March 25, 2019

LITERARY EDITION SPRING 2019 kentuckykernel Monday, March 25, 2019

Monday, March 25, 2019

table of contents

A Love Letter I Owned the Moon Ocean Teeth Greensburg Anne Frank’s Last Diary Entry I’ve Been Dreaming The Morning After The Girl in the Reflection Encounter

ON THE COVER Kristi Fitzgerald Mia Weaver Madelaine Decker Dylan Gentry Lexie Hogsten Sarah Michels Kristi Fitzgerald Mia Weaver Annly Perez

3 4 5 5 6 9 9 10 10

Peek-a-boo Tory Stephenson Art Studio and Anthropology, Freshman This is an oil painting on canvas from a series “Hands Interacting with Objects without the Objects.”Based on hands playfully covering a loved one’s eyes, Stephenson translated it into a painting that has tremendous personal meaning.

YIKES!

5 positives later...this can’t be happening to me PREGNANT

NOT PREGNANT

No Judgment. No Pressure. Just Help.

859.278.8469 www.assurancecare.org 2 | kentucky kernel

A Lo e Letter

Monday, March 25, 2019

By Kristi Fitzgerald Senior, Journalism Non-fiction

H,

When I sit down to write about you I find myself staring at a blank screen, struggling to come up with words that are powerful enough to describe how I feel about you.

I always seem to come up short.

But I will try to make the best of this weak English language.

I cherish the experience of getting to know a human as wonderful as you as deeply as I have over the course of this year.

When I am with you I feel light and airy, like nothing in this world could ever hold me down. I feel like I could float away like a colorful hot air balloon, carried by warm breezes of love.

You are kind and your heart is pure. Your love is clean and bright like a freshly washed white sheet dancing in the breeze on a clothesline, the sun shining on it. I feel like I can wrap myself up in it. It is soft and I can feel the warmth of the sunshine.

I love how you are gentle and tender. Each and every touch feels special. I feel your fingers touching my skin. I wish the touch would sink into me and I could feel it on my bones so I could save it and make it last forever.

I love who I am when I am with you. I feel free to be myself and to unveil every part of myself- parts that I do not show to the rest of the world.

I want to understand everything about who you are so I know how to love you better. I want to make you happy every day.

Sometimes I listen to your heartbeat. You could fill a galaxy with the gratitude I feel for each beat of your heart.

You are open like the vastness of the sea and so willing to learn. I always feel excited to share the small things in which I find excitement because I know you will not find it silly. You will find happiness in the small things with me.

I can trust you with anything. You are not judgmental. If my soul were tangible I would confidently place it in your hands, knowing you would keep it safe.

I love you in a way that makes the whole world look bright. I love you in a way that makes me wish I could stop time so that I could live inside a moment with you.

-K

SARAH CAPUTI I STAFF

spring 2019 | 3

Monday, March 25, 2019

I Owned the Moon

By Mia Weaver Senior, Computer Science Fiction

The middle of the moon caved in and vanished, leaving behind only two crescent slivers of rock.

They were shaped perfectly, mirror images touching only at the upper and lower tips.

We could see distant stars in the middle of the moon as it moved across the sky like a magnifying glass. It showed us the barren landscapes of worlds so far they were like pinpricks in the sky. Red, rocky, dry earth, and planets made of glass.

“How come the stars only shine when they’re far away?” we asked the moms, but they no longer had any answers to our questions. They quit having PTA meetings at our crumbling school, and instead they went to Sandra’s house. There, they stood out on the porch at night, singing, praying, or crying to the sky.

One day, they began to eat large, grey rocks. Every night the moms would drink wine and crunch the stones between their crackling teeth.

“I want one, mommy,” we said, reaching our hands into the fire pit where they cooked.

“You’re not old enough,” the moms had said, and they sent us away.

That night we watched the sky from inside Sandra’s house as the moon grazed landscapes like amusement parks passed on the highway, sorely bummed we couldn’t eat the rocks.

The front door swung open and smacked against the wall. It was one of us. “I got a rock!” she said, holding a scalding stone. “I took it when they weren’t looking.”

She opened her palm slowly, burn marks waxing and waning on her raw flesh.

“Your burns are breathing,” I said, taking the stone from her hand. I nestled it between my teeth, ready to get a glimpse of the world the moms saw, but it wouldn’t crack. It wouldn’t crack. It wouldn’t crack.

All it gave me was a toothache. ~~~ When I was about eight years old, my family moved into a new neighborhood, and I made friends with these sisters who lived down the block.

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One evening we rode our bikes up along a street several miles from home into a soon-to-be wealthy neighborhood. There, half-built mansions shot up from the fields like weeds. We got off our bikes and poked around in the mud, explored the woods. The time was in between. Not yet night, but no longer day.

“We come here to kill caterpillars,” said the sisters, digging their fingers into the mud. Their blonde hairs were lit red by the setting sun. Flakes of dirt sparkled on their hands.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Because the moon tells us to.”

The sisters picked up chubby, wiggly caterpillars and crushed them on the sidewalk, flung them on the pavement like shaking boogers from their hands.

They told me to do the same, so I did. I picked up a fat one, squeezed it gently between my thumb and forefinger.

All I did was drop it, and its yellow insides splattered against the concrete… What if something bigger and meaner liked the way my red insides looked right next to it?

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” I said.

“You’re a wuss,” said the sisters. They took their bikes and left.

And then the sun went to bed, leaving the world gunmetal grey. It was just me and the moon and the dead caterpillars. I forgot the way back home. ~~~ Dead night. We stargazed from the treehouse, hand-in-hand, beneath the full moon. Back at home, I hid pillows beneath my blankets so my mom wouldn’t know I snuck out.

“When I was little, I always thought the moon was mine,” I said. “I’d point and say, ‘Look, mommy. It’s Violet’s moon.’”

Eve laughed. The metal of her braces caught the moonlight and twinkled. “Maybe it is yours,” she said. “I don’t know anyone else who could possibly be special enough to own the moon.”

I squeezed Eve’s hand, and she squeezed mine

back. The smell of pine, the glow of trees. Dew drops swelled on the flowers below. With the sun no longer ticking across the sky, time was endless and unreal.

The moon watched us through the treehouse window, blinking slowly and pulling tides. I was scared if I didn’t hang on tight enough, it would pull away Eve, too. ~~~ We drove through Appalachia, just the three of us, eating Wendy’s and watching the mountains kiss the sky. We passed deer and lakes and Bud Light billboards. We drove through towns that were like cobwebs on the map, places where swastikas were spray painted in red on the sides of barns.

Homemade banners hung in each little whatever town, some about alcoholism, others about liquor store deals. Steven got to talking about this recurring dream he had.

“It always started the same: dark outside,” he said. “Darker than nighttime. I was by my school, and the moon turned into this giant skull. Mouth opened, jaw unhinged. It started sucking everything up. Everything. The trees, the stars, my friends, my parents. I clung to a guard rail, but soon it was pulled free from the Earth, and I was swallowed up by the moon.” He dunked a fry in ketchup.

“And?” I asked.

“That was it.”

Lauren took a noisy sip of coke.

“I think it symbolizes death,” he said.

“You shouldn’t take dreams so seriously,” said Lauren.

I watched his reflection in the rearview mirror, the cracked window spraying dirty air in his face.

He twiddled with Lauren’s hair as she drove.

“No, I know,” he said. “It’s just, when I think about that dream, I think about death.”

“Oh, I get it. Like how it sucks up everyone in the end?”

“No, not that. It was just… the uncertainty of it all, I guess. I didn’t know what was on the other side.”

Monday, March 25, 2019

ARDEN BARNES I STAFF Seagulls fly across the shore of the Atlantic Ocean in Jacksonville, Florida, on Jan. 6, 2018.

Ocean Teeth

By Madelaine Decker Senior, English/Anthropology Fiction

She’s scared of the ocean, and she’s scared of her teeth. Unrelenting childhood memories of pulling tooth after tooth from her mouth emerge in her nightmares where she feels the distinct snick of a disintegrated root and the following instability of a miniature piece of her skeleton rocking back and forth in her gums, ready to be freed with the push of her tongue. She pulled six teeth in one night when she was seven. In her dreams, she can lose as many as all 28 in a matter of minutes.

The ocean fear comes from later experiences and doesn’t appear in nightmares. She once swam with her family, staring straight down into an abyss that she knew she could never fully comprehend. Her sister, who had nearly drowned many years before this trip, floated calmly by, somehow unbothered by the potential horrors of the deep. She, however, was nearly paralyzed by the presence of anything inhuman, even the tiniest fish. Her foot brushed coral, or maybe seaweed. She was out of the water too quickly to tell.

As afraid as she is, she still wants to go to the ocean and stand at the edge of the water, walking closer and closer until her shoes and the ends of her

jeans are soaked through with the sea and her face, her open mouth, is washed over with a brackish wind. She will feel vaguely dirty, with briny salt soaking into her skin and coating her lips, and she will be bothered by this for the remainder of the day, only relinquishing these sensations after showering much later. When she walks in public spaces, her shoes will squeak and her jaw will click, and she will be embarrassed, refusing to meet anyone’s eye for her shame. She will imagine invisible ocean creatures crawling around her feet and ankles and up into her swallowing throat, transforming her into a host body. When she meets someone familiar, they may notice and ask how her shoes got wet, and then why she would purposefully step her covered feet into the world’s biggest water. She wants to have the ghost of this mistake, a film of the sharply real ocean clinging to her feet, the lining of her cheeks, and the surface of her incisors until she chooses to wash it away. She wants the filth, the embarrassment, the confusion, and the fear because these are distinctly unavoidable and all-consuming, and she wants to feel everything. These ocean teeth are what she craves.

HANNAH ENGLAND The Old Greensburg Courthouse is located in the downtown historic district in Greensburg, Kentucky.

Greensburg

By Dylan Gentry Freshman, Community & Leadership Development and Family Sciences Poem

I’m from the Burg Boi’s, from Ski, and the Green River.

I’m from the ferns and dog woods.

I’m from the American Legion Park, and the county fair.

I’m from the Cow Days Parade, from community and love.

I’m from John 3:16, and the “let’s go down to Dumas Walker’s” From the big Baptist church, and 105.7.

I’m from the walking bridge, the old courthouse, and Green County High.

I’m from 4-H, FFA, and just driving around late at night.

I’m from the Record Herald, driving to Campbellsville, and Los Agaves after church on Sundays.

I am from Greensburg, KY 42743

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Monday, March 25, 2019

Anne Frank’s Last Diary Entry

M

y name is Lauren and I am ten years old. I am the reincarnation of Anne Frank, and I’m going to prove it to everyone with my historical figures project. It’s like the science fair for those of us who hate science. When I was younger, I used to see all the fifth graders dress up as different characters. One time someone dressed up as Jesus, but it didn’t go very well. One kid screamed that Jesus wasn’t real and another said that Jesus was going to kill him because you can’t pretend to be God. By the time the day was over, Jesus had beat up the two other kids and had a black eye himself. After that, the school restricted it to just characters we had learned about in class.

Now it is my turn, but I have a pretty big advantage. As far as I know, no one else is playing their past reincarnation. Mrs. Warren tells us that we can use free time to prepare for our projects or that we can play on the computers. All the other kids in my classroom like to use free time to play on the computers or on their phones–if their parents are rich like Samson Barnette’s. Samson loves to show off his new phone during free time, it’s one of those name brand phones that has more apps on it than Samson has brain cells. We just learned about those during science class a couple of weeks ago. He is living proof that money cannot buy everything. His parents own two fast food restaurants in town and make sure that Samson has

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every opportunity available like tutors, and mentors from prestigious career paths. His parents are always talking about how smart he is and how much they want him to become a doctor, but in my opinion, he will be lucky just to be able to work at one of his parent’s restaurants.

Besides being stupid, he’s pretty nice.

The rest of the class, who do not use their phones, fight over who gets to use the only two computers in the classroom. Everyone fights except for Carly Mason, who is the princess of Mrs. Warren’s fifth grade class here at Walker County Elementary School. At least once a week she debuts a new dress to go with her blonde curly fry styled hair. Today, unfortunately, is that day.

“Watch out,” she says.

She flips her hair behind her back before focusing on the computer while her friends crowd around her to watch what she does. Mrs. Warren looks up from her desk across the room. Underneath her thick glasses, her eyes bug out at us, making sure we’re following the rules. Unlike the other teachers I have had, Mrs. Warren genuinely cares for all of us, even the snobby ones like Carly or the weird ones like me.

I hunch back over my books, continuing to work on my project. A couple of months ago, Mrs. Warren had taught us about the Holocaust. At first it terrified me and I couldn’t sleep. I’d close my eyes and wonder if someone could fill up my

By Lexie Hogsten Senior, English Fiction

room with gas and kill me without me even waking up. I wondered if I could hide in an attic to keep myself safe. I thought about it all the time; how could people be that evil? But somewhere along the lines of fear and dread, came a captivation. My dad liked to tell me about the people who went into hiding, like Anne, because it made me feel better. My dad died a couple of months ago, three days after Christmas. Apparently, some elves drank too much eggnog.

“Why are you reading that again?” Samson says, bringing me back to reality.

I peer up at him from her diary. I’m on Friday, September 10, 1943. Italy has just unconditionally surrendered, and Anne feels like every time she writes to ‘Kitty’ that something good happens.

“None of your business,” I snap.

“Sorry,” he moans and plops down in the seat next to me. As the air tries to escape from underneath him the chair gives a little fake fart. I snicker to myself, but Samson doesn’t seem to notice. He holds his head up with his pudgy hands and watches me read.

I’ve always thought that if Samson was someone from my past life, he was Peter van Pels. ~~~ “Do you know who you’ll be presenting on?”

Mrs. Warren asks. It is only two weeks until our historical figures project is due and we all must have a conference with her. She’s a sweet woman with short,

curly, blonde hair. She has wide hips and a round face, she looks like a soccer mom that would scream at the referee if her kid was hurt on the field. I’ve always thought that she was Miep Gies.

“Anne Frank.”

“That is wonderful. I’ve noticed that you’ve taken a special interest in her since we did our unit on World War II.” She smiles and I imagine what she would like during the 1940’s.

She would still be wearing flower dresses, and her hair twisted into several rolls on her head. “Why her?”

“You have to promise not tell anyone,” I whisper.

Mrs. Warren nods solemnly and holds up her left pinky in a pinky promise. I wrap my pinky around hers and we shake.

We lean in together and I whisper, “I am the reincarnated Anne Frank.”

Her eyebrows pop up a little bit, but she isn’t fazed. Mrs. Warren tucks a piece of fallen hair behind her ear. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think it. I know it!” My voice gets louder than I mean for it and the other kids turn around and look at us. I twist my face up and continue whispering. “We’re very similar, minus, of course, having to live in an attic because people were trying to kill her.” It’s not a very funny thing, in fact it’s horrible, but I still laugh. Mrs. Warren gives me a funny look.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is low and I can tell she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. She leans

forward so close that I can smell her vanilla perfume and see the tiny line of smudged lipstick. My stomach sinks. There is a voice that people get when they don’t know what to say, the people who don’t laugh in the face of horribleness but can’t remain silent. They mean it to be kind and comforting but it sounds snooty and fake.

At my dad’s funeral, all the adults would crouch down to my level and say their condolences in the same voice Mrs. Warren used now. I thought she was above all this.

“Yeah, I’m good.” ~~~ My family apartment only has two bedrooms.

My sister and I share a room and my mom has her own room. I imagine sometimes that living in our small cramped apartment is like living in the Secret Annex. The three of us are too crowded for the small place. Sarah, my mom, and I are always arguing. Obviously, they are Margot and Edith Frank. They were the first people I recognized from my past life. Sarah and I never get along, she thinks that she is better than everyone else. Her and my mom is a different story, they share everything together. My mom cries and tells her about things she would not dare to discuss with me.

There is never a mess in our apartment because everything has a place. So, whenever we get home from school, jackets and shoes go in our bedroom closets. My backpack goes

next to the fridge in the kitchen so that after dinner Sarah and I can work on our homework together.

And I go to the living room to watch T.V. or read, while Sarah or my mom makes dinner. My mom insists on it.

“How was school?” my mom asks Sarah from the kitchen. I glance up from my book, knowing the conversation will soon shift to me. It always does whenever they think that I’m not paying attention. Either me or dad. “It was fine, I talked to Mrs. Warren when I went to pick Lauren up from school today.” It’s me today. “She’s worried about her, she says that she needs to see a counselor.”

“Why? I thought it seemed like she’s been handling everything pretty well. I mean, Marcy Dinger’s daughter beat up a second grader and said it was the voices in her head that made her do it, and no teacher recommended a counselor.”

“Well Marcy Dinger’s daughter had a history of being violent, she just tries to find ways to avoid punishment.” Sarah lowers her voice. I move to the wall from my seat on the couch to hear what they’re saying. “She said that Lauren believes she is the reincarnation of Anne Frank.”

My mother laughs. “That is absolutely the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

She catches herself, realizes that she might have been too loud. The skillet starts to crackle and pop, and I can’t hear them. “–think that?”

“Because today…and she said–.” It’s like trying to listen to an AM radio station, I can only hear every other word and I give up. I make my way back to my perch on the couch.

She promised not to tell anyone. Mrs. Warren pinky promised. How dare she?

Maybe it was Miep who betrayed the people in the Annex. They would never have expected it, after all, she was their friends. Maybe, she got tired of keeping their secret and that’s how she managed to keep herself and the other helpers from going to a concentration camp too. Maybe she made a deal with the Nazis. ~~~ “Today, you are going to meet with your history buddy and discuss your historical figures project which is due in one week. Remember constructive criticism.

Be respectful and helpful.”

She sure wasn’t very respectful when she told my secret. “Think about what you want to put on your presentation board, any props you want to bring.”

The class moves around to their designated corners or desks and Samson made his way over to the desk next to mine and falls inside of it. Samson is going to be Benjamin Franklin. Last week, when I asked why, he said, “He was cool enough to be on the hundred-dollar bill, but not cool enough to be a president, and that is pretty cool to me.” He looks like Benjamin Franklin because he was kind of fat and he walks like an old man, so I figured why not. I wondered if Peter Van Pels had known about Benjamin Franklin and if he would ever would have been interested in portraying him.

I know that Anne eventually falls in love with Peter, and if I’m a reincarnation of her, then I suppose one

day I could fall in love with Samson. I think that the only reason she loved him is because he was the only one there. I heard Carly tell one boy that she wouldn’t like him if he was the last boy on earth and I think that’s stupid. If you are all alone and there is only person in the entire world then you will pick anything over loneliness. Even if it means being with someone you wouldn’t normally be with or believing something you never thought you would believe.

“Anne Frank, right?”

Samson asks.

“Yeah, what props are you going to use?”

“I don’t know. My mom said she is going to buy me a kite to put on top of my board, and maybe a quill and ink for me to hold while I deliver my speech.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not holding anything besides my paper, cause I’m not memorizing it.”

“Maybe you could get some newspapers to hold and you could tape your speech inside it? He was an editor of a newspaper at one point.”

“Yeah!” He pulls out his pencil and wrote down the note quickly on his workbook page. Mrs. Warren made us all outlines to help us organize our projects.

There are different sections.

One section is props and costumes, another is family. The biggest one is history where you must come up with ten main points about your person to talk about.

Samson’s outline is nearly empty. He only has the one note in the history section that says, “He was struck by lightning.”

“Maybe you could put something else in there about his time with the Declaration of Independence or his science work.”

I love history, everything

about history. When I was younger, my dad used to tell me different stories from history. Other children heard stories of a Disney version of Pocahontas and how she fell in love and saved everyone.

I heard stories of a young girl who stood up for what she knew was right without having to fall in love with anyone. Queen Elizabeth, George Washington, Martin Luther King Jr., they are my fairytales.

“What props are you going to use, Lauren?” Samson asks.

“I’m going to make a diary, I think I’ll put some of my favorite entries in it.

Of course, it won’t be very authentic since she wrote it in Dutch.”

“Are you sure you’re not from a different planet?”

Samson stares at me with strange look on his face.

I giggle, “No, just a different time!”

I love history, everything about history. When I was younger, my dad used to tell me different stories from history. ~~~ I decide to put my favorite entry first in my prop diary, even if it isn’t in order.

“Tuesday, March 7, 1944.

At such moments I don’t think about all the misery, but about the beauty that still remains…think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.” Of course, her entry is nearly two pages, and since the other pages are devoted to her trying to figure out how flirtatious she was, I decide to just

keep the highlights. My mother watches me from the doorway for a couple of minutes. I wish she would go away. It’s like she watches me like a bug under a magnifying glass and seems to delight in making me squirm.

“You’re really doing a good job on this project,” she says. She comes and sits criss-cross-applesauce next to me. Her eyes are tired up close, and I notice the deep lines around her eyes. She used to be beautiful, when dad was around she never looked tired or old. He was her fountain of youth. Now, she’s just shriveling up, and she can’t slow it down or stop it.

“Thanks.”

“Tomorrow is the big day, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure you will do great,” she says, then we sit in silence a while more.

She watches as I copy another entry over.

“Mrs. Warren told me what you think. We had a meeting today about it.”

My mother waits for me to say something. She stares at me, and if I were Sarah, this would be the part where I start talking. We would have a magical heart to heart and everything would be okay again, but when it becomes clear that I am not going to say anything, she says, “I’m just worried about you. You don’t talk to me, I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

I duck my head, and my eyes feel heavy trying to hold in the tears. My mother doesn’t try to hold in her tears, and one plops onto my prop diary, making the ink run a little. She sniffles and wipes her nose, “You know, I always found the last entry the most interesting.”

“I didn’t know you had read it,” I say, genuinely

Monday, March 25, 2019

surprised. It’s hard to imagine my mother, who is an accountant for a small tax service, sitting and reading Anne Frank’s diary.

“When I was your age, I had to read it, and in college I had to read it again for an elective class. It was good.” She peers over at me, trying to assess the situation. “What did you think about the ending?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read it.”

“You haven’t read it? My resident expert on Anne Frank hasn’t read it?”

“Dad didn’t get there yet.” I twist my hands together so I don’t have to look at her and the familiar sinking feeling in my gut comes back.

It felt like a lifetime ago since we had stopped at the very last entry abruptly, “And the ending is for another night.” My dad had smiled and shut the book.

“Please, it is only two more pages!” I begged. I knew that I was the oldest kids whose dad read to them, but it was our thing.

History was our thing.

“Nope, not tonight.” He caught my wondering eye, “Don’t you dare read ahead either! I will know if you read ahead, little girl.” My dad narrowed his eyes at me in a playful way then kissed my forehead like he had every night before bed.

“I see,” my mother says, picking up my prop diary and wiping off the tear from earlier. ~~~ Our boards were lined up in a large U-shaped around the gym. Carly is Marie Antoinette and has her hair piled up on the top of her head and is wearing a large frilly dress. It suits her and perhaps she is the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette and not anyone from Anne’s life. After all, she had moved here last year.

Samson’s outfit for Benjamin Franklin is nearly perfect. He looks just like the painting of Benjamin Franklin that ended up on the hundred- dollar bill. The only thing that was off is off is that he keeps tugging on the collar which seems too tight for his thick neck and his mother that hovers over him. She is dressed in a tight pencil skirt and a blazer, all business. She looks to be prouder of Samson’s Benjamin Franklin than he does.

Luckily, he took my advice, and is holding the newspaper with the speech attached to the front, but other than that, everything else must have been done by his mother. Everything on his board is its perfect spot, symmetrical and color-coded. On the top, there is a kite hanging with its tail fashioned across the board.

All the other boards in the room are fashioned in similar ways. Carly’s has tons of ribbons all over it and is very ornate, as to be expected for Marie Antoinette.

Since mine is right next to hers, it makes mine seem to pale in comparison.

Samson waves at me as I walk past him towards my corner of the gym, his mom gives me the normal adult sympathy glance. Over time, it’s worn off from most of the adults in my life. People either forget that something bad happened to you or chose to ignore it.

Most people just ignore it now.

Even though my board is plain compared to the others, it is still the best one here. Almost everything that I made I drew by hand, but the couple of pictures that I did have were of Anne and her family. Around the rest of the board there was a yellow construction paper Jewish star with Jude written in the

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Monday, March 25, 2019

middle, and maps that I had copied from library books of what the Secret Annex looked like. I took some of my own advice and I made my own version of Anne’s diary to hold, and stuck my notes inside just in case I forgot anything. I doubted I would though. I stapled ten or fifteen pages together and colored the outside in red and tan stripes to make it look like Anne’s too.

My favorite part of everything, though, is me. I found an old plaid skirt of my sister’s and a big sweater of my own to try and match Anne’s wardrobe. My mom curled my hair overnight so it looks like a natural, curly, frizz ball, that hangs just above my shoulders.

Earlier Sarah remarked that I looked like a cocker spaniel but even she had to admit that Anne and I looked very similar. We don’t look identical, which is okay, reincarnations don’t look the same. Some religions believe that when you reincarnate you become an animal!

So, I don’t think it is outrageous to think just because our eyes don’t match up in color, or that my nose turns more sharply down than hers, that we can’t be the same person.

Mrs. Warren is walking around the room now, talking to parents and shaking hands. She glances at a couple of my classmate’s boards, but can’t examine too much since she isn’t grading until the presentations start. She looks over at me and smiles in a new dress that has white and bright pink flowers. I give her a small wave and she comes over to me. “Do you like my board?”

“You know I can’t look at it until your presentation, I want to get the full effect,” she says with a laugh, crouching down to be at my height.

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“Please,” I whine. I already know mine is the best, but I still want to know what she thinks.

She straightens up and looked across the board, her eyes moving from Margot to Otto, then to Edith and Anne. “You look like her,” Mrs. Warren says.

“That’s not why I think that I’m reincarnated from her, you know, and I’m going to prove it to you today.”

I say, determined to not fail.

No one believes me, and part of me knows that this won’t make them believe either, but I have to try.

She swallows and looks back at me, but doesn’t say anything. “My husband, my ex-husband believed in reincarnation too. He said that is why it is so hard to find a soulmate, because you only ever have one.” She looks at me, but not at me. Her mind is far away from the smelly gym of Walker County Elementary school.

From across the room, another kid in my class calls for Mrs. Warren. “I’ll see you later, it looks great Lauren.”

I wonder if my parents were soulmates before my dad died.

Samson walks over from his booth. “Good afternoon Miss Frank,” he says.

“Good afternoon Mr. Franklin, I see your mother seems to be the reason for your success, maybe she signed the Declaration of Independence for you too!”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” he says, rolling his eyes. “She had to go find my dad, then I’m sure she will be back.”

“They are both coming?”

“Yeah, I told my dad he didn’t have to come, but he said he didn’t want to miss ‘crucial moments’ or something like that.”

“I think my mom is coming in a little bit.” I look towards the door again.

He nods and glances

around at the other people projects, the room is filling up quickly and soon the fourth graders will come to view our museum as Mrs. Warren called it. Since Samson’s last name started with an B, he has the privilege of going first. He fiddles with his collar some more and glances at the door.

I wish I could tell him it will be great, but I don’t believe it myself. I doubted he studied much and probably left the speechwriting to his mom, so he would be reading it word for word from his newspaper. But at least both of his parents get to watch him.

“I better head back over to my booth,” he says as his mom walks back in with his dad on her arm. “Good luck!”

He speed-walks back over to his parents as my mom walks in too. It isn’t fair that both of everyone else’s parents can be here today, they should make it a rule that only parent needs to come to these things. My mom’s still wearing her name badge from work and has a pen stuck behind her ear where she must have forgotten to take it out before leaving work.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly.

“You’re not late, you’re just in time.”

“Well, I wanted to be here more than one minute before presentations started so that I could at least get to read your board and stuff.”

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes hard. Dad used to do that to us all the time, he had called it the good luck squeeze.

“Mom,” I laugh, “that hurts.” Whenever my mom started her job as an accountant, he gave her a big squeeze every day for the first week of work.

“It’s your good luck squeeze,” she pulls back

to see me. “I know you’ve been working on this a long time. Your dad would have loved it.”

I swallow and looked back to my board. “He would have.

“If I can have everyone’s attention please, we would like to begin our tour through Walker Country Elementary’s very own museum of historical figures. So, if I could get everyone except our historical figures to come over and we will begin with Mr. Benjamin Franklin!”

My mom gives my shoulder a hug and heads over with the other parents and fourth graders to start the tour. I have five other kids in front on me, so I know I have a couple of minutes to concentrate. Each presentation had to be between three and five minutes, but it wouldn’t take too long to get through our small class.

Samson sways anxiously and never looks up from his newspaper, despite being across the room I can still clearly hear his voice, which is good, except it sounds like a robot’s. After he finishes the other ones go quickly. I wasn’t nervous until Carly started and now I’m next in line. My stomach feels empty and my heart seems to beat louder than normal. However, Carly’s speech keeps me distracted. Surely, I wouldn’t be as bad as she is.

She over enunciates every single word. “Marie Antoinette was the queen of France,” she starts and tilts her head backwards and throws her hands up in the air. I think I might throw up, but not from nerves, but because this is terrible. All the while, her mother beams and wipes imaginary tears away from her eyes. Carly definitely shared in her mother’s sense of the dramatic.

“And on October 16, 1793,” she throws her hand up across her face feigning death. “Marie Antoinette was executed by guillotine.” She drags her finger across her throat then collapses with a gasp and a loud thud. Two parents surged forward thinking she hurt herself when she fell, while her mother only applauds. I risk a glance at my mother who looks like she might bust from trying not to laugh, and I have to press my lips together to make sure I don’t myself.

Mrs. Warren was the first to speak. “Thank you for that performance, Ms. Antoinette.” She helps Carly up. “Let’s move on to Anne Frank!” she says and the group shifts over to me. As much as I had prepared for what I would say or wear, I did not prepare to have everyone looking at me. It was like Samson’s mom’s look of sympathy, only times twenty.

I open my faux diary, take a deep breath, and begin.

The more I spoke, the less I could feel their glares, the less I felt like the poor kid whose dad died right after Christmas. ~~~ My presentation is already a little over five minutes, but Mrs. Warren doesn’t say anything or try to stop me. The more I spoke, the less I could feel their glares, the less I felt like the poor kid whose dad died right after Christmas.

I explained to them what the Annex was and why the Franks had to go in hiding,

and how the diary survived.

“The reason the diary is so popular, I think, is because she is relatable and when you read her diary, you feel like you know her. You feel like you have someone you can talk to, and as Anne said, ‘I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.’ She becomes that comfort for people all over the world.”

My mom looked at me and there were tears in her eyes. I wanted to stop and tell her to please not be like Carly’s mom, but I knew that that wouldn’t do any good.

“Anyways, that’s Anne Frank.”

I smile and the group claps. I sigh, thankful that at least I didn’t make a fool of myself like Carly. The rest of the presentations went slowly after that, and I didn’t pay much attention to them. I just wanted them to be over. During the next presentation, my mom leaned over and whispered, “You did so good.”

“Thanks, mama.”

She pulls me away from the tour a little bit and says, “Do you really think you are the reincarnated Anne Frank?”

“Yes, couldn’t you tell?”

“You certainly made your case for those of us who you had told, but you said yourself, that she just made you feel like you weren’t alone.”

“Who else is there to make sure were not alone than ourselves?” I clutch Anne Frank’s diary in my hand.

My mom smiles, “Your family. Come on, why don’t we go home and finish that.

You can’t be a proper reincarnation if you haven’t even finished the your own diary!”

Monday, March 25, 2019

I’ve Been The Morning After Dreaming

By Kristi Fitzgerald Senior, Journalism Non-fiction

By Sarah Michels Freshman, Journalism Poem

My nightmares feature sand traps, strong winds, debilitating fatigue.

I awake drenched in sweat, burning from the exertion of fighting my own imagination I never let it win.

I’ve been dreaming. of rhythmic breaths in cold air adrenaline racing through veins quicker than Bolt crossing the line first.

I’ve been dreaming. of loose limbs, of butterflies trapped in my gut setting them free to the sound of gunfire.

I’ve been dreaming of the perfect pain of the final meters, the satisfying struggle that reverberates through every bone But I always awake, my dreams ended with the light of reality.

Dreaming can only get one so far.

So, I tie my shoelaces take off my watch (it won’t help me now) and run as fast as my legs will carry me you see, I’ve been dreaming of the race the competition the Sprint to victory

A cool breeze from the open window wakes me.

I have an exam today. What time is it? 9:14 a.m.

A rush of relief washes over me. I don’t have to leave until 10:30. How could I have let myself forget to set an alarm? Although the hangover is unpleasant, I am pleased to find a sunny morning.

I turn over in my bed and study the freckles on an unfamiliar back. Josh. That is his name. If memory serves, he’s a cool guy. Last night, we were walking back to my house when I asked,“Can I hold your hand?”

“Yes,” he answered.

I interlocked my fingers with his.

“I like your hands,” I said innocently as I studied their manly beauty.

“They’re big,” he said with a smirk.

“They are.”

He asked me many questions about myself and I echoed the questions back but the alcohol has chased most of his answers away.

I think about what my first sober words to him should be. Good morning? No. Too much. Morning. Perfect. He moved so I take it as my queue to break the stubborn silence. I sit up.

“Morning,” I say but not clearly enough. The first sober words are always awkward for me.

“What?” he asks.

I ignore him and get out of bed. I feel him studying my body. I unplug his phone from my charger and replace it with mine. I hand him his phone and make eye contact as he says thank you. He’s handsome.

“I would drive you home, but my car is at Newtown,” I say.

“That’s okay. I can walk. We walked a lot last night.”

“We did.” I try to remember the nearly two-mile journey I led him on from State Street to my house on Kentucky Avenue.

I walk into the bathroom and assess my face. I look good, aside from a few small blemishes and some faded eyeliner. I brush my teeth as he gets dressed.

I lead him out of my room and down the stairs out the front door.

He asks me, “Right or left to get back to campus?”

JILLIAN JONES I STAFF

My brain freezes up, and like a child who doesn’t know her left from right, I say, “That way,” while pointing.

He laughs softly, looks at me, smiles, and walks off the porch.

He looks over his shoulder and says, “Goodbye, Celene.”

My name coming from his lips hits me hard. He remembered it. It put an end to the mystery of genuine attraction. I get nervous and I don’t give him the “Goodbye, Josh” I can tell he’s longing to receive.

“See ya,” I say in a cheery voice and I close the door.

As I turn to walk up the stairs, I regret not giving him the goodbye he wanted.

Maybe he will text me. If not, I will probably never see him again. I don’t mind too much because the sex was far from passionate. His kisses left bruises on my lips.

And I never let them win.

spring 2019 | 9

Monday, March 25, 2019

Gun Tory Stephenson Art Studio and Anthropology, Freshman This is an oil painting on canvas from a series “Hands Interacting with Objects without the Objects.” This piece is inspired by the gun violence in our society and how these acts have human contributors and consequences.

The Girl in the Reflection

By Mia Weaver Senior, Journalism Fiction

The dirty mirror, soiled by months of abuse, stared back at her. It did that a lot. Maybe too much.

Too much. That’s what she was—the girl in the reflection, I mean. Can you imagine what miracles her brain could conjure if not for all that waste? Just think about it—she could be a rocket scientist.

Shut up. No point even going there. Can’t get your hopes up—you know what happens. The girl nods in silent agreement with herself. With me, I mean.

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the two apart.

The girl in the reflection returned a few hours later. Not until she began slowly washing her hands in the bathroom sink did she pay a visit to her old friend.

“Long time, no see,” chided the girl.

“Not long enough, I’d say,” she replied.

Her critical inspection of the girl in the reflection came to a halt as the bathroom door opened. She quickly began drying her hands, pretending. Not everyone talked to the girl in the reflection. No need to cause concern.

She came home exhausted. She made trivial excuses, knowing the real culprit was more difficult to

10 | kentucky kernel

catch. Better to blame the accomplice. “Less hassle for everyone,” agreed the dirty mirror.

“Except the victim,” she muttered.

“Ah yes, the victim.”

She had gotten good at hiding her friend over the past two years, had her parents convinced that she had disappeared. At the very least, become mute.

“Fat chance,” she snorted, allowing her mouth to turn slightly upward for one of the first times that day. If it wasn’t a full smile, at least it was real. The girl in the reflection stared back with tired eyes.

“I’ll always be here. I promise.” You’d think with all the time they spent together, the girl in the reflection would know how that would make her feel.

Her promise was real. Years passed, three to be exact, and she once again encountered the girl in the reflection.

“Not you again,” she grumbled with annoyance.

“I thought I’d finally gotten rid of you.”

“I promised you, I’m never leaving.”

“I was hoping you were the kind who broke promises.”

“Sorry.”

“Just please shut up. Forever preferably.”

The girl in the reflection did stay silent for long stretches of time. Hours, days, the occasional week.

But every once in a while, the girl screamed. I can’t blame her, really. It’s taunts, usually. I cover my ears but I still hear every word.

And the whispers, those get me. I mean, her.

Those make her hate the girl in the reflection, make her want to tear her up into shreds, until she is nothing but a skeleton. The words the girl spits in her ears make her shake with anger, or maybe shame.

Something like that.

Her worst fear was—is—becoming the girl in the reflection. The lines are blurring.

Her whole life, she has worked tirelessly to become something. She can’t let the girl in the reflection ruin it all. At least that’s what she tells herself.

But the girl in the reflection looks different now— her cheeks hollowed out, her collarbone more prominent than usual, her eyes nearly void of life.

I have sculpted her—us— into nothing. I frantically wipe the mirror until it’s spotless, but I can no longer tell us apart.

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Monday, March 25, 2019

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Available Aug 1st. Parking, W/D, most all electric utilities. Great loca­tion. Very nice. Inquire at 859‑539‑5502 or 843‑338‑4753. ** 3,4,5 Bedrooms Available ** Walk to Campus for Aug 2019 Text 859‑513‑1206 Today 1 and 2 Bedroom apartments across from Gatton and UK LAW leasing for Fall 2020. These go FAST. $795‑$1350 depending on unit. For a tour call 859‑621‑3128.

7 Bedroom House. Available August 1st. Walk to UK. 1309 Nicholas‑ ville Road. Great house and ideal location. Front porch, Park­ing, W/D. Please inquire at 859‑539‑5502 or 843‑338‑4753.

9 Bedroom house, off Rose St. Very spa­cious. 3 bath, $2400/month + utilities. Available in summer.

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Now leasing for fall. We have 2‑6 bedroom apartment and houses.

W/D, pets allowed with fee. All within walking distance to cam­pus. www. myukapt.com

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Preleasing for fall: 3 or 4 BR houses off Eu­clid. Includes W/D. Contact Integra Proper­ties at (859) 428‑8271 or www.integraky.­com.

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2 Bedroom STATE Street. Two bedroom apartment $770. Visit our website KaufmannProper­ties.com to view all the properties coming available for June, July and August 2019.

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Mark Wallace, 859‑948‑0205 August 1. Newer 2, 3, 4 and 5 BR, 2 car garage homes near campus. From 499.00 per person per month includ‑ ing utilities. James McKee Builder / Broker 859‑221‑7082 (call or text).

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spring 2019 | 11

Monday, March 25, 2019

Encounter Annly Perez Biology, Freshman Poem

I sit there, listening Intently– From the corner of my eye, Motion, It catches my attention And, It is you, You, A stranger to me, As I am one to you Yet you,

You are intent on me As I, I sit there, intent to the speaker – As you, As you should be, too And yet, You continue to catch me, Catch my attention My glance My intent – And so, my thoughts wander.

Small watercolor portrait of a loved one Tory Stephenson Art Studio and Anthropology, Freshman

ot n e ’r u o y prove

n e k c i chdonate blood

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