PAHA Review 2024

Paha Review

Writing and Art from the Hill

Mount Mercy University

Cedar Rapids, Iowa

2024

The term paha comes from Dakota Sioux dialect meaning “hill” or “ridge,” and it was first applied in 1891 by W.J. McGee to the special hill forms in this region of Iowa…Their distribution and alignment parallel to (and very often near) river valleys strongly suggest that paha are actually windaligned dunes that accumulated in response to the strong, prevailing northwest winds that were scouring the Iowan surface during this period of glacial cold.

Jean C. Prior Land Forms of Iowa

Mount Mercy University is built on one of the many paha in Iowa, most clustered near or southeast of Cedar Rapids.

Editors

Catherine Kratoska

Jenna Welty

Submissions Manager

Jenna Welty

Copyediting Manager

Catherine Kratoska

Copy Editors

Catherine Kratoska

Kristina Glackin

Michelline Igirimbabazi

Jenna Welty

Layout

Keira Carper

Marianne Fanning

Catherine Kratoska

Liz Solorio

Jenna Welty

Cover Art

Liz Solorio

PAHA

Digital Illustration

Cover Design

Liz Solorio

Faculty Advisors

Jose Clemente

Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee

Emily Buckingham

Keira Carper

Kristina Glackin

Mason Herron

Catherine Kratoska

Jenna Welty

Art Selection Committee

Marianne Fanning

Liz Solorio

Special Thanks

Billie Barker

Devlin Caldwell

Chris DeVault

Joe Hendryx

Joy Ochs

John Thomas Richard

Joe Sheller

Ben Thiel

On select pages you will see drawn leaves falling in the corner. These written pieces earned the highest rankings from the Selection Committee when they reviewed submissions without knowing the authors' names. The one marked art piece placed first in the 2023 Student Summer Art Show.

Congratulations to the following writers and artist!

Art:

Untitled Necklace Brandon Reagan

Poetry:

I’m Sorry That You’re Disgusting Kristina Glackin

Isostatic Rebound Jenna Welty

The Dread Maiden Catherine Kratoska

Prose:

Cat or Bird Jenna Welty

Forever Loved & Remembered Always Autumn Puffer

Read Like a Book Keira Carper

If I Had to Choose

Never Let Me Go Forever Winter

or Bird

Necklace

Kristina Glackin

Jenna Welty

Annie Barkalow

Liz Solorio

Catherine Kratoska

Keira Carper

Andrew Lorig

Autumn Puffer

Jenna Welty

Brandon Reagan

Catherine Kratoska

Kristina Glackin

Emily Buckingham

Taylor Wells Marianne Fanning

Blubber Beasts

Lost at Sea

Eye for an I

Scream

Your Why

Hospital Ambiance

Loving You Was Loving

Death

Policy & Change

Prayers

Cherry Blossoms

Forever Loved & Remembered Always

Summer Night Delights

Generations

Também

Closer

I Don’t Like Mirrors

Whispers of the Wind

Nicson Franck

Pigeon

Keira Carper

Jordan Smith

Ben Campbell

Vanessa Gaul

Clare Bechen

Marianne Fanning

Amelia Frimml

Catherine Kratoska

Pigeon

Autumn Puffer

Annie Barkalow

Annie Barkalow

Emily Buckingham

Marianne Fanning

Keira Carper

Michelline Igirimbabazi

Sweet Girl

Woman at Table

Dědictví — Heritage

Making a Wish on Birthday

Cake Candles

Cake

The Day My Mother Dies

Read Like a Book

Thinking of You

Life Rules

Green Tile

Isostatic Rebound

Contributors

Kristina Glackin

Grace Byers

Catherine Kratoska

Jenna Welty

Elizabeth Andreasen

Landen Freeman

Keira Carper

Jordan Smith

Kristina Glackin

Emily Buckingham

Jenna Welty

I’m Sorry That You’re Disgusting

Kristina Glackin

Forgive me for the way I speak to you. No one deserves how I’ve treated you. Looking at you in disgust and disappointment and all you’ve ever done is carry me supporting me each day just for me to criticize everything from the way you move to your wide feet and jiggly belly why do you walk like that..?!

Forgive me, I forgot that I was trying to be kind to you. I guess it’s not your fault. Your hips have always been too small and your thighs too close maybe if you lost some weight they would be more proportional and you would be less disgusting.

Forgive me, that wasn’t fair I should appreciate all you’ve done for me without focusing on how gross you are it’s a good thing you never wear shorts so people can’t see your stretch marks or the way your legs are too short and never tan evenly, what is that anyway?! No one else has calves that don’t tan.

Forgive me, it’s not your fault your arms have always been chubby but you got that from your grandma. And your belly isn’t the same after that c-section puberty bestowed those stretch marks on you and stress blessed you with those grey hairs but the perpetual bags under your eyes are….

Well, also not your fault, but still. Fix it.

Forgive me, I am really trying to love you. You carried me all these years, and my children. You have fought through illness, trauma, grief; all for me. You have smiled through tears and been so kind. You are so selfless. You are so neglected. You are so worth loving. I’m so sorry, my poor body, for what I put you through.

Jenna Welty Milkshake

There are so many birthdays in March, and for yours, we took a drive down Mainstreet, past the bank and the post office, past the library and your crush on his bike. There were probably eight of us in the back of your dad’s car, on top of the folded-down seats. Girls laughed, screamed, our bodies tumbling into one another, gaining bruises that would color us purple, an insignia of sisterhood we’d wear the next day. The steering wheel turned back and forth and back and forth to a game your dad called the Milkshake.

We were the second-grade ingredients, arms and legs mingling together like pine-tree-scented ice cream and leather-seat-flavored milk.

There was no music besides our hysterics; neither of the two AC/DC songs your dad always played when you’d pick me up for practice seven years later. I hated those songs, I hated the new car. I missed bruising and bonding and celebrating our birthdays four days apart. There are so many birthdays in March, and for mine, I want to dwell in girlhood, tumble around and not worry about where I’m going, live in this memory, this place of adolescence where the space is full of the sweetest cackles and the softest collisions.

In a Coffee Shop at Eight P.M. Thursday 2000

Annie Barkalow

This is where I went to create my own hallelujahs, a high priestess of poverty whose only tithe was the aroma of espresso.

I used my pencil to hack away at the umbilical cord, to create a chasm so wide not even the saints of Brownsville Assembly of God could cross it.

I inscribed damnation into salvation, turned the cans of tuna into honeyed ham, traded my dad’s ’75 Buick LeSabre for the preacher’s Cadillac.

I can create odes for every poet being sold here, write a hymn in the key of ground coffee beans, extract the infinite from the hiss of the espresso machine.

But I cannot make the brown-eyed boy appear, cannot make him keep his promises, cannot write him into my life, cannot make the Jewish druggie love the girl with lead on her hands.

The Dread Maiden

Catherine Kratoska

They say that Kore was kidnapped, dragged down from her field of flowers to a place of death.

Her mother would do anything to get her back. Anything.

So, Demeter, helpless, brought winter to humanity. Thousands, millions, of people died.

Her fury worked, but only halfway.

But before Kore, the Maiden, was kidnapped, before she became known as a helpless victim, she was a curious young goddess.

Hades did not exist.

Kore wandered down into the Underworld, and finding it empty of leadership, became its queen.

A Queen, not a Consort.

Her mother did not rescue her for she did not need rescuing.

Humans prayed to her for mercy. The Goddess, The Queen of the Underworld.

Her last myth portrayed her as a helpless maiden, Kore. How well the human men degraded her.

So great was their fear of Dread Persephone, That they created a god to save them from her.

But what if Persephone did not wander into the Underworld by accident?

What if her beloved mother, the immortal Demeter, suffered a mortal’s fate?

And that winter that killed much of humanity, was caused by Demeter’s absence?

What if Kore, in her grief and anger, abandoned the realm her mother left in her care?

And she sought out the place of Death to conquer in Demeter’s name?

What if Kore became someone else to give her mother back her immortality?

And Demeter desperately cried out as her innocent daughter became Something Dark.

What if Persephone was created in the grief of loss, but not the loss of her freedom.

And her mother mourned the loss of Sweet Kore.

What if Persephone and I

have that in common?

And my mother sees how my grief and anger have hardened me, and weeps.

I would do anything to save her. Anything.

Should my violent grief raise me to divinity, would I also strike fear in the hearts of men?

Would they invent a god to save them from me?

If I Had to Choose

Keira Carper

My name is Keira named after the actress in that movie series about pirates that I still haven’t seen.

It means “dark haired” or “lord” and while my hair has darkened with age it’s a far cry from your own black hair.

I prefer the second meaning anyway.

You told me once before I knew anything if I had been born a boy you would have named me Morgan like the pirate, Captain Morgan.

I only knew that name from bottles of alcohol that were sometimes brought down from the high shelves and I certainly wasn’t interested in those when I was still learning my times tables. And I remember thinking Morgan sounded like a girl’s name too. Now, I’ve never been drunk, whiskey tastes like burning poison and wine is much the same, but I’ve dreamed to live the life of a pirate captain although from historical accounts it appears to be nothing like the movies say and instead the sea might only be my grave.

I would still choose that life.

When I traded in my skirts for pants and my bright pinks for dark blues and purples the color of bruises

did you notice? Did you know? When I dressed like a girl again were you relieved? Were you happy?

You don’t know I only stopped being “girly” because I couldn’t be a woman and I couldn’t handle the weight of centuries of expectations that dwell within the folds of a skirt.

Not at thirteen. Not ever.

But I’m different now even if you don’t see and I know that “girly things” aren’t just for girls

When I wear everything you pushed on me I don’t do it in the way that I know you’re expecting and I never will.

I’m a “she” in the same way that boats are, which suits a pirate captain just fine salty brine and preserved food on my tongue, our floating home wandering, looking for trouble to stir up. Tall tales we’ve heard a million times, told with an added twist, merriment bubbling up and over, destined for both life and death unchained.

And then I wake to reality.

If you could see the dreams that opened my eyes where I look like me but not in the way that you see me would you call me Morgan?

Would you recognize me in there?

A vial held to the sun filled with the sweetest poison one tilt, pink another tilt, blue all of it safely corked and hidden away on the high shelves away from your hands.

I’m not that little girl anymore. You and I both know it and I don’t hate you, I think, but you’ve been blind. You could tell something was wrong but your guesses were never right and I’ll never say.

You want me to introduce myself? My name is Keira.

Never Let Me Go

Andrew Lorig

Crispness that hangs in the lungs, yet runs between the discordant clang of colliding metal wind chimes, echoes on rattling teeth.

Within, there is no chorus of noise, no words caught in the wind— the light and the breeze drift through the souls stretching to the sky.

Underneath, the crunch of crystalline grass stabs and fragments the weighted air.

Though layering quilts and holding spent coals close to the chest, no heat floods fingertips. Or drowns bones.

And yet, I am steeped in warmth. Each step in a barren chill I am falling into hot springs greeted by shores of glowing embers

And yet, the weight of chill feels so light a burden wrapped in the fibers and coated in rays of softening glow.

I pray this chill never find a home.

I pray— never let me go.

Forever Winter Autumn Puffer

Digital Photography

Jenna Welty Cat or Bird

She needed to find some pills. Something, anything to stop the vibration of her mind and moan of her stomach. Her brain flipped inside out and back again, pressing up against its cage. Her skull felt the pressure of this movement, sending sick signals to her trembling abdomen. There, iced coffee moved in violent tidal waves, sloshing against the inside lining. Though her insides tussled, June’s demeanor remained untroubled.

June sat placidly with her forehead pressed against the phoropter in the exam room. Her one-in-every-two-years trip to the eye doctor was only a slight annoyance added to her already bustling day at the daycare center. She’d worn glasses since elementary school but switched to contact lenses in college because her now ex-boyfriend told her she looked better without them.

The optometrist’s repeated inquiry continued with a new set of letters on the wall in front of her. “Which looks better? A...” The letters became blurrier. “Or b?”

“A,” June said.

“How about now? A... or b?” the doctor asked. The miniature spikes of his hair were lifted by a glean of gel that June could still notice even in the darkened room and without her contacts.

“B,” June said.

“Hm, just one more. Friday... or Saturday?”

“What?” June lifted her face away from the phoropter, squinting at Dr. Menda with a red mark lining where her head had just been.

“Which works better for you?” he asked. “When are you free? Friday or Saturday?” He bared his thick, straight teeth, raising his perfectly round cheeks to his squinting sapphire eyes.

June quickly ran through the situation in her mind. He was a doctor, her doctor. This was hardly appropriate, but that’s what made it intriguing, and he was handsome enough— before she could come to a reasonable conclusion, her mouth said, “Friday.”

“Perfect,” Dr. Menda said. His dense legs rose from the chair. “If you need more contacts, you can ask the front desk, but your prescription hasn’t changed. I’ll see you Friday at six, hm?” The too-wide smile never left his face while he nodded to June without waiting for her confirmation.

That Friday, they met at an Italian restaurant. June sauntered in wearing an outfit she put little effort into but enough to not look completely repulsive. She had gone on plenty of informal dates, all wholly uninteresting but worth a free meal. Her mother chastised her nonchalance, dreaming of her only daughter’s wedding. At twenty-nine, her family was concerned she might end up alone forever. June’s grandmother begged every eve before Yom Kippur for June to find a man before she was six feet under and prayed every day that it would happen soon enough that she could meet her great-grandchildren. But, right now, June’s “children” were the ones she took care of at the daycare center. They were all enough of a handful to begin worrying about having kids of her own, and finding a man even remotely interesting was exhausting. She would rather focus on how to use her biology degree to start paying her slew of student debt. But June tried for her family and for the off chance someone wasn’t completely dull. She mustered up her attention span and made attempts at conversation.

“So, can you prescribe pills?” June asked before they had even ordered. Her head and stomach hadn’t hurt since her morning tea, but the feeling always came back. “I mean, you are a doctor, right?”

“Yes, I am,” Dr. Menda laughed. He had been having a staring contest with a fish tank near the bathrooms when June arrived and was just now beginning to shift his focus to the person in front of him. “Why? Is there something you want?”

“I need a pill for my head and stomach pains.”

“I believe that’s called ibuprofen or Tylenol.”

June’s face remained impassive. “No, no, of course, I’ve tried that, but they don’t help.”

“Well, that’s not really my specialty, maybe you should talk to a different doctor.”

“I’ve tried. They can’t diagnose me and can’t give me pills.”

“Hmmm. Is that the only reason you agreed to see me?”

June considered his question. She couldn’t tell him about her familial pressure or let him know he was somewhat good-looking. His ego seemed inflated enough, asking a patient to dinner. “I like free food,” she said. June lifted the menu and began to scan for the highest prices.

“Who said I was paying?” Dr. Menda smirked. “I thought women could pay for things these days.”

“Well, let’s see a doctor’s salary... a daycare worker’s salary...” June held up her hands to denote the difference. “Not very even wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve got me there!” Dr. Menda’s face was a mixture of blush and beaming arrogance. He looked pleased to be of assistance to a poor young lady.

The night continued with pleasantries and facts that bored June. He went on and on about how he was originally planning to be a veterinarian and how much he adored animals—the ginormous beef & pork meatballs atop his spaghetti said otherwise. The only interesting thing she learned was that his first name was Lawrence, so she wouldn’t have to keep referring to him as “Dr. Menda” in her mind. He also made a point to draw attention to his paying for the dinner, dramatically drawing his wallet from his back pocket and skimming through the many credit cards.

When they left, he held the door open and tried to prolong their time together. “You know, I think I might know of something that would help with your headaches and stuff.”

June was intrigued now for the first time all evening. If the man truly had pills maybe the night was worth something. He invited her to his apartment to look at the prescriptions and possibly a few drinks. She said yes, stomach now reeling from the caffeinated drink she ordered with dinner. Perhaps she could even learn to appreciate being tortured by a middle-aged man’s special interests. At least, her grandma would be proud of her for trying.

***

The inside of Lawrence Menda’s apartment was where his love of animals materialized. June was mortified by the sheer number of creatures in the living room alone. Snakes, lizards, turtles, frogs, spiders, and scorpions overcrowded numerous terrariums. Fish of varying sizes and colors could barely swim a few inches in their large aquarium. Birds in groups of three were stuffed in cages meant for one. Empty food and water bowls lined the hardwood floor next to begging canines. The stench of several litter boxes odorized the room, and a pile of felines crowded together in the only spot where the waning sunlight hit the inside. She could barely make out the

hamster and guinea pig enclosures in the bedroom straight ahead.

“Sorry, it’s kinda a jungle in here,” Lawrence chuckled. He set down his wallet and keys in the only empty spot on the counter, then began the lengthy process of feeding all his pets.

June was dumbstruck but sat down on the hair-covered couch once the critters were preoccupied with their feeding.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said sprinkling the final bits of foul-smelling fish food into the tank.

“Um, water please,” June said, though he was already opening a beer with the bottle opener on his keys. She couldn’t not take the green glass bottle when he handed it to her.

“I brewed it myself. I use Pilsner malt and the secret ingredient’s spruce tips.”

“Okay...”

“You don’t know beer stuff, huh?” He leaned over the top of the hairy couch. “I’ve been perfecting this brew for a while now. There’s been various reactions but all positive. Take a sip.” Lawrence’s straight teeth peeked out from behind his lips.

June braced herself for the bitterness that usually accompanied the beer she had drank and tossed up the bottle. Pine was the least of the flavors that filled June’s senses; it was more akin to hairspray. The animals perked up, noticing their guest, and finishing their kibble & feed.

“So, what do you think?”

“Tastes like beer.”

Lawrence washed his hands and took a seat just short of too close to her. “It’s supposed to be citrusy & sweet, a little woodsy.”

June stared at him blankly, not getting off on the fascination of craft beer. Her stomach bubbled, which she tried to calm with a firm press of her hand.

“You really do need those pills, huh? So, they’re not quite FDA-approved, but we're doing clinical trials.”

June’s insides continued to churn. “As long as it doesn’t kill me.”

“Of course not; it’s a new glaucoma drug that also deals with gastric headaches. Side effects are minimal, maybe some ocular itching, eyelid erythema... you don’t have diabetes, do you?”

June shook her head.

“Well then, I might be able to slip you some...”

His hairy knuckles grazed the soft corduroy fabric of her pants. June shrunk away immediately, unable to contain the disgusted curling of her lips. She should’ve known better than to believe he actually wanted to help.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want to feel better? I can make you feel better.”

June’s horror was interrupted by one of the cats jumping on her lap. She smoothed her hand down the ginger back of the feline, letting out a deep breath that pressed her stomach against the creature. Its tag read Yesenia.

“I had a friend named Yesenia. She had red hair too,” June said.

Lawrence clenched his teeth, hating the change in subject. “Must be a coincidence. There’s something I want to ask you though—”

“How many pets do you have?” June interjected, almost scaring the cat off her lap.

“Oh, I’ve lost count by now, June. I just want—”

“If you had to take a guess though?”

“Probably more than a hundred, I don’t know, but I just wanna ask what animal you most relate to.”

June took another swig of beer. The cat outstretched its paws on June’s leg, bearing its claws. She was growing restless being in this man’s presence and could only imagine how frustrated these poor animals were living with him.

“Like if you were an animal, which do you think you would be?” he repeated.

He was making moves, but now she’s expected to answer a silly question. Did he even have pills? June’s stomach hadn't stopped aching since leaving the restaurant, but it was becoming worse. Her brain felt like mush, but the possibility of relief wasn’t worth him.

Lawrence’s eyes narrowed at her silence. “So, about those pills—”

“A cat! I’d be a cat.” June scooched as close as possible to the edge of the couch.

“Really?” Lawrence didn’t seem convinced. “You know, I have a pretty good eye for this sort of thing. That’s where you see it, in the eyes. They are the ‘windows to the soul’.”

June grinned uneasily, still on edge. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

Lawrence planted his hands firmly on her shoulders. “I think everyone’s got an animal deep inside them.” Their blue and brown eyes met straight-on. “It’s like their true form, the part of them that no one but themselves sees. Except me. I see even more than they do.” He released his grip on June, melting into the hairy linen. “Like you, you think you’re a cat when your eyes so obviously say you’re a bird. I can tell you think I’m boring, though you’re intrigued now.” June stayed seated, tapping her toes swiftly against the cream tile.

“You crave freedom and excitement, and you think I can’t give it to you. I can, though. You think men can’t give you what you want, but I can. Men provide freedom free of charge! With me, you can soar!” His arms spread out across the length of the couch, fingertips brushing June’s pale hair. “People always say that women are cats and men are dogs, but I’m no bitch. Cats are sophisticated. Birds are naïve, just like you, and I think once you accept that you need someone, you’ll feel much better.” Dr. Menda waited for June’s reply with a patient and smug grin. Each of the three caged birds squawked while June took a long gulp of the beer. The dogs began to bark in response, causing a spark in activity throughout the critters in the room. Yesenia pounced off June, clawing at Lawrence’s dress pants.

June stood, snickering with the animals at her eye doctor’s hardy display of masculinity. Every bark, hiss, and ribbit echoed in her pounding brain. “Now, that was entertaining,” she replied. “But you’ve only added to my killer headache since this started, so this cat is going to leave.”

Lawrence didn’t try to stop her. He went to the medicine cabinet and returned to find June lingering at the door. “Here are those pills you wanted.” He bent down to close the space between them. June was speechless. Her foot nudged one of the plastic food bowls near her exit. Lawrence placed a sprinkling of red capsules into it, feeding his newest pet. Two honey-brown cat eyes stared back up at him languidly and he replaced the child safety lid on the ibuprofen. “I really thought you would be a bird.”

Untitled Necklace

Brandon Reagan

Riveted Copper and Brass with a Handmade Copper Chain

A Moment in Time

Catherine Kratoska

The herd has lined up, thick coats wet with melted snow, their breath visible in the freezing air.

They snort, removing tiny flakes of alfalfa from their large nostrils.

Burping, teeth grinding, heads swinging at each other like clubs.

A man sits on the old wood a few feet in front of these ravenous creatures.

His daughter is next to him, both bundled against the cold, huddled together as the wind howls outside.

One face worn by time and thousands of winter livestock feedings.

The other still new to this world they all call home.

This is but a memory, the cattle have long since passed.

The barn has fallen to pieces, blown over in a gust of wind.

The father and his daughter are still there, but one day they too

will vanish like the animals and barn.

All things die. And yet, in the past, has there not also been a parent and child watching their livestock eat?

One hundred, one thousand, one million years ago?

Has humanity not always shared the simple joys of our short lives with those we love?

Our ancestors are naught but dust and bone, just as we will also be.

But so long as we walk this earth, there will always be a moment like this.

A moment to sit, to listen, to love.

Just as they did. Just as we do. Just as they will.

Leafed for Dead

Kristina Glackin

Blowing in the wind, tumbling to the ground, burnt orange, dry, dead. Why was it so beautiful? This leaf will never live again. But perhaps, will serve the life of another.

Yellow, red, orange, brown, my favorite colors. The colors of death. Can life come lest death proceeds?

I pray what is dead in me will fall to the ground, blown by gusts of clearing winds, never to be seen again. By me, at least.

Will what’s dead in me bring life to others? As I die to self, I become alive to You. Your purpose, Your will, Your life. May I live in the colors of Fall as I die.

Emily Buckingham Dear Lover

Dear lover, I hate you.

I hate you for hanging up the phone to go to sleep. For prioritizing the needs of your body over the desires of mine.

I hate you for disagreeing with me. Especially over stupid, inconsequential things like the new Harry Potter series and if the first one was really that inaccurate.

I hate you for going home to see your family. You are a continent away and out of reach of my arms. How dare you go home to see them? How dare you leave me?

I hate you for using the bathroom and going to practice and attending class and passing time with your friends. Anything that takes you away from me.

More than that, lover, I hate myself.

I hate myself for being upset at the dial tone. For the despair that creeps into my heart when you leave me for sleep. I hate myself for the tears I shed over simple fights, my inability to simply let things go.

I hate myself for telling you I miss you, knowing I have seen you cry because you live without your mother. I hate myself because I cannot stand the idea of you away from me. For the devastation I feel whenever you leave.

I hate myself for being a bad girlfriend. A good girlfriend would not be angry with her boyfriend for sleeping. If I was a good girlfriend, I would encourage you.

“Yes, love.”

“Sleep, you need it.”

Instead, I cry.

A good girlfriend would love you enough not to care about trivial fights. A good girlfriend would love you enough to celebrate your going home. A good girlfriend would never beg you to stay, to put your life on hold for another moment with her.

I hate myself, lover, because surely, surely, these things I am angry about mean I do not love you enough.

I can’t stand that I want you to stay all night just for another minute with me. Because I shouldn’t feel that way. I should support you. What is wrong with me? There must be something. It must be that I am failing. That I do not love you enough.

Purple

Taylor Wells

The color of the flowers he picked her,

The color of her wedding dress with lace,

The color of his fading love a blur,

The color of bruises around her face,

The color of loneliness and much strife,

The color of thought from being apart,

The color of the handle of the knife,

The color of shame that fills her lost heart,

The color of hurt like a tidal wave,

The color of his murder no one guessed,

The color of the flowers at his grave,

The color of knowing she will not confess,

All these feelings hidden within her chest, Purple is the color that she loves best.

Loveless

Marianne Fanning

Digital Illustration

Worthwhile

Andrew McMenomy

How far will I travel to find peace?

To find happiness?

To find purpose?

Where I can grow into the person I want to be, where I can stand proud with no regrets, where I can explore the immense beauty outside of these walls. I fight to get up every day and make the most out of it.

I’m fighting for that dream.

I’m fighting for those who don’t believe in themselves.

I’m fighting for those who believe they are unseen, who feel restricted because of their upbringing, who do not believe they are good enough, who feel lost and believe there is no way out.

I will live that dream. It will all be worthwhile, over a thousand miles away.

Commuting

Morning rush, keys in hand, homework done. Let the learning begin.

Morning rush, keys in hand, backpack left: let’s try again.

Nicson Franck

Blubber Beasts

Pigeon

Digital Illustration

Lost at Sea

Keira Carper

Dahlia woke to the sound of dripping water, clothes soaked and sticking to her body. She slipped on cold tiles as she forced her sore muscles into working order. Bright overhead lights blinded her vision, spots dancing as she blinked rapidly. As her vision cleared, she recognized the room as the very same storage room at the aquarium, where she had ended her shift earlier. She must have fallen asleep and dreamed that she went home. Too many late night shifts with long hours probably didn’t help, but she was dedicated. She would get to the bottom of those rumors.

The reason she took a job at the aquarium in the first place was because she was chasing rumors. Word on the street was that you could find the entrance to the secret exhibits after hours. The rumors got widespread enough that the staff sent out an announcement over the local news, begging people to respect the employees and stop trying to sneak in or hide in the bathrooms until closing time. The rumors were most popular among high school students, and it became a test of courage, or so she heard. She wasn’t a high schooler, and she couldn’t get off easy for dumb stunts like that anymore. Instead, she had to do it the hard way, and get a job.

Her first attempt went poorly, because apparently they weren’t looking to hire anyone for the main floor. A bunch of bored teens had joined the staff, only to be fired for spreading rumors to guests. The second time, she wisened up and chose a job she knew always needed more hands to help: janitor. Fish get messy, and it’s a job no one really wants. And just like that, she was hired. She was also the only one who actually wanted the late shifts, which improved her image in the eyes of her supervisors. Soon enough, she was the sole person scheduled for her shift, leaving her with plenty of time to search under the guise of cleaning.

Yet, even after months, she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. The rumors kept circulating, getting more exaggerated and gruesome as time went on, as rumors are wont to do. It used to just be tall tales of rare fish that the aquarium was waiting to show off. Now, people were convinced that the secret exhibit was a curse, and it would kill anyone who entered by any means necessary. Drowning on land, torn apart by sharks, buried under the crushing pressure of the ocean; the list went on, but Dahlia had already resigned herself to quitting that week. If she hadn’t seen even a hint of a secret entrance after all this time, then it must have only been a fabricated story. It was possible

the aquarium had started it for more publicity, but that sure got out of hand. It was time to move on. Dispelling the rumors from her mind, Dahlia finally stood up and opened the door.

What greeted her was not the staff hallway she was expecting. It was a tunnel carved from rock, which she knew led to the tunnel tank. But, she could have sworn that was on the other side of the building. Dahlia stood in disbelief. Maybe this was the janitor closet near the tunnel tank, and she forgot which one she was in. They did look nearly identical on the inside. Perhaps she was too tired to remember properly, or she was too invested in this urban legend nonsense. She would be fine after a decent night’s rest, at home, in a bed and not on wet tiles. And so, she entered the rock tunnel.

The tunnel seemed…fine, if a bit more worn than she remembered. Saltier, and the air was heavier. Musty, like there hadn’t been airflow in years. The overhead safety lights buzzed, sending harsh white light down the tunnel and creating a dull roar. Or maybe it was the tunnel tank, and the weight of the water bearing down on the rock. She sent the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. The tunnel wouldn’t collapse, it was made to withstand the entire tank. The extensive safety tests made sure that it would resist the pressure.

Dahlia was used to the rock tunnel, as she had walked it many times before. Yet, this time, no matter how far she went, it only dragged on. Much, much longer than she remembered. The lights dimmed, and the air smelled worse, and the dripping water increased as she continued.

Squish.

Dahlia looked down at her feet, not expecting that particular sound or sensation. Under her shoe was…something, with shifting white and gray and bright red. She paused, processed, and realized. The thing she had stepped on was a dead fish, eaten by maggots and left to rot. It had been rotting for some time, by the looks of it. Dahlia stumbled back, then took off running, slipping along as more fish and puddles appeared from the quickly encroaching darkness.

The overpowering scent of rotting fish and squirming maggots assaulted the senses, preventing her from moving forward. The bright fluorescent lights had long since faded away, leaving only the pulsating reds of the deep sea fish, hidden from sight behind tempered glass and darkness. As she pushed forwards, the flickering lights blended everything together, until she couldn’t tell if there was still glass separating her from the pressure of the ocean or if she was already swallowed by it. The lights followed her, like she was being hunted. Dahlia knew that it was common for predator fish, like the loosejaws,

to use a red light as a spotlight, with the prey none the wiser they were ever in danger. The red unnerved her, but she wasn’t prey. She could still see red, after all.

She continued further down the narrow passage, the boundary between her and the water thinning. She saw the end of the tunnel, a single growing spot of stygian blue in her vision, and she burst into the tunnel tank room. It was oddly empty, at first glance. No crowds of people like during daytime hours, and no curious fish poking at the glass. As she paused to let her eyes adjust, she spotted a collapsed form. It appeared to be roughly human, covered in mangled fish pieces and glowing tendrils of jellyfish.

“Hey, are you alive?” she rasped out, trying to keep her volume down. This place unnerved her, and she didn’t want to risk anything hostile hearing her. The figure shifted in response, tilting towards her. It was still too dark to make out, and she moved closer.

The figure talked to itself, only flicking its eyes in her direction. “Hmm, I must be dreaming again. No one comes down here. Not alive, anyway.” While not quite ignoring her, it didn’t respond to her, either. It was observing her, in the same way one regards an animal: not capable of responding back in a meaningful way.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Where is ‘here’?” She tried again to get answers. This time, the figure seemed to recognize her words as actual conversation.

“Who am I? I wish I could remember. I used to be one, I think. Now we’re all one together.” The figure devolved into quiet laughter, falling into the pile.

Dahlia was now close enough to make out the patterns and colors of the gore in the pile: discarded corpses of strawberry squid, transparent barreleye fish, and decaying cosmic jellyfish, with long tendrils of man-of-war jellyfish that twitched as she passed by. Atop the figure’s head was her namesake, the dahlia anemone. The red tendrils flopped over ungracefully as the figure sat up and tilted its head towards her, a small smile present on its face.

“Hmm, you shouldn’t be here. But you are here, so that doesn’t matter.” The figure swept a few pieces of gore off its skin. Dahlia remained silent. “What, catfish got your tongue? First person in ages and you won’t even talk to me. And I even got dressed up, what a waste.” The figure sighed heavily. Dahlia got the impression none of it was sincere.

“What’s your name?” Dahlia asked. She had to start somewhere, even if all her

attempts were eluded so far.

“Name? You know us, don’t you? I saw the recognition.” The figure was serious, eyes burning through her.

Dahlia did not know who this was. The only thing she had recognized was…

“You…are those?” She pointed to the pile of gore. Surely she had misunderstood something.

“Yes! I knew you would get it. It’s more fun with friends, after all. They can’t talk like you and I can, but we don’t need words.” The figure lit up: literally. Bioluminescent patterns pulsed in bright colors as the figure happily clapped, sending droplets of brine flying. The sound was amplified by the structure of the tunnel tank, layering until it was all she could hear.

In a moment of panic, Dahlia grabbed the figure and forcefully pulled its hands apart. “Stop!” she hissed. “What if something hears us?”

The figure paused, then laughed at her. “Ahaha, I forgot what this was like, you really don’t know anything.” Dahlia was becoming increasingly aware of what the body in her hands felt like. “They don’t get close to anything new.” She could feel the tendrils stinging her exposed skin. “It's scary.” In the back of her mind, she remembered that man-of-war jellyfish can be deadly. It didn’t hurt like she knew it should. “They prefer to watch first.” The figure pulled its arms out of her grasp. It felt like scales covered in slime, leaving small nicks across her skin that bled slightly. Dahlia suddenly felt the urge to be even closer.

“You…do you want to come with me?”she asked. “We can leave together. I live alone, I can take care of you, and—”

The figure put a finger over her lips, cutting her off. “No. I lost my chance to leave waaaay before you showed up. And I don’t want to. I like it here. But if you insist…” The figure moved in closer and kissed her; cold, wet, and slimy. Dahlia wanted nothing more than to stay forever, but the figure pushed her out of the embrace.

“Wait—”

“A word of advice? Get out, before you end up like me. You’ll be eaten alive if you stay.” It pointed a single webbed hand at a hole in the wall, leading into yet more darkness. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite yet. Probably. And besides…” The figure opened its mouth in a toothy grin, revealing rows of razor sharp

teeth. Dahlia snapped back to her senses, terrified that she let those teeth that close to her vital spots. “I’ll see you when you come back.” The figure lost itself to laughter, becoming completely unresponsive to Dahlia’s attempts for more information. She didn’t want to stay anymore, either. Running out of options, and with no other leads, Dahlia stepped into the darkness again.

Images flitted through her mind of the creatures she most definitely did not want anywhere near her: siphonophores over a hundred feet long with stinging tentacles trailing behind, fangtooth moray eels grinning with rows of glassy-sharp teeth, bobbit worms snapping out to latch onto her feet. Nope, no, don’t even think about it. Dahlia quickened her pace, blood rushing as the paranoia set in. It was getting harder to breathe with each step, lungs forcing out what little oxygen she was taking in. She felt weightless, like in a dream, and she lost her footing, suspended in place. Was she underwater?

She knew the dangers of diving; she had thought of taking the certification test, but never found the time or money. Even so, she had memorized all the answers that could be found in a textbook, just in case. But, is it really diving if you’re swimming without water? In this fake aquarium where nothing made sense, what good would any of that prior knowledge be? Like the insanity that comes with nitrogen narcosis, she could feel her mind slipping away the farther down—or was it up?—she traveled. The shadows towered over her, reaching out to pull her under. She thrust her arms out, kicking furiously, trying to somehow find the daylight in the darkness.

Lights shot past her, but it wasn’t the light she was hoping for. The lights filled the area, and she could finally see. Red spotlights, crossing over each other. Bioluminescent spots of all colors, darting in every direction. Sea angels, waving at her. Oval-shaped chiton, curling into balls. Rainbow comb jellies, floating peacefully. Bright red atolla jellyfish, their many tendrils flowing behind. Dahlia knew seeing any of these fish in person was impossible, at least not without any form of protective gear. Every species was found in extremely deep depths, way past anything a casual diver could even catch a glimpse of. And yet, here was the proof, in front of her very eyes. She didn’t need to breathe, or think, or do anything except lose herself to the ocean.

And so, she did. Down…

down… down.

Dahlia snapped back to attention, in her bedroom, in her apartment, soaked through. She didn’t remember how she got back home. Did she even leave at all? Salt and sand coated her tongue, and flickering spots of light followed her

from the corners of her eyes. The days after were the worst, and the weeks following not much better. Was it a dream? If it was, why could she still feel maggots under her shoes, scales slicing her open, kisses leaving her bare, and stingers pushing poison into her veins?

No one believed her. They accused her of lying to fuel the rumors, as if she wasn’t the one person most dedicated to finding out the truth. She knew, and they didn’t, they hadn’t seen what she had. She knew they wouldn’t get it, but still. She felt so disconnected, like she was the only one who saw the world as it really was. She had to go back. If they didn’t understand, she would just have to show them. Just like the glowing fish, she could swim in the air too. Then they would have to believe her.

Dahlia stepped over the balcony railing, peering out at the horizon. She didn’t have to look down, because she wouldn’t fall. The weightlessness already took hold, from the moment she went outside. She would swim, she knew she could. And she would prove everyone else wrong, too. Her lungs hurt. It was so, so hard to breathe. She tasted salt on her tongue, and gritty sand crunched between her teeth.

Dahlia let go, and swam in red.

Eye for an I Jordan Smith

Digital Photography

Ben Campbell Scream

after Elaine Equi

The siren screams down the street. It is going into the unknown. When the siren stops, the mother screams at the loss of her child. There are so many screams.

Scream says it all. It says sad. It says happy. It says scared. It says anything. It screams anything.

You never know what a scream will mean. You just know that you are going to hear one. It’s part of life. If you don’t like it, scream.

Vanessa Gaul Your Why

This profession, the one you are working so damn hard to get a degree in, has taken so much from you and will continue to take more. It has taken your time and ripped you from family and friends because you need to study and complete assignments, as one wrong move could set you back an entire year. The job that you don’t have yet but are passionately working for has changed your brain forever. You will never see people the same again; cutting into a cadaver does that to you. It has taken and will continue to take a toll on your heart by providing compassion until you no longer have any left to give to those at home. Your body and physical state are damaged through lack of sleep, irregular mealtimes, overnight shifts, and lifting large patients for twelve-plus hours each day. Even more detrimental, this schooling process can take your self-confidence as you are beaten down by exams; can take your self-worth as quizzes and papers on the computer char your eyeballs black; and can take your ability to be nonchalant as you are almost always anxious about something academic related.

While this profession is becoming increasingly complex and changing as the world changes in ways you cannot describe, it is your choice to continue along this path. The way you see humans has changed, but now you can fully appreciate the complexity and fragility of life. As lifting damages your body, you are given an opportunity to become stronger physically, which improves your self-worth. The nontraditional working hours show you that you can adapt to new circumstances and workflows. Although the exams can beat you black and blue, they can also show you what you need to improve on and can occasionally heal the bruises when you discover you know more than you thought. Ten- and twenty-page papers cause your eyes to leak relentlessly due to stress and cause happy leakage when you are finally ready to submit the assignment. Anxiety is hard to spin positively, but healthy levels of fear will always be a part of life, and this complicated education is helping you learn to keep those levels from spiraling out of control and relish the times you can be carefree.

Yes, it may have changed you and robbed you of who you once were, but it has helped you to become who you are today. You are now stronger, more intelligent, compassionate, caring, and clear on what you value based on the things and people that you hold on to through your education as you balance the double-edged sword that is the field of nursing.

Clare Bechen Hospital Ambiance

Artificial sunlight in dimmed glass balls. Monitors beeping mimic bird calls.

Staff are in states of constant distress, being prohibited to decompress. They live for their work, they’re nonstop. Breaks are flash naps on the countertop. Patients packed together like sardines. Each is going to die, how is unseen. Colorless pills on the nightstand wait to be taken. Encourage them to leave a place where they feel forsaken. Encourage them to escape, to flee, to die. They can’t see that their world has gone awry. I’m a doctor, trust me.

They can’t help themselves; they need me. I’m a hyper insomniac.

My life is one of a controlled maniac. The sudden injection of the meds, I watch the reaction as the poison spreads. The body convulses and goes still, another corpse is soulless against its will. Wait ’til the darkness overcomes all light. I stand in the doorway with a Devil on my left and right. He had my humanity erased, then my soul left in haste. There’s no turning back, I seek the Devil’s favor. He’s in my conscience, a personal enslaver. Either I serve him by committing murder, or he’ll take an axe to his recent converter. I’ve become a living nightmare, I’m no martyr. I cannot barter, I’m an executioner doctor.

Policy & Change

Amelia Frimml

When tragedy strikes you can’t help but think “What could I have done?” “Could I have saved them?”

He was 17 years old Broken. Hurting. At a mere 17 years old.

School is to learn to grow and achieve. But today? One dead at the hands of a teen.

As law enforcement came about the teachers were no longer. Instead, they were heroes. Heroes for others’ daughters

This must end It must sooner than later Because thoughts & prayers? Could never have saved her.

Instead, policy & change has some hope of saving lives yet here we sit at another shooting whopping number 395.*

*The number of school shootings since Columbine in 1999 (according to the Washington Post)

Prayers

Catherine Kratoska

I learned of the Power of Prayer as a child. Pray to God and he just might hear you and grant your request, like some mystical genie. And still, it is everywhere, usually following “thoughts and .”

We spare a passing thought and take ten seconds to ask God for something, and that’s all there is to it. You’ve done your Good Deed, now it’s up to God. And when nothing happens, we are told that God sometimes tells us “no.”

And if God says no, then who are we to do anything more? But God is not our own personal servant. When a child asks you for something, you may tell them to do it themselves. And are we not God’s children? He is tired of holding his greedy children’s hands. It’s time we take care of ourselves. Use your hands to help, not to beg a higher power to do your dirty work. Save your prayers for miracles.

Cherry Blossoms

Pigeon

Digital Illustration

Forever Loved & Remembered Aways

Autumn Puffer

My first part-time job was when I was sixteen, in the deli of my hometown grocery store. I hated it. After six months, I’d finally had enough, and my two weeks were in. My last shift was 4-8 pm on a Sunday, and it went pretty much like any other. I made salads, fried chicken, and ate rejects out of the camera’s view.

After I clocked out for the final time, I took one last look around and walked out of that store feeling free. I hadn’t felt such a feeling in a long time. A burden of obligation had been lifted. While basking in this feeling, I decided to take a video of myself, a video that would reappear in my flashback on that day every year. It went something like this:

Congrats, Autumn, you just worked your last shift at the store *flips camera to show the building* this place!

You made it through almost six months of this hell. Good for you. I don't know how you stayed this long, but you did and I'm really proud of you.

If you can get through this, which you did, you can get through almost anything else… Not almost anything else, literally anything else, this was awful. Ok bye!

I drove home with the view of a golden sunset, wondering what was next for me. I couldn’t believe I was finally out of there for good. When I got home I was greeted by my dog, who after a while finally let me put my stuff down, and I started preparing dinner. After getting all settled, I picked up my phone. I had missed a call from my dad, who was with my siblings in Indianapolis for a volleyball tournament. I figured he wanted to check in. It was my last day at work after all. I called him back.

Dad: Did you get home ok?

Me: Yeah, why what’s up?

Dad: Wyatt Farrington died in a tractor accident today.

I let out a broken “What?” The word slurred out of my mouth.

Dad: [A family friend] called and told me. We’re on our way home, I’m merging onto the Interstate now, let me call you back in a few.

He hung up. I stood there, in total disbelief. Wyatt was a cousin of mine. Though he was a distant one, our families saw and worked with each other regularly. Even the week before, my siblings went with his mom and sister to the swimming pool. But I had just been told he was gone. There was no way that was true. He was only 14.

I started to cry.

A few minutes went by, and my dad called again:

Me: Hello?

Dad: Hey, you doing ok?

Me: Yeah I’m fine (through sniffles).

Dad: We’re still a few hours out, we probably won’t be back until late, just thought I would let you know.

Me: Ok, I’ll be here.

I sat down in the kitchen, crying and eating my celebratory end-of-job meal that didn’t have the same appeal. I spent that night alone, in an empty house, in shock and absolutely heartbroken.

The visitation was that Friday at Wyatt’s high school. According to his obituary, Wyatt was not a fan of dressing up, and it suggested we wear something from one of his favorite sports teams. My dad let me borrow a Green Bay Packers tee. Me, my dad, and my three siblings walked in nervously, not knowing what to expect.

The line to the front was really long. A variety of music was playing from the gym speakers, which I was told was Wyatt’s Spotify playlist. I don’t remember much of it now, but every time I hear “God’s Country” by Blake Shelton, it reminds me of that day.

While in this line, we noticed poster board collages of Wyatt, photo slides playing on TVs, and a wall of assorted flowers, donated by local businesses or community members. I had no idea how loved he was.

I cried throughout the entire wait. I was so embarrassed by that. It seemed like everyone else was staying calm, why couldn’t I? It almost felt wrong for me to cry, like I didn’t deserve to grieve or be sad. I didn’t know Wyatt like all these people did, and they were keeping it together.

When we got to the front, we were met with several members of Wyatt’s family. His mom, Stacy, was first. We didn’t exchange words; I knew it was too hard for either of us. Next was his dad, Mark, who softly said, “Thanks for coming,” as I nodded with my arms around him. I couldn’t reply with words, otherwise my voice would’ve cracked and made it more difficult to keep any shred of composure.

We mingled with other relatives we hadn’t seen in a while, trying to have semi-normal conversations. But it was very emotionally charged in that school. I hadn’t seen my dad choked up like that in a while. I don’t remember when we left, but I do remember it was a quiet ride home.

The funeral was the next day, also in Wyatt’s high school. I wore the same Green Bay Packers shirt, my eyes red and puffy. Me and my family all found seats in the middle, surrounded by sad strangers, all of us weeping quietly. It felt even more somber.

I don’t know how Wyatt’s family made it through. To this day I recall and admire how strong they were throughout the entire service, and through the conversations they had with everyone offering their sympathies. I couldn’t begin to imagine how it felt for them.

I remember that the weather for Wyatt’s burial was beautiful, which was really bittersweet. Throughout the burial, I occasionally glanced towards Wyatt’s family, each member sitting in a line by his casket. My heart broke for them, seeing them all so still and quiet. I noticed Stacy held a small stuffed lamb in the crook of her arm. I still wonder about the significance of that lamb.

The last thing I remember was the pastor speaking, sprinkling holy water on the casket. By then, everyone, me especially, was emotionally exhausted.

I rehearsed what I would say to my therapist several times. I thought I had it down, that I could get it across without my eyes watering. But as soon as I started talking, telling her what had happened, tears slipped out of my eyes. She definitely noticed, and said it was ok to let it go. But I didn’t want to, not in front of her. I felt like I’d already cried about it too much, and that I didn’t deserve to anymore.

It was exactly a month after my last day at work that I was on vacation, floating in the Aegean Sea. After the burial, someone had given me a bright orange wristband with Wyatt’s name, baseball number, and “Forever in our Hearts” etched on it. Through the salty water, I turned my wrist to read them all. I decided to swim out, farther from anyone else, and lie face up.

Though I don’t remember everything I thought about out there, I remember praying. I’m not particularly religious, but sometimes praying is the only thing I can think to do. I prayed for his family, that one day they find some sort of peace. I prayed for my own family, that we can learn to appreciate each other more. I prayed for him.

Whenever my dad and I go to the cemetery, I visit Wyatt’s grave. There’s never really anything to say. Instead, I stand there for a while, reflect, and read the simple statement on his stone: “Forever Loved & Remembered Always.”

Wyatt and I were not close. I can’t recall the last time we had even seen or talked to each other. But that’s what made it difficult. It’s always the relationships that could’ve been, the ones you never thought to make. It reminds me of a song, “Bigger Than The Whole Sky” by Taylor Swift, particularly the final chorus:

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

You were bigger than the whole sky

You were more than just a short time And I’ve got a lot to pine about I’ve got a lot to live without I’m never gonna meet What could’ve been, would’ve been What should’ve been you.

Summer Night Delights

Annie Barkalow

Digital Photography

Generations

Annie Barkalow

There is a black and white photograph of you, at age 10 with your father, holding your hand on a sidewalk.

“I was so fat,” you said, but all I saw were the dimples in your smile.

She’s been making up for it ever since, lean in the frame, lean in her intake and lean in her affection. God forgot the 11th commandment, “Thou shalt not be fat.”

Your daughter puts butter on her bagel followed by cream cheese. The flavored creamer is chased with straight sugar.

She has found you in the bowl of ice cream, the extra brownie, the 3xl sweatshirt that feels like a hug.

Emily Buckingham Também

He holds me like an ocean holds a boat. I am secure, safe. The ocean is its own being, but I trust it. He keeps me afloat.

Murmured vocab words, translations from English to Spanish to Portuguese.

I can feel the pride in his voice as I confidently answer o gato le um livro. It’s the same glee I hear when I answer eu também te amo.

Closer

Marianne Fanning

Digital Illustration

I Don’t Like Mirrors

Keira Carper

Made of glass and silver mirrors are honest and can only reflect that which is right before them my routines are centered around the presence of a mirror brush teeth untangle hair fix braces yet every time I look in a mirror I see a stranger until I pause and remember I’ve always looked something like the reflection

Avoiding mirrors doesn’t help only makes it harder to recognize myself when I finally catch a glimpse and realize time has kept moving while I shielded my eyes how long has it been? Is that me in there and did I always look so tired? How did I not notice until the changes piled up?

I wonder about the opposite scenario where I look in a mirror and recognize myself immediately only to realize it isn’t my reflection at all I catch your eyes everywhere shallow ponds glass windows water-stained mirrors I look away

Who are you, stranger? Surely it must be me in my reflection yet the more I look the more I’m sure that you look nothing like me

but you’re my reflection so we must be one in the same Are you me? Am I you? Was there ever a distinction between us?

The stories say that Narcissus fell in love with his reflection and drowned in a lake trying to chase the pretty boy he saw

Did he see himself in that lake? Or was he like me unable to reconcile his reflection and his body?

When other strangers look at us who do they see first? Me or you? Or perhaps we look the same to them

Dear stranger in the mirror I’m stuck with you as you are stuck with me do you get lonely in there? Do you wish I visited more? Maybe you don’t care at all and avoid mirrors as much as I do.

Whispers of the Wind

Michelline Igirimbabazi

In a dusty trail, he trod alone, from his home, a journey to the unknown, seeking life, dreams he had never known, endless road, his fate to be shown.

Thirsty heart, parched lips did moan, no friendly hand, no kindness shown, he counted coins, a note was blown, by cruel wind, into the river it is thrown.

But in his eyes, hope brightly shone, no matter how far the river has grown, “I’ll go back home,” he said with a tone, “With water in hand, I’ll claim what’s my own. ”

Through hardships faced, he stood like stone, each challenge met, his spirit had grown, he battled on, no tears were sown, in pursuit of dreams, his path was honed.

Though the river roared with a deafening groan, he would never give up, for he had fully known, with unwavering faith, he would find his own, no matter how far, his determination is shown.

In the town, his persistence was known, a hustler’s spirit, brightly it shone, through trials and tribulations overthrown, he returned with water; his victory sown.

So, remember this tale, when hope seems overthrown, the hustler’s journey, the strength he had shown, no matter how far, no matter how grown, with unwavering faith, your dreams can be known.

Sweet Girl

Kristina Glackin

She needed a hug. She needed comfort. She needed safety.

Why is she so hard to hug?

Convinced that she is undeserving. My arms are used to push her away when she needs to be embraced.

Why don’t I know how to comfort her? No one ever showed me how. So, I tell her to suck it up when she needs to be seen.

Why isn’t safety possible for her?

She has always been vulnerable and she has guarded herself when she needs to be shielded.

She needed to be loved. She needed to be protected. She needed to be a child.

I still need a hug.

Woman at Table

Grace Byers

Mixed Media Collage

Dědictví — Heritage

Catherine Kratoska

Jsem za rolník.

I am one of those who you looked down upon.

I am a peasant.

Low class, poor, ignorant, unworthy, Čech. Czech.

Z Čech na Morava, Bělá do Tábor do Obrataň do Praha. From Bohemia to Moravia, Bela to Tabor to Obratan to Praha.

Pavliček and Dostal, Kalina and Turek, Kratoška and Hrstka.

You tried to take our language away, you tried to take our culture away, As we were so far beneath your divine right.

Well, Habsburgs, Vy ztracený!

You lost!

You lost your Empire, you lost your dědic and his Čech manželka, you lost your heir and his Czech wife, and you lost peasants like me.

And America won ten němý Bohémský.

And The Great Melting Pot did

the dumb Bohemians

what you could not, and we willingly threw away our dědictví, and we willingly threw away our heritage our mateřský jazyk. our mother tongue. We assimilated.

Signed, Catherine Elizabeth Kratoska, not

Kateřina Alžběta Kratošková.

Making a Wish on Birthday Cake Candles

Jenna Welty

Two decades ago, I bloomed to life. Nine days before spring, four months after you. Memories flicker of concord and strife; Candlelight on cakes, blown wishes renew.

Eyes squished shut: I want to glow forever. Snip my stem, trim my taper, blow me out. Please, let us grow and blossom together. Smoke lingers, soot already brings in doubt.

One decade plus eight years and seven moons, Then my wick was lit, fire burned, wax melted. It cools when you’re gone, lonely afternoons. Tealights in tulips, glass body belted.

Yet, you are still here through blazes and trims. Wicks cut, wax set, flame kindles ‘til it dims.

Cake

Elizabeth Andreasen

Digital Photography

The Day My Mother Dies

Landen Freeman

The day my mother dies, I think I’ll probably die too. My life will not be ended by my own hand, nor will it be silenced by some unfortunate event of biology, nor by some tragic accident. No, it is far worse; it is her very death that will kill me. The day my mother dies, so will the elements of my humanity. What are we, if not the hopeful, joyous product of our predecessors? “We live in and as the products of our existence,” you say, but how can we live in something wrought by a lifeless life? Without hope and joy, what is left of me? Say I submit to the grieving pangs, then “move on” to discover other hopes and joys. I’d be dressing my corpse; even a splinter of hope or joy found in the absurd would reduce me to one of Theseus’ ships. Then again, my mother’s mother died over seven years ago. Is my mother already dead? I don’t believe so; her life lives in me, and I have not yet suffered the pain of her death dying in me. Perhaps then, there is neither life nor death. What is there then? I suppose this leaves me with love. Indeed, her love lives in me, and it will never die. I guess that means I can live forever. I should call my mom.

Read Like a Book

Keira Carper

Hello, come on in. Leave your name in the guestbook, if you please. Excuse me a moment, I have some shelving to do. These books are new arrivals, and I would like to arrange them properly before anything else.

Thank you for your patience. We don’t have many visitors who would go so far out of the way. Even those with a purpose rarely come by, to my dismay. If I may, what brought you here?

Ah, yes, now that you mention it, it is very cold outside. What awful weather. I don’t get out much, so I hadn’t noticed.

Yes, but I don’t find a need to leave. Such weather is perfect for staying inside with a book, in any case, and I have plenty to choose from.

It appears that your journey has taken a detour neither of us expected. I, for one, am glad to have met you on this day. Oh, but I’m rambling. Come, I’ll take your coat and suitcase. I’m sure you’re very tired.

Don’t worry, they will be in one of our guest rooms. I wouldn’t send you back into the cold like this, not without a proper rest first. Please, sit down. I’ll be right back.

Here you are. A warm drink should help. Hot chocolate, with a dash of cinnamon. Now, what brought you here?

Oh, it’s nothing like that. I may be the only person here most of the time, but I’m far from bored. You see, I’m a librarian, of sorts. I simply love collecting stories, and people are full of them.

Yes, every book you see in here is a story that belonged to someone else. Someone who came through those very doors, same as you. If you like, I can add yours as well.

Hmm? Oh, we really don't have many visitors, despite the large volume of books. They all once belonged to someone, yes, but many people have multiple

stories to tell. Plenty of people love telling stories that aren’t theirs to say, too. Very rarely do we receive a guest who only tells a single story.

Of course, there are also those who leave with nary a word of greeting. Sometimes I wonder what stories they were hiding, and I mourn that I never had a chance to ask. But, that’s life, I suppose.

Why do I say “we” if I’m the only one? Haha, it seems I still have that habit. There used to be more of us, you know, but they left to open their own branches.

I’m not too bothered. I never feel alone, not when I have all these stories. The guests that come through here may not be with us anymore, but they do leave pieces of themselves in my care.

Oh, feel free to look through them. But I do warn you, not all of them are pleasant. Such is life, after all. I’ll be right with you after I clean up.

Ah, so you were drawn to that one? I wonder how similar his tale is to yours. He also arrived in a snowstorm, like you, although he was fraught with tragedy. What else might you have in common?

Scared you, did I? I suppose not everyone is ready to confront their flaws. I won’t offer advice, but I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.

You wish to know about me? Hmm, where to begin…

I run this library, and collect the stories that guests leave behind. They are not merely stories, though. Many guests have graciously shared the memories of places and people they loved. When I read, I love them back.

Do not speak as if you know. Until you have read every story here, as I have, you will remain ignorant.

Do you truly believe yourself superior? You, who visited these places and met these people, yet could tell me nothing of either. You, who knows only your own story, and who could never see the beauty in the life of another.

I daresay I have received the better deal, as I can remain here and still see the world through the eyes of everyone.

Well, apology accepted. Do keep in mind to not disrespect my library further. Now, back to the original topic. Would you like a book to read during your stay?

You want to tell me your story? Oh, and to think I was prepared to badger you all night! What a wonderful turn of events. Ahem, very well. If your mind is set, let us commence.

I see, what a storied past for one person to have experienced. These memories are painful, aren’t they? I’ve been rude, bringing up old topics.

No, I really should apologize. I asked purely to satiate my curiosity, and I didn’t stop to think of how you would feel to relive those moments.

If you like, I can hold those memories here. Sharing them may help with the pain.

I know, it's a tough decision, but I promise to care for them well. I’ll even place them away from the reach of the public, if you would rather they remain private.

I do this to help, not for profit. Surely, knowing that will ease your worries?

Good. Are you ready?

Now, stay still for a moment…

Ahhh, I live for this part! Ahaha, what a lovely story you turned out to be! The binding is exquisite, and the cover is beautiful. Somber, as expected, yet filled with so much depth. If only the inside wasn’t so ugly, but you were used to hiding that, weren’t you?

Hmm, I won’t be hearing from you anymore, will I? Everything that you were is now in my hands! I don’t know why everyone is so eager to escape from themselves, but it works out in my favor.

Oh, but it was nice to hear the voice of another, after so long. Perhaps the next guest will arrive sooner.

Heehee, but you’re going into the private collection. I do respect the last

wishes of every guest, as a point of pride! They can’t complain if I gave them exactly what they asked for, now can they?

Hmm, but the most pressing issue is…

You, dear reader. I can see that you also enjoy a good story, much like myself. Come by sometime, will you? I promise to save you a spot.

Jordan Smith

Thinking of You

Digital Photography

Life Rules

Kristina Glackin

Who says that single pieces of cereal don’t deserve their own spoonful of milk?

Who says that we aren’t allowed to slide across the wood floor in our socks?

Who says that you can’t use a random accent that you’re terrible at whenever you want?

Who says that there are rules when it comes to experimenting in the kitchen?

Who says that getting older and growing up are interchangeable?

Who says that you’re not allowed to sit on the arm of YOUR couch?

Who says that just because it hasn’t happened yet that it will never happen?

Who says that the measure of beauty you were given isn’t enough to someone?

Who says that the thighs that bear your weight each day aren’t allowed to touch?

Who says that who you are is less than the rest of the 8 billion people on earth?

Who says that you deserved the things that were done to you?

Who said that you are supposed to be like everyone else?

Who said that you were born to just live and die?

Who said that you were not created for a purpose?

Who said that what you offer is meaningless?

Who said that you’re not ______ enough?

Silence the one who said it.

Close your mouth. You lied.

Emily Buckingham Green Tile

The tile is cold. I have never been so aware, and yet so unaware of my surroundings.

I feel every groove, every crack, every bump in the wall that my back is pressed to. And yet, I am numb. I am there, and not there all at the same time.

Really, I am in a very different bathroom. The tile is not beige, but mint green. The same bathmat is on the floor, The same towel hung on the wall, The same shampoo rests in the shower caddy. But it is not the same.

In that bathroom, I am not alone. There is a man, drying himself with a towel, casually asking me what’s wrong. Even now I am shocked he didn’t know.

It was a pair of hands that sent me to that bathroom. Strong hands. Violent hands. Hands meant to scare me. Hands meant to make me jump and laugh at the surprise. I’m sure I surprised her when I screamed, instead.

The beige tile cradles me as I sit, pressed into a corner. In this bathroom I am alone. In this bathroom I am safe.

In this bathroom, There is no one who can hurt me.

Outside is safe, too. That is what I tell myself. Outside there are friends, worried friends.

Friends who didn’t mean to scare me. Friends who want me to feel safe.

My legs refuse the call. I stay in the corner, my unyielding limbs pressed to my chest. I stare at the beige tile across the bathroom. My eyes see where it meets the yellow plaster to form the wall. My eyes say this is a different bathroom.

My brain does not listen. I only see green.

Jenna Welty Isostatic Rebound

Glaciers weigh so much they can cause a vast indentation of the earth’s crust into the asthenosphere. This imprint carries the weight of ice, sediment, and all my anxieties:

that upcoming exam, 300 unread pages, 20,623 unread words, unfolded laundry, incompetent coworkers, passive aggressive emails, the sandwich I couldn’t fit in my lunch container, hair that won’t cooperate, eyes that can’t focus, empty stomachs, clothes that don’t fit right, bad news, global warming (literally), more bad news, the latest school shooting, gun violence after gun violence after gun violence, transphobic legislation, Palestinian genocide, lack of human civility, human appreciation, human respect, human decency, keys between fingers, zip ties on car handles, lockdown drills, untelevised protests, censorship, book banning, truth banning, identity banning, expression banning, history rewritten, history “toned down,” history deceiving, lives erased, discrimination silenced, voices suppressed,,,

…

weighing down the crust of humanity, closer than ever to the core; the melting-point.

And glaciers melt and move and retreat, releasing the immense weight causing the depression, the land begins to rise. The earth’s crust rebounds, equilibrium in the mantle’s flow and all my assurances:

if the earth can bounce back after millions of tons pressing down upon it, I hope that maybe, so can we.

Contributors

Elizabeth Andreasen is a Graphic Design major from Marion, Iowa, who loves creating art through photography, illustration, and crochet.

Annie Barkalow graduated in 2023 with a major in Communications and a minor in Creative Writing. She is a selfproclaimed news junkie, coffee aficionado and poetry lover.

Clare Bechen is a junior Outdoor Conservation major with a Creative Writing minor. She enjoys watching episodes of Classics Explained, listening to Le Mystère Des Voix Bulgares (Bulgarian folk music), or keeping her curiosity about the world up to par by watching videos from the YouTube channels Vox, Great Big Story, Beyond Wildlife & PBS Terra.

Emily Buckingham is a sophomore Biochemistry major from Pella, Iowa. Emily is planning on attending P.A. school to become a physician's assistant and work in emergency medicine. She sings in the University Choir and is a member of the Honors Program. Emily enjoys writing as a way to express her emotions and take a break from studying Organic Chemistry.

Grace Byers graduated in December with a Bachelor of Arts in Graphic Design and minors in Spanish and Marketing. Grace was involved with Women's Soccer, Art Club, and was the former editor for the Paha Review. In her free time, she enjoys being in nature, sipping on boba tea, and creating. Grace is so excited for her next adventure to come. Check out her work @gracebyers.

designs

Ben Campbell is a senior majoring in Criminal Justice. Ben played baseball his first two years at Mount Mercy but decided to stop playing due to work conflicts. Ben is a firefighter/EMT and plans to become a full-time firefighter upon graduation. Ben is from North Liberty, Iowa. Ben enjoys spending time with his family and friends when he isn’t working or doing schoolwork. Ben has a strong passion for public safety, and that is where this poem originated from. Ben is honored to be a part of this Paha Review.

Keira Carper is a sophomore English major and Creative Writing minor. She is involved in the Mount Mercy Concert Band, Begging for Mercy Improv, and Alliance Club. Her hobbies include rhythm games and writing fiction.

Marianne Fanning is a Graphic Design major. She is involved in the University Choir, Show Choir, Crochet Club, and most recently Paha. In her free time, she enjoys watching movies while crocheting and making digital art on Photoshop and/or Illustrator.

Nicson Franck is a junior Psychology major.

Landen Freeman is a first-year student who loves Project Connect, poetry, and physics.

Amelia Frimml is an aspiring middle school special education teacher, as well as the current Student Government Association president. She is also a part of the inaugural Women's Lacrosse team along with other various activities throughout campus.

Vanessa Gaul is a junior Nursing student involved in MMUANS, NOVA, and other clubs. She is passionate about creating positive change in health care by presenting ideas at state and national nursing conventions annually. If you're interested in attending such conventions too, email her.

Kristina Glackin is a junior majoring in Secondary Education and English with a minor in Creative Writing. She is the president and co-founder of Commuter Club and an editor for Paha. Kristina is a non-traditional, first-generation college student and single mother to two full-of-life kiddos. Her passion spans from raising awareness of human trafficking byway of her testimony to playing (and winning) board games. Kristina's dream job would be traveling the world as a food critic, but teaching future generations is a close second.

Michelline Igirimbabazi is originally from Rwanda in East Africa and now lives in Fairfax, Iowa. She has a passion for health care and is completing her bachelor’s in Nursing. Michelline got the inspiration for her poem from her brother Elysee who pursued literature. She also writes as a hobby, and her goals are to work in the medical field and help young

generations who want to develop their talents in writing and arts.

Catherine Kratoska is a senior English major from Chelsea, Iowa. Along with working on the Paha Review, she is the treasurer for MMU’s LGBTQ+ Alliance and secretary for Commuter Club. When she isn’t reading, writing, or playing video games, Catherine is helping her dad maintain the family cattle farm.

Andrew Lorig obtained his B.S. in Chemistry and graduated Summa Cum Laude from Mount Mercy University in the spring of 2024 after attending Pearl City High School in Pearl City, Illinois. While on The Hill, Andrew performed in Begging for Mercy Improv, tutored for chemistry and writing, and competed on the Men’s Track and Field Team. Currently, Andrew is researching organometallic chemistry while attending The Ohio State University as a graduate student.

Andrew McMenomy is a junior majoring in Finance, Business Management, and Human Resources Management. He’s heavily involved on campus, positioned as a Mustang Peer mentor, member of the university's show choir, improv troup, and Gen 1 Club. In his free time, he enjoys cooking, watching movies, and writing.

Pigeon is a senior Marketing student who dabbles in all things creative. You can often find her doodling during lectures, collecting bits of yarn to make blankets, or insistently pecking at a keyboard to write stories. This is Pigeon’s third year in Paha. You can find more art at @rad_pigeon on Instagram.

Autumn Puffer is a senior from Tipton, Iowa, finishing her last semester as a Criminal Justice and Political Science double major. She would like to dedicate her submission to Wyatt, his parents, and his sister, who graciously gave her permission for it to be published.

Brandon Reagan is a senior majoring in Computer Science. The necklace he created on page 28 won first place in the 2024 Summer Student Art Show.

Jordan Smith is a young up-and-coming photographer who has a passion for invoking emotions through his photos. He has a

great eye for the small details and what makes a good photo.

Liz Solorio is a senior Graphic Design major with a Marketing minor. She is involved in the Art Club, recently joined PAHA fall semester 2023, and was also part of MA2P Board for a year. She is fluent in Spanish and familiar with Korean. During her free time, she enjoys learning languages, doing digital art and exploring new and creative activities.

Taylor Wells is a sophomore in school majoring in Secondary Education and English. Her hometown is Ogden, Illinois. She is part of the Women’s Basketball Team and the secretary of the Bandana Project. Taylor’s favorite color is purple, where she got the inspiration for writing her poem!

Jenna Welty is a junior English major with minors in Creative Writing and Sociology. She commutes from Atkins, Iowa, and is the vice president of Commuter Club. Among this and her work on Paha, Jenna is the campus editor for the Mount Mercy Times and the marketing coordinator for the Bandana Project. She also plays the French horn in the University Band. When she’s not on campus, Jenna enjoys sewing, organizing her Pinterest boards, and shopping for fun clothes. She is also published in the literary magazine Same Faces Collective.

The Paha Review seeks creative writing and art from ALL Mount Mercy undergrads.

Email your work to Paha@mtmercy.edu. Please include a third-person bio.

Listen to the audiobook and see past editions of Paha at www.mtmercy.edu/campus-life/activities/paha-review

Paha was composed in 10 point Georgia, with titles and names in 30 and 16 point New Spirit, and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text. 80 lb Flo Gloss Cover. The printer was Welu Printing Company.