Larson Art & Photography Editors Grace Tuthill Kylee Chamberlain Design Editors Natalie Stewart Sinyoung Kim Riley Hand Leiani Brown

TABLE OF CONTENTS

10-28

NON-FICTION 10 Eternal Appalachia

Truman Burgess

15 Coming Home

Hunter Pons

20 Impressions

Shaylen Cornwall

22 A look at my thoughts

Elias Hopkin

24 Against Dry World Outlook Suppositions

Scott Muhlestein

26 Early Morning

Nathan VanBuskirk

28 The Peaceful Veteran

Jacob Kelsey

FICTION 31 The Feast

31-48 Cole Johnson

34 Funeral tales Dan Boyle 37 The Door

Abigail Cannon

41 The Process

Hunter Pons

43 Halos

Brynne Petty

46 Not a Wax Museum

Elias Hopkin

48 And Beavers Have Beautiful Pelts

Sariah Smith

PHOTOGRAPHY 50-51 Pondering on God’s Creation

50-85 Nick Gruen

54 Portrait Madison Grayston 57 What brings you joy?

Kate Jenkins

(photography continued) 59 Finding Refuge in the Sea 61 Matches

Nick Gruen Dana Plomgren

65 Empty Rachel Pushnam 67 Sandbar Shark and Galapagos Shark

Kendra Nelson

73 Capri

Jacqueline Rasmussen

78-79 The Lone Guardian

Alexandria Humpherys

85 Struttin’

Alyssa Orrega

POETRY

52-82

52 Motown

Jessica Wilson

53 Windmills Rebecca Carlson 55 Swim

Randall Andres

56 boy in blue Mark Gatus 58-59 A Distant Place

Keilan Faganello

63 Woven

Tristan Stephenson

64 Seasonal

Maggie Christianson

66 The Undecided Seed

Alexia Kayley

69 Colors

Isabella Miller

71 The Little Angel

Alexia Kayley

77 In God We Trust 78 All Strife’s End

Truman Burgess Elias Hopkin

81 Small Things

Nathan VanBuskirk

82 if i have a daughter

Elijah Hadley

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FOREIGN LANGUAGE 60 Sangre y Legado

60-85 Lehonti Pérez Ovalle

(Blood and Legacy) 68 Ahí Donde Tú Estás

Lehonti Pérez Ovalle

(There Where You Are) 72 ハワイの春 / 恋

Yuji Sato

75 當你消失後才發現我多想你

Zero Wu

85 青鳥，你不會聽到

Zero Wu

(Spring in Hawaii / Love)

(found how much I miss you after you disappeared) (Blue Bird, you’ll not hear)

ART 62 Creation 68 Sorrowful Stone 74 A New Horizon

62-83 Jaden Walker Aislinn Lawrence Michael Kraft

76 Pukana!

Zynfia Sakulsinghdusit

80 Laie Temple Legacy

Johanah Micah Gallano

83 Step by Step

Audrey Jenkins

AWARDS poetry: Windmills by Rebecca Carlson

non-fiction:

Swim by Randall Andres The Undecided Seed by Alexia Kayley

art:

The Peaceful Veteran by Jacob Kelsey Eternal Appalachia by Truman Burgess

Pukana! by Zynfia Skulsinghdusit

Impressions by Shaylen Cornwall

Step by Step by Audrey Jenkins

A look at my thoughts by Elias Hopkin

A New Horizon by Michael Kraft

fiction: The Feast by Cole Johnson The Process by Hunter Pons Funeral Tales by Dan Boyle

foreign language: 青鳥，你不會聽到 (Blue Bird, you’ll not hear) by Zero Wu Ahí Donde Tú Estás (There Where You Are) by Lehonti Pérez Ovalle

photography: Portrait by Madison Grayston

ハワイの春 / 恋 (Spring in Hawaii / Love) by Yuji Sato

Empty by Rachel Pushnam Sandbar Shark by Kendra Nelson = first place

= second place

= honorable mention

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Eternal Appalachia

By Truman Burgess I fight with lots of westerners about mountains. We fight crusades over restaurant tables, our egos creaking against each other like trees in a windstorm. Most of the time they don’t realize how upsetting geography can be until I claim Appalachia’s authority and authenticity for developing personal freedom. Somehow this conversation repeats with friend after friend; every time there’s a different face, yet every time the same conclusions surface: conversion is impossible. How can mountains change freedom? They’re just massive slabs of rock. I’m a traitor. The Rockies rise like nature’s pinnacled citadels, majestic, powerful, and massive; the Appalachians are nothing more than forested hills.

They don’t understand that those “hills” are roughly 480 million years old. That’s about 440 million years older than the Himalayas, the highest peaks currently on Earth. Once upon a time, the Appalachians were as high, if not significantly higher, than the entire Himalayan range. Within those 480 million years lie innumerable, untold stories. Imagine the evolutions of countless species of flora and fauna in half a billion years. Consider the ice ages and continental rifts that tore across the ranges and ridges. I wonder at the insignificant impact a single badger, black bear, or yellow birch has played in that grand epic of Appalachia. I wrap myself in melancholy when I consider how many species crawled to extinction in its accordion peaks and hollers, never to live on this planet again.

As time rolls on, Appalachia has a way of shifting the past into a constant present, squeezing time away like moments in a dream. The Summer cicadas drown out logic with their constant wa wa hum. Mornings cloak the sunrise in potent fog. Humidity exfoliates every smell, evaporating industrial exhaust and replacing it with nostalgia, dripping, dripping.

There still exist mystical whispers within the Appalachians. The rare Jack-O-Lantern Fungus sprouts bright orange in Autumn, blending in with the earthy swirl of fallen leaves.

At night its gills glow faintly green--reminiscent of the countless ghosts the mountains hide beneath their surface. Few are lucky enough to encounter a giant hellbender salamander, a species that has not changed in 65 million years, in a shallow brook or mountain-side stream.

They could claim the title of “oldest resident” of the mountains, but they choose to hide under old river stones, hardly blinking as time erodes away. Now moonshiners are thought of as

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the mountain-hermits, a new alien species adopting a habitat. They, too, fill chapters in the Appalachian journal. Though their funneled beards denote age and change, the Appalachians swallow them away into Nature’s essential doctrine: though peaks bend and valleys rise, existence is never yesterday or tomorrow; existence is now. And, as is Nature’s way, Her doctrine is spread abroad by converted disciples.

This is where Sophie comes in. We met her on a river-hill in Hancock, Maryland, a town sandwiched in the Appalachians and sloped like the state’s views in the Civil War. My roommate, Emmanuel, was helping me move into a new apartment. It overlooked a wide stretch of town that descended towards the Potomac River and would have had an incredible view were it not for the massive sugar maple and hemlocks that penned in the building. Autumn was in full swing in the mountains, the wind a channel for endless amber leaves and humid scents of decay.

I first saw Sophie as I drove up the steep gravel pathway to the secluded apartment. She sat shoulder-to-shoulder with two other feral cats, their matted fur speckled shades of stormcloud grey mixed with blotchy brown. Sophie was younger than the others and sleek black, her coat shimmering like the backs of your eyelids right before you fall asleep. The other two were a bit older and battle-scarred; Mr. Grey was missing an ear, Blotchy a lip. The three of them sat on the neighbor’s fence, the plywood decaying, the paint chipping. They sat there, tails flicking, their keen eyes synchronized on me. Don’t get me wrong--they weren’t staring at the loud Subaru climbing the raggedy road. They were staring at me. I stared right back.

As we drew nearer, Mr. Grey and Blotchy lazily drooped away, wandering their separate paths in search of who knows what. Sophie, however, remained on that fence until I was just a few feet away, then shot off out of sight, like a night-bound missile. That was her way. I don’t remember ever seeing her walk or wander. She either sat or shot.

Over the past few decades, the number of feral cats has skyrocketed throughout the Appalachians. Take any backwater town with fewer teeth than stoplights and you’ll practically trip on a cat every time you walk at night. Eyes stare in bushes. Side streets moan with ferals in heat. And don’t think they only infest the streets; the woods are throat-high with wild kitten litters and cat fights. My job took me through dense backcountry and, as I look back on it, I reckon I met more ferals than bounding squirrels.

Ferals tend to be flea-riddled, stinky, ferocious, often-diseased animals, averaging a twoyear life span, about 14 years less than an average domesticated cat. Farmers shoot ferals for target practice. Old ladies ignorantly feed them rotting trash off their back porches. Young

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girls see a feral cat and frown, saying, “Aww, I bet she’s cold and hungry! Poor thing,” and turn their backs, forgetting the scene ever occurred.

Unfortunately, it is difficult, if not impossible, to calculate exactly how many cats there are in Appalachia. The truth is, Appalachian feral cats are often treated like any other colony of strays--public nuisances that should be trapped, neutered, or killed. Biologists and ecologists spend their time in Appalachia on weightier matters, like monitoring bald eagle populations or combating invasive ivy species. I am the only person I know of that thoroughly enjoys meeting feral cats, and I have no intention of killing them, feeding them, spaying them, or even touching them. They are to me as a fawn in a woodland thicket; they have the raw imprint of a “The night hypnotized freshly baptized species, scrambling through life, searching for fulfillment in wilderness’s oases of the two of us: the echo solitude. caught in early winter Sophie darted around my property daily. I’m pretty sure she simply sought a safe place to nap. when lights shut off Eventually she found a cozy spot on my second and the quiet sun level balcony, nestled in between a cushioned lawn chair and my sliding-glass door, though she only hibernates. The night slept there if the blinds were closed. She would sprint away and leap off the roof the moment inducted me. The cold I opened them. This pattern continued while I moonlight welcomed worked in that strange town, and we met frequently, serendipitously, both turning the same corner me.” but from opposite directions. Whenever this sort of thing occurred, she’d freeze in her tracks, motionless. I, too, learned to do the same. We would stare at each other for a while. I’d posture down; she’d posture up. I learned how to play space with her. Over time, we gradually became acquainted with each other.

My roommate didn’t share the same affection for Sophie as I did. Emmanuel was a man of few words from a small fishing village in Samoa. For him, anything that moved was fair game for catching, skinning, and eating. I thought he was joking until he attacked a vulture on the side of the road with a jagged concrete slab. He did, however, grow respect for Sophie as she eluded his stealth attacks and mad chases through the yard and brush. I tried to stop him, but

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stopping a 275-pound Samoan hunter is easier said than done.

It was Emmanuel’s first Autumn in the United States, and he was mesmerized with the raining leaves that showered the streets, sidewalks, and rivers. I noticed his mood slide colder and colder as the days’ sunlight slimmed, dragging on towards winter. One evening Emmanuel was on the porch, bent over the railing, gazing across the town’s damp and leafless skeleton trees. His expression epitomized solemnity, as if all his facial muscles refused to operate.

I asked him what was wrong.

He stood silently for a moment. “All the trees are dead. The leaves are gone. The trees are dead.”

I laughed and slapped him on the back. I attempted to teach him about seasons and deciduous trees, and how they were “sleeping,” not dead. In the Spring, I told him, they would release new buds and the mountains would blossom in bright pink and white.

He turned to me incredulously. “You think I am an idiot, don’t you? Sleeping? Trees do not sleep.” He walked inside, shaking his head and muttering in his native tongue. Emmanuel’s countenance mirrored Appalachia’s transition. He spoke less and less from then on.

Appalachia’s erosion of time is not easy on the spirit. Towns and homes emptied their souls as hunting season progressed. Valleys gathered absent fog at noon where dozens of whitetail deer once grazed. All was hushed, save for the pulsing gusts, now just a highway for distant gunshots.

On Christmas Eve, I returned home from a mountain dinner party and went to open the blinds to bask in the full moon and hopefully to catch a glimpse of Santa’s shadow. I slowly pulled back the plastic blades, noting Sophie curled up in her usual spot, back to my door, head tucked under her arms. She looked like a sea urchin mixed with a teddy bear. Her ears perked up and head poked out when I slid the final inch of blind. She casually turned her bright yellow eyes to look up at me through the glass. For the first time in our relationship, she didn’t grow tense, skirt away, or shoot off. Rather, she looked into me, the way the Earth considers me, not how I do it. After ten seconds of connection, she slowly shifted her gaze away and above, staring at the faraway moon. She stayed in that position for a while, so long that I crouched next to her, still on my side of the transparent door, and gazed upwards alongside her. The night hypnotized the two of us: the echo caught in early winter when lights shut off and the quiet sun hibernates. The night inducted me. The cold moonlight welcomed me. That Christmas Eve, I learned the moon is winter’s omnipresent queen. I learned how Nature writes her own stories on us, not the other way around. Time fled as She slurped

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the excess memory from my bones, leaving nothing but the bare essentials--the Present stands rebellious.

Two years later, I’m pounding a jackhammer into god-forsaken “soil” in Sun City,Arizona.

The heat shakes my knees. I’m six feet underground in a hole I dig, excavating, cutting, and replacing a domestic sewage line for the old man’s house behind me. The dirt’s pale-brown, void of moisture, nutrients, and life. Not a single worm. I yell into the house not to flush the toilet for the next hour as I cut the pipe. Taking my fidgety grinder, I cut out a two-foot section of the pipe. My power tool fills the hole with scents of burning tar and sewage. I pull the segment out from its mother line, accidently tilting it. Long lines of stringy feces plop onto my dusty pants.

Through the main line, I hear the toilet flush. I close my eyes in dread. Sure enough, dark green urine streams over my boots. I hear the front door slam above and see the wizard of an old man peer down at me. He’s shirtless, terribly white and hunched over, with a long, wispy beard, and saggy, swinging, leathery boobs.

“You hear about my neighbor’s yip dog?” he asks me.

“No,” I respond, not bothering to meet his eyes.

“She was walkin’ ‘em in the golf course and a coyote ate ‘em up off the leash. Killed ‘em and ate ‘em right there in front of the lady. Damn wild animals. They need to be contained.”

That night I find a shabby cat lying in my gutter. He isn’t stuck; clearly he’s staking out the mourning doves next door. He snaps his attention to me as I squint up. He tilts his head after a couple minutes, wondering, then rests his front paws on top of a dead bird and closes his eyes. The doves begin to coo. I walk down the night-lit pathway. I smell the blossoming whitethorn acacia. I sit beside the pool, place my feet in the warm chlorine water, and lean back on my hands. The cement digs into my palms. I greet my pale-faced friend above.

Later, I see a news report-- a wild jaguar on-camera crossing a trail cam in Tucson, Arizona, just ten miles out of town, the first jaguar to return to its natural habitat on its own for decades. His muscles pulse as he meanders.

I can’t help but nod towards the East, inhaling the morning dew--memories, foresight, visions of Earth’s wanton kiss.

COMING HOME

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Coming Home

By Hunter Pons Life as a Series of Impactful Events I admire those who can look back on life and rationalize experiences as pieces or elements of a larger picture. To this day, my wife maintains that my having an emotionally unstable girlfriend in college was a part of God’s plan because it resulted in me dropping out of school and going home and, consequently I suppose, marrying her. I like to believe I would have still married her even had I been a more discerning 21-year-old male. Like my wife, such people always have a ready response as to how certain events and actions were formative, that they were essential to the construction of one’s personality as much then as they are today. I cannot argue with the idea that we are our lives, that we are an amalgamation of what happens to us and what we force upon ourselves and the small bits of the world that are under our control. The logic is good to me and I see no reason to question it.

I may subscribe to the belief that I consist mostly of culminated events that have influenced my character, but I cannot pretend and say I understand for a moment what effect each individual piece of my life has had on the whole. There are actually vast periods of time that puzzle me, and even though I can come up with reasons as to why certain things happened to me, they are still only guesses. One period out of them all, childhood, elementary, The Beatles, high school, college, puberty, Crime and Punishment, scout camp, my first girlfriend, getting married, etc., one stands out to me as the most abstract: the mission. And I feel I have no idea what its purpose was.

Korea It may be obvious that I am a Christian, but maybe it’s not obvious at all. It’s probably less obvious that I am a Mormon and one that served a two-year mission in Seoul, Korea for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when they turned eighteen. Yet that is certainly who I was and who I am, and it is this mystical period--the mission--that I say still troubles me to this day.

I write this now almost five years after returning from Korea, and my interpretation of those two years has fluctuated dramatically based on what type of narrative I choose to stick

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to the most. I feel that other former missionaries in my church tend to glamorize their missions as exciting and spiritually gratifying, and I sincerely wish I could relay that same perception. In short, it was difficult in the way one would expect it to be difficult for an eighteen-year-old to live in a foreign country and attempt to learn a vexing language with limited resources.

I was surprised by how frustrating it was to look in the mirror every morning and see the eyes of a “representative of Jesus Christ” and find that they were, in fact, human eyes; tired, ashamed, and wanting more than anything to feel accepted and useful. That person seemed to be the polar opposite of what the missionary ideal was supposed to be. Why is this important? I suppose it’s not really, but I still catch myself rattling off the odd Korean sentence in my head. What makes things worse is that I see Koreans quite often and deliberately avoid speaking with them, and so I let the foreign words fade from my mind with disuse. I let them go without protest because I feel that I was never worthy to keep them there to begin with.

When I hear spoken Korean, sharp longing bores into my heart so deep that I can’t shake it for days at a time. The memories and emotions that bubble up from passive reminders of those two years are overwhelming. Why does that country haunt me still? How can I have entire dreams in Korean and wake up with a wooden tongue and a sense of dread that makes my skin reek?

I don’t have answers to these questions. I cannot tell anyone why, a year into my mission and feeling that I could not go on, I cried myself to sleep kneeling on a linoleum floor on the third story of a villa next to a college campus in Seoul and felt a bolt of lightning travel through me and down into the concrete all the way to a reservoir of shame I had buried underneath miles of untouched earth. I can’t say why, when I asked God if He was there and if He wanted me to stay in Korea, a rolling wave of blackness entered my mind and knocked down the peripheral walls to expose my vision to a roof of stars and stars and stars swirling in an expanse so wide and beautiful I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. I will never be able to explain to my children that what happened to me in that room is something I expect may never happen to me again, and I will always be sad about that.

Doubt is a Blessing If I was born again in that room, why am I incapable of looking back on those two years with fondness? Why do I push it from the front of my mind to the dusty recesses I reserve for high school bullies and public speaking? I feel strange to not be overjoyed to be reminded

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of anything that could take me back to that tiny concrete box suspended in the sky. I feel that any “What I still have is a other person would reflect on that ephemeral moment of nirvana for every waking minute of belief—it is not strong their life and think themselves blessed just as or admirable but I doubt Abraham, coming down from the mountain with his son alive and well and God on his side, or it can be destroyed.”

Moses from the burning bush filled with hope and determination.

I am not so hubristic to pretend to relate to the lives and experiences of the prophets, but more relevant accounts of experiences with the divine escape me. I suspect that those men felt many things but gratitude may not have been the defining emotion. Imagine all doubt being dispelled forever; it is much more devastating than being condemned to operate with uncertainty. Imagine every mistake made by those men thereafter making them feel that their position of trust was being put in jeopardy. I wonder if my hunch is right, and dread accompanied the enlightenment of the Old Testament patriarchs when they came to know their God. Perseverance of Belief The memory of that sacred place in Seoul is surrounded by feelings of shame that cannot coexist in a room constructed purely out of glory. I will never be able to resolve within myself the fact that I found God in a room I felt totally alone in. I am afraid to speak Korean and to pray because I am afraid of tempting life to return to that painful state when Korean and prayer were essential elements of everyday life. If spiritual illumination requires being emotionally shattered for every modicum of progress made, then I don’t know if I am brave enough to revisit those elements that will forever be associated with ethereal transformation.

What I have still is a belief — it is not strong or admirable but I doubt it can be destroyed.

I was close enough to God to know I don’t have the liberty of claiming He isn’t there. That question was answered. What I’m not sure of is if I have is faith, and sometimes I understand it to be vastly more important than belief.

I believe in God but I am not always compelled to defend Him. I acknowledge His presence, but that does not necessarily mean I celebrate my knowledge with a prayer in my heart and an unwavering desire to do good. I see the homeless and my first thought is to the broken

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government institutions and not kneeling down and serving the souls who need to be fed and clothed. I feel paralyzed by the knowledge of God and the innate knowledge that I am but a man who lives every day terrified of knowing what God expects me to do. I am afraid it will be too much. I wake up every morning grateful that I am not an imperfect missionary in Korea; I far prefer being an imperfect man. What faith is that?

The Aftermath When I look in the mirror now I feel much more comfortable with the eyes that stare back at me. I am at least accustomed to them. There is no expectation of perfection that accompanies my day-to-day activities. I do not feel as compelled to abuse myself for my shortcomings, and I am proud of the belief I still hold onto because it’s hard to believe in God these days.

The more I stare the more I realize that my belief has become much more dynamic, a far cry from the stoic determination that accompanied my words in Korea. My belief has congealed; it is porous enough to allow doubt to seep in once again. It is a glorious feeling to be filled with doubt and uncertainty when the world keeps telling you how sure you have to be in everything. I relish the precariousness of my faith–it being the indicator of growth yet to come.

Yet this new state has made me critical of my spiritual peers, for the blindly-held illusion of certainty is one that now irks me to no end.

The Pulpit Every Sunday I am faced with a dilemma of belief. It is not belief in a higher power that I struggle with but a belief in the words of other worshippers. I am skeptical of my teary-eyed neighbors who share public confessions of experiences with the divine. The congregation usually showers them with comfort and validation in response, and so I can see no reason why those who parade on stage would ever feel inclined to moderate themselves or question how invested the god above actually is in their lives. I have cried too at their stories, and one should cry, I think, when a fellow human’s experience causes one to reflect with gratitude on their own life and all the little moments that culminate in an eventual joy.

I suppose I can use the emotional effect of anecdotes for my own benefit even when I am suspicious of their validity. I’m not sure if that falls into any niche category of sin. I cried during “Schindler’s List” despite being fully aware that it was all make-believe. Other people’s experiences with God could be complete fantasies and I would be none the wiser if reflecting on their words brought me to some new understanding or perspective that strengthened my own personal relationship with the divine. Spirituality is an indiscriminately hungry child

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when it has a mind to be.

My spirit starves for sustenance in the very place where I receive the body and blood of Christ. I sometimes feel him there in the pews and it is a blessing to have him grace my heart, although these moments are a rarity and have grown more infrequent as of late. I hope the infrequency of His visits is on account of my receptivity and not a reduction in His desire to commune with me at His sacrament. Of course, I do not believe the Savior would ever abandon one of His own.

For every fleeting instance of deep and unwavering belief, there is a lifetime of solitary wandering through a world brought to its knees by hardship and furtive treasure-seeking. I have lived a life that has operated on the rule that there is always a price, always a toll, for spiritual knowledge advertised as “freely given.” It is this pattern that causes me to think God is compelled by His love to abandon us after every teaching, every illumination, so that we may be tested with our new understanding in hand for a season before He condescends to reach down “Spirituality is an and return the soul to desperate disarray.

indiscriminately hungry

Silence child when it has a mind If my reality is any basis for how spirituality to be.” develops in general, and it very well may not, then I contend that everyone has to feel abandoned by God if they are to believe in Him. All must go to Korea, so to speak, and be baptized anew in a well of confusion and doubt. We all must at some point cry out, as Padre Sebastian Rodriguez cried, “Lord, why are you silent? Why are you always silent...?” It is in our deepest agony does He consider visiting us, and even then, we must invite Him willingly.

So I say it is no small thing to want to believe in God, for few consider that such a request belies a lifetime of insecurity to follow. Given enough time, doubt will worm its way into any belief and wrap its tendrils around the vestigial remnants of shame that hide beneath its facade. Such a day will come, and God may expect some of us to deliver ourselves by working out our belief in prayer on a linoleum floor in a concrete box suspended in the sky.

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Impressions

By Shaylen Cornwall

You thought today was for relaxing, for beach-going, for blanket spreading on the sunbleached sand. For sunshade reading, for kids’ splashing in the gemmy water that roils and then foams against your toes.

But then you see them, the two bikini-clad leather-skinned women who you nodded a polite hello to as you prodded your children down the beach. You see these two women in the shore break, struggling under the weight of a body. You blink once and realize you’ve seen correctly. It’s the sagging, paling, body of the grandma who bobbed in the water only minutes “Can you bear before. You’d seen her out there, content on the lime green noodle that she was barely too heavy the weight of this for. grandma’s life pressing Now, they float her in on a wave and her weight settles in the sand as the water into you, forever to recedes. She lies on her back, her round stomach points unmoving to the sky, and the women are leave behind a holow, just standing there blinking. And you know they like the depression her need to roll her onto her side. You know they need to check for breathing, for a pulse. You know how body now makes in the many compressions and how many breaths, but wet sand?” in this moment what you don’t know is if you can take this life into your hands. Can you bear the weight of this grandma’s life pressing into you, forever to leave behind a hollow, like the depression her body now makes in the wet sand?

For an hour-long instant, you watch the two women pulling on the grandma’s arms which swell at the shoulder joints with each tug. But the body doesn’t budge, and you hear their wailing, their panicked cries until something else grows louder. That something inside that shouts you have to help. You can’t unsee what’s been seen, you can’t unknow what you know.

Think of the gouge that will be left if you turn away.

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And with the shame of your human hesitation still washing over you, you’re on your feet and running across the hot sand.

Before a third wave can lap at the grandma’s toes, you’re assessing. Weak pulse, no breath.

You’re instructing. “Call the medics,” you cry. “Help me roll her over like this,” you say as another wave foams at her feet. And then you’re using your whole body to hold hers on her side and her back feels soft and fleshy in your hands and sand digs into the skin of your knees and another wave splashes over you and the panicked woman is telling you, “This is my mother, my mother, Rose,” she’s sobbing as you tell her to go get a towel to cushion Rose’s head.

You press your weight into her back to keep her from rolling over you. And you can’t take your fingers off her pulse, your eyes off her chest. And then Rose coughs, her chest heaves in rapid shallow bursts. And her eyes open as the next wave sweeps up the sand and you’re still pressing into her back when the mist of confusion starts to clear her pupils and you show her daughter how to help you help her to sit up.

Even sitting up, drool runs down Rose’s chin, so you stay beside her until the emergency response team arrives. Your body aches from supporting hers, but the medics scoop her up, four men at once like she weighs nothing. And the two women scurry across the sand gathering towels and children and they leave the beach in a long line led by the stretcher and navy-blue uniforms.

And you sit in the hollow her body created, the wet sand where you held her and kept her from choking, where you felt her life flowing through her wrist, watched her chest rise and fall. You sit there while the waves lick all around you, that huge tongue smoothing the depression in the sand.

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A look at my thoughts

By Elias Hopkin

You sigh. You’ve been bearing your soul with groundbreaking candor a lot recently. It has felt very nice, and you know now that you have nothing you really care about hiding, yet it’s left you tired. Those reflections were like drinking a storm, exhilarating and purifying, but now you are ready for some sunshine to curl up in like a drowsy cat.

Any other day, you would probably rake someone, quite likely yourself, over the coals in an essay like this.

“Ah, castigation, what a lovely word,” you think to yourself. “Then again, most words that relate to painful redemption are.”

You think it’s funny just how closely related self loathing and arrogance can be. You chuckle ironically at the fact that people think your efforts are self aggrandizing when in fact they are an attempt to overcome your every insufficiency. Then you laugh more brightly when you see what a dark turn you were taking. You pause your writing to watch a funny, and remarkably “Any other day, you would motivating, Youtube video celebrating writing failures. probably rake someone, Your roommate sings a falsetto in the quite likely yourself, over background mildly grating your nerves. You the coals in an essay like wonder not for the first time if he experiences some amount of gender dysphoria on account of this.” his many feminine tendencies and inclinations to fall well outside the two, maybe even three, standard deviations from the mean of typical male behavior. You have a random flash of memory from earlier today when your other roommate was wandering around the apartment wearing nothing but a pair of slightly translucent boxers and feel slightly nauseous.

You laugh at the confusion over a piece being critiqued in the Youtube video about whether

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or not a man is dead. Then you wonder why your roommate is so self conscious about singing when you hear him in the shower from your bedroom carrying over from the adjacent window every day. You accidentally click the search bar and are confused by the video suggestions because they have nothing to do with anything you’ve watched, before reading the name Daenerys and remembering that you are for some reason trapped in your shared work email while watching these videos. You would be more judgmental, but that would be hypocritical because, after all, aren’t you stuck there too? Plus, let’s be honest, you have watched videos while still on that email, although you point out that at least your videos were good.

You are still in a super chill mood, which for some reason always happens when you are feeling just a little bit thirsty. You pause to wonder if that is connected to diabetes. Your evening has taken a weird turn, but you’re okay with that. Examining your thoughts “You would be more has been highly amusing, probably because judgmental, but that would be you’re tired, and helped you to realize that you don’t really need company to have a hypocritical because, after all, highly interesting evening. A sudden sad aren’t you stuck there too?” thought from yesterday makes you worry about an English language learner who was clearly trying so hard but ended up crying even though you don’t know if there was a connection between that and failure.

Then a song about children with “really huge eyeballs” pops into your head and takes the edge off. You suddenly remember that you have several financial obligations, which makes you snarl, but you’re not going to let those thorns pop your bubble of happiness. You are content to float along a blissful current of air until you start getting ready for bed and will begin pondering how you would sabotage, I mean, influence the 2020 presidential election if you had telepathy that could stretch for thousands of miles. You close your laptop, And log back on when you realize you accidently posted the roll for your class on your personal Facebook.

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Against Dry World Outlook Suppositions

By Scott Muhlestein

Oh, the gorgeous highline of God’s earth, the gorgeous highline flutters of sensible things!

There is beauty all around—everywhere—but it is cradled, cut off, catastrophically subdued by the everyday. The perfunctory dollar bill, the day’s labor, the need to get up and attend to the menial tasks of shaving, washing and waiting—all these blind us to the subtle and blaring beauty of the furious heaven-earth. But they need not—they need not blind us to these things, rather they can become a part, and a portion of the triumphant beauty of sight and smell and “There is beauty all color. But in order for this to happen, in order for us to incorporate the everyday into the narrative and around—everywhere— fantastic color-form of the Lord’s beauty, in order but it is cradled, cut for this to happen we need to move beyond the everyday and see into the mystic. off, catastrophically We need to see the glory of an ant or cockroach subdued by the climbing the blade of grass, for all its supposed inevitability and uselessness. We need to see that it everyday.” is not just insect toil, mindlessly mandated by the chemical instincts of animal hearts, but rather the emmanation and outcropping of the spiritual and divine mind. Some may never come to understand this distinction; we have been taught so furiously and rigorously that brains are just chemicals and that actions are just percentages and perfectly logical results of probabilities and reactions. We have been taught this so well that even the religious or spiritually minded accept the dry world outlook suppositions of this mechanistic age. But we must look deeper, and only then will you realize that it is not

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that the logicians and scientists are misguided or inaccurate in their assumptions about the world, but rather only lacking in the delightful vision of a comprehensive outlook. I for one welcome science and its conclusions and incontrovertible results; however, I do protest its lack of vision. Often because of the success of science and empiricism, we as a modern age fail to grasp the oddacious efficacy and message of the scientific results. Like a young child who naively “Like a young child who substitutes the parts for the whole, our generation is caustically stuck in the minutia of our present naively substitutes the discoveries. We see that chemicals work in the parts for the whole, brain, that animal life is the result of evolution, and that the weather works by a concrete system our generation is that can be analyzed and predicted; however we caustically stuck in the fail to grasp the wondrous nature of these events in their totality. minutia of our present What I mean is that we do not realize that just discoveries.� as the small reactions and exchanges in our brain combine to form the miracle of consciousness—so, too, do these varied and multifarious scientific observation combine to form a sum greater than its parts, and if we can but see this whole, if we can but see into this vision of summation, then we will see that even the miniscule and seemingly mundane is invested with immense importance. It is the vision and eyesight of God to see things this way, and it is an immensely valuable gift that our generation is sorely lacking if we aim to move any closer to a world brotherhood of love, peace, and meaningful interaction with the world.

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Early Morning

By Nathan VanBuskirk

As the man sat in the darkness waiting for the day to break, he could almost feel his mother nudging him in his childhood bedroom.

“Honey, it’s time to wake up and get going. We don’t want to miss it!”

The young boy rubs his heavy eyes in confusion. No light shines through the window, only darkness. “But it’s not morning yet!” Distraught, the little trooper slides out of bed with all the strength he can muster. The mother gently wraps him in a furry blanket. He groggily stagers to the car while his mother kindly leads him by the shoulders.

The cool fresh breeze tousles his floppy brown hair while he climbs into the car. The child, annoyed by his mother’s smiling face, rubs his eyes again and whines, “Mom, why are you so happy? It’s cold and dark.”

She responds, “Honey just look out the window and tell me what you see.”

At first all he sees are the streetlamps and a few other cars driving past. On the horizon on one side of the sky there is a slight glow. “I don’t see it mom! What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“Just wait and see its magic!” almost sings the too-cheerful mother.

Concentrating, the little guy squints, eyes glaring out into the horizon, searching.

Slowly, like a predator sneaks up on its prey, an orange glowing ball, peaks out over the horizon. The ball ignites the sky with an explosion of fiery colors of reds, yellows and oranges swirling together casting a pink glow upon everything on the earth.

“Well, what do you see?” the mother gently prods.

“The sky is on fire!!” his eyes now wide awake, searching the sky.

“Keep watching.” As he kept watching cooler colors, purples and pinks, pour into the fiery colors like paint on canvas. “Isn’t God an amazing artist?”

He imagines God’s hands on the other side of the sky swirling around in His finger paints.

The desert scenery seems to come suddenly alive doused by the bright colors in the atmosphere. The black silhouettes of the palm trees swaying in the breeze create a sense of mystery and thrill to the scene of the painted brush strokes in the sky. The birds flying about

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and rejoicing in song for a new and glorious day add life to the desert.

He looks at his mom who is smiling at the sky and realizes he is grinning too. “Great art makes people happy,” she almost whispers in reverence, “that’s why God paints the sky every morning... just for us.”

Before the painting was even finished, the brilliant colors begin to fade away, leaving behind “Before the painting a blue sky and a new day. was even finished, the

“Where did it go?”

“It’s gone, but He’ll paint another one brilliant colors begin tomorrow, and you can see it if you get up early to fade away, leaving enough,” she answers with a smile, a snuggle, and a peck on the small head. behind a blue sky and a

He imagines he can still feel it. How many new day.” mornings? How many of God’s finger paintings has he since seen? Each one, uniquely beautiful and each one brought the same smile to his face; his mother’s smile.

As the colors of the morning emerged triumphantly through the darkness of the night, the Pacific Ocean reflected the purple and the pink creating a oneness with the sky. It was a different time a different place, a different sky, but the same masterful artist.

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The Peaceful Veteran

By Jacob Kelsey His name was Blia Neng and I would visit him once a week.

Every week, he always answered the door with a smile welcoming us inside. His wife Mai would shout hello from the back and immediately begin cutting small fruits and fixing snacks for us to eat. Their home was modest, the living room was large. Blia would always sit on a short rounded stool placed in the center of the room. Blia was a short man, slightly above five feet tall, but he was muscular for his build. He was around fifty-five to sixty years old but his face was young. Dressed in a pair of work pants and a wife beater, he would tell us stories of his life and of his people. Occasionally, he would sing long traditional tales of history and pain. He sang a style of music called “Kwv Txhiaj,” a genre that has been his coping method for a number of years. It’s a common method of coping not only for Blia but for countless members of his people.

Blia was Hmong. Born in the quiet mountainside of Laos, he had made his way over to America. Like many of the Hmong people, he never planned on coming to America and he certainly didn’t plan on leaving his mountain village. He, along with thousands of others, had come over as refugees seeking peace and a new life away from their once beautiful home.

In 1962, the Vietnam War was in full swing. The United States was pouring resources into Vietnam in an effort to defeat the spread of communism. The Vientamense began to spread control, working their way inside the small neighboring country of Laos. The U.S. was unsure of how to respond to such a movement as they couldn’t become directly involved with another nation. Rather than sending more soldiers into an unfamiliar territory, they decided to recruit the freedom loving people within the mountains. The largest of these people being the Hmong. They came to Blia’s home. They offered land, money, and peace for their help in the war effort. Many men left, not many returned. Widows and children struggled alone as more men were called into the war. Soon, young men were asked to join the cause. Boys as young as fourteen were drafted. Blia himself was recruited when he was around sixteen, but like many of his friends he joined willingly. He was taken to a training camp, where he was taught by an American instructor. They taught him how to shoot a gun, how to hide and carry out orders, how to kill. The Hmong were efficient soldiers, they knew the territory and they were fearless

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in carrying out orders. Many of the American men feared them, believing them to be crazy.

Blia worked as a soldier for a number of years. He’d run through the jungle dodging bullets, shrapnel, and dropping bombs. The bombing never seemed to end. From 1964 to 1973, the U.S. dropped more than two million tons of bombs on Laos. A planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24-hours a day, for 9 years made Laos the most heavily bombed country in history.

The bombs hit and erupted constantly, the sounds always heard. To this day, Blia still struggles from PTSD with certain sounds triggering his memories. He would tell us his war stories, he would sing songs of loneliness and suffering, but if you were to meet him briefly you would never know of what he had been through. He loved to joke and mess around, he loved to tell wild stories and poke fun at his time spent in America.

However, certain days he would release a small bit of his sadness in between our usual banter and laughs. He once “The Hmong were looked me in the eyes and said, “My boy, you remind me efficient soldiers, they so much of my older brother. He was handsome like you.

He always had success with women like you I suppose!” knew the territory and He laughed and smiled, but his eyes carried sadness. He they were fearless in told us that his brother had been killed by the Vietnamese. He had been a strong leader; he led a group of men carrying out orders.” into battle each day. Him and his men had been taken captive, his brother was tortured and killed. All Blia had seen of his brother was his decapitated head, given to him without the eyes. After that we talked about heaven, about the hope we had that our loved ones would be happy, peaceful, and content.

Soon, the U.S. pulled out of the war. They did not evacuate the Hmong people; they took only the higher leaders and abandoned the rest. The Hmong people fled as the communists came in waves to kill them. Many made it to Thailand as refugees, but many did not. Blia stayed behind in Laos and continued fighting. He joined a small rebel group of fighters and fought as long as he could. They lived alone in the wilderness, eating only what they could find. They had no home or shelter. They would scavenge dead bodies for ammunition and weapons, they tried their hardest to retake their land. Blia didn’t stay. Worn out, abused, and hungry he left the rebel effort and joined the refugees in Thailand. The Hmong people were forced to stay separately from the Thai citizens in large camps, the biggest of them being Ban Vinai. Ban Vinai was a strange place. It was a place of joy and suffering. The Hmong were

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oppressed by the Thai and unable to leave. Many were punished daily by Thai soldiers stationed to stand watch and living conditions were less than desirable. Blia settled there, taking and working whatever jobs were given to him. Oddly enough, him and many others remember their time there fondly. Many remember staying up late with friends, dating, and enjoying the company of others. Although the conditions weren’t the best, they at least had each other and their lives to hold onto. Blia lived there for two years before being allowed acceptance into the United States. He arrived in Southern California, but he eventually settled in Yuba City, California, farther up in the north.

Life in America isn’t easy if you can’t speak English. He struggled to find work to support himself. He eventually settled as a custodian working every day from two to nine-- a job he still works to this day. There is an old Hmong saying which states “Hla dej yuav hle khau, tsiv teb tsaws chaw yuav hle hau.” (When crossing water, you remove your shoes. When moving lands, you remove your title.) In Laos, Blia was a leader among his village. He was well known, he had his friends, and he had his family. While in America, he was alone working as a custodian. He let go of his title and started a new life. In describing Blia’s life, it can be easy to focus on the negatives. If you were to hear his stories without meeting him, you’d assume he was depressed. That life had abused him and let him go. In spite of that, when I think of Blia, I picture a happy man with a strong family. After our discussions, Blia always focused on the positives in his life. He always mentioned how blessed he felt and how lucky he was to live in America. He never complained about his work or home, about his lack of ability to speak English, or about navigating life in a new country. Instead, he talked about how fortunate he was to have a job. How proud he was that his kids have been able to go to college. How pleased he was that he had a job that was simple and manageable. Blia focused on the positives and let go of his past. The walls in his home are plastered with pictures of his wife and family, his pride and joy. Blia is an example to us all. A strong man is someone who can take a harsh past and present and turn it into an optimistic future: Blia is a strong man, and we can all be like him.

When I was moving away, I visited Blia one last time to say goodbye. He hugged me and thanked me for visiting him. He told me to make sure to come and visit with him again. While saying our goodbyes, he told me “to take advantage of my life, study hard, and trust in God.” I echo his words. No matter how hard life gets or what we’ve gone through. There is always hope for a brighter future, we can always overcome our pasts. We can be like Blia.

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The Feast

By Cole Johnson

I. University students say he sits in the same place every day—on the only patch of grass for blocks. A sanctuary only big enough for this homeless man, his stained duffle, and his pit bull.

-The London Standard I’m surprised they haven’t kicked him off the grass yet because his cardboard sign is so poorly punctuated, and the grass is so close to the University campus.

-BBC RadioNow His sign says, “Will accept dog food work money.”

-Qtd. in “The Smell on the Tube” Here at Hostel Homeless we would be more than happy to provide him with a cot, but he said that the people give him all he needs.

-From the August issue of “Hostel Homeless” II. Every morning when I exit the train station, I expect to see him. I would be worried if I didn’t see him because he’s always there. He was there as usual that morning, sitting on the grass with a few chocolate wrappers next to him. One hand petting the dog and the other petting the grass. Stan Lyon is the only person I ever saw give him money.

-Bryce Winegar, Associate Professor of Psychology I had never seen his eyes before. The typical exchange was I would clank a few coins into the empty shoe box, and he would wave one hand in my direction, always looking at the ground.

Until yesterday when he looked up.

-Stan Lyon, Special Instructor of Literature I walked out of the station to see Mr. Lyon in a staring contest with that one homeless guy

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that always sits on the grass.

-Trish Mackintosh, Sophomore from California He was staring harder at that homeless guy than he did at me when he found out I plagiarized half my final essay. I thought maybe they’d kiss.

-Qtd. from twitter handle @babesluvme His eyes flicked up and caught mine. The electric blue swirled marbles locked onto mine. I was frozen; I couldn’t even look away. Then I felt a cough come, not from my throat, not even from my stomach. I felt jolts working their way up from my bladder. Winding through my abdomen and then jerking up my throat. It wasn’t just one. The jolts would pulse every few seconds and work their way up. I had no control.

-Stan Lyon, Special Instructor of Literature It was 8:00 AM and my Professor started belly dancing for this homeless guy he was staring at.

-Qtd. from Twitter handle @babesluvme A crowd quickly gathered as Stan fell to his knees coughing, pulsing. Each cough was a different tone. Some were loud and rapid, while others were quiet and soft.

-Bryce Winegar First was my breakfast—a croissant filled with two fried eggs and a piece of cheese. It all landed on the ground in front of me, whole and untouched. Next was the coffee that spilled onto the street and ran down the cracks in the cement. Next was dinner. I vomited mashed potatoes, and gurgled up gravy on top of them, choked on charbroiled chicken, and sighed salt and pepper to sprinkle the top. Up came vitamins undissolved. I felt the cracked pieces of waffle cone bowl skip up my throat and land on the ground completely and perfectly. Next bubbled up ice cream that landed frozen on top of the waffle cone bowl.

-Stan Lyon The staring contest turned into a wrestling match. Mr. Lyon against himself, or maybe a bet-

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ter way to say it is Mr. Lyon’s outside against his inside. He was twisting on the ground, trying to grab anything that would keep him from moving. When the chicken came up, he lurched so hard that he hit his head on the cement. Like, I don’t really know, but I think it split his head open?

-Trish Mackintosh Trust me, that’ll make you lose your appetite for the rest of the century. It’s too bad Professor Lyon didn’t have something embarrassing to eat like a Peppa Pig cupcake. That would have at least lightened the mood.

-@babesluvme It was all over in less than two minutes. No one got too close to Stan while it was happening.

I forced myself to help Stan to a bench outside the station and gave him a napkin to wipe the gravy ice cream off his shaking chin.

-Bryce Winegar III. The man gently placed the grilled chicken in front of the dog, who then ate slow and gently.

Everything else went to the man.

-Bryce Winegar We got there and took statements. Everyone was glazed over and trembling. Pictures of what we are told was coffee are included here. The importance of the coffee is still unknown. We couldn’t do much to understand the stories. Most were related to vomit and the homeless guy on the grass. We remind people that it is not a crime to be homeless nor to be sick in public.

-Police report submitted by Officers White and Wheatley What I find most strange is that some mornings I still see Stan tossing money to the old man, though they never make eye contact—Bryce looks at the cement while the homeless man is always looking up, giving Stan a genuine but crooked smile.

-Bryce Winegar I watched the whole thing from my shop door. After he finished eating the resurrected food, I think I heard the homeless man say something about how the people have all he needs.

-Alex Raton quoted in “London’s Unashamed”

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Funeral Tales

By Dan Boyle Kenny and Luis worked in the early 1940’s for the Golden Exit Funeral Home & Parlor.

Their first responsibilities were to be bereavement counselors in dark suits with somber and sympathetic faces. They prided themselves on being able to look empathic and consoling under any circumstances. They privately said to each other, “We help people pass with class.”

They drove the hearse for funerals and the ambulance for the injured or nearly dead. They also drove clients to the slab, lab, or ER. One day, late at night, Kenny answered the Exit telephone with his own custom greeting. “You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em, some go to heaven and some go to HELLO!” At that time, the caller was the owner, Mortis Sowerberry. He told Kenny if he ever did that again he would embalm him alive. Kenny never did.

Luis was so proud he was hired by the Exit, after years of working for their competitor, the Final Passage. They scornfully referred to them as the “Cadaver Garage.” Mr. Sowerberry prided himself in offering a professional and serene sendoff for three generations of townspeople.

Years ago, Mr. Sowerberry gave Myrtle Cohen a special deal on her departure ticket after realizing that there were over eighteen people in her family who were over fifty-five. That timely decision netted all eighteen plus an additional twelve shirt-tail cousins and family friends who decided to take the Golden Exit as they left the road of life. Mrs. Sowerberry was so happy with the success of their business that she bought a small condo in Sunset Beach, Hawaii.

Mr. Sowerberry was a marketing genius by sending out annual calendars to everyone over fifty in the area, with pictures of sunsets (taken by the Mrs. in Hawaii), boats leaving docks, airplanes flying away and angels beckoning people into their loving arms. It worked. The Exit became the most experienced and popular “travel” agency in the area.

One summer day, Myrtle Cohen age 97, slipped quietly away from this life and was taken to the Golden Exit. Her deluxe package handled all the details and arrangements associated with dying in America. Her leaving left nothing for the family to do except show up for the services.

The Exit scheduled Kenny and Luis to take Myrtle to her home on Friday night for a family wake. Kenny and Luis arrived exactly at 5:00 PM in immaculate back suits, white gloves, and shoes so shiny you could start fires using sunlight. They solemnly carried Myrtle from the

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hearse into the house with the help of her two grand nephews. They placed the casket on two saw horses that had been used when her husband Irving left her twenty years before.

Kenny opened the casket lid and made sure Myrtle had not been jostled during the trip to her home. Luis made sure her hands were placed properly, hair was in place and her smile was still a smile. Kenny pulled out an ebony make up brush and lightly brushed her cheeks. A Belgian lace handkerchief was placed in her hands that Irving had brought home from the war.

Her wedding ring shone brightly. Both men moved so precise and gracefully that they resembled the guards at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The family was suitably impressed.

Kenny and Luis then stood at the head and foot of the casket and bowed their heads in reverent silence for exactly one minute. These solemn escorts quietly left and drove back to the Exit at no more than thirty miles per hour. Mr. Sowerberry explicitly told them to never talk and to look straight ahead until they arrived at the garage. Silence, serenity, and solemnity were the traits of a professional bereavement counselor.

Not ten minutes after the Exit team left, the Cohen home was pummeled with the most unearthly screak from some unknown creature. Oleander had arrived. The only daughter of Irvin and Myrtle was born in the middle of six boys. The Drama Queen, the Baroness and Duchess of emotional and vocal mayhem. She cried when anything died or ceased to exist such as the death of her dog Nerd, her rotting pet palm tree, and when Brett walked out on Scarlet O’Hara. Her specialty, however, were the deaths of anyone she knew.

Her uncontrollable crying, sobbing, blubbering, wailing, etc., was always loud and painful to the ears. And it went on for days, sometimes weeks. The family had built a special soundproof gazebo away from the house after she heard the earth was not flat. She never married, saving some poor man from a dreadful existence. Her only boyfriend, Arnold, lost his hearing during the First World War. They were almost married until he was hit by a noisy bus.

Now mama was dead and this should have been her greatest performance. The family hoped Oleander would not arrive until after Mother was in the ground. They even told her that the funeral was the following week, but her friend told her otherwise.

Oleander ran up the stairs and into the parlor so fast that none of her brothers could stop her. She screamed all the way to the casket and enclosed the box and Myrtle in her massive arms. The box and Oleander hit the floor with a crash. Myrtle rolled out of the casket and Oleander held her like a baby rocking back and forth in terrible grief. Even the dogs next door joined in.

One of her brothers quickly called the Exit and requested help. Kenny and Luis had just finished their Whataburgers and drove reverently back to the Cohen’s. The noises from the

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house were dreadful and the howling dogs were unsettling, but Kenny and Luis were as calm as Myrtle was.

A stern non-bereavement look from Kenny slowed Oleander to a whimper. She was a legend in the funeral business around town and Kenny had heard her before. They quickly gathered up Myrtle and placed her back in her shipping container. Luis corrected Myrtle’s tear-damaged makeup. Kenny put her dress, hankie and hands back in place and new flowers in her hair. Another stern look from Luis at Oleander slowed her down to a soft moaning. Kenny and Luis had been trained to expect anything at wakes and funerals, and they were masters at biting their tongues and locking their faces in stone. They drove off in serenity until they turned the corner. Their laughter was astounding.

Graveside was well attended the next day. Kenny and Luis had lowered the casket into the grave. The expressions of grief were muted and proper. Oleander was moaning quietly because of the sharp looks she received from the counselors. When it came time to throw flowers into the grave, Oleander stood on the edge, threw in a bouquet of flowers, let out a terrible howl, and fell bottom first on top of Myrtle.

They all heard the casket lid crack and all were silent for a moment. Oleander began to scream and kick her legs in the air. Some of the children started to giggle but were quickly hushed. The Priest looked heavenward while the family looked downward on Oleander. Her Aunt yelled at her to be quiet and modest in her wedged condition.

Kenny and Luis announced that the graveside service was over and moved everyone quickly to their cars. What to do now? Kenny looked down at Oleander and told her to quiet down and they would get her out. Oleander blubbered out how sorry she was that she had ruined her Momma’s wake and graveside service.

With the help of a small gravedigger they placed canvas strips under her shoulders, back, and thighs. She was told to cross her hands on her chest and exhale air. With the help of six men and a backhoe they gently got her out. She was so grateful that she hugged all the men and cried herself to her car.

Kenny and Luis pulled Myrtle up for a last look over and casket change. They loaded her into the hearse and drove back to the Exit. They did not laugh knowing that Mr. Sowerberry was there and that he tolerated no frivolity.

Within the hour Myrtle had a new casket and was back in the ground. Kenny, Luis and six gravediggers sat around the grave, drank Cokes, and laughed themselves to death.

Based on a true story in 1941, Phoenix, Arizona

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The Door

By Abigail Cannon Scene 1 The scene is in a kitchen, a bit outdated, but functional. There’s a table with 5 chairs in the middle.

Suddenly two boys race out: Hamilton (8) and Finn (14). They race to the refrigerator, where they wrestle for a bit. Finally, Finn shoves Hammie to the ground, opens the fridge, and pulls out a jug of chocolate milk.

Finn: Victory!!!

Hamilton: That’s not fair, Finn! You’re bigger than me!

Finn studies the jug of milk. There’s only enough for one cup.

Finn: Alright. We’ll split it.

He pulls two cups out of the cupboard and pours half in each. As they’re drinking it, their sister, Alyssa, walks in.

Alyssa: You guys know that chocolate milk isn’t that important, right? You act like it’s some sort of god.

Hamilton: Sets cup on table. All hail chocolate milk! Ruler of the universe!

Finn and Hammie start bowing to their chocolate milk. Alyssa shakes her head, picks up their glasses and pours the milk down the sink.

Hamilton: Alyssa! That was the last of the chocolate milk!

Finn: Come on, Alyssa. Why do you have to be so uptight?

Alyssa: I’m not uptight. I’m reasonable.

She walks to the cupboard and pulls out a box of Wheat Thins, which she starts eating out of.

Suddenly there’s a loud pounding on the front door. All of them freeze, wide-eyed, staring at the door. Something pounds on the door again, making it shake. They wait a few more seconds before breaking the silence.

Hamilton: Scared. Why does it always do that?

Alyssa: It’s done that since we were little, Hammie. Don’t worry about it.

Finn continues to stare at the door, while Alyssa and Hamilton start making sandwiches. Todd and Lucy, their parents, walk in.

Lucy: You guys ready for lunch?

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Hamilton: We’re already making sandwiches!

Todd: Look at all of you ahead of the game!

Todd punches Finn in the arm playfully, which startles him out of his trance. Finn shakes his head and sits down at the table.

Alyssa: What kind do you want, Finn?

Finn: Uuh... Turkey.

Hamilton: I got ham for Hammie!

Hamilton sits next to Finn and the rest of the family follows with their sandwiches. Finn keeps glancing at the door.

Finn: Dad? Todd: Mouth full. Yeah?

Finn: What’s on the other side of the door?

Lucy: Oh, Finn, I swear you ask this every day. How many times have we told you? You don’t need to worry about it!

Finn: ButTodd: Finn. There is nothing behind that door we need to worry about. We are safest in this house and that’s all we need to know.

Finn: So we’re just going to be stuck here for the rest of our lives? Never knowing what’s out there? I want to see what I’ve read about! I want to see the blue sky, a real bird, green grass, the sun!

Todd: Finn, the world has changed. It’s not like that anymore. There’s nothing out there. Not even blue sky or green grass. It was all destroyed.

Finn: I don’t believe it. That was fourteen years ago. That’s a long time. Everything could have changed by now.

Todd: We’re better safe than sorry.

Finn: This isn’t safe. This is ignorance! You’re all too ignorant to look beyond yourselves and actually believe in something and change!

Lucy: Finn! Do not raise your voice please!

Pounding on the door. They all freeze for a few seconds.

Finn: Breaking the silence. Fine.

Finn walks out of the room.

Alyssa: I can’t believe he’s my twin. He’s so immature.

THE DOOR

39

Todd: Alyssa, go to your room.

Alyssa: What?! Why?!

Todd: Go. Alyssa stomps out of the room angrily.

Lucy: You too, Hamilton.

Hamilton frowns and walks slowly out of the room.

Lucy: What are we going to do?

Todd: Nothing. Just keep acting normal.

Scene 2 It’s the middle of the night. A light turns on sitting on a nightstand next to a bed. Hammie has just awoken from a nightmare, breathing heavily. Finn wakes up and turns his light on.

Finn: Ham, what’s wrong?

Hamilton: I-I opened the door and there was a dinosaur. And it was chasing me. And I almost got killed. And I climbed up a tree. AndFinn laughs.

Finn: There isn’t a dinosaur behind that door.

Hamilton: There could be! There has to be some kind of monster out there! Why else would Mom and Dad be so worried?

Finn: I don’t know. But something isn’t right about this.

Pause.

Finn: I’m going to do it. Tomorrow.

Hamilton: Do what?

Finn: Open the door.

Hamilton: No! You can’t!

Finn: Ham! We can’t just sit around for the rest of our lives!

Hamilton: We won’t be! Mom makes us exercise every day!

Finn: You don’t get it, Ham. Just... go back to sleep. Don’t worry about me.

Hamilton: I’m gonna tell Dad. Finn: If you do, I swear, I will give you the biggest wedgie of your life.

Hamilton looks scared. He thinks for a moment.

Hamilton: Okay. I won’t.

Finn: Good.

They both turn off their lights.

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40

Scene 3 The family is doing the dishes in the kitchen.

Lucy: Okay, kids. After this, it’s school time!

Alyssa: Yes, Mother.

Hamilton: Yes! School!

Todd: Are you feeling happier today, Finn?

Finn: Smiles Yes, sir!

Todd: Great! Now, no more thoughts about the door.

Hammie and Finn exchange looks. Coincidentally, the pounding on the door starts again. They all wait until it stops and continue to do the dishes.

Lucy: Good work, everybody! To the school room now!

Hammie and Alyssa march out behind Lucy. Finn and Todd stay behind.

Todd: You coming?

Finn: Yeah, I’m just kind of thirsty. I’ll be in there in a minute.

Todd: Okey Dokey!

As soon as Todd leaves, Finn rushes to the door. He touches the doorknob and backs away hesitantly. Then he takes a deep breath and opens it. The room fills with blinding light. Blackout.

Scene 4 (optional) The scene opens to a white room. Finn is lying in a white bed, wearing white clothes. He sits up and looks around in confusion. Suddenly, a woman also dressed in white walks in.

Woman: Hello.

Finn: Hi... Um... Am I dead?

The woman laughs.

Woman: No, you’re not.

Finn: Confused. What’s happening? Where am I? Where’s my family? I opened the door and... that’s all I remember.

Woman: Your body wasn’t used to real sunlight. You passed out. You are currently in our Central Care Center. You and your “family” (she makes quotation marks out of her fingers) were part of a test. A test on human curiosity. Of course, they’re not your real family. Your parents are employees of mine. You passed the test. Congratulations.

Finn: What happens now?

The woman shrugs her shoulders and walks out. Finn looks panicked. He starts to cry. He begins pacing. Then he stops and looks at the white door the woman walked out of. He walks to the door and opens it. Blackout.

THE PROCESS

41

The Process

By Hunter Pons Few places welcome the unapologetically heathen anymore. I would know, being widely considered a pig in my closest circles and the devil himself in countless more. “Social abrasion is your muse,” my son told me. How right he was. Is. I am so full of ideas but have no impetus to write them down without someone wanting my blood. I think it may have something to do with conditioning–I once produced some great work right after I pissed someone off and I’ve never been able to do one without the other since. To that point, I thank God there’s still a place or two that allow people like me to be complete snakes to each other when they need to write something.

I was in such a place only yesterday when a small lady with cavernous eyeshadow and a hook nose stuck a taser to my neck for calling her an old crow. I was a half-second from spitting out “witch” when the voltage defibrillated my vocal cords into a high-pitched scream. I don’t know what she expected when she felt inclined to inform me that alcohol wasn’t allowed in a community center. Now, I’ll be the first to admit my perception of time is a fickle thing, but I do believe after I dropped to the floor I set a new personal record for twitching and squealing in public by a narrow margin. I need to start wearing a watch.

While rooting shamelessly on the floor I came across a stray truffle, a set of shining Oakley’s under a chair reflecting my bloodshot eyes and clenched jaw. I pocketed them while the old bird stood over my unresponsive body and squawked in triumph while her serpentine groupies hissed and bared their silly fangs. Their display did not impress me in the least.

It may seem that I am rambling here but don’t worry, I am near this story’s end. Cheers again for the drink by the way. Where was I? Ah. Nursing my neck and a hangover, the sunglasses were a godsend, I rushed back to the scene of the crime as soon as I could stand. In no time at all I was charging through the community center, bursting into the classroom I’d been assaulted in the night before.

Expecting to assuage my injured pride with a shit-slinging rant directed toward the crow and the rest of the aspiring writers resigned to a podunk town, I was shocked to find a mob of what I assume were toddlers or preschoolers or whatever the hell you like to call undeveloped humans. Their age is of little import, as they were all clamoring around a cherubic woman

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bedecked in khaki, displaying a humongous bug--a gargantuan beetle--on her arm. I know now after a frenzied Google-fest that the monsters are called stag beetles and they’re some of the most nightmarish things to crawl upon the earth, and so my reaction was not completely unwarranted. That being said, I do wonder what effect my behavior had on the children.

You see, I naturally reared back from the creature and screeched “Jesus” while I collapsed in the doorway and backpedaled with frenzied kicks that shot me straight back into the hallway.

The sounds that chased me out could have been laughter or anguished cries, as the last thing I saw were tiny open mouths emitting bat-like shrieks I simply couldn’t register. No greater relief have I felt in the past three years than that door slamming shut on my stricken face. I told myself then and there I had to stop drinking.

I believe it was three years ago yesterday that I last tried to kick the booze--I was sailing in the Mediterranean when my host fell overboard. There were whales everywhere and in my drink-fueled hysteria I thought he’d been swallowed by one of the huge beasts and I must’ve screamed the name Jonah incessantly for nearly an hour even after we’d rescued the man.

Despite ruining some key relationships in my life at the time, I still consider it to be the foundational event of my thirties.

That was around when my son stopped talking to me. Yes, I think he bailed me out in Greece and took me to the airport. That’s when he said with stoic finality, “social abrasion is your muse.” I should have been devastated, but I was relieved by the dismissal. I think about that a lot—and as you can see, I didn’t quit drinking, but the whole ordeal did wonders for my writing.

HALOS

43

Halos

By Brynne Petty Saturn’s rings are made of ice. Ice that is frozen in the sub zero temperature of cold, dark, outerspace, caught up in gravity, stuck forever in the halo circling her head. She wears it like a crown.

She didn’t always have her rings, her halo, her crown. That I stole for her.

I regret it.

Saturn used to be kind. Her frozen touch was gentle, and her words, which were a puff of cloudy air, was soft. Her skin was pale, swirling with different shades of blue: indigo, cobalt, aqua, ultramarine, phthalo blues. Every time she laughed, or the rare moments when a stray sunbeam would find her, or when my lips touched her cheeks, that swirling blue would blush with blood red, staining her cheeks purples.

I lived for those purple hues.

If you haven’t guessed it by now, then I’ll tell you: I loved her. I loved her swirling purple hues, her cold fingertips, her frozen laugh. Her blue fingers would lace through my golden ones, and we would run, skipping across the stars and swimming in supernovas, the colors always getting stuck in her hair.

I loved her more than anything. That’s why I stole her the ice for her rings.

One thing to know about me: I was once great. I used to wander, to take many forms, to hide in plain sight and explore. I was untamable and free before I met Saturn and got caught up in her axis. I would stop by her orbit between solar systems and tell her my stories, bring her comet tails and asteroid dust as gifts. I never stayed too long, but I always came back.

The first shard of ice I stole came from Earth, and it was an accident. I was a bit of wind, golden and unnoticed, dancing through Earth’s city streets. I had passed by one of the fragile human things, and my hand accidentally brushed her cheek and caught something. My fingers had instantly curled around it and tucked it inside my pocket without really thinking as I continued my dance around the cities, the deserts, the grass, the seas.

When at last my breath ran ragged, I flitted my way up out of Earth’s atmosphere and settled in a crater on Earth’s Moon, staring up at the tiny constellations the tiny humans had thought to name. Tired, my hand slipped into my pocket and that thing pricked my finger.

I pulled it out, and in my palm lay a tiny, single tear. Salt and melancholy reflected in it

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44

and it froze almost instantly in my cold golden hands. I stared at it, guilt biting at the inside of me as I realized I stole it from a human girl and I knew I should’ve given it back.

Something most beings don’t know: tears contain tiny bits of human souls, and if their tears are stolen, they begin to break.

But that tear, that single tiny tear was too alluring. It had turned into a pearly white, glistening in rays of light bouncing off the moon’s surface. Small and sad, beautiful and enticing.

So I kept it. I tucked it away in my pocket and kept it.

When I returned to Saturn, I kissed her on the cheek so that her skin flushed purple. I gave her the single frozen tear from my pocket. She loved it so much that she strung it on gravity and placed it around her neck. Where the tear grazed her collarbone, the swirling blue hues flushed purple. With gentle kisses and her frozen air words, she quietly asked for more the next time I ventured out.

So I did. At first I would just swipe a single tear from their cheeks, quick and gentle and painless, so small they wouldn’t realize that some bit of them had been stolen. Then I would return to Saturn, gifting her the pearled white and lilac and gold tears for her to string in that invisible chain around her neck. With every new addition her blue skin went violet and magenta and fuchsia. I loved it; I was drowning in it.

I was so choked up by her violent colors that I didn’t notice it at first. I didn’t notice that her frozen fingertips grew hard, her soft puffed words sharp. We no longer laced fingers, no longer tripped over stars and danced on comet tails. I didn’t notice, or maybe I just ignored it because I wanted to pretend she still loved me.

But all she grew was greedy. She would whisper in my ear that if I truly loved her, I’d do this for her.

Something else about tears that I’ve learned: if they are stolen and gifted to someone else, the bits of soul in those tears would drive them insane and hungry for more.

So, because I was so in love with her, I was soon cupping my hands beneath the jaws of those who’s heartbreak and pain and joy poured from their eyes and I collected them into my palms, taking so much that their souls were warped forever. I went far and wide across the solar system, crossing the Milky Way, and climbing over suns to fill my pockets with teared pearls.

Those tears changed me too. I used to glow gold, my skin was once warm, my spine straight and my head held high. But those tears drained the glow from my skin, and my pockets grew too heavy for me to stand up straight, the guilt of them bowed my head. Those tears

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45

drained me, and began to break me.

The worst part of all was that with every cursed tear I stole, with every drop of magenta that devoured that blue swirling hue of her skin, with every addition to her chain, growing bigger and bigger in her hunger that it slowly began to circle her head in a crowned halo, I began to lose my love for her.

Only after I had combed the solar system clean did I fall to my knees before Saturn, begging for her to stop asking so much of me, begging her to see me, to love me, to touch me with her frozen gentle fingers, to laugh as she once did. I begged her to set me free, to be the wanderer I once was, to let me come back to her and have her not expect a thing from me.

But those tears had taken over, had destroyed her blue. Saturn was no longer the planet she once was: she was purple and red, and when she spoke her breath was so sharp it made others bleed. Her gaze cut into me, greedy and spiteful, not caring in the least that the price of her love was causing me to break and causing her to go insane.

So I tried to flee. I had had enough and I needed to leave, to curl up deep inside a crater and break down and let myself feel the pain I stole.

But Saturn, who was once kind and gentle, lashed out in her anger and snared me, catching me in her orbit and crushing me beneath her gravity. She whispered to me, her words cutting up my cheek.

You belong to me, that is the price of my love.

Saturn’s rings are made of ice, ice formed from tears that are tied in a string of her gravity. She didn’t always have rings-- I stole them for her, and I regret it.

Saturn is no longer kind. She is cruel and harsh and unforgiving. Her touch is hard, her words are brittle. Her skin pale with purple and red that rages in storms beneath her skin.

And me? She still has a hold of me. I orbit her, forever caught in grip, only set free when her hunger grows too great and she needs more. I crawl through asteroid belts, trip over stars, and fall through black holes to steal tears for her.

I used to be great. I used to glow gold and wander the universe taking any form I wanted.

I used to love a planet, and in my desperation to please her, I broke myself stealing pieces of innocent human souls for her to wear as jewelry.

You might have heard of me, but I doubt you remember, I’m just another moon floating around your solar system. When the astronomers discovered me, they gave me a name beyond what I now am, a name that is powerful and strong and almost mocking compared to the weak, cowardly thing I am now.

I am Titan.

FICTION

46

Not a Wax Museum

By Elias Hopkin shoulders. She looked like a model.

“Maybe that’s why she has that vacant look in her eye,” Alexandra joked nervously to herself.

Standing across from the wax woman was an equally attractive wax man with shiny black hair and a smile that would have been sexy if it hadn’t been for the eyes. The eyes of both figures looked strange, a little different from the rest of the wax. Maybe the artist used a different paint.

Alexandra couldn’t decide if the two figures looked more like escorts eager to invite you inside or guards warning away intruders. There was a tension to them that made Alexandra feel like the latter, but they looked so nice. Surely, it was just her nerves playing with her. After all, what good would art that scared people away be? And it was pretty impressive that the artist could make his wax figures seem so lifelike.

“Hello, my Venus de Milo,” Bernard popped up from behind, giving Alexandra a little jump.

“Bernard, thanks again for getting me this,” Alexandra said.

“No, thank you for coming to be here with me,” Bernard said with a smile. “Are you ready for the ultimate museum of your life?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Bernard led Alexandra forward through the first three rooms, which was filled with wax figures of men and women from all walks of life. Some were gorgeous like the two outside, others were homely. Some were a bit older, a few a bit younger. The youngest was a girl that looked about thirteen, whose face, minus the dead eyes, contained some apprehension and excitement. Some of the figures were given clothes that were nice, some probably what someone thought passed for nice. Some of the clothes even looked kind of worn. Upon closer inspection, Alexandra found that the figures were actually wearing the clothes instead of them being part of the wax. She was mesmerized by how lifelike they remained even up close, like the statues of ancient Greece or the animals in natural history museums.

“These are amazing. Are they all the same artist?” Alexandra asked.

“Yes,” Bernard said. “They are all real people too, the artists’ former lovers.”

“Really?” That didn’t sit too well with Alexandra. The one girl was so young. “That’s a lot of

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relationships. And it doesn’t seem like a good way to move on.”

“You don’t have to move on. You can keep your love with you, continually burning inside,” Bernard said, “It makes you a passionate artist.”

“Maybe as passionate as you,” Alexandra teased leaning into her boyfriend.

“Oh definitely.” Bernard stopped in front of the next doorway, which was also watched by two wax figures like the first. “This next room is special. It’s where the tools are kept.”

“Oh, really?” Alexandra peered forward, seeing stuffing and bottles of chemicals. “You need all that for making wax statues?”

Bernard ushered her inside. “This is not a wax museum Alexandra. It’s a diary of romance, proof of the love shared between object and artist.”

“What? What are all the statues made of?”

Bernard wrapped an arm around her and used the other one to push a handkerchief to her face. “Statues, love? Those are all of my lovers, preserved in taxidermy.”

For a moment Alexandra was too shocked to move. Then when she started to struggle against Bernard, she felt too weak to. Her vision went dark, and she felt herself go limp.

The last thing she heard was Bernard saying, “Such beautiful eyes. They always have them.

It’s a pity they can’t be preserved.”

FICTION

48

And Beavers Have Beautiful Pelts

By Sariah Smith

Night falls around him, dark as congealed blood. Blood drips from his leg and sizzles in the snow in a quick pitter-patter, but not quick enough to kill him—not yet.

Yet he can feel the frail stuttery beat of his heart, the fog of his brain going numb, the paralyzing urge to lie down and sleep. Sleep beckons like a long-lost lover, but he refuses to give in.

In that cabin, the cabin where he was kept with his hands zip-tied behind a chair back, he slept sitting up. Up above his head, on the second floor, he could hear the Trapper moving around day after day, attending to the messy business of skinning and butchering squirrels, rabbits, beavers. “Beavers,” the Trapper told him, “are delicious, and they have beautiful pelts.

Pelts can go for a hundred dollars easy.”

“Easy,” he remembers the Trapper saying, not “easily.” “Easily” wouldn’t have evoked that casual sense of familiarity, as if they were just two friends having a conversation, as if one of them was not a serial killer who gained notoriety from his penchant for trapping animals and people both.

Both animals and victims find the killer’s traps not with their eyes, but with their limbs.

Limbs do not stay limbs in traps like these—bones shattered like porcelain, flesh gored by the teeth of reinforced steel jaws. Jaws painted white, hidden beneath a shrewd layer of snow.

Snow falls soft and feathery around him, and he remembers. Remembers the crisp, snowblurred morning when he left his own rental cabin to do some hiking, maybe a little ice fishing. Fishing and hiking were warned against in areas near recent killings, but then again, the sort of cabin sites the Trapper bounced around were too. Too many skinned bodies found with their legs all mangled. Mangled like his; but he was lucky. Lucky that he’d only lost his foot, and that the mutilated stump had partially healed.

Healed, that is, until he staggered, limping, leaning on a fireplace poker, from the cabin where he spent those hellish weeks.

Weeks ago, he had heard of the Trapper, had briefly considered cancelling the solo cabin trip he’d planned, but he couldn’t convince himself to take the risk seriously. “Seriously,” he slurred to a friend one drunken night, “what are the odds? Odds are he’s in Wisconsin by

AND BEAVERS HAVE BEAUTIFUL...

49

now. Now that he’s killed two people in Vermont, he’ll be pissing himself trying to get out of there.”

There in that cabin, like so many others the Trapper had stayed in for no more than a month, he was spoken to like a confidant. Confidant, adviser, companion, pet: anything but the prey he was.

“Was it fair,” the Trapper asked him, “that I had to stop selling pelts so the cops couldn’t track me? Me and you, we’re living off the land, my friend.” Friend he was, assuring his captor that it wasn’t fair, of course it wasn’t. Wasn’t it terrible that they had to survive off wild game and a few hundred dollars in cash?

Cash was suspicious, naturally, but cabins that didn’t require a credit card still existed, and with each new cabin the Trapper forged a new ID for check-in. In the wake of another murder, the primary leads were always vague security camera footage and a cashier struggling to remember a face they’d seen almost a month before. Before the end, before his captor clipped the zip tie—unnecessary now that he was no longer being penned, but slaughtered—he had known that his death would be delayed. Delayed for the weeks it took for someone else to pay with cash and become a suspect, for a cashier’s memory to dim.

Dim light flickered from the fireplace on that final day. Day hadn’t yet broken, and the Trapper was telling him goodbye and he was almost too weak to lift his head and there was a knife and somewhere in his half-starved brain, he knew he was about to die. Die like an animal, but— But animals bite back.

Back in that cabin where he’d waited so long for death, he summoned strength he did not have, lunged from the chair and seized the poker. Poker in hand, his wounds reopening, he stabbed the Trapper as he stumbled, fell. Fell like a one-legged corpse but he wasn’t, he was free, the killer was gasping for breath and then silent, bleeding, dead.

Dead eyes are filmy and wistful. Wistful was never a word he’d associated with the Trapper, but there it was, that terrible forlorn sadness. Sadness is the last thing on his mind now.

Now, he shivers and lurches and bleeds. Bleeds, and he is dizzy, and when the poker slips from his hand, the snow beneath him is soft, so soft. Soft like the fur of a trapped animal— yes, that’s what it’s like. Like the darkness folding around him so sweetly. Sweetly beckoning, that perfect loveliness of night.

FICTION

Pondering on God’s Creation | Nick Gruen

50

THE DOOR

51

POETRY

52

Motown

By Jessica Wilson

Gold and blue glint off a moving bill-

The fire station down the street

board,

Roots for the high school

The only one in town,

Football team.

Located on the only street:

They made it to state this year and

Main Street.

that’s a big deal,

It lists the charming and

People say.

Captivating assets of our recently

Sometimes it is difficult to allow

Fired principal.

The firetrucks to get out

The school board messed up big time

Because the street is so small.

People say.

The same goes for thew high school Parking lots.

It also displays The many options to order

Ridley’s is next on the right.

From the start-up shaved ice company

High school kids and

Opened next door.

College dropouts

The children from the middle school

Are their main frequenters,

Keep that company in business.

Although not the main customers.

People say,

Most come for the donuts--

It’s within walking distance.

The best donuts in town

But then again,

People say.

So is everything else.

Also the only ones.

MOTOWN / WINDMILLS

Windmills

By Rebecca Carlson

They rose up in the night White giants to enslave the wind Summoned by strangers Who have forgotten The human spirit Needs to see the horizon But the land does not forget The children of the land do not forget Wide arms whirling, churning Pikes that spear the heads Of our beloved mountains As if to say look down You are conquered Your land is conquered But the land does not forget The children of the land do not forget Do not forget the horizon Do not forget

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PHOTOGRAPHY / POETRY

Po r t ra i t | M a d i s o n G ra y s t o n

54

PORTRAIT / SWIM

Swim

By Randall Andres Witness the beauty in waters below Where silver fish swim and jellyfish glow Where strands of hair wave with the flow of the sea A sparkling blue iris, wide eyed, but can’t see Where splashes and laughter and kids having fun Had faded to naptime with the setting sun Bright green flippers, blue snorkels, all dressed to play A rough scarlet rock, color fading away A skillful game playing hide and seek Periwinkle lips not making a peep Some calls, then a party, and flashing lights Soon find the treasure all dressed in white Frantic footsteps splashing through waxing tides Her mother’s gaze turned to the man and cried In his arms unmoving like a sleeping nymph Limbs filled with life now pale hanging limp

55

POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY

boy in blue

By Mark Gatus

no one asked, so no one knew what happened to the boy in blue. left alone by his friends, deserted he felt deeply unwanted

no one asked, so no one heard his shouts through his silence lucid dreaming was his companion sadness and joy formed a union

no one asked, so no one saw the boy in blue had more good than flaw he was smart, loving, yet fragile in despair, he still offered a smile

no one asked, and no one found out it is too late, the lights are out no one asked, and no one knew he is now free, pain to never anew.

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BOY IN BLUE / WHAT BRINGS YOU JOY? 57

What brings you joy? | Kate Jenkins

POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY

58

A Distant Place

By Keilan Faganello

I walked along the muddy trail With a heavy canvas pack.

Three lions walked ahead of me.

Three sheep were at my back.

The lions paid no heed and walked From here, to there, and back.

If confidence, their cup was full ‘Twas direction that they lacked.

The goal was to reach a distant place, a place beyond the trees.

Though, when asked if they’d seen the place The six had seemed uneased.

The sheep were humble and loyal too — though almost to a fault.

No matter what they suffered with They’d never ask a halt.

When I meekly asked the leading lions They scoffed with wounded pride, “Lions don’t think of such things, They simply lead!” they cried.

Suddenly, my foot was caught and pulled into the muck. it growled and hissed and like a trap it had me rather stuck.

And when I turned and asked the sheep They gave a timid grunt.

“We do not know the place we go, We just stay behind the front.”

“Help me, lions!” I cried out loud.

“Use your strength and pull me out!”

“We’d help you, boy, but ask the sheep.

We cannot leave the route!”

I looked back to the lions’ paws And saw their claws dig deep.

It kept their fur from turning brown But made it worse for the sheep.

“Help me, sheep!” I cried out louder “I’ll grab your wool and pull ‘til free!”

“But we’re behind, we must catch up!

We’re sorry!” they said to me.

Yes, the sheep, the gangly things, With legs like twigs of green Each step sunk deep and turned their wool the brownest I’d ever seen.

So there I stayed and watched them go And wander through the trees.

The sheep were slaves to the lions’ will, Who just went where they pleased.

A DISTANT PLACE / FINDING REFUGE...

I began to wonder if beyond the trees A place was even there.

My soul was pulling forward And near towards the light.

I felt a place before me now;

And if I didn’t reach the place Then the question was: to where?

It came into my sight.

I pulled, and yanked, for hours on end Until my leg came free.

The lions and the sheep were gone And now it just was me.

I left the muddy path alone And walked the other way.

I crossed a brook and then a field And yet I didn’t stray.

The place you see, was forwards, A journey, not a place.

It may have taken time to find But finding’s not a race.

At least I wasn’t lost now.

In forest paths with mud so deep, Stuck between a lion pack And three small, brown sheep.

Finding Refuge In the Sea | Nick Gruen

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FOREIGN LANGUAGE / PHOTOGRAPHY

60

Sangre y Legado

By Lehonti Pérez Ovalle Sangre y Legado

Blood and Legacy

¿A dónde fueron los hombres, estirpe de los viejos dioses?

Aquellos de maíz y sangre, de carne obsidiana y cobre; los que fundían sus voces con el rugir de los tigres; Los que leían los cielos; Los que luchaban feroces para ser por siempre libres cual las águilas en vuelo.

Where did the men go, lineage of the old gods?

Those of corn and blood, of obsidian flesh and copper, Those who melted their voices with the roar of the tigers; Those who read the heavens; Those who fought fiercely to be forever free like eagles in flight.

¿Fue la daga castellana la que cortó nuestra gloria? ¿Mutiló de nuestras bocas el ritmo de nuestro idioma? ¿O fue la sombra cristiana de dos maderos cruzados ante la cual ardió en llamas el códice y la memoria de nuestros antepasados? ¡No! Ni los fuegos castellanos, ni la opresión sanguinaria pudieron borrar la esencia de la herencia milenaria que corre por nuestras venas ¿A dónde fueron los hombres de sangre maíz y arena? ¿A dónde fueron los hijos de los bosques y la tierra?

Ellos jamás se fueron Su legado está presente en elcorazón guerrero de mi pueblo, de mi gente.

Was it the Castilian dagger the one that cut our glory?

Did it mutilate off from our mouths the rhythm of our language?

Or was it the Christian shadow of two crossed timbers before which it was burned in flames the codex and memory Of our ancestors?

No! Not even the Castilian fires, nor cruel oppression could erase the essence of the millenary heritage that runs through our veins Where did men go, Those of blood corn and sand?

Where did the children of forests and earth go?

They never left Their legacy is present in the warrior heart of my people.

SANGRE Y LEGADO / MATCHES

Matches | Dana Plomgren

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ART / POETRY

Creation | Jaden Walker

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CREATION / WOVEN

Woven

By Tristan Stephenson A man of art betook the stage His hair was twine and full of age And though his gentle fervor grand He struggled nonetheless to stand The crowd sat still in silence loud While his stale gaze slunk around And then the woman came at last To bind up his sinful past She took a tool and tailed with yarn She stabbed the man but meant no harm Out of his arm the needle came But he cried not, for fear of shame The woman stabbed and wove the man Until the pain he could not stand His cries throughout the halls we heard Like the song of singing birds 10 days long the woman wove The man cried out in anguished droves Until at last the deed was done A tapestry would now be hung And just before they hung him there His final cry filled the air “Forgive my soul I beg of thee!

Take this cup away from me...”

Now hanging there for all to see Applause rang out so joyously For now that man would be no more But silent art on a rich man’s door

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POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY

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Seasonal

By Maggie Christianson

The days were long in august And my lungs inhaled the hours But the summer sun burnt out Making ashes of the flowers I noticed no transition As the planet turned her face But she drifted off without me Leaving cold nights in her place I saw that I was sinking But had no way to stop The walls went in around me I caved with them when they dropped I put my face between my hands And I showed the earth my spine It’s own systolic function, beating out of time with mine I was a virus in the body of the landscape, while it dreamed The earth breathed in around me And I wasted air and screamed

The roots that settled next to me Are dormant at this depth They’re kept from cutting winds till April And I panted while they slept But we all tilt on this orbit And in spring, I burst the ground Gripping green as it moves upwards Into living things and sound I rolled over in the sun Then felt a twitching by my hand It laced between my fingertips And held me strand by strand It moved slow up my right side And settled by my jaw Still cold from unthawed regions The sunlight never saw And then I heard it cough And give its throat a clear As it leaned in deep and whispered “You’ll be back again next year”

SEASONAL / EMPTY

Empty | Rachel Pushnam

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POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY

The Undecided Seed

By Alexia Kayley

I seek to learn Learn how far my faith shall go to see how much water I can supply, I seek to learn Learn how far my faith shall go to see how much water I can supply How much sunlight my smile can shine try different soils find the best one Where thoughts can spread and ideas take root There are times I think to walk away take my fertilizing free will and focus on other things Stay inside on rainy days and curse at the hailstorm winds But this is too mind blowing Pushing leaves out if the ground Surrounded by carbon layer of questions and confusion Sedated by oxygen of peace and understanding I water it, everyday to see how far my faith will grow its rose is not yet in bloom But my sunshine grow brighter each day As I read the Word and think of Doves And gather more seed in the garden of Zion

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UNDECIDED SEED / SHARKS

Sandbar Shark | Galapagos Shark | Kendra Nelson

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FOREIGN LANGUAGE / POETRY

Ahí Donde Tú Estás

By Lehonti Pérez Ovalle

Ahí Donde Tú Estás Donde la espuma sisea con la voz de la arena y una estrella besa el difuso horizonte

There Where You Are Where the foam hisses With the voice of the sand And a star kisses the diffuse horizon

Donde las voces del viento y de las olas son una y los dedos lunares sobre la playa dibujan

Where the voices of the wind And of the waves are one And the moon fingers Draw upon the beach

Donde las fibras del alma se expanden al ver el cielo ahí es donde te encuentro, ahí es donde te veo.

When the fibers of the soul Expand when seeing the sky That is where I find you That is where I see you

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AHÍ DONDE TÚ ESTÁS / COLORS

Colors

By Isabella Miller

I’ve watched your colors fade, I can’t count how many times.

I can always feel them fading, I can always see the signs.

From blue to gray to black, From depression to elation, Each time the blue I love appears, My joy is paired with hesitation.

For good times are short lived, And the grey always returns.

And although with grey I’m patient, It is for the blue that my heart yearns.

Yes I’m a steady ship, And you are like the sea.

And I can never change you, I just have to let you be.

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ART / POETRY

Sorrowful Stone | Aislinn Lawrence

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SORROWFUL STONE / LITTLE ANGEL

The Little Angel

By Alexia Kayley

you gave me an angel made of glass wrapped in soft white tissue she has bubbles in her dress and white streaks on her wings she has no expression, but sometimes I pretend she’s smiling not bright, or full of excitement not sadistic, or full of malice it’s a soft solemn smile it tells of things that she’s lost but also, of things she has gained I imagine her eyes are closed uncovered by her braided chestnut hair no one could disturb her not even a speck of dust she clasps her hands in prayer I imagine the wind blowing across her dress but still she remains there nothing shall move her faith not wind nor time nor space she sits on my desk and watches my sleeping face

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FOREIGN LANGUAGE / PHOTOGRAPHY

ハワイの春

By Yuji Sato

ハワイの春

ノースショア

揺れるヤシの木々 海の風

Spring in Hawaii North shore Waving palms Ocean breeze

恋

By Yuji Sato 恋

二つの手

文化は違えど 愛同じ

Love Two hands Different cultures The same love

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SPRING / LOVE / CAPRI

Capri | Jacqueline Rasmussen

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ART / FOREIGN LANGUAGE

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A New Horizon | Michael Kraft

NEW HORIZON / FOUND HOW MUCH...

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當你消失後才發現我多想你

By Zero Wu

當你消失後才發現我多想你 聽著你 喜歡的歌 就覺得 足 够 幸福 想陪著你 喜怒哀樂 是我唯一意圖 希望再聽你唱歌 和說話 就很幸福 我願意當 個傾聽者 靜候你心的傾吐

你不會知道的 你不會知道的 當你不再時有多想你著 你不會發現的 你不會發現的 當我想念時 你卻離開了 你不會相信的 你不會相信的 再你消失後 我卻想你了 雖總是 聽我說著 卻不曾 將你心讀 想了解你 如何過呢 是現在唯一所圖 當我歇斯底里著 你還願接近老虎 每次開始 孤獨吼著 也總能 輕柔安撫

你不會知道的 你不會知道的 我是一隻老虎 很傲嬌的 你不會發現的 你不會發現的 你獨特的溫柔 我想念了 你不會相信的 你不會相信的 才沒多久 我就愛上你了 你不會知道的 你多麼的獨特 你不會知道 我多麼想你了

found how much I miss you after you disappeared I feel happy enough when listening to the songs you like My only intention is to be with you feeling everything together I feel happy enough listening to you speak and sing I want to be your listener who waits for you to share your little secrets You will never know, you will never know How much I miss you when you are not here You will never find out, you will never find out When I miss you, you already left You will never believe, you will never believe I miss you so much after you disappear You always listen to me But I haven’t listened to you I want to know how you do Only what I want Whenever loneliness starts roaring You can always comfort it with tenderness

ART / POETRY

Pukana! | Zynfia Sakulsinghdusit

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PUKANA! / IN GOD WE TRUST

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In God We Trust

By Truman Burgess

We kneel together Mom’s always the one to smile: Pearls gleam across the bedroom But the paused news host stares at me with pomade eyes and mascara His mouth mocks, In God We Trust Like grey smog strip club’s cigarette haze hiding dropped coins under chairs and leg hair, Each penny petty cash Faceless and forgotten— In the cash register a whisper: In God We Trust Marine Corporal rushing Afghani ruins Chaos ripping friends’ femurs, a serenade of senseless intestine noose grit Echoing arachnid screams He finally finds the Haqqani culprit crushed in concrete They lock lifeless eyes and know, In God We Trust I found your bones on the beach Beside the horseshoe crab on its back You laid close by, discontent, A single refrain struggling to leave your lips: Surf buries the crab— In God We Trust

FICTION POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY

All Strife’s End

By Elias Hopkin

When sorrow’s waters rise When fury’s torment burns To heav’n I raise my eyes And wait for thy return.

It shall come soon, I know not when, to end our tumultuous strife To, if we love thee and thy commands, grant us eternal life.

When by my faults I feel crushed And of peace I feel bereft, My laments are quickly hushed For I have not been left It shall come soon, I know not when, to end our tumultuous strife To, if we love thee and thy commands, grant us eternal life.

It’s Christ’s return that I await With longing and with love His reign will be a glorious fate And he’ll lift us to above.

It shall come soon, I know not when, to end our tumultuous strife To, if we love thee and thy commands, grant us eternal life.

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THE DOOR ALL STRIFE’S END / LONE GUARDIAN

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The Lone Guardian | Alexandria Humpherys

ART / POETRY

L a i e Te m p l e Le g a c y | J o h a n a h M i c a h G a l l a n o

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LAIE TEMPLE LEGACY / SMALL THINGS

Small Things

By Nathan VanBuskirk Yeast gives life to bread.

Bread gives life to the body.

Small things sustain life.

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POETRY / ART

82

if i have a daughter

By Elijah Hadley

If I have a daughter, she’ll want to paint the moons and the suns of the universe on the back of her hand.

She’ll wake up every morning and greet the denizens of our family’s hometown as if they are angels of a village sent to raise her.

On those wistful October afternoons, after it’s gotten too cold for mosquitoes and the placid Eastern sky grows colorful like a box of 64 crayons, she’ll stick her head out the window of an old Suburban I’m borrowing from the parents, and squeal with joy when she sees an Alaska license plate on the drive home from School.

When she realizes her childhood has been dominated by saccharine myths and wonderment, she’ll have the strength to accept life’s facts as they are and climb the slow ladder of success with a smile on her face.

If I have a daughter and she describes new words that must sound like pebbles dropping into a stream, I’ll take her aside and sound the words out patiently, with a

smile on my face hopefully. When I take her on a drive to the less fortunate areas of town, instead of gagging in disgust at the state of things, her eyes will grow fat with tears and a longing to give the sweater off her back to those who need it more.

If I have a daughter, she’ll learn that life is not a race, but a marathon, and sometimes walking is nothing to be frowned upon. Danger comes from hitting the ground running and breaking your legs on the spot.

She’ll wonder why we need to keep visiting Delaware, the flat first state which no one knows anything about except it loves to claim to be first at something. Not even the first colony. Eventually, she’ll get a little nostalgic about the humid summers, dry winters, pollen-filled springs, and perfect autumns just as I once did.

Whenever a cool breeze comes her way, she will feel wistful for the past, latched onto familiar scents and sights, and be grateful for the memories she created.

IF I HAVE A DAUGHTER / STEP BY STEP

Step by Step | Audrey Jenkins

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PHOTOGRAPHY / FOREIGN LANGUAGE

Struttin’ | Alyssa Orrego

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ST R U T T I N ’ / B LU E B I R D. . .

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青鳥，你不會聽到

By Zero Wu

青鳥，你不會聽到 你不會聽到 這裡有一座 藍海之間的小島 島上的樹梢 有點蟲鳴鳥叫 還有一點 微聲的熱鬧 不時傳來 哪條擱淺的煩擾

Blue Bird, you’ll not hear You will not hear There is an island Standing in the ocean A small chirp Comes from the treetop As a little slight noise from somewhere And a little annoyed from someone trapped by shallow

直到 有天飛來一隻青鳥 降落邊角 靜靜的 慢慢的 等我發現牠的悄悄 和牠溫暖又默默的美好

Until one day There comes a Blue Bird Standing on the window Silently, slowly Waiting for me to find its quiet But warm glory

你不會聽到 盡頭有一座 深藍之間的孤島 音樂在繚繞 烈日不能烤焦 狂風暴雨 也無法喧囂 不斷歌唱 等個人留下依靠 等到 那天飛來一隻青鳥 降落邊角 輕輕的 柔柔的 等我碰觸牠的擁抱 和牠傾聽又簡單的的美好

You will not hear There is an island Standing alone at the end of the blue With music lingering around That the sun cannot burn And storms and rain cannot destroy Keep singing, waiting for the one to choose not to leave anymore Wait until That day when there comes a Blue Bird Staying at the corner of the room Slightly, tenderly Waiting for me to feel its embrace And the beauty of its silence