Paha Review by Mount Mercy University

Paha Review Writing and Art from the Hill Mount Mercy University Cedar Rapids, Iowa

2019

The paha comes from Dakota Sioux dialect Theterm term paha comes from Dakota Siouxmeaning dialect “hill” or “ridge,” and it was applied in 1891 by W.J. meaning “hill” or “ridge,” andfirst it was first applied in 1891 by McGee to the special hillhill forms in in this W.J. McGee to the special forms thisregion regionof of Iowa… Iowa… Their Their distribution distribution and and alignment alignment parallel parallel to to (and (and very very often often near) near) river river valleys valleys strongly strongly suggest suggest that that paha paha are are actually actually wind-aligned wind-aligned dunes dunes that that accumulated accumulated in in response response to to the the strong, strong, prevailing prevailing northwest northwest winds winds that that were were scouring scouring the the Iowan Iowan surface surface during during this this period period of of glacial glacial cold. cold. Jean Jean C. C. Prior Prior Land Land Forms Forms of of Iowa Iowa We We need need to to recover recover the the ancient ancient sense sense of of homeland homeland as as an an area area defined defined not not by by armies armies and and flags…but flags…but by by nature nature and and geography geography and and by by the the history history of of human human dwelling dwelling there, there, aa habitat habitat shared shared by by other other creatures, creatures, known known intimately, intimately, carried carried in in the the mind mind as as aa living living presence. presence. Scott Scott Russell Russell Sanders Sanders Mount Mount Mercy Mercy University University is is built built on on one one of of the the many many paha paha in in Iowa, Iowa, most most clustered clustered near near or or southeast southeast of of Cedar Cedar Rapids. Rapids.

Paha was composed in 11 point Iowan Old Style and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text. 80 lb Flo Gloss Cover.

The printer was Welu Printing Company.

Editors Savannah Oler Jessica Purgett Chuck Uthe Haley Weideman Art Editors Dylan Catalano-Wild Cassandra Neff Copy Editors Joshua Jurgensmeier Jessica Purgett Jada Veasey Haley Weideman Doriann Whitlock Photographers Chelsie Mangold Cassandra Keys Matthew Trueblood Rob Brown Dylan Catalano-Wild Cassandra Neff Cover Art Emily Hill Cover Design Dylan Catalano-Wild Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Carol Tyx

Writing Selection Committee Todd Bender Orlando Clark Sierra Earle Joshua Jurgensmeier Savannah Oler Jessica Purgett Amber Salow Matthew Trueblood Chuck Uthe Jada Veasey Haley Weideman Doriann Whitlock Art Selection Committee Dylan Catalano-Wild Cassandra Neff Special Thanks Chris DeVault Kathryn Hagy Joseph Hendryx Carol Tyx

Special thanks to Carol Tyx, who has been with Mount Mercy University for 19 years. She will be retiring after this year.

Contents Old Flames

Ally Killean

Written in Red

Margaret Nollen

Untitled

Chelsie Mangold

For Joey

Todd Bender

Not Forgotten

Doriann Whitlock

Results

Molly Hahn

One for All

Chuck Uthe

Untitled

Cassandra Keys

Polaroids

Elizabeth Miene

Statue

Joshua Jurgensmeier

Fractured Reflections

Chuck Uthe

Voices from the Shadow

Veronica Jons

Untitled

Matthew Trueblood

Ashley Sally

My Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eyes

Matthew Trueblood

Wat Pho

Rob Brown

How to Buy a Mental Illness

Bailey Rickels

Malcolm

Joseph Kehinde

The Night a Small Made a Molly Hahn Big

40 44

The River Runs

Matthew Trueblood

White-Tailed Deer

Chelsie Mangold

For Pop

Todd Bender

My Relationship with the Bailey Rickels Bathroom Scale

An Apology

Tyus Thompson

August Times

Joshua Jurgensmeier

Late Night Thoughts

Chuck Uthe

Siem Reap, Cambodia

Rob Brown

War

Orlando Clark

Blackout

Tyus Thompson

How do you Destroy a Monster

Jessica Purgett

Emotions of the Hand

Dylan Catalano-Wild

Living the Dream

Amber Salow

50 Things I Have Learned Todd Bender in My First 50 Years on the Planet

65 66 68

When I Catch My Reflection Sierra Earle

Mekong Delta Vietnam

Rob Brown

New York Be-At

Orlando Clark

Escape

Chuck Uthe

She-

Anonymous

Car Crash

Joseph Kehinde

Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum

Rob Brown

Nicole-Faye

Ashley Sally

When You Look At Me

Doriann Whitlock

Untitled

Cassandra Neff

Priceless

Ashley Sally

December

Amber Salow

Old Flames Ally Killean

How old flames flicker and dance like an ember once thought cooled. Until it pops and sizzles and soars in unexpected places. Kindle recognizes the familiar and sparks with the slightest breeze. The desert beckons. Scenes of seventeen consume and burn. The fire dances wildly in my helpless plight. Coals and passions cool and harden. Leaving dust where fervor died. And in its ashes self-renews.

Written in Red Margaret Nollen

I’m in quite deep, awake in bed. There’s a bounty placed on my head. It is a shock to see the wrongs you’ve done. You think you’re the victor, but no one has won. You regret everything you said, from your ledger written in red. My body’s heavy like concrete, with weights shackled around my feet. You have been trapped inside of a whirling flood. Then you see the water is really blood. The voices wailing in your head, from your ledger written in red. There is pain pounding in my chest, if it won’t stop, I’ll never rest. Your conscience begins to slowly break your mind, for your long list of crimes against all mankind. But if you use the time ahead, your ledger will lose all its red.

11 11

Chelsie Mangold Untitled Colored Pencil on Paper Chelsie Mangold Untitled Colored Pencil on Paper

For Joey

Todd Bender

I’m sorry I am not what you need, I thought quietly to myself as you angrily threw clothes into a suitcase. Both of our voices raised in anger for the last several days; rehashing every terrible thing we had done to each other over the last several years. The loudness of that anger refused to let the quiet thought in my brain through…I’m sorry I am not what you need. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed, I said to you, as we shared a bottle of wine. Years pass, anger fades and warm memories once again are allowed to resurface. We were too young, maybe, to realize then what it was that would have made us happy. We were too proud, maybe, to have given a voice to those doubts and fears of the future. I’m sorry I am not what you need, I once again thought quietly to myself, annoyed by the lateness of your call. The desperation in your voice and the manic way you spoke awoke a realization in my mind, that an addiction had begun to take control of yours. The realization brought with it unwelcome feelings of sadness; even helplessness. I had run out of things to say; of suggestions and ways to help you. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed, I whispered softly to you, tears streaming down my face, standing beside your coffin. Bitter feelings of guilt fill me full of longing. Longing for time to reverse itself. Longing for the knowledge that would have helped me save you from yourself. Desperately wishing I could have just once said, I am what you need.

Not Forgotten

Doriann Whitlock

I wake in the morning and slowly, creep out of bed to tip-toe past you I go into the bathroom, you are already there waiting for me Walking into the kitchen to get some ice, you follow close on my heels, and wait for your chunk We make our way back to my room where you look at me with a sense of longing I grab your bed and bring it into the living room where you wait for me to cover you up You give me a smile and love shines in your eyes But then it is time for me to leave I say I love you as I rush out the door to places where you cannot follow And there you wait all day only to jump up and greet me at the door like I was gone for months instead of hours After we establish that I will never leave you, I walk into the bathroom to get ready for bed I grab your bed and we walk into the bedroom where once again, you demand that I cover you up I fall asleep to the sound of your old man snore, all I can do is smile as I slip off to dream

I wake in the morning, ready to tip-toe past you, only to freeze With a tear rolling down my cheek, I grab my chest and try to remember how to breathe All of these memories drown me as I recall all the things we used to do How could I forget that you are no longer here? That when I call for you, you no longer greet me? Your autumn smell ceases to flow through the house That you wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t trip me around the house, following too close underfoot I forget that you wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ask for popcorn or ice cubes again I forget that I have to go to bed all alone, without the sound of you sleeping beside me The pain of losing you overwhelms me I will never forget how you could comfort me in an instant when I was upset Or how we could talk about anything without judgment I will never forget how much I need you still I will never forget how much I still need to talk to you Carmel, I love and miss you so much The one thing I will never forget, is the love you gave me.

Results

Molly Hahn

Figure 1. A female barely 21 years of age, of average height (5’4) and with feet a little abnormally long for her height demographic. Curly hair that can be traced back for several generations on both maternal and parental lineages. Blue eyes with specks of brown and green and some other “shit-looking color” (as quoted by the subject), an almost perfect mix between the maternal and paternal’s own eyes. Hands are slightly larger than to be expected for a female of this size, the fingers are neither long nor short, nor are they unusually fat or skinny. Thin, almost invisible scars blot the skin of the back of the hands, from “frustrated pets and stupid accidents because I can’t not be stupid” (as quoted by the subject). A small bony bump sits on the dorsal side of the left foot from an accident about ten years ago when the subject shifted a growth plate. The female does not have bangs after learning the hard way “how fat they made [her] face look in third grade” (again, another direct quote). Table 1. The subject’s desk is covered in a dizzying amount of loose papers, books, Chegg boxes, brushes, chapstick, and snacks ranging from generic brand Girl Scout cookies to root beer candies. There is a rock the female received from a roommate when the roommate was in Colorado. When asked why the subject chose to leave this dirty piece of hardened earth on their desk, the subject simply shrugged and said, quote, “What else do I do with a rock from Colorado?” The books include creative writing books, a GRE Premium study tool that the subject spent way too much money on to not use, a physics book that looks less and less intimidating as the weeks get closer to May 15th,

and a leftover immunology textbook from a J-term that lasted, by the female’s approximation, exactly three seconds. Figure 2. The subject’s Google Photos account is filled with obnoxious Snapchat screenshots of the same three individuals, almost exclusively. There are selfies with another female who looks extraordinarily like the subject herself. (Note: this observation was brought up to the subject who subsequently rolled her eyes and said, “We’re not twins, okay? I mean, sure, sometimes we still pull that prank on strangers, but no. We don’t even look that similar!”) There is a photo album titled “Frank, Bobo, and Rex,” which features over 200 photos of the same three felines at various stages of their lives. There is also a collection of stills from films that the subject appears to have screenshot for absolutely no reason except to stare at them before sighing and saying, quote, “God I love [insert director of appropriate film].” Figure 3. The subject’s Spotify is full of strange curiosities. Despite aggressively telling the researchers that, quote, “[She] only listen[s] to indie and alternative rock,” there appears to be a lot of Carly Rae Jepsen and Whitney Houston. The subject blushed especially hard when asked about the amount of Jonas Brothers and Jesse McCartney songs in her library. The female did, however, make a stand when asked about her abundance of Cardi B and Childish Gambino tracks. The researchers didn’t even bother asking about the 229-song playlist of 1980s pop ballads. Table 2. When pressed about her relationships with family members, the subject brusquely pointed the researchers to writings titled “Maybe This is the Best Version of Us, Mom” and “The Night a Little Became a Big.” The researchers gathered the appropriate information from those pieces and decided against trying to pry more about

the subject’s relationship with her mother and sister. The researchers asked about the relationship between the female and her father. The subject shrugged and said, “Let’s move on.” Table 3. When asked what kind of movies the subject enjoys, the researchers received an eager list of titles. (Note: the researchers did not expect this many titles. They simply asked for a top five.) The list included titles such as Inception, Mad Max: Fury Road, The Emperor’s New Groove (this appears to be an outlier), The Social Network, Lady Bird, Room, and Fargo. The researchers were too frightened to ask about the subject’s favorite TV shows for fear of never finishing the research. Table 4. The subject’s closet is full of muted colors ranging from black to dark gray to gray to dark blue to slightly less dark blue. The subject herself is currently wearing a black shirt from a trip to Florida and a pair of black and gray leggings. All of the subject’s shoes are black. Surprisingly, the subject does not own any dark-colored socks and instead wears neon-colored socks. When asked about this particular fashion pattern, the subject glanced at her lavender sock-covered feet before saying, “[She] got them from [her] mom at Christmas last year.” Figure 4. An overall graph of the female’s mental well-being. As seen in the figure, there appear to be dips and bends throughout the almost-but-not-quite-21-year-old’s life. The subject assured the researchers that the dips were nothing and to move along. This concludes the data obtained from the subject during the data collection time frame. Further analysis and conclusions will be made shortly.

One For All Chuck Uthe

This, This is the fight that we must fight: Even when the sky is black as night, Even when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve hit rock bottom, We must triumph. This, This is the reason we keep fighting: To protect those who cannot, To protect those who refuse. We must triumph. This, This is the reason we cannot quit: Defeat is not a concept we know of, Defeat is not a concept we can accept. We must triumph. No matter how hard the problem may be, No matter how hard you fall, Pull yourself back up. Because there is always someone helping you, Pushing you, Looking up to you. There is always a reason to fight.

Cassandra Keys Untitled Colored Acrylic on Canvas

Cassandra Keys Untitled Colored Acrylic on Canv

Polaroids

Elizabeth Miene 1960 something, you risked your life for a year and a half, watching life turn to death, waiting to find out if yours would be spared. You survived the war, but your exposure to Agent Orange was your eventual killer. We have old Polaroids of you at base. You were grinning in some, but I remember one in particular. You’re writing a letter, a long one. We still have all of the letters you’d received while overseas, ones from your family and friends. There are hundreds of them, stacks upon stacks. A majority of them were from your wife. You kept them wrapped in brown paper with red tape. You kept them safe. She wrote you almost every day, and you saved them all, even the one that said “Wife, May 23rd, boy” when you found out you were a father, and you kept that letter on your person. Nearly 60 years later and we still can’t seem to open those letters from Grandma to you. The love shared between you two, I couldn’t interfere. They are for you and you alone. Nearly 60 years later, that love is just as strong, streaming from heaven to earth.

Statue

Joshua Jurgensmeier I saw a woman in the woods today lit pale by the shade her hair didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cast toppled in a smattering on the Earth bark cleaved from her trunk in sheaves where her shadows were want to be. Stretching up she wound imperceptibly around the dun-rayed sky limbs heaped haphazardly heavenward enveloped by a restless halo of green an umbral undulation on her freckled Ivory. None of hers. All the world to dance a restless waltz of wind. No rings inched to either side. The rot got in the middle it showed at the base inched up through the heartwood cascading her high walls as it went cleaved off in sheaves a smattering on the ground a lifeless marrow through her tortured bones. Her sisters stacked neat to left mother the dirt beneath my way nothing left they say nothing left.

Fractured Reflections Chuck Uthe

Blue eyes Thick thighs Pale skin Always thinking we must be thin. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re only trying to fit in Blinded by everyone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sin Carefully placed within These societal molds That we fold Into the different lives that we now hold In hopes of a new day Where it matters what we say. For now, we live with the societal suppression Of our own lifelong depression.

Voices From the Shadow Veronica Jons

Insatiable: A mental illness of such a severe nature that a person cannot distinguish fantasy from reality or is unable to control impulsive behavior. I need her. I want her. She’s perfect, but when will I get her? questioned Michael to the voice in his head. “Tsk, tsk, just wait my friend. You’ll get her soon. Very, very soon. Patience is key, remember, you’re not just any person… You’re insatiable,” the voice answered back. No one knew when the switch happened. Maybe he was born like this. Perhaps it happened when Michael fell off the roof of the house at the age of 10. Either way, there isn’t a way to get “him” out of Michael’s mind; it’s a part of him now. As a child, he would always tell his parents that he had an imaginary friend. However, his parents were concerned that this wasn’t normal for a kid to have an imaginary friend past six-years-old. One day, Michael’s mother got a phone call stating Michael had locked himself in a locker after beating up a kid because his “friend” told him to. That’s when his parents knew something just wasn’t quite right. Soon, peers were terrified to be around him. As they got older, they called him crazy. The “friend” never left, as he understood it was in his mind, which was obviously not normal. The conversations occured subconsciously. Though his parents tried to help him, it was irremediable. He always tries to be a good boy, but when the

voice becomes in control, being good never happens. “Oh yes, I won’t let you be good.” Shut up! Why can’t I get you out of my head? Get out of my head! As Michael looks up from the sidewalk, connecting to the local library, he sees her. Yes, there she is, beautiful Sharla. Did you know that she spends an hour and a half studying? Of course, you don’t, no one watches her like Michael does. He used to record all his watchings, but the voice knew that if he were to get caught, the journal would be a dead giveaway. Michael never noticed anyone watching her like he does at least, but one can’t be too sure. “Or do they? What if someone else watches our dear Sharla?” NO! I won’t let them. She’s mine! All mine! I’ll.. I’ll… Kill them, like I did Bryan. “Calm, there is time for that later.” Every Tuesday and Friday at 9:00 a.m. she goes into that library and sits in the corner in front of a computer and studies an online class through a local college. He’d give anything to talk to her. He can’t help but look around before entering the library, nerves. Nerves always get to him, anytime he plans something the jitters always follow. Pulling open the door, he observes his surroundings. Better to be vigilant than to be reckless. As he takes his place at the computer in front of hers, he inhales deeply. Michael’s senses are very keen, he’s always been driven to being the best he can be. Ahh! Roses, maybe a hint of roasted vanilla. How intoxicating.

“Don’t be a fool you idiot, don’t be so loud you’ll draw attention to yourself!” I have to see her, it’s so hard not to. My eyes crave her angelic features, she’s perfect. He can’t help but tap his fingers on the table; it helps to keep from running his fingers through her wavy, chestnut brown hair. I want to touch it, I want to touch it! “You haven’t even talked to her yet. It’s been a month.” Shut up, you don’t know what it’s like! As Michael stands up, his palms get sweaty. This is it. Today, right now, will be the day he finally talks to her. “Come on do it! See what happens. Go on, say something, anything!” “Hi, I’m Michael.” “Hello… I’m Sharla.” She quickly looks back to her computer, this I’m sure will anger Michael. Sure enough, he can feel the heat rush to his face, as he involuntarily scrunches his forward in angry confusion. Why did she disregard me like that?! “She’s going to be a tough one to get a hold of,” said the voice trying to slightly antagonize Michael a bit farther. “I know,” Michael said aloud without realizing it. He then looks at her with terror as she abruptly looks up from her notebook to stare at Michael. Unfortunately, no matter what Michael could say, nothing would put her at ease.

“What are you waiting for?! Fix it, you idiot! You’ll lose your chance.” “I noticed it was on your notebook over there. Sorry if I bothered you. I happened to notice you, but I’ve never seen you around town much. Do you live near here?” Michael is quick to rethink his mistakes; he’s learned well over the years. “Oh smooth, you may have made this easier.” “I actually moved on the West side about two months ago,” she said hesitantly, faking a smile. “Smart. Now you can finally get her.” A rush of adrenaline started to pump through his body. She likes me! She smiled that model-like smile; Oh she likes me as I do her! Finally, my plan will come into action soon. “Yes, soon.” Michael can’t help but smile as he sits back down at the computer. He then uses the Yellow Pages Google search and instantly finds her. Being a computer whiz comes in handy, 2436 Walnut Lane. He finally knew enough to get what he wanted. What he needs. His obsession. I’m so smart and she’s so perfect. Her skin looks so smooth and soft, I can’t wait to feel it beneath my fingers. Oh, and those eyes are so vibrant blue, with such long, feathery eyelashes. “You’ll make those same eyes cry when you brilliantly take her away to be yours. Oh just imagine Michael. The terror on in her eyes, the tears rolling down her soft skin. Listen to her angelic voice screaming bloody murder. It will be beautiful.”

No, no I don’t want to hurt her, please… “You will because I say you will.” The voice in his head makes Michael violent. If it wasn’t for the voice, he would be a nice and normal person to others. Just like every Tuesday and Friday after an hour and a half of studying, she gets up, gathers her things, and leaves to the coffee shop across the street. Michael waits seven minutes before leaving to go to the coffee shop that we all know she’ll be at before work. Zipping up his jacket, he looks around. It’s become quite cold, just like how it was when Bryan made his big mistake. I miss Bryan, maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely if I hadn’t… “Foolish bastard. You know he deserved it. He was going behind your back. He was trying to steal your girl. He would’ve ruined everything.” You’re right, I don’t miss Bryan, he doesn’t deserve to be alive! “Yes, I know best, you’d be nothing without me.” At the coffee shop, Michael already knows that she is going to order a caramel mocha latte with a dash of cinnamon, hot but with a small ice cube to allow it to not burn her tongue. “Mmm, imagine that tongue saying sweet whispers to you. How nice would that be Michael?” Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Why don’t you go away?! This time, there was a new barista; he didn’t put an ice cube in her drink. Michael wonders why he would do that?! She’s going to burn her tongue! Once she leaves the shop,

he storms up to the barista. Rage bubbling up inside, he grabs the man by his collar. The sudden movement causes the voice to speak to him. “Don’t hurt him, Michael, not in public. Never in public, too risky.” But, but, he’s going to hurt her. He forgot the ice cube, the barista always uses an ice cube! “This time we will let him off the hook, but next time he’ll pay. How does that sound, Michael?” Only because you said so… He hesitantly lets the barista go. “If you ever forget the ice cube again, I’ll. Kill. You. You’re lucky pal, real lucky.” The barista brushes himself off. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, and if I see you here again, I’ll be forced to call the police.” I have to run. Don’t I? “No, calmly exit the shop, Michael.” No, I have to hurry! The cops are out. “No, it will draw attention.” Sometimes, Michael wishes he would leave his mind. He just wants to be normal. After he leaves the coffee shop, he walks straight home. He plans carefully, otherwise he’ll ruin it all. He doesn’t want the voice in his head to be mad at him. He says mean things when he is mad at Michael. Michael grabs the duct tape, gloves, leash, and the gun. Last time he almost forgot the gun. “He” was very happy with Michael now. “Now Michael, we must review what you’re going to do. You mustn’t forget.” I know, you promise it will all go according to plan?

“Yes, of course. When have I ever ruined a plan? It’s always been you.” Michael opens the rusty door of his trusty 1998 Nissan, which was a “gift” from Bryan. The squeaking noise of his car door makes Michael jump. He nervously brushes sweat off his brow and climbs into his car. It reminds him of the sound of Officer Mike Hamilton’s house door, the night that Michael broke in to steal the remaining evidence of what he had done to Bryan. The dark memories make Michael shiver. The whole drive he reviews the plans for tonight. He hopes it will be brilliant. She’ll probably just be getting home from work, it is only 6:30. He decides to wait a bit longer to play it safe... He pulls up to the curb three houses down from her house. It’s lit up, but he waits until 7:00. “It’s time Michael. Don’t mess this up, or we will be on the chase again from the cops.” *Gulp* Yes, I’ll do my best. “You’ll do better than your best, you blubbering idiot!” The palms of his hands were covered in sweat and Michael frantically wiped them on his pants. Those pants were going to be as wet as a towel after a shower by the time the deed was accomplished. Poor Michael, his stomach wouldn’t stop doing somersaults from all the nerves, either. As he slowly walks up to the house, he does a mental check of the supplies. Gun in his side holster under his jacket, check. Rustling through his small bag he has duct tape, leash, and gloves. Getting the gloves adjusted on his hands, he is ready to go. “Stay calm Michael, just like the plan.” Easier said than done. Just then, he notices her through the open window, she’s

not alone… “Ahh, we have a problem Michael,” said the instigating voice. Who is he?! What is he doing holding her hand across the table like that?! DID SHE COOK HIM DINNER?! WHO IS HE?! “Now, now Michael. Control, we will figure out a way to get her… One way or another.” I hate him. I hate her. She’s not my perfect angel anymore! How could she do this to me?! Michael exclaimed back to the voice, fighting to keep control. “Now, it’s not her fau- Actually, yes Michael, how could she do that? She deserves to die, Michael. Both of them. A slow, painful death. Are you ready?” I... No... No... We can’t kill her, not her! “Yes Michael, she needs to be taught a lesson.” How about we kill him, then take her like we planned? Please? “Sure, however, when the time comes we will kill her regardless. When I say and how I say. You can have your fun, but then I’ll have mine.” The crunching of leaves come from under Michael’s treadfree shoes. Instead of feeling cold from the autumn night, he feels warm with the hot anger surging through his veins. I’m going to kill him and make her miserable. He makes it to the door, blowing out a breath he had been holding. He finally knocks twice, then waits. If she doesn’t answer in 30 seconds, he’ll knock more aggressively until she answers the door. Luckily, she answers after a few seconds.

Oh, my sweet Sharla, why did you have to betray me like that? You were so perfect, you just had to ruin it didn’t you? How selfish… “Focus! The plan, follow through with the plan!” She asks slightly confused,” Michael..?” “Oh hi, Sharla right? Have you seen a dog about knee-high, black furball with white paws and tipped tail?” he says as he shows her the empty leash. That’s when the mystery guy comes into view. Michael can’t understand what he did to deserve Sharla over him. “What’s going on?” he asks. “His dog ran away and he’s looking for it.” “Well, we haven’t seen it. Have a nice night, good luck!” He starts to shut the door, and that’s when Michael jumps into action. He wedges his foot between the door and the frame. “Not so fast.” Michael pushes the door open as they back up in terror. He slams the door shut and locks it. He decided he is officially done waiting any longer. He’s waited long enough for this moment, nothing will ruin it… Or will it? “Smart Michael, oh this will be so good!” I’m going to enjoy this one, not something quick like Bryan. No, slow, sweet misery. He pulls out the gun and tape. “Now, who do you think gave me the wrong answer?” Sharla cries out a blood-curdling scream. Michael can’t help but hate her now. Sharla has never been so terrified in her life. The contact made between the back of his hand and her cheek makes the most pleasurable sound to Michael.

Ahh, how empowering. She begins to whimper, as he slowly tries to attack. By now the neighbors are all alert and calling the police. Michael turns around to face him, and he shoots. *Boom* *Boom* *Boom* “Stop it! Ahh!” She screams in horror. “Michael stop! Michael that’s enough, he’s dead.” He turns slowly around. She’s on the phone. Sharla knows that she’s in trouble because Michael then grabs the phone and smashes it with his feet. “Why couldn’t you have been a good girl? Hmm? Why did you have to go and ruin everything?” “Please, no. I’ll do anything, but please don’t hurt me.” “I was going to take you away, I was going to come over and take you back to my house where we could live together. We could’ve had a future. A damn good one. I’ve waited a month for this, and you ruined it. You were supposed to be the perfect one. But now, I’ll have to keep searching...” “Please-” “Oh I’m going to hurt you. I’ll make you feel pain you’ve never experienced, it will be a slow painful death. Just wait.” How should I do it? Kitchen knife? Beating to death? Shooting her? What do you think? Hello?! Where are you?! Help me! “Say goodbye Michael, it’s time,” said the voice. Then, the final gunshot rang through the neighborhood.

33 Matthew Trueblood Untitled Matthew UntitledCharcoal Charcoalon onPaper Paper

Ashley Sally My walk My talk The way I dress Modified My blackness makes you uncomfortable I know

My Mother’s Eyes Matthew Trueblood

Car rides in rural counties Miles of fields and low horizons Golden light and billowing clouds Children laughing, snoring in the backseat If I could do it over again I wouldn’t have sold my soul To the hospital’s night shift And given my mornings away so easily I would have chased the beauty To capture it, share it for those Who couldn’t find it with me I would have traded these years of my life for it I teach my children beauty when I can To appreciate the world that they see Because knowing God may be as simple As watching the distant, bleeding rain It’s too late for me to be Anything other than I am But for my sons and daughters, well Perhaps they’ll do what I didn’t Restless children in the backseat “How much longer have we to go?” Tired eyes and frowning faces Look with me a while, tell me what you see

The clouds and their layering The tree line, the shadows How would you paint it, if you could? Tell me what brushstrokes, which colors together And they’ll humor me, they’ll answer They’ll contemplate a while Before their heads start to nod And they fall asleep to the rocking of the car I continue on the road in silence Introspective and reserved I’ll try again tomorrow night They’re still young, perhaps they’ll listen later

Rob Rob Brown Brown Wat Wat PhoPho

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How to Buy a Mental Illness Bailey Rickels

* Greek yogurt (big tub): for the same breakfast you have every morning; exactly six spoonfuls in the same white bowl with black trim * Strawberries: also for the same breakfast you have every morning; cut into the tiniest of pieces to get more bang for your buck because strawberries aren’t cheap and you’re a college student * Can of coffee grounds: just buy whatever’s cheapest cause you don’t really like coffee anyway, you just like feeling stable * Coffee creamer: again, doesn’t really matter what flavor as long as it will turn your black and bitter heart coffee into something sweet * Mickey Mouse waffle iron: this stupid thing actually makes you smile every now and again; must eat right ear first, and then left, before the rest of the face * Prozac: happy pills… wait, are you sure you sure happy is the right word? Either way it’s better than feeling flatlined; must pick up at Hy-Vee Drugstore where they’ve been waiting a few weeks for you * Fireball whiskey: chaser for Prozac * Razor blade: this will be too obvious if your mom

catches you with it; just break apart a hand-held pencil sharpener and unscrew the blade out of it—it will work just as well * “Perfect” by Simple Plan: buy song from iTunes to add to your “need to cry” playlist * Netflix membership: the only bill you don’t mind paying * Gallon box of Goldfish crackers: to eat while you’re on a three-day Netflix binge and can’t bother to leave your bed * Reese’s peanut butter cups: also for the binge * Gym membership: for when you actually have motivation to get out of bed; use to make up for binging because you know you won’t be approved for liposuction * 5 lb bag of chicken breast: for meal prepping because it makes you look like you work out and have got your shit together * Frozen bag of stir fry mixed vegetables: also for meal prep, just pick out the water chestnuts * Bathroom scale: to remind you daily how you’ve let yourself go on the rare occasion that your boyfriend forgets to * One-piece swimsuit: return it; nobody wants to see you in that * Spring semester textbooks: not sure how you’ve managed to graduate with a 3.99 GPA; good at fooling self and others * Bouquet of fresh flowers: could you TRY to be fucking happy for once? 39

Malcolm

Joseph Kehinde I remember the night I first listened to the rapper G-Herbo; it changed my life completely. My teammate dropped me home after a home game. The music played in the background, but as I looked at the houses flying by me, the music slowly travelled into the foreground. I asked Dennis, “What rapper is this, he is low key dope.” He replied saying, “G-Herbo… he makes real music about the struggle growing up in inner city Chicago.” I sunk into my seat like the way the lyrics did in my ear. I finally reached home, and I said bye to Dennis. I remember having to do computer science homework- it was like learning a whole new language. I, however, liked challenges and saw this as an opportunity to overcome an obstacle. It was a late Sunday night and this computer science homework was due the next day. As I burned the midnight oil trying to finish this homework, I searched up music by G-Herbo on YouTube as something to have in the background. I came across a song called “Malcolm” and it stuck to me like Gorilla Glue. The verse that stuck with me the most was one that said, “A young man grew up in a house, had a pops he never knew, with a mom that’s strung out… young nigga named Malcolm, all his homies called him Malc.” This verse hit me like a force field and for a second life went by really slowly. I stopped typing code and began to think. I had a best friend called Marc-Anthony; we did everything together. We became so close and this was solely due to the

fact that we loved basketball and wanted the best for each other. We went to parties together and he would dress up at my house. We were like twins. He had a much tougher life than I had. Living with 6 siblings and his mother, he learned to be independent and not bring any attention to himself. The description of Malcom was almost parallel to the image of my best friend Marc. As I listened further to this song Malcolm, I could not help but feel as though this song was personally made for me. It felt like when a pastor is giving a sermon and it feels like the message is directly targeted at you. G-Herbo explained how Malcom’s childhood ultimately led to his downfall. He had nothing so “All his life he been banging, stealing, robbing, killin’, livin’ heartless, foolish, Godless.” I remember as a kid Marc had very little to call his own. My coach was like a father figure to us and he would buy us basketball shoes every season. Even though this was the case, he still sold snacks in school, because he needed to make sure that he would have money to feed himself and his younger brothers when his mum was at work. I sometimes looked at him and asked God why is his circumstances were so hard. All he did was work hard and play basketball, yet his outside life was so challenging. He went nights hungry and I prepared food for him to take home. I wasn’t rich, but I felt that it was the little I could do to help him out. Things went downhill when we both turned 16. This was most definitely my best year of basketball. I scored 21 points in the fourth quarter to lead us to the semi-finals of U16 national English league basketball. I had never in my life felt so accomplished. A surge of energy ran through me, it was satisfying. My best friend, however, was not there to share that accomplishment with me. My coach stopped playing him be-

cause he was making a lot of costly mistakes. I observed Marc-Anthony’s confidence diminish like a puff of smoke in the air. It hurt me because I was so used to seeing him by my side whenever I played in games and it just didn’t feel right when he wasn’t there. I felt like I was losing a part of me. After a few games, it was evident that he was fed up. His body language began to change, and I knew he was going to give up, but I didn’t want to believe it. Sadly, he did and after that I rarely ever saw him. I guess the free time Marc had allowed him to roam the streets and find a new hobby—It’s not like he had anything else to do. He started smoking weed as a way to escape the presence of reality. Was this somehow my fault? How could I help this guy? Should I leave him to learn on his own? This question bothered me all the time like an annoying little brother that kept asking silly questions. I chose to let him learn on his own because I was mad and disappointed in him. I always knew him to be the resilient, strong and hard-headed guy I could turn to whenever times felt tough. Where had this guy gone? I honestly felt like I didn’t know him anymore, he was like a stranger to me. My disappointment turned into bitterness and I worked as hard as I could to ensure that I was nothing like him. This became a strong driving force for me. We went to National league England U16 final four and it was an amazing experience. My big sister came with my little brother to watch me play and I felt a lot of pressure. I must say, I knew I needed to perform but I was happy to be in the position I was. We ended up coming third place and although I was mad we never came first, I couldn’t help but celebrate because we all worked hard as a team to get to that point—we were truly the underdogs from the beginning. My coach personally told me to reach out to Marc Anthony and ask him to come, because this wasn’t an experience he should miss—Marc never responded. When we collected our medals, I thought about him and how it

would have been so nice to celebrate this moment—for all the times we woke up early and pushed each other to be better basketball players. As we both turned 17, I still was playing basketball, but he was going to a small school doing B-Tec’s. One night after practice, my friend messaged me and said, “Marc killed a guy!” My mouth dropped, I didn’t want to believe it; guilt came over me, like a flood of water. In my head I felt like it was my fault he was in this situation and I left him to do wrong. It was later confirmed that he had killed him—it was manslaughter. His face was all over Facebook and he was wanted by police. He turned himself in. I see how we live in the same rough environment, yet I am in America playing basketball at the college level and he is only now coming out of prison. I really miss him, and I felt like I needed him all the years we hadn’t been together, for the moral support and just so that we could mature together. As I come back to my present moment, which was listening to this song Malcolm, tears almost dripped from my eyes. G-Herbo said in the song that Malcolm killed a guy who tried to shoot him. As he tried to leave the scene the FBI had surveillance on the guy’s house that Malcolm murdered. He had no hope—he was going prison. As I stopped the song, I sat down and stared at the green painted walls in my room. I began to just thank God for all he done for me, keeping me away from all the crime and bad influences around me. But once again, Marc is my motivation. I won’t let him down, I will succeed for both of our sakes…

The Night a Small Made a Big Molly Hahn

I imagine my sister spent the night crying so much because she knew she would be stuck with me for the rest of her life. I bet she watched Mom and Dad drive away in that old blue car with the rusted door handles, tears already staining her face. My grandma probably held onto her a little too tightly, excited to gain another granddaughter that night. I imagine my sister’s blonde bangs framing her pale face as my grandparents tried to calm her down. They probably had to drag her small body from the door, physically stopping her from climbing into the car after my mom. I watch as my sister’s blue eyes welled with fresh tears as my grandma tried to bribe her into eating something, or drawing something— maybe something for her new sister? —anything to distract her from watching the road for my parents’ great return. My sister wailed in agony instead. As the night went on, my grandparents took my little big sister to their farm, away from her own home on an already upsetting day. I bet my poor tiny sister was extra mad that I was stealing Mom away from her for a whole night. My sister’s nose dripped as my grandma excitedly set up the couch for her. My sister probably glared around at the Oreos and Cheetos and crayons my grandma would slide to her over the dining room table. My sister would shake her wavy, chopped hair at any suggestion of fun. I imagine my grandma cooked a large meal, maybe a pot roast or a meatloaf, something that Sara would have loved if she wasn’t so depressed. My grandpa flipped through the newspaper in

his golden recliner. Maybe a trip to McDonald’s will cheer you up? my grandma asked mini Sara, a last-ditch effort to get her to eat something. But she just shook her head, too disgusted in the absence of Mom and the sudden dumb baby sister thrust upon her. My grandma offered her a Sprite or something, maybe a HiC, anything to make Sara’s night just a little more bearable. But she would refuse everything, I imagine, because nothing would be able to fill the gap my parents’ absence had left. Maybe this night wouldn’t be burned in her memory because it was the night she gained a sister but because it was the first night she felt abandoned by our parents. My sister wasn’t able to sleep that night. My grandma would have set her up on that 1970’s, floral couch, the cushions just a little too scratchy, like a fallen leaf that gets stuck in your boot. Maybe it was Grandma’s blue and green pineapple lamp gleaming at her throughout the night that kept her up. I imagine Sara staring at it, losing herself in a somber trance, her eyes glowing turquoise and neon-green as the lights danced. Maybe it was sleeping all alone in this strange, creaky old house, the sounds of my grandparents gently snoring creating a rhythmic racket. Maybe it was confusion and betrayal by Mom and Dad that she had never felt in her three and a half years that kept her awake. Or maybe it was because she knew I was coming. Maybe she knew I would be a nuisance, a shadow behind her, another curly-haired Hahn girl. Maybe she knew she and I would be mistaken as twins for the rest of our lives. Maybe she knew I’d end up being taller than her, a fact I obnoxiously hold over her head. Maybe she knew she’d never be Mom and Dad’s only child ever again. Maybe she was afraid Mom and Dad would like me more because I was cuter. Maybe she thought I would be some weirdo who would follow her around in elementary school. Maybe she was afraid I would be pampered by everyone because I was

the baby, the newbie, the weaker one. Maybe she knew I would have a senseless obsession with films and a bizarre taste in music she’d never be able to wrap her head around. Maybe she knew she’d have to spend her life warning me about my bad habit of strong language. Maybe she knew I would have trouble making friends and that I’d stick myself to her instead of opening to other kids. Maybe she spent my birth day crying because she didn’t want me. Maybe she didn’t want me because she’d have to spend the rest of her life worrying about me. Maybe she knew she’d have to be responsible from that day forward. Maybe Sara knew I’d follow in her footsteps in more ways than one. Maybe she knew she’d be my second mom, my closest confidante, my best friend. Or maybe she cried in anguish all night because she wanted to be there too, to watch a careful eye over me from the very beginning.

The River Runs Matthew Trueblood

i. The shadows of leaves run with ease Atop the lazy, flowing water. You stuff Your socks inside your sneakers, lay Them waiting in the sand Beside old bottles long forgotten, Washed ashore when the waters rose And left their mark on the trunks of trees Mud stained abrasions, remaining Even as the water recedes— Evidence of time passed by ii. How often did you search for geodes With your pant legs rolled to your calf And your feet sliding over the cold slick rocks As the cool river current washed past your feet Why do the minnows move so erratically, And the catfish kiss the dirt When you find a treasure worth taking home Do you feel accomplished with your goal Do you imagine your grandmother’s soft hands Like the flesh of a biscuit before the oven Like the smell of a fresh pie in an old cupboard Like the smile of a young cat or an old cat Like the flesh of an old cat hanging off its sides Do you picture her smile at the collection you have Treasures stolen from nature, stolen As if the glass on the shore was a payment That doesn’t quite tip the balance And leaves you feeling guilty for your pull Does the afternoon sun make you sweat, With your socks wet on the ride to town

iii. Do you imagine what it must have been like, Rural Indiana in the years gone by Do you picture her in a sundress, in an elegant Southern hat that slopes and shades her Freckled face from the heat of a hot Sunday service as the congregation lets out Do you imagine your grandmother in her youth Visiting cousins and dancing in the twilight Doing the things your mother might have done Or your sisters might have done Does the sound of the river still take you back To the timeless day in a forgotten land To a part of your childhood when things were free When time mattered in small ways And the days dragged on Do you see one of your treasures, Miles further, years later, And it makes you stop and think Do you still pause to reminisce When her name whispers past your ear And the memories wash over you iv. Little bandit pants rolled up And your toes in the river bank And the river washing over your feet

49 Chelsie Mangold White-Tailed Buck Pencil on Paper

For Pop

Todd Bender I sit in my living room surrounded by things that mean the world to me. They may not seem like much to others, but to me they mark different stops along my journey to here; like the photographs the room contains, my things are snapshots of places in time. The couch I sit on is brown leather. Overstuffed and well worn it has offered rest to many a friend after nights of drunken conversation and to family members who arrived for holidays, a visit or to take care of me when I was ill. It has been the spot of many a conversation—both good and bad. The problems of the world have been discussed here and could be resolved if people would just listen to the solutions that were arrived at, sitting on this old couch. Across the room, the electric fireplace puts off its cozy heat; the flames that look almost real crackle and pop. A piece of furniture that lends warmth to the room both literally and metaphorically. It lends itself to the cozy nature of the room. It wasn’t always so. This fireplace that came in a box, in a million pieces, needing to be assembled by someone far more proficient at the use of tools than I, once was just that. With some help and determination, it became the centerpiece of this room. Above the fireplace hangs the television, its cords neatly hidden in a strip painted to blend into the wall. The medium where I get information, my eye on the world. A bit of a novelty to have a television on the wall for one who grew up with the oversize, heavy console televisions of the 70’s and 80’s. Modern technology that allows for more space in

a smallish room. At first glance, and to someone who didn’t know, this is just an ordinary living room, in an ordinary house. Nothing spectacular nor out of the ordinary. But to me, when I sit in this room, I am surrounded by my father. It was he who drove his truck to help me pick up the brown leather couch. It was also he who helped load this same couch into the moving truck as I moved from one city to another to pursue my dream of returning to college. It was where he slept for 5 days when he came to stay, taking care of me after a surgery. It was a place of conversation and of beers drank together. That warm brown leather couch was the spot where I sat and cried myself to sleep the night he died. The fireplace across the room would still be in the box it came in had it not been for my father. He arrived one afternoon, with all his tools, and proceeded to lay out all the pieces one by one, peruse the directions and used his talents to turn the pieces into a fireplace. There were a few mistakes, a few swear words and a whole lot of laughter that day. It was time that we both enjoyed; hanging out together just the two of us. Proof that even as an adult, sometimes no one else can help but your parent. The television on the wall… another of my father’s “projects.” Again, arriving loaded down with every tool he may need, and a few he didn’t, he spent the afternoon improving the look of my cozy room. My father was meticulous in everything he did. It had to be perfectly done, or it wasn’t correct. He made sure it was level, made sure the cords would not be seen, and even made sure I had the proper appliance to plug it in. So, you see, my living room is not just my favorite room in the house, it is also a place where I remember every laugh,

every story, and every smile on my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face. A father that I loved spending time with, here in this room. A father that always did his best to make sure that I always had what I needed. My father, who I miss every single day.

My Relationship with the Bathroom Scale Bailey Rickels

6:30 a.m. my alarm goes off. I sulk into the bathroom. Early mornings are not for me. I stare straight ahead, lowering my eyes a few inches towards the cold hardwood floor I am standing on with my bare feet. There lies my white Health-O-Meter scale, dusty from how frequently I kick it under the bookcase that holds all the things I swear make me pretty: salon shampoo, expensive makeup, and 100 different scents of lotion. The only scale I’ve yet to break. I slowly strip down from my big t-shirt and men’s pajama bottoms—baggy enough that I don’t have to see the outline of my figure through them. Stepping on the scale, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and suck my stomach in. Are we going to be friends today? 180 pounds. That’s a half pound more than yesterday—looks like we are enemies. I step backwards off the scale and open my eyes. I see my single person shower to the right of me. Shower curtain flung open wide so I can see what’s inside. 3 bottles of shampoo, 3 bottles of conditioner, 3 body washes, 2 face washes, and 2 razors, and 1 bottle of shaving cream. An organized mess, like the rest of my life. I step inside and close the curtain behind me, the cheap plastic part sticking to my leg. I perform my regular routine, washing my body first, then hair, then face... and this time, my body again, concentrating on my dimply thick thighs, round tummy with years’ worth of stretch marks, and sagging breasts. How can I love the parts of me that no man seems to love?

Two towels are wrapped around me, one around my hair and the other barely around my body. Someday this will close with ease. I drop the towel to the ground, staring at my naked body once again in the mirror. This time, forcing a smile at what I see. I silently repeat my mantra, You are beautiful. You are not defined by the number on the scale or the useless opinions of the boys from your past. Perhaps one day this bathroom will be a place of peaceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;finally breaking off my relationship with the scale. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be able to skip that part of my morning and spend more time admiring myself in the shower and the mirror. And my alarm will be set for 7 a.m. instead.

An Apology Tyus Thompson

I’m sorry I didn’t want to be at that school anymore. $25,000 later, three majors, a schedule full of general education classes, and not a care in the world. What did I have to worry about? I was debt free, didn’t live at home, and one phone call could fill my account. I’m sorry I wasn’t appreciative of all the opportunities you threw in my lap. I’m sorry that all I wanted to do was run. It had been a part of my life for so long. Happiness would fade every time I sat through a Psychology 101 lecture but running would bring that happiness back. However, I couldn’t run here. It didn’t feel like a place where I could flourish. You never understood this. I’m sorry I moved 1800 miles away from you when all you ever wanted was to get close. You didn’t want me to leave, but I didn’t care. I needed running. I needed to be happy. I needed to be in control. This is why I ran. You weren’t in control when I slipped that lime green watch across my wrist. The watch that recorded my steps, the miles I had run on my own, and the amount of time I had escaped your grasp. I controlled the pace, I controlled the race, and all you could do was stand on the side to watch. Maybe it’s out of spite that you choose to stay home and put the bottle to your lips instead of come watch me race. Maybe it’s out of anger for how I treated you before. Or maybe it’s because you’re too scared to see that moving away was the best decision I ever made. I’m sorry for the unmade phone calls and unread texts stored away like antiques on my phone. The uninterrupted emptiness after the beep sounds says a lot more than the

forced conversations we pretend to enjoy. If I were home, I’d apologize for the unclean dishes “soaking” in the sink. I’d apologize for the mountain of dirty clothes covering my floor with the unmade bed in the background that only seems to change forms as the clock ticks through the night. If I were home, I’d apologize for leaving, but even the dog would know that I was lying.

August Times Josh Jurgensmeier

In August times when crickets creep in and silence with them where is our love or did it go before we know the frost to come to see it done never begun when august times be on the wane the Earth will soon round the sun and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll say that be June crickets spawn then. can love

Late Night Thoughts Chuck Uthe

My mind races— Always going to different places, as I gaze into the everlasting abyss I see all the faces of those living in the stasis of what we call our home. My mind races— Thoughts blazing by like a train looking back on all the pain I’ve suffered through, but it was all worth it for you. My mind races— Late at night while I lie in my bed wishing you were here instead of being fifty-some miles away, so many words I forget to say. My mind races— Yet it always comes back to you.

Rob RobBrown BrownSiem Siem Reap, Reap, Cambodia Cambodia

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War

Orlando Clark Until the mental state that holds one race less than another is permanently eradicated from the face of the land, there will be—war. Until one’s faith no longer decides the fate of another whose faith differs from such, there will be—war. Until we find common ground, and acknowledge that my way is not the right way, but merely another way, there will be—war. Until we understand that equality for all does not mean less for some, that the world is rich and bears fruit to all its children, there will be—war. Until size, age, status and gender are no longer the determining factor in one’s upward mobility, there will be—war. Until we realize that money has no more value than that of which is given to it, there will be—war. Until we cease to lead our lives on past events, and focus on the gift we have in the present called today, there will be—war. Until men begin to see women as beings to cherish, and not something to conquer, there will be—war. Until the drug called more is eradicated from the mind of man, and he begins to seek out spiritual connections to the universe, then our ever so rapid growth into melancholy

will continue, and there will be—war. Until unconditional love for all that has life is no longer a scarcity in the hearts man, the earth will continue its downward spiral into disarray, and there will be—war. Until instant gratification is no longer the why behind our deeds, we shall grow further apart as a people. And there will be—war. War in the east. War in the west. War up north. War down south. When we right our wrongs, then mother earth and father time will honeymoon in peace and their children know the true expression of one love.

Blackout

Tyus Thompson Should you really take another shot of that Butterscotch Schnapps? You’ve already had three. You were in complete control until the McGuiligudies Rum was pulled out. Your mouth waters every time you see it. That smooth cherry liquid dripping down your throat is a craving you can never seem to break. Should you really take another shot of that Butterscotch Schnapps? Slowly sipping your Four Loko Gold while playing quarters surrounded by friends, your thoughts of remaining sober leisurely exited your mind. You made your way downstairs for some dancing. Stumbling down the stairs you crashed into the walls on both sides. Somehow you made it to the dance floor. Your moves were on point. At least that’s what you told yourself. As you boogied the night away, you heard your name over the music—“Tyus! Come play beer pong with us!” The hike back up the stairs was demanding, but the reward at the top was not only getting to play, but also there was more alcohol upstairs for you to consume. You were already past the point of sobriety. Each hour that passes magically ends with you gulping down more liquor. Should you really take another shot of that Butterscotch Schnapps? You polished off the last of your Kona Long Board IPA beers. The smell of butterscotch illuminated from the kitchen. You couldn’t resist. As you lifted the 7th shot to your lips, the lights went out. You faded in and out. Your body active—your mind asleep. The vomit exited your body rapidly, clearing the poison from your stomach. Your mind flustered. Your body in control. You

wake up at 10 a.m. unable to create a memory of what happened last night. The house is covered in bottles, spilled drinks, and the remains of a night you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to remember. Your head pounds and all you can think isâ&#x20AC;Ś Should you really have taken all those shots of Butterscotch Schnapps?

How do you Destroy a Monster Jessica Purgett

How do you destroy a beast who only wants to feast upon your hope of happiness? He spins your mind round and round, leaves you incapable of making a sound. What does he want? What does he crave? He wants to put you in your grave. Every contemplation is met with his ablation of yet another joyous thought for which you greatly fought. How do you destroy a devil who only wants to revel in the worst parts of you?

Dylan Catalano-Wild Emotions of the Hand Ink on Paper

Living the Dream Amber Salow

“Living the dream” is more than just a saying. I try to live by it every day by being positive. It’s a positive lifestyle that has impacted me in several ways. I will always hold this phrase close to my heart because it was often repeated by my favorite coach, Phil Long. Phil Long was more than a basketball coach. He was a friend, a mentor, and a great listener. The girls on the team would come to him for advice about anything from boys, to questions about life. As a tradition, at the end of practice we formed into a circle and grabbed the hand of the person to our left one at a time and said, “together,” until the whole circle was complete. We were always in everything “together” no matter what. One of my favorite memories of Phil was when we were at practice running the play cutter and one of my best friends farted and it smelled! He started laughing when he realized it was her and said, “The play was cutter, not cut the cheese!” We all started busting out laughing and couldn’t stop. I like to replay this memory in my head of the good times we had with Phil. Aside from joking around, he always had advice to make you a better basketball player. Since I was 10 years old, almost every Sunday I would get the gym key from Phil and go to the gym and shoot with my dad. Phil started to notice me and my dedication. He took an interest in me and would help me with my form. When I got into high school he became my coach. He continued to help me on and off the court. He taught us more than just X’s and O’s on a whiteboard. He taught us about life and always thought positively even when faced with tragedies. In 2013, Phil was diagnosed with cancer. I will never forget

that day he announced it in our circle after practice. He looked at all of us with tears running down our faces and said, “Don’t you worry. I’m going to kick cancer’s ass and put a full court press on it.” As time went on, we soon realized he was right and he was going to kick cancer’s butt. After beating cancer once, it returned and took a toll on Phil’s body. He stepped down as head coach and focused on his family and his health. Everyone was lost without him. I remember when Phil started coaching me in 9th grade. It was a privilege to sit varsity with him as the coach. I went through four coaches in my high school career and didn’t win many games, but we were all in it “together.” We kept the same traditions especially our “together” circle. Phil attended as many basketball games as he could, always cheering us on, now from the sideline. He became weaker and thinner, but no matter how he was feeling, when asked how he was he always replied, “living the dream” with a smile. Phil lived life through this saying. He made the best out of the hand he was dealt and kept living every day as if it was his last. June 21st, 2016 was an unforgettable day. It was the day that Phil passed away. I was a heartbroken mess; he meant more to me than he’ll ever know. At the funeral, Phil’s former student athletes were reconnected and “together” we mourned for our coach. He impacted so many of our lives throughout his coaching. There were no dry eyes in that church. After the ceremony, we rode “together” to the cemetery just like Phil would want. After the final blessing and people said their goodbyes, ten basketball girls circled around his casket and did one last “together” with him. It was one of the hardest things I have done. Phil’s positivity and strength have inspired me to pursue my dreams. I hope to keep his legacy going by encouraging younger generations to “live the dream.” Be present, dream big, and live every day as if it might be their last. Life is about “living the dream.”

Things IIHave 5050Things Have Learned in in my Learned my First First 50 Years on the Planet Todd Bender

1. Family comes first—always. 2. My parents were not EVER as stupid as I thought they were. :) 3. The book is always better than the movie. 4. People who hate are often afraid of what they do not understand. 5. Acquaintances come and go. True friends are there beside you no matter what, sometimes showing up when least expected after years apart to help you up. 6. You will remember the “good old days” with fondness, often forgetting there were tough times then, too. 7. Finding love is hard. Losing it is harder. 8. The saying “time flies” makes no sense until you are 30—and then the realization of how true it is terrifies you. 9. Karma is indeed a bitch. d 10. I have spent entirely too much time worrying about

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what others thought of me instead of contemplating how I felt about myself. 11. Experiencing the world around you is great—but there really is no place like home. 12. No matter how dark it seems—it always gets better. 13. There is nothing better than a summer thunderstorm in the Midwest. 14. As trite as it sounds, time waits for no one. Take the trip, make the call, tell the ones you love how important they are. Tomorrow is never promised. 15. Please and thank you are essential in your daily vocabulary. 16. That “one last beer” is never a good idea. 17. Sing at the top of your lungs—even if you suck at it. 18. Understand that your actions can always come back to bite you on the ass. 19. No one loves you more than your Mama. 20. Never ignore your intuition—it’s usually right. 21. Be prepared to follow through with the promises you make when you have been drinking. 22. Forgive—always. You will feel better. 23. Music is key. Listen to it loud. Embrace the memories it brings to you. Never underestimate its power to bring people together.

24. It could always be worse. 25. There is nothing better than a long hug at the end of a long day. 26. Never take anyone for granted—you WILL regret it. 27. Many problems can be solved by driving the country roads, with the windows down and the radio up. 28. Never apologize to anyone for who you are. 29. Contrary to popular belief, beer does not always make it better. 30. Your family not only consists of those tied to you by blood, but it is also made up of those that you choose to travel your journey with you. 31. There is absolutely no room in this existence for hate or bigotry. 32. Say I love you as often as you can—when you mean it. Keep your mouth shut when you don’t. 33. Stand up for what you believe in. 34. Your feelings are valid regardless of how others may interpret the situation. 35. People will not always care as much as you do. 36. Pay attention to the good times—they go by fast and you never appreciate them fully while they are happening. 37. That person you think you cannot live without—you can, if you have to. Trust me.

38. Understand that the smallest kindness can greatly affect the lives around you. 39. There is no greater hurt than losing a parent. 40. Age is just a number. 41. Speak your mind, loudly if you have to. “There ain’t no one gonna listen if you haven’t made a sound.” 42. You will witness things that will change your life forever. 43. Not everyone will appreciate what you do for them—do it anyway. 44. People deserve a second chance. 45. Patience is indeed a virtue. 46. Never take nature for granted—get out there, immerse yourself in it and then realize how good it makes you feel. 47. Sometimes a healthy eye roll is unavoidable. 48. Going out in public dressed in your pajamas insures that you will run into someone you know. 49. It’s easier to sleep at night when you feel good about how you spent your day. 50. There is no shame in being wrong—always be prepared to say you’re sorry.

WhenII Catch When CatchMyMy Reflection Sierra Earle

I tell myself I’ll make a change tomorrow but tomorrow comes and I stay the same lacking the ability to step off the well-known path I see the same girl I saw two years ago when I catch my reflection I can’t will a smile from my crooked teeth or force my spine upright So, I’ll be damned if I could fix my life

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Rob RobBrown BrownMekong MekongDelta DeltaVietnam Vietnam

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New York Be-At Orlando Clark

Now it’s dark and the walls are moving, kings and concubines gyrate in there. one had too many yankee man queues for another drink— he babbles about him and his wife’s womanhood being strangers for the longest while. A curvaceous girl whose face I know from somewhere, wearing a pleated dress with a pocket above her left breast. Slender with broad hips sways across the rear end of the room turning heads as she grooves. Libidinous interns from the nearby college wager Hamiltons on who can get the tall blonde in the red dress’s number. The band of bob and the bronzed-back musicians with the paleface backup vocalist who should be no older than fifteen, is the fifth teen I have seen. The place is rowdy, the people elude the bouncer’s eyes. The cliched chest drummer looks to the sky and percusses, sweat dripping from his saturated beard as his hands stroke to the beat Palms of businessmen from Times Square with some change to blow pound poker boxes to the beat. Domino tables layered with cornmeal to reduce friction surrounded with wrinkle-handed men being beat.

Ecdysiasts’ waists move to the beat. Chandeliers shake to the beat. It’s the beat The beat of the street, The beat of a people It’s the people’s beat Like Egyptian slaves being beat. Around the walls of Jericho, they march to a beat Like the Spartan soldiers, they march to a beat The sound of London bridge as it falls to a beat The beat This is the beat, just like the clock that we all fail but still try to beat. What is life but a beat? Moon and tides, theme park joy rides all sync to a beat Christians curse our vices but go to church to feel God’s beat The tavern is the devil’s tabernacle they say—but we still feel a beat, This the beat the place to be-at.

Escape

Chuck Uthe Is death actually an escape, Or is it merely just a still moment In which our bodies lie motionless Wandering through an everlasting void Unable to find what it means to live again? Is life such a virtue, Or do we put too much value into life That we were given by some stranger. How can we say we are living if we ourselves Are wandering through an everlasting void Unable to find what it means to live?

She-

Anonymous It was hard to understand. I’d been with this woman for five years, and I didn’t know this side of her—the creative, comfy, and genuine side of her. I wondered if it was there before we broke up. Or maybe she kept it at bay, allowing me to shine. She felt I needed the admiration more than her. She was right. I was the only admirer she wanted, and I never reciprocated. I lapped her up. I sucked her dry. Then, it was a mystery why she changed. Now, I stare at my reflection in the window, infuriated I was so naïve. There was no question to why she became so distant. She was dealing with her own demons. She was dealing with loss, and I left her to deal with it alone. I was never there. I gave her up for people who I thought were my friends, the people who I thought loved me. But, it was her. It was always her. She should have been all I ever wanted and needed, but the thing I needed wasn’t mine anymore. I was staring at the one person who knew me inside and out, but I brainlessly chose others…Every. Damn. Time. The imposters had me at yes. I grumbled at her compromise. Why can’t it just be my way? Her no’s weren’t “keeping me down.” She was trying to keep our relationship on track. She tenderly popped my reckless dreams with thought-out time lines and mental spreadsheets. She never forgot my dreams but crafted them. As I habitually went against her wishes, I told her I didn’t respect her. My friends, my parents, my habits, were always more important than the person who wanted noth-

ing more than to keep me living. Sometimes I wondered if I loved her too much, and it drove me to act out. Her endless love scared me. No one had ever loved me in such an unconditional way. Love was a tool for the upper hand in my life. It was leverage for failure. Love was weakness, and weakness was not tolerated. I shifted my feet, livid with the remembrance of my old ways. I told her she was wrong all the time. She didn’t know me like my buddies did, but really, they didn’t know me like she did. ‘She’s a handful,’ they’d say. ‘I wouldn’t put up with that.’ But that was the difference between five years and seven months. They acted like it was the same amount of time. They didn’t know that she hated chocolate cake but would order it anyway, because I loved it. They definitely didn’t know about the dreams we had for our future. At the time, I was so ashamed of our dreams. I was ashamed to be a man who had a five-year plan with his girlfriend but not his buddies. I was ashamed I enjoyed someone who wanted more depth than daily small talk. When I finally realized that these mental stipulations were my fault, not hers, I didn’t have her. She wasn’t a man-pleasing woman. She was feisty, and sarcastic, and vulgar at times. The woman I left had a poker face for all the best reasons. She’d flip shit like it was her job. Straight faces and one-liners her specialty. Weekly deals included sparkling eyes and an irresistible side smile. As she finished her last brush stroke, I took in her face. It had become slimmer in 8 months, or maybe it wasn’t puffy from crying like the last time. She had lost weight too, most likely from the stress I wasn’t causing her. Her fingers held long nails, unbitten by worry. Her eyes seemed greener, her smile whiter. She had cut her hair and let her natural curls loose, a look I had never seen but my, was she breathtaking.

Her painting was flawless, but she, herself, was art. She looked wild. She looked free. She looked happy. I took in a deep breath, dropped my dozen-rose apology, and started down the cobble street back home. No need to mess up perfection.

Car Crash

Joseph Kehinde

You were so hardheaded. You thought you knew every goddamn thing. Funnily enough you were only 11 years old! What could you have possibly known? You liked listening to Gangster music on your small mp3 player that always died because you needed a new AA battery. The music was so loud you couldn’t hear anything around you. This wasn’t a problem for you because when you listened to music you could ignore your mum when she wanted you to do house chores. You put on a pair of denim jeans, some black shoes and a jacket that had the word “NIKE” written in bold on the chest of the jacket. The bold letters were in red and this was your favorite jacket. You wore it so often it was like it was your own skin. You took the Apollo bike even though your sister said, “DON’T RIDE MY BIKE!” You were frustrated for no particular reason, but you liked the satisfaction you got from being in that mood, almost like a guilty pleasure. You rode to the park and spoke to some friends briefly before making your way back home. You got to the top of the road you lived on, but you were still feeding off the bad energy you felt earlier. You pulled out into the road behind a big white van, but before doing this you said, “I don’t even care if I get hit by a car.” As soon as you said the words in your head—BOOM. The blue Fiat Punto hit you. Before it hit you, you felt the car coming so fast, but at the same time it felt so slow. You closed your eye—your fate was set. As the car hit you, you flew into the air like a dove flying exponentially into the sky.

In that short period of time, you saw so much – more than you had ever seen before and from a different perspective. The small town that you knew as Peckham was shown to you from a god-like viewpoint in the air. You saw kids enjoying themselves having fun in the park. In addition to this you heard parents speaking to their children in Yoruba. What was most interesting was that cars continued to pass by unaware that anything had happened. At this point you felt alienated—you were a tourist in your own neighborhood. Instead of it being fun like a traditional tourist trip, it was not fun at all, it was simply eye-opening. You saw how you are a product of your stubborn environment, which refuses to change. You realized that although your circumstances can limit you from your destiny, your circumstances are mostly a result of your own purposeful ignorance. You hit the ground… “Are you alright?” says the driver. You heard him and wanted to respond “Yes, I’m ok!” but the word wouldn’t come out. You felt like a car that just won’t start up, powerless and out of control. You finally gained the power in your body and sat up. It felt like little maggots were eating away at your brain. You grabbed your head tight as if you thought it would fall into pieces—the headache at that point was simply unbearable. You turned and looked at the blue Fiat Punto and it was in a worse state than you. The windshield was shattered but hadn’t yet fallen into pieces. The bonnet was crunched inwards and at that point you asked yourself, “How the hell am I still alive? I should be dead?” The ambulance came as you sat down to gather your thoughts. You saw your mum running towards you—she had no shoes on! You couldn’t hold your tears back; it was too hard. It was at that point you realized how much a young middle-class mother cared about the safety of her child. It was also at that point you ran into her arms in fear and innocence. Not like the stubborn child you were more inclined to be.

You left the scene of the accident on a hard yellow stretcher which was so uncomfortable. It was the back of your head that hit the back the windshield of the car and you had to rest it on this hard boardâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it was so painful. The doctors did their checksâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you were fine. The experience, however, made you look inwards at yourself and how you could better yourself. You knew that though the odds were against you to make anything of yourself, you were going to find a way to make your mum smile, by listening and being a good example to your little brother.

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Rob RobBrown BrownHo HoChi ChiMinh MinhMausoleum Mausoleum

Nicole-Faye Ashley Sally

Everyone says we look alike, but youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re much prettier. I remember the last time I saw you, We were in New Orleans Wow, you looked amazing And the confidence you held was deafening, Blinding. Jealousy is the only thing that comes to mind when I think of you. The way the guys acknowledge you, and the way the females envy you Is a sight worth seeing. To be that gorgeous and humble is unreal. From what I hear you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come out often But when you do, geez The entire city comes to a standstill Returning from New Orleans you changed, Life happened again You began to change, transform into someone else Allowing insecurities to take over Smiles come every nowandthen Continuing into bottomless change, becoming ash cash

When You Look at Me Doriann Whitlock

What do you see when you look at me? Do you see a child in need of guidance and coddling or a girl ready to experience the world she lives in? Do you see a teenager too full of herself or a respectful and intelligent young lady? Do you see a young adult lost in the sea of adulthood or a woman finding her own voice in a crazy, exciting world? What do you see when you look at me? I no longer care what you see when you look at me. I no longer fear the reality that I live in. I no longer wander like a lost sheep awaiting its shepherd. I no longer see what society expects of me. What do you see when you look at me? Do you see the child you raised or that girl who had a quick smile and a soft heart? Do you see the teenager lost in society or a young lady ready to fight for what she believes in? Do you see a young adult drowning in expectations or a woman speaking out against the injustice in this world? What do you see when you look at me?

I no longer care for I am all of these characters and more. I no longer care because this is my life not yours. I no longer care what anyone thinks. I longer see how you expect me to be less than I am. I am done asking what do you see when you look at me. What do I see when I look at me?

Cassandra CassandraNeff NeffUntitled UntitledInk InkononPaper Paper

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Priceless Ashley Sally

A gift that keeps on giving One that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be gift-wrapped Unable to afford the finer things Wisdom would just have to do The streets became my teacher and The world became my assignment Realizing nothing is promised nor Given The individual mindset knowing as an African American Woman I would have to work twice as hard to get half of what they got My gift was realization.

December Amber Salow

White snow scattering the ground frosting the windows. Trees stripped of their clothes, Standing naked in the bleak, Shaking in the wind. Lights flooding the houses, Christmas trees twinkling, Stars shining bright. The earth hard as a rock, Children trudging through the snow, Snowballs flying in the air. Hot cocoa steaming in my cup, Marshmallows floating on top, Snuggling by the fireplace. It is a never-ending cycle of cold dreary days.

Contributors Todd Bender is a senior in the Mount Mercy Social Work Program. Originally from Iowa City, Iowa, he made his home on both the east and west coasts before returning to Iowa to finish his education. This spring Todd will earn his BSW from Mount Mercy. Immediately following graduation, he will begin the accelerated master’s program at the University of Iowa’s School of Social Work. He hopes to eventually find a job in the medical field. Rob Brown is studying Business and Communications. In his free time, he likes to travel and take photos. Dylan Catalano-Wild is a junior Graphic Design major with a Business Administration minor. Dylan is on the men’s varsity bowling team. In his spare time he enjoys listening to heavy metal and playing video games. In the future, he plans to continue making art and designs. Orlando Clark is a third-year Jamaican international student majoring in English. He loves his family, football, and literature. He is an aspiring English professor, writer, footballer, familyman and businessman. He is his best self when he is out in nature, absorbing all the natural mystics of the world. Sierra Earle is a freshman at Mount Mercy who majors in Psychology and English. Molly Hahn is a senior Biology major. She’s from the small town of Dyersville, IA and likes cooking, not studying for midterms, and writing poetry at midnight. Molly obsessively watches Oscar-nominated films. She also spends her time trying out dessert recipes on anyone who will taste (or just

for herself after an exam) and writing stories she can never seem to finish. She plans on surviving after graduation with a job in the medical field and then eventually going back to school where she will continue to avoid studying for midterms. Veronica Jons is a triple major in Journalism, Public Relations, and Criminal Justice, with a minor in Creative Writing. She enjoys getting involved in clubs around campus, dancing on the dance team, and meeting new people. You can find her in the pool room or eating food in Hilltop! Joshua Jurgensmeier is a junior(ish) Computer Science and Mathematics dual major who has as of yet evaded the allurements of any accredited English degrees, major or minor in severity. He enjoys poetry. Joseph Kehinde is a Math major with a minor in Creative Writing and Philosophy. He is an international student from London, England and his biggest reason for pursuing an education in America was because he received a basketball scholarship. In his free time he enjoys listening to soft jazz music and reading books about philosophy as well as self-help books. Cassandra Keys is a senior from Cedar Rapids, IA, majoring in Computer Science. After graduating, she hopes to go into software engineering. Alongside this, Cassandra will continue painting to hopefully one day create a side business to fill up her extra time. Ally Killean is a junior Secondary Education Major with an English endorsement. She aspires to be a high school English teacher and an author. She loves spending time with family and friends. Chelsie Mangold is a junior Secondary Education major with an endorsement in K-12 art. When school isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t

keeping her busy, she likes to create art, relax, hang out with family and friends, and watch her favorite shows and movies. Elizabeth Miene is a sophomore English major. Writing has been one of the many joys she’s had the opportunity of discovering in this life along with singing, dancing, drawing and painting. She also devotes a fraction of her time to the MMU Show Choir. The show choir is one of her favorite things about MMU. Aside from these few interests, she enjoys spending time with her friends, family and two dogs, Sophie and Leo. Cassandra Neff Cassie for short, is a senior Graphic Design major with a minor in Business Administration. She is the tattooed girl you see walking around the school. Margaret Nollen is a sophomore majoring in Fine Arts and minoring in Creative Writing. Outside of class and her work study, she enjoys drawing, reading novels and comic books, working on fan fiction and her own original stories, and watching cartoons and anime. After graduation, she plans on getting her work published and illustrate comic books. Jessica Purgett is a junior who majors in English and Marketing and minors in Spanish and Creative Writing. She plans on going to grad school to get her M.A. in publishing after graduation. Bailey Rickels graduated from Mount Mercy University in 2018 majoring in Criminal Justice with minors in Writing, Psychology, and Legal Studies. She was a four year writing scholarship recipient. She is grateful to have had four poems published in previous editions of Paha as well as Iowa’s Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology. She wants to thank her high school English teacher, Ms. Kelley, for provoking her enjoyment of writing and also all of the English professors at Mount Mercy who have given her the opportunity to explore the creative side she didn’t think she had through

writing. Bailey is currently a Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of Public Health candidate at the University of Iowa School of Public Health. Ashley Sally is a senior English major with a minor in Diversity Studies. Recently she discovered the complexities in finding oneself. In that discovery she was able to love herself and be unapologetic about it. This is what inspired the pieces she wrote in this edition of Paha. Amber Salow is a junior Nursing major. She is involved in MMUANS (Mount Mercy Association of Nursing Students) and the Paha Review. When she is not busy with school she likes to hang out with friends and family. She enjoys being outdoors in the summer. She also has a dog named Sophie. Tyus Thompson recently graduated from Mount Mercy University with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing. Since graduating Tyus has moved back to Bakersfield, California and is now working on a teaching credential at Cal State University of Bakersfield. Outside of writing Tyus enjoys spending time outside and dreams of becoming a cross-country coach. Matthew Trueblood is a junior Media Communication and Graphic Design double major. He prefers stormy weather over blue skies and feels the need to romanticize everything. Chuck Uthe is a senior English major with a Creative Writing minor. He enjoys writing because he sees it as a way to express his thoughts and feelings and sharing these with the rest of the world. He is involved in many clubs on campus and is a Resident Assistant. He wishes to write even more in the future. Doriann Whitlock (Dori) is a senior English major with minors in Creative Writing and Media Communication. She is actively involved with the Mount Mercy Times and Paha. At the end of her senior year, she plans on pursuing a career

in book editing for children and young adults somewhere in the Midwest. She wants to be a part of the process that teaches all age groups that their story never ends, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just the beginning of their next chapter.

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Read our blog, Literary Mustangs, at mmuenglish.wordpress.com 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. See past editions of Paha at www.mtmercy.edu/paha-review