Vol. VII , Fall 2020
Resonance Literary Arts Magazine of Mount Aloysius College
1
Contents Resonance is created based on submissions from Mount Aloysius Colleg students and vetted by a reveiw board comprised of students. staff and faculty. Housed by The Belltower student newspaper,Resonance can be found at: belltower.mtaloy.edu/arts/
Students:
Alyson Corey....4, 5, 8,11,13
Faculty/ Staff:
Roger Johnson...10,13
Lucy Craig...3, 8
Alison McElheny...3
Ethan Fochler...16-19
Shamim Rajpar...14,15
Korrin Fisher...3,11,12 Emily Holland...4,5,6,7,8,9,10,12,13,14,15,19 Becca Houghton...5,6,9,14,20 Samantha Houghton...5,8,11,15,20 Hailey Ritchey...9,11,12 Nathan Smith...4,6,7 Submissions
Editing and Design: Becca Houghton Faculty Advisor: Jessica Jost-Costanzo 2
The Resonance reveiw board seeks : short fiction; short, creative non-fiction; poetry; photography ; and photos of fine art each semester at mid-term. Submissions from any Front Cover: Emily Holland undergraduate or graduate student are welcome. Please send all submissions to: BellTowerArts@mtaloy.edu.
Back Cover: Korrin Fisher
Recovery Lucy Craig This time that we are living in Is unlikely any before Never has our state, our country, our world Seen something so retched and straining Forced to sit inside and feel like a shell A shell of a person, a shell of a human Gone are the days of frolicking and playing Here to stay are those that flow one into another College campuses…closed, schools…cancelled Proms, weddings, graduations…postponed All everyone wants is a sense of normalcy But I fear that will never happen again
Covid Poem Alison McElheny
C
hanged on a dime
O
ngoing and; seemingly endless
V
ictims suffering
I
n Isolation
D
reaming of the day this will end!
Sunhats and bathing suits Replaced with masks and shields No one even feels safe enough To go out and shop Judgment and looks coming from Everywhere you look Flying like daggers Piercing the skin and plunging in deep
Photo Below By Korrin Fisher
Will America ever recover? From the virus…maybe But from the looks, the judgments, The hate filled words? NEVER!
3
Lavender Woods
Thunderstorms
Alyson Corey
Nathan Smith
There’s a place dreams go to die Where wasted time goes to lie Unspoken wishes shoved deep down It’s a lively place, can you hear the sound? Of the astronauts, deep sea divers and clowns. Lives left unloved, unlived Wishing to be revived Started paths where you never arrived At the end Goals abandoned Childhood dreams stranded Where did the time go? When did hope get so low? They haunt the woods waiting to be found Versions of you waiting for you to turn around And see the things you could be If you just believed Don’t waste time Don’t leave dreams to die Get up get out and live Nothing is sadder than a life unlived
I hear the deep rolling growl of my father’s truck pulling into our driveway, the plumes of smoke filling the air like ominous grey clouds of warning.
Photo Below by Emily Holland
When he opens the door to the vehicle, we can feel a pressure change as if suddenly the sky is falling as if suddenly the world is falling like rain drops around my feet. Filling my shoes like puddles so every step feels heavier and standing still for too long sends shivers up my spine. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a thunderstorm Saw its lightening streak the sky like cracks in the walls of my mind, letting the sunlight in or the illusion of such. Gone in the blink of an eye. I remember the storm in my grandmother’s eyes, always brewing and undoing. Like a clock on the mantle ticking away. Lightning flashes in its wake. I remember sitting by her side watching storms fade to grey. Watching memories float away, carried by the winds of a different season. The thunder in my father’s voice reminding me that bad things happen to good people. Static electricity dances on my fingertips like the flames of candles on an alter Church pews filled with mourners, tears streaming down like rain while the piano softly plays. No thunder is calling no lighting is falling, just rain. But at home there’s still a thunderstorm. The windows are still latched, though the wind is no longer blowing. The skies are pale blue, yet thunder is calling. I look to the sky, a hundred miles away. The sky turns to grey, maybe today is the day. As the rain starts to fall, I stand in its way. I have not seen a thunderstorm again since that day.
4
The Next Girl Becca Houghton I feel sorry for the next girl Who falls in love with those bright blue eyes Or that perfect smile you wear Whose heart melts at the sound of your voice And believes it when you whisper I love you
Photo Above By Emily Holland
Impact Alyson Corey Footprints may disappear with the next ocean wave Snow angels melt away Muddy handprints get cleaned off of white walls But you have not been erased There are traces of you wherever you go. A hair, a pamphlet you dropped, a drawing you made on a corner of a napkin that your waitress secretly kept. A stranger who remembers your smile, fingerprints or a name you carved. You could be a part of a story that someone tells their friends at every party. You were someone’s one-minute crush on the subway or bus You were caught in the background of someone’s selfie You have been places you will never know Maybe even places you will never physically go Your presence made a difference you will never understand Never say you didn’t matter You would never guess the change Your disappearance would cause people you never met You have left traces someone will never forget
I pity the next girl Who gives you all she has And ignores the warning signs that pop up Because I know your intentions aren’t good And just like I did She will end up broken hearted in the end I pray for the next girl That she doesn’t end up like me So broken and twisted inside Afraid to trust and afraid of love All because of one person With no intention of loving her properly
Photo Below By Samantha Houghton
5
You Will Be A Rainbow: Nathan Smith Sometimes you just need to stand in the rain, Let the moon beams shine on your skin like starlight Feel the water drip down the brim of your nose onto your lips Breathe in the night air and petrichor Taste the rain on your lips to remind you That you are alive Air is swirling in your lungs Blood is pumping through your veins You are alive once again Never forget it, for someday you won’t be. Feel the rain on your skin Like finger tips, far too cold to be living The pitter patter of the drops hitting the earth Hear its pulse, like a tiny heart beating Beating for a life yet to be lived Tomorrow the rain will bring flowers Tomorrow the sun will dry the tears But for now it is raining For now, no one can see that you are crying No one knows you are alone in the rain Drowning, but not from the water Shivering, but not from the cold And falling because sometimes The winds aren’t strong enough to blow away the past Sometimes you have to be your own thunderstorm Let the thunder roar from your throat Let the lightning flash in your heart Let the rain pour from your eyes But never forget how strong you are For when the sun finally returns, you will be a rainbow.
Photo Below By Emily Holland
Photo Above by Emily Holland
A Pennsylvania Winter Becca Houghton This Pennsylvania winter that some hold so dear Is becoming quite excessive , especially as spring draws near I will never understand how people can enjoy the cold ice and snow Its March now, we've had enough It is time now , this weather can go Slipping and sliding wherever I walk And as far as warmer weather goes , it is still just talk On cold days like today Where the weather shows no sign of letting up I find myself dreaming of spring And the warmth and happiness it will bring
6
She is getting in your head Or was she there this whole time? Are you sick or just lonely? Nathan Smith There’s no way to tell, but the blood drips down from your lip Depression isn’t gentle. You’ve been biting down too hard again She doesn’t knock when she enters the room Whether it’s your tongue or your lip is unclear Or text you before she comes over, Your mouth is numb from muttering to yourInstead she kicks down the door and takes self what is hers. Lights flicker in the back of your brain She does not need your opinion, Fighting for control over what is rightfully Nor does she respect it. yours You are nothing as she will remind you Or is it? Again and again and again, The see-saw on the playground is bouncing Knocking you to the floor and kicking you back and forth Again and again and again No children seem to be around though You want to run, but where do you go? Except the one still holding your wrist You want to cry, but who would care? Except now it’s begun to hurt You want to fight, but who do you fight? You didn’t notice until now She isn’t just in you she is you It burns like a fire licking your skin Every bone in your body Did you do this to yourself or is it another Every ounce of your flesh cruel trick Every tear in your eye Getting dizzy now and a little bit cold She is pulsating with fear Is this just apart of getting old? Pulsating with hatred for you Like a darkness spreading through your soul No This is her Making you question if you even have one It always has been Wondering what happens after we die Keep fighting or you’ll drown Should we show her? Swim to the surface, where the light meets the Show her the painting she has made waves The artwork on your flesh If your body were a museum all rights would Like a portal out of this hell When you breach the surface then you’ll be hers breathe again Breathe If you just fight a little bit harder then you’ll They tell you that again and again as if you breathe again never thought of it Don’t let the darkness swallow you and you’ll As if she would let you try As if you wouldn’t just be inhaling all the mis- breathe again I just want to breathe again. takes you have made up until now Breathe again Stop
Breathe Again:
Right Photo by Emily Holland
7
Why Alyson Corey
Photo Above By Samantha Houghton
The Other Side Lucy Craig I can hear the birds outside my window 6 AM has rolled around again Another sleepless night Turned into a sleep filled day In my bed every night before 12 But sitting there watching episode After episode More numb than anything else Not really tired even though I should be Want to sleep but I just can’t Endless whispers dance around my head Slowly infiltrating my mind Contaminate and eliminate everything good I want to believe that this will end well But I don’t think it will This time in my life Is the worst it has been And all I want Is to make through to the other side. 8
Why? Why not? It’s sad to think about all the things that went undid because someone questioned why anyone would do such a thing. It’s a shame the wonders the world won’t know Because someone couldn’t answer one simple word. Why? I’ll tell you now The answer is always Why not? Why shouldn’t men fly, said the wright brothers. Why shouldn’t men see outer space? Why shouldn’t we explore the bottom of the ocean? Why shouldn’t I follow my dream? Some of the greatest discoveries Came from people who didn’t let others stop them from trying. It is dangerous to have the power To defy what society questions. To have the power to change nations. Why, is a challenge. A dare to explain something they think is weird I say challenge them back. Why not?
Photo Below By Emily Holland
Right Photo By Emily Holland Below Photo By Becca Houghton
Simplicity Hailey Ritchey Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my learning, For the opportunities, And Blessings. But this is not the life I want. I crave simplicity. I crave quietness, Of mind, body, soul. It may go against what I’ve done thus far, But I don’t need academia, I don’t need recognition, I need simplicity. My life has been too loud, Boisterous, Chaotic. I want it to slow down.
I spent too many years denying my roots, My skills, and abilities, Things that would truly make me happy. I want a family, a husband, an Olde way of living. I’ve realized I don’t care, What people say or think, I know what I want. I’m not alone, In these wants and needs. He wants them too, And that comforts me. Together, we’ll make us, Our Simplicity.
Call it regressive, But I want to go back. I want to live a calm, country life. 9
To the Ambiguity of Joy* Roger Johnson Freude schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium. Were I a multi-conscious thing and able To set my personalities to divers tasks, I would set one to weeping for the ills of this old world And separate another to celebrate and Contemplate the wonder and the joy that I have known. But I am not so talented or split, just one soul, And I, as alle Menschen, Must bring that joy and sorrow to one ineffable point. As if of its own volition, my hand Reaches out to pull the refrigerator door. The inside light comes on, surely at its own volition, And I am filled with joy. I do not need to change the bulb and the Emmenthaler is fresh. But there is a synagogue attack at the Festival of Lights, And people are dead and hurt. Not of their own doing. The chocolate buds melt over My molars and seek the places on my tongue To work their magic. I am child-like happy. But refugee children from Guatemala have no chocolate. The roof shields me from rain and snow. My clothes are clean. Whirlpool be praised. Bolognese fills my belly. Brunello warms my heart and Evokes the best of memories. Love was there. Petro-chemicals now seep unchecked Into sacred lands and water, here and there Elysium. The brotherhood of oil, a gift less joyful now, an ambiguity, Providing magic luminosity inside that Kenmore. My pension check arrives on soft wings. The rent is fine. A modest scotch is not beyond my reach, Shipped here by diesels driving ugly freighter ships. The grocery roasted chicken is not bad. I chose it when my time is short. I trust that chicken. There is no stopping or trying to stop The perversion of elections never Perfect but better than what has happened and will again. That trust is gone, its absence now a modish separation. Millions could be embraced,
10
But a sycophantic chorus separates and lies. My one-time joy of service descends to ambiguity. Was it for this I risked my life? U-S-A, U-S-A. A grandchild sends her carefully considered Sketch with me imagined beside a blue house with tilting chimney-Sweet and satisfying. Cliched birds and a quarter of the yellow sun, Her take on Heaven’s gorgeous plan. A few more children and worshippers go down, Victims to our well-regulated militia. Ho hum. Beethoven’s Nineth resounds from public radio. A lump chokes me and brings on recollection of Vienna. Brackish tears of precious memories. I am happy with the salty residue. My grandson takes up martial arts. And children dwell in cages, at my doing, Because I seem impotent to change even My own mal-nominated democratic construction. U-S-A, U-S-A. Two Arab students greet me. “as-salaam ‘alaykum.” From the back of my brain I manage to respond, “wa ‘alaykum salaam,” knowing that there could be An issue of the plural I did not recollect. Go, brothers, on your way. The exchange brings joy and, yes, a joyful wish for peace, But with irony too hard to transcend the Ambiguity this old world imposes on that joy.
Photo Below By Emily Holland
Away From Me Hailey Ritchey The words may not come as easily, The world is scared, I am scared. You’ve been taken from me.
You hate seeing me upset, I hate it too, Because I know it hurts your heart. We’ve been reduced to secret meetings, Swift embraces, Fleeting kisses that, Without them, I could never survive.
In the springtime, A time of life and renewal, Everything is hushed, You were taken from me. Now, they’ve taken you again. Hidden from the world. They can’t have you anymore. I don’t want them to take you. Slighted. Others venture to their loves, Yet I am left, barren and cold, One day, this will be over, But fortnights feel like lifetimes. One. Single. Floor. Above. I miss you. I miss you, You’re right here. Come back to me. But I can’t see you. I can’t smell the scent of comI’m heartbroken, fort. I can’t hear your gentle breaths. I’m angry, You’ve been taken from me. I’m scared, and lonely. But, I have you, You’ve been taken from me, And they can never take you Away from Me. Once again, But this time, It’s Senseless. It’s Stupid.
Be That Weirdo Alyson Corey To be the weirdo is a wonderful thing To jump up on tables and sing To run through the store Riding on shopping carts hoping to soar Weirdos have a special view If you wish to know I’ll give you a clue Laugher is more important than normalcy More powerful too Find yourself a weirdo and if you do Keep them close at hand or life could get very bland Because how else would stories come to be If not for people like you and me
Photo Below By Korrin Fisher
It Hurts.
Photo Right By Samantha Houghton
11
I Will Never Stop Loving You Hailey Ritchey I don’t mind waiting up for you to get home, Hearing your voice is worth every second. Your stories bring laughter, tears, empathy, No matter the content, I still love you. You make me feel whole, complete, More so than I’ve ever felt before. You’ve changed everything, From All-Hallows to Affection. There are times when you’re scared I’ll leave, And, even when you ask, I’m always here to tell you: I’m here to stay. Your warranty expired. So did mine. I could sit with you for hours, In silence, or in sound, it matters not. The healing noises of crackling fire in the background, Soothe me to sleep along with your heart under my ear.
Photo Above By Korrin Fisher
I know I’ll love you forever, for the rest of my life. I know that one day I’ll marry you, and be your wife. Oh how you’ve changed me, My poems have rhyming couplets now. You’ve changed everything. You compliment me, support me, Even when my interests are eclectic or strange. But, I do the same for you, With your materializing PJs and Peanuts. I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again, Nothing will ever make me stop loving you. With my entire heart, I swear, I will never stop loving you.
Photo Right By Emily Holland 12
Words
Words and Me
Alyson Corey Bullets or blossoms that sink deep in the heart, Elders told you they can’t hurt you, That they go in one hear and out the other. Oh, how wrong they were. They have more power than sticks and stones To break or to build Not bones but something deeper. Something more important. Funny how easy they slip out but how hard they are to erase, How deep they sink within, Carried inside for months or maybe years, Pulled out and recited to bring strength, Or replayed to cause pain How strange that something so small as your tongue can hold the power of life and death, Can grow a field of flowers or set them all ablaze, Can change the course of someone’s life for better or for worse. If more thought was taken, or if more people realized the power they were given the moment they uttered their first syllable, Perhaps the world would be a happier place. This power we have to build or break a person’s spirit, whether a blessing, whether a curse, Use it wisely dear ones. May you bring many people blossoms and think hard before you shoot your bullets. You never know how long-lasting a bullet wound can be.
Roger Johnson Well, should I curse or bless That I’m not atoms but paroles, My brain a lexical address? A thing without its name lacks soul. It lacks substantiality. Not the donut, but the donut hole. And yet I dote with prim banality On the silence of the Chinese jar, Citing Eliot with diffident sagacity And Wittgenstein, my hero and my star, Who wrote whatever lacks a name to call Should live in timeless silence, a blank memoir. “That’s not what I meant at all,” Says Mr. Prufrock, no song for him, His life a whitewashed endless wall
Photo Above By Emily Holland
Except for coffee spoons with rattle dim. If words should fail, do I exist at all? Wenn ich schweige, am I just like him?
13
About Train Whistles and a Certain Kind of Air
Home Sickness
Shamim Rajpar
Becca Houghton
What is it about the blast of a train whistle when it’s being held close to the tracks by the humidity of early spring, late evening air that makes it such a tease to hearts born to be cut loose?
Homesick on a moonlit night What should I do to pass the time I guess I could write
It’s a tease that calls us to go with it – always. Yet we are stilled and stayed by the heaviness of such an evening as we squirm and wiggle to free ourselves from our uncertain moorings alongside of these tracks. The teasing call taunts us, with its dampened whisper to our wanderlust, as it moves away and on down the line. Somewhere deep in the hearts of all of us – but especially deep in the hearts of those of us who grew up in railroad towns and in rail-owned families – is the sure and certain knowledge that we will one day surely go somewhere on down the line. It will be a day on which nothing, not even the heaviness of early spring, late evening air and whatever other suppressing forces would press upon us, can stay our journeys into adventure and into a world which is ours to claim and which will show our naïve imaginations that we simply had no idea, really, where it would be that we could travel.
During the day It's easy to say That I don't miss home at all And that I am doing okay However When the sun goes down In this very small town My smile turns into a frown And I am not sure how to handle This rush of emotions that I am feeling Is it okay to miss home? Is it such a crime? Some people can keep these feelings inside For long periods of time But make themselves mad I however , am allowing myself to feel this pain And to miss my home Crave the presence of my family And long for familiar surroundings Soon enough I will be back there Laughing with my friends by a campfire And then may I won’t feel so alone.
Photo Right By Emily Holland
14
August Nights Shamim Rajpar These night sounds, now, nearing the end of summer, are the songs of crickets and katydids. They intrude into our going to sleep and then usher us into it. Should their singing abruptly stop sometime in the night, I would no doubt awaken with a sense of something being amiss and with a measure of comfort having been removed. These sounds were music to my coming-up and getting-ready-for my faraway years. When I got there, about halfway around the globe, I missed their song. Those distant nights were filled with different sounds – tree frogs calling out for mates, mosquitoes buzzing, incessant drumming lasting deep into the night and, I convinced myself, slithering things moving over dried things on their way to do me great harm.
Photo Above by Emily Holland Photo Below By Samantha Houghtom
For me, this winding-down-time at the end of summer has always been a special season. It ushers in another year of new beginnings and the promise of new learning. This time evokes, for me, the essence of reincarnation. For so many others, this time of year is viewed as the dreaded end of summer and a kind of death. Sighs of resignation are loud enough to drown the chorus of night sounds. Spring, on the other hand, has always depressed me. I felt that it, along with the promise of long summer days, signaled an interruption to the flow of new ideas. Each spring when buds burst and the world is made over in pastel, I plant for summer blooms while lusting for autumn. 15
Sirens Ethan Fochler ‘She can’t know this about me,’ Syphira thought to herself as she sat adjacent to the rough wood of the main mast of her captain’s ship. The red, square-rigged sails of the vessel – like a wall of crimson clouds – fluttered with the wind. Syphira’s scarlet bandana encircled around her head matched the color of the sails as she peered at the tall masts above her, lost in thought. The cool north-western breeze collided with the half-elf ’s brown skin on her face as she continued to sit stationary, for a moment focusing all her attention on the sketchbook at her hand. The ship’s flag – black and tattered with a red skull and crossed swords – danced along with the wind’s course, accompanied with the sound of fluttering cotton. The sound of the cool wind blowing across her pointed ears was occasionally interrupted by the myriad of conversations across the many crewmembers. The scene of the active crew aboard the main deck was the only sight surrounded by a vast yet empty ocean. Syphira’s dark skin reflected the light of the sun, an isolated beacon surrounded by a clear, blue sky. She then continued her focus on her sketchbook. She does not know Because I do not show What I hold within My biggest burden. Occasionally, Syphira craned her neck to check for anyone spying on her: no one. Everyone else aboard the ship attended to their own business; each were either focused on the laborious tasks of sailing or wallowing in the pleasures of a fine spirit, leaving Syphira with only her thoughts and her sketchbook. She dipped ink onto the tip of her quill pen and continued to finish her first stanza. “What in the gods’ names is our crew’s first mate doing sitting there?” said a voice above her. As she quickly snapped her sketchbook shut, she noticed Saya, the crew’s quartermaster. Syphira flinched and peered upwards like a startled sea lion. Saya stared down at the half-elf with her arms crossed and a stern look on the blood-red irises of her eyes. The sun’s light upon the clear, blue sky reflected on her scarlet hair, pale skin, and the small, S-shaped horns on her forehead. Her tail swayed in a slight manner. “Oh, uh, nothing,” Syphira replied as she scratched one of her pointed ears. ‘Damn! Hope she didn’t read what I had on that page,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’d be a dead woman if she found out!’ Saya raised an eyebrow and gave a half smirk towards the half-elf. “Really?” said Saya with a tone of disbelief, “Writing in your sketchbook while everyone’s working aboard the ship is considered ‘nothing?’” “I know,” Syphira sighed as her face formed into a glare, “And let me guess, this is the part where you do that lame impression of Captain and yap about how you’ll keelhaul me if I don’t—“ “Oh save the shark tears, first mate,” replied Saya with a slight chuckle, “You’re off duty anyway, I’m not gonna scold you for that.”
16
Syphira raised an eyebrow at the tiefling woman: she never approached her while she wasn’t working with the rest of the crew. Saya continued, “Anyway, There’s something I, uh, wanna discuss with you about.” A drop of cold sweat ran down Syphira’s cheek when these words came out of Saya’s mouth. Syphira replied, “Uh, about wh-what?” “I’ll tell ya later,” Saya responded, “Follow me in the captain’s quarters. That’s an order.” ‘Shit,’ Syphira thought to herself as she followed the tiefling through the doors below the quarter deck of the ship’s stern. … “ Where’s captain, Saya?” Syphira stood within the candlelit captain’s quarters along with the quartermaster. The scent of the candle wick and Captain Bordoroth’s rum gave off a weird combination for the olfactory senses. The light of the embers revealed the large painting of sirens upon a rock mounted next to the dresser, surrounded by an adorned, golden frame. As the first mate looked further, she noticed the two mermaids interlocked within an embrace. As Syphira turned her head towards Bordoroth’s desk, the light from the back windows also revealed the cozy environment that surrounded the two. “He’s working with Hosea in repairing the ship’s bow,” she replied. “Aye,” said Syphira, “So, What is it ya want to discuss.” Saya darted her red eyes around the room, as if she feared that someone was spying on them. Syphira raised an eyebrow in response. “I know you’re probably completely confused right now as to what the hell’s going on, but, like I said, there’s something I have to tell you.” “Uh, sure?” Syphira replied in a confused manner. Saya continued, “Gods, how do I put this? Uh, there’s a certain secret on my mind that I wanted to, er, point out with you.” ‘Shit!’ Syphira thought to herself with more sweat going down her face, ‘She read my sketchbook! I’m done for! As if things can’t get any more awkward!’ “I get it!” she then shouted “Wh-what?” Saya looked puzzled. Syphira covered her eyes with her one hand as she slumped down one of the chairs, “It’s obvious you’ve read my sketchbook! You’re pissed off that it was me who damaged the ship’s figurehead!” Saya looked more puzzled, “Wait, what?” “I just wanted to improve my skills at juggling black powder grenades. I write about that kind of shit all over my sketchbook. Oh, you know me, Saya, I’m a performer at heart! And of course I had to have them all lit, cause it’s not as entertaining for the others if I’m not doin’ any fancy tricks with a bunch of duds! But of course, one of them had to slip out of my hands, flew past the bow, and exploded towards that headpiece and, oh Gods, Captain’s gonna kill me! That thing’s like his grand prize and—” “Calm down, Syphira,” Saya shouted as the first mate continued hyperventilating from her dramatic confession, “First of all, that was stupid of you to do. And second, that’s not even what this is all about!” The two pirates borrowed a minute to ease themselves. Saya then looked into the first mate’s dark brown eyes, “It’s a secret that’s been agonizing me for the past year now.”
17
Syphira, now with both eyebrows raised, focused more into Saya’s red eyes. Perhaps she didn’t read her secret – her real secret – within her book after all. “Listen,” The tiefling woman began, “I want to start off by saying how much I appreciated you saving my life during that job in the northern continent. If you weren’t there distracting that dragon away from me, I would’ve ended up dead like half our crew. I might go as far was saying that your actions are probably the reason why we found Jarl Iron Fist’s treasure hoard in the first place. Gods, you were really stupid there, but it was the reason why I’m still alive. So, I thank you dearly for that.” “Oh, uh, you’re welcome,” replied Syphira with a slight, yet nervous chuckle, “As captain always says: never leave a crew member behind.” ‘The hell is she talking about that job for,’ the first mate pondered to herself. “Well,” Saya continued, “There’s more to what I wanted to say. Much more.” Syphira noticed a slight red tint to Saya’s cheeks. “I-I need to tell you s-something, S-Syphira. Please don’t ever think I was ever jealous of you all this time; I always scolded you not because of that, but because I didn’t want to lose you — I meant — I d-didn’t wanna, uh, I-I didn’t w-wanna—“ Syhira’s eyes slightly widened as she fixed her gaze on the quartermaster’s crimson irises. “Saya,” whispered Syphira with her whole self trembling ever so slightly, “What are you trying to say?” ‘Oh my gods! Is she saying what I think she’s saying?!’ Syphira thought to herself as her limbs continued to quake. Saya then snapped her focus straight into the half-elf ’s dark brown eyes. “Fuck it! You’re too important for me to lose, Syphira!” A single tear rolled down Saya’s cheek. Her pale-skinned face now almost as red as her eyes and hair. “There’s no other person like you,” Saya continued as more tears went down her face, “Ever since I met you, I’ve always seen you as a beacon of hope for myself. Every time things went to shit, you were always there encouraging us to move forward and look towards the best in life. There’s no one else in this crew that I’ve ever met with the same charisma that you have, even compared to our captain. Also, oh gods I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yo—you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come into contact with! Not even the sirens of the deep are as beautiful as you! Syphira, I love you!” With haste, Saya slapped her mouth shut with her right palm. Syphira, completely dumbfounded, kept staring into her eyes. “Saya,” she whispered, “Y—you truly think all of that?” The tiefling woman nodded, with tears breaking out of her eyes. Suddenly, Saya threw her hands up in the air. She looked towards the ground with a face of self-disappointment.
18
“I’m sorry! I’ve said way too much! I need to get back to work now—“ “Saya, get over here!” Syphira jolted towards Saya and, with a swift maneuver, wrapped her arms around her in a warm, loving embrace. Saya’s face became drenched in even more tears as a result as Syphira cried her own tears. “You probably wouldn’t believe me at first, but I had my own secrets as well. I’ve loved you the moment I’ve met you as well. You’ve inspired me to grow as a person, allowed me to see my flaws, and you were always there when I needed someone the most, despite your criticisms. I, too, believe that no other woman matches your beauty! Thank you so much for sharing your feelings, cause I didn’t know if I had the courage to share mine.” The two continued to stare into each other’s eyes while still in a loving embrace. Syphira caressed her index and middle finger down Saya’s smooth cheek, wiping away the tears. Pure affection possessed her as the half-elf stared down the crimson eyes that captivated her the moment she saw them. With her right arm still wrapped around Saya’s slim waist, Syphira petted Saya’s soft scarlet hair. For a brief moment, Syphira found herself looking back at the portrait of the embracing sirens until she focused more on her own embrace towards the quartermaster. Before she realized, Syphira found herself inching her lips towards Saya’s, as the tiefling woman did the same. Suddenly, before the two had the chance to collide each other’s lips, the doors swung opened to reveal their crew’s captain: Bordoroth. “Aye, mateys!” he announced, “Our ship be havin’ some trouble wit’ her wee little anchor! We be needin’ all hands on deck! And who be the yellow-bellied bilge rat ‘dat be hurtin’ me prized headpiece?!” “Oh, uh, Aye, Aye, Captain!” replied Syphira. The two women hugged each other for a brief second one last time until they sprinted from the captain’s quarters while holding each other’s hands.
Photo Right By Emily Holland
19
Survivor Becca Houghton My brain wanders back to that time of hell and misery so very often. It is a scary, lonely place that I hate to remember. But two years is too much time to just forget. I remember the first time in so much detail, feeling his body pressed against mine and his hands gripping my shoulders. That awful feeling of dread in my stomach when it was over. I still see it when I close my eyes. Even the smell of Axe cologne makes me remember. And I often wake up crying in the middle of the night, thanking God it’s just another nightmare, not my reality. It was my reality once though, a life I was forced to live, held captive for far too long. And just that thought sends shivers down my spine and brings shame and sadness to my heart. Just the wrong kind of touch and my mind starts to spiral. I was so young, so stupid, so naive to think that what happened to me was normal. And that he only did it because he loved me . My world was turned upside down and my brain forever altered by the pain. And I used to think my heart was permanently broken . I could not trust anyone after being taken advantage of for so long . He degraded me constantly, made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t deserving of love. Through this painful experience, I have grown. I have learned that I am worth more than what I used to think. My future is brighter now that the past is behind me. I think I have found light in what I once thought was a dark, cruel world. And even when it feels like it, I know I am not alone. There are people just like me all over the world, who have suffered through unthinkable things. To some we are victims, helpless and in need of support from those around us. Others misunderstand and point their fingers in blame. But we are not to blame, we are survivors, who are deserving of kindness and understanding. We are survivors Right Photo by Becca Houghton Photo Below by Samantha Houghton
20
21