Paha Review | 2016 by Mount Mercy University

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

Spring 2016

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 wind-aligned 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 We need to recover the ancient sense of homeland as an area defined not by armies and flags…but by nature and geography and by the history of human dwelling there, a habitat shared by other creatures, known intimately, carried in the mind as a living presence. Scott Russell Sanders Mount Mercy University is built on one of the many paha in Iowa, most clustered near or southeast of Cedar Rapids.

Editors Billie Barker Cassie Green Courtney Snodgrass Art Editor Mariah Kidd Copy Editors Billie Barker Anna Bohr Cassie Green Matt Howell Erin Johnson Courtney Snodgrass Photographers Anna Bohr Kathryn Hagy Mariah Kidd Cover Art Lauren Brunson

Worm Medusa mixed media on paper

Cover Design Mariah Kidd Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee Billie Barker Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg Todd Cross Cassie Green Zachery Hooper Nakola Nyambe Bailey Rickels Zach Salow Courtney Snodgrass Alyssa Vicente Art Selection Committee Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg Mariah Kidd Alyssa Vicente Special Thanks Chris DeVault Jim Grove Kathryn Hagy Joy Ochs Carol Tyx Art Club English Club

for Jim Grove in celebration of his retirement and in honor of his 36 years of service at Mount Mercy University

Contents Book

Cassie Green

Writing

Matt Howell

the thing about loving someone with multiple personality disorder

Courtney Snodgrass

Things Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Broken

Hilary Nekvinda

Fidget

Billie Barker

An Honest Poem

Molly Hahn

Dad

Matt Howell

Purified

Hilary Nekvinda

Good (Grey) Hair

Char Jacobson

Amandaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Autumn

Courtney Snodgrass

Momentos

Carmen Delgado Harrington

My Baby

Alyson Oberdries

Waking and Weaving

Carmen Delgado Harrington

I Had Begged My Dad for a Hamster

Hilary Nekvinda

Growing Space

Natalie Deister

Meaning of Words

Doriann Whitlock

Fleeting Thoughts

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

I Shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Have

Bailey Rickels

Fingerprint

Abby Herb

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s No Place Like Home

Char Jacobson

Collide

Dahlia Porter

Syria: 2015

Dahlia Porter

Split Personality

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

Stranger

Kelsey Bills

965

Alyssa Vicente

Mason

Mason Evans

The Journey

Molly Metz

Funny Little People

Mariah Kidd

Different Dementions

Leslie Hoffmann

Artichoke

Adrienne Mione

Memories

Brianna Paup

No Man is an Island

Abbey Konzen

Untitled Vase

Brandi Burnell

Thrift

Billie Barker

Get Down Tonight

Billie Barker

Loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dance

Cassie Green

Chapel of Love

Billie Barker

The Same Moon

Courtney Snodgrass

Narrow Aisles

Matt Howell

Fifteen

Alyssa Vicente

Memories

Zach Salow

For An Old Lover

Bailey Rickels

That Night

Nakola Nyambe

Perceptions

Todd Cross

3 A.M. Thoughts

Bailey Rickels

Dreamlust

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

Serpent Song

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

Lust

Alyssa Vicente

Edgarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nevermore

Zachery Hooper

The Observer

Abby Herb

Eyes

Alyssa Vicente

Gemini

Drew Disterhoft

Last Word

Bianca Kesselring

High School Creative Writing Contest Winners Obsessive in Scarlet

Contributors

91 Allison Chen, High School Contest Winner

Book

Cassie Green The spine, the headband, the hinge; unraveled seams, pages spread to the center of a signature reveal frayed white stitching, today just bound in some factory by a man and a machine. But long ago Indians indigenous to this custom of bookbinding— Chattering over Chai and Chaat during their lunch hour— Would craft these magnificent leather-bound creatures out of palm leaves Leaving a beautiful stain of words behind: The sewer. The comber. The gluer. The stapler. The leather, the Unibind, the artist’s scalpel. The yellowed pages. The censorship. The inferno that lingered in the Library of Alexandria in 391 A.D. Forty thousand books cremated by the flames, no throats, no tongues to carry the cries of these caged creatures. A witness walking along the street watched as a wounded memory, burning, flew into the air; almost with new life, before fluttering helplessly to the ground. And then another. Each piece of parchment black as the souls who set fire to this place of public knowledge.

Writing

Matt Howell The stark whiteness, blinding and hungry, begs for serifs and script. I scour my skull, harvest the best, and avoid the bricks of the Block. My fingers flutter and fumble. “Keep up!” I tell them. “Keep up!”

the thing about loving someone with multiple personality disorder Courtney Snodgrass

the thing about loving someone with borderline personality disorder is we don’t always get along— me and your five selves, we’re all just roommates attempting to live in the same frat house. some of you only want to fuck me. there are moments and even days that me, you, and all your personalities cannot all reside in your mind at one time. we cannot all coexist in the same abandoned home that you call your body. you have all your friends to live with you, some i’ve yet to meet and you all love the darkness that you exist in but there’s no room left for me and i’ve always needed a nightlight. i fall asleep with one of you and wake up with someone different lying next to me. i’ve cheated on you more times than i’ll ever be able to count. i love you and him and him and him and i can’t help that you’re all one person and that i’m in love with all of you. there are days that all i can do is lie on the other side of the bed and wish to hold you in my arms, but this you doesn’t like to be held.

there are days when it seems the alcohol will never run out because that you loves the warm whiskey more than it loves me. there are days when i want to leave you, but which ‘you’ am i leaving behind? i can’t pick you apart to know which one of you i want the most. i can’t walk inside your empty home. because i’m a little afraid of what’s lurking inside. so i think i’ll stay, but i’ll wait outside.

Things I’ve Broken

Hilary Nekvinda

My porcelain doll when she fell off the couch while I was sleeping; she was my prized possession. A bowl while I was washing it in the sink; I was thinking about how mad I was at my friend. The rim of my tire when I drove off the road because I wasn’t paying attention; I lied and told my parents I was avoiding another car. The garbage disposal, when I put a whole lemon down because it smelled rotten; I was trying to impress my husband. A mailbox, three pitchforks, two wheelbarrows, three buckets, and a hose at equestrian school. My left arm when I was six, during my first trail ride. My pony stretched her head down to eat some grass and pulled me off her back. I should have taken it as a sign. My left femur when I was 20, on a cold day in West Virginia. The horse I was riding bolted and I bailed. It was my first time in an ambulance. My left fifth metacarpal, nine months after I broke my femur. The horse I was riding bucked me off and I did a somersault. I drove myself to Urgent Care, they said my bone was shattered, the doctor told me I couldn’t ride for eight weeks. I rode the next day. My right patellar when I was 23; a mare kicked me because I wouldn’t let her through the gate. My mom had to drive me to the emergency room; I would have driven myself if it was my left knee. It was the only time I cried when they told me my diagnosis; I don’t know why. My identity when I was 27; I decided to leave my career as a horse trainer and instructor. My friendship with Natalie, the day after she broke into her parents’ liquor and porn collection and had a party with all our friends. I sat in her room—alone; we were 13. My friendship with Allison, when people started calling

us lesbians because we were inseparable; we were 14. My friendship with Mary, after she had a pregnancy scare; we were 15. My friendship with Sara, after she slept with a friend’s boyfriend; we were 16. My dream that I would marry Charlie and we would have little football and wrestling babies. He was my high school sweetheart; we were the quintessential couple—he was a football captain and I was a star cheerleader. I gave him my attention, my time, my future; he was the first person I loved. My heart, when I realized that I had become an afterthought and broke up with him; we were 19. Girl Code. First when I kissed my friend’s boyfriend in the front seat of my car, in a dark parking lot. They got married; I wasn’t invited to the wedding. Second when I started dating my roommate’s ex-boyfriend, the one she thought she’d marry. I moved out shortly after and married him four years later. My parents’ trust when I was 12 and snuck out of the house. I was only 5 houses away, sitting on a trampoline with my best friend after his girlfriend dumped him. We talked all night and I walked home when the sun peeked over the horizon. My parents were waiting for me. It was the first and last time I snuck out. My husband’s trust when I neglected to tell him about my credit card debt before we got married. I remember when he confronted me about it, it was raining outside—I thought it was a bad omen. It was our first major fight and now we’ve been married almost eight years. A spatula, four cookie sheets, and an electric mixer, during my many attempts to make cookies from scratch. My riding boots after wearing them every day for two years. A halter when I tried to tie Charley to the wall. A whip, on Charley’s hip, after he tried to run me over. A million brushes while combing his mane and tail, brushing away the tangles and years of abuse. I sang “You Are My Sunshine” as I brushed the dirt from his coat. It’s easy to brush off the dirt; it’s not easy to brush away the past. Born an unwanted foal on a PMU farm in Canada, he was adopted to a woman in Kentucky and abused, then sent to Meredith

Manor International Equestrian Center in West Virginia, where several students were unable to ride him. When he was assigned to me, I spent every free moment I had in his stall, gaining his trust, until he allowed me to ride him. The school rules, when I contacted his owner and arranged to buy him. The school rules again, when my friend and I loaded him into a trailer early one morning and drove him from West Virginia to Iowa. Fifteen blades of grass that were warmed by the sun, I held them in my flat hand so Charley can easily eat them. He is honest, unemotional, and nonjudgmental; he became my constant and my trust. My cycle of depression, when I buried my face in his mane and cried each time I felt like I failed as a horse trainer, a wife, a daughter, and a friend. I rarely find myself in those moments of deep sadness anymore, but when I do, he waits for me in a pasture and quietly chews the grass while his mane soaks up my sadness. My water, three days past my due date, sitting on my couch watching So You Think You Can Dance. Fifteen hours later my first daughter was born. My sewing machine while I crafted small dresses and silk blankets for her. The ground in the spring as we sat together in the garden and plant Petunias, Daisies, Impatiens, and Zinnias. My husbandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plan, when I begged for another child a year later. He finally gave in a year after that. Cookies in half, so each daughter gets one. My back, from giving piggyback rides. Rubber bands, as I pulled blonde strands back off chubby faces. My idea of love when I look in their eyes. The bank, when I decided to go back to college to be a special education teacher. My plans, when I decided to be an English major, too. My bedtime, every time I stayed up late to get homework done. My self-doubt, the first time I stood in front of a high school classroom. My composure, on my last day of student teaching when I had to hug my students goodbye. The sense that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not good enough, when I realize Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m doing exactly what I should be.

Fidget

Billie Barker Electric rant eggs hatch in one elbow, crawl through my spine, creep through the marrow. Bzzt. Bzzt. Neon rats nip the bottom of my back, blazing in the bones, a sneak attack. Bzzt. Bzzt. Silver fishes flashing swim through the limbs, poking knees and femurs with radioactive fins. Bzzt. Bzzt. I can’t stand still and I can’t talk nice and I can’t pay attention to save my life. Bzzt.

An Honest Poem Molly Hahn

My mom wore a mask to church on Sundays. My sister concealed herself in crowds. Girls at school masked their imperfections as they gathered in hordes in the bathroom. My neighbor used to mask the death of her son with her garden. I hid behind the mask I wore outside. My frantic emotions are often disguised as indifference. Many people mask their pain with a shrug. My mom masks her disappointment with downcast eyes and silence. My friends can no longer see the fine line between my mask and my face. People laugh and joke as they try on masks; they seldom remember to take them off.

Dad

Matt Howell I remember being afraid of him. I remember his red, barreled chest, his droopy eyes, his sweet, pungent stench hungover from his binge. I remember anxious whispers, me and my brother and my sister, trying with all our might not to awaken his rage. I remember being afraid of him. I remember starting and not being able to stop. I remember the nights I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember. I remember my red chest, engulfed in flames from the endless chain of cigarettes. I remember morningsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;awakening in a rage, panicked and confused from my binge. I remember being afraid of becoming him.

Purified

Hilary Nekvinda The warm droplets entangle as they trickle down my body sliding down my face that is more like my father than my mother splash against my burdened shoulders coat my breasts that sag with prideâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;they gave life to two children and a marriage slip past my stretched-skin stomach pass my protruding hips that I wish were plumper detour around my deformed skinâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;scars from accidents former till they reach my calloused feet then exit down the drain leaving me purified.

Good (Grey) Hair Char Jacobson

I want smooth, shiny hair. I have coarse, curly hair. Good hair is what most women don’t naturally have, regardless of our age, race, nationality or economic status. I have fake hair. Well, not fake hair exactly, but fake hair color. I liked my original color. Then my kids became teenagers, and the color drained away quickly. This fact is probably not a secret to most people, as I am too poor/lazy/ busy to get the “regrowth” colored often. My bathroom cupboard is full of hair products: products that smooth, that shine, that control the humidity-induced frizz or that curl it or straighten it. I think my husband only uses the toothpaste. Women are judged by other women on the basis of whether they have good hair. Entire movies have been made on the subject: Tangled, Legally Blonde, Good Hair, and Dear White People. God knows the number of hairs on my head. Presumably, that means He planned the shifting ratio of black to silver. If I color my hair, I can lie to myself for a while—I’m not middle aged, and I’m not closer to death than to birth. If I don’t dye, I’m free. I’ll save money and time. But I define myself by my hair, so I dye. Maybe I should be like the ancient Egyptians, or like Oprah, and wear wigs. It would not be in our national economic interest to be content with what we have been given. Entire industries would collapse, perhaps the entire economy, were we to practice contentment. I don’t wear cosmetics because I hate how they feel on my face, but I wear hair dye, and that is a cosmetic for my hair. The number of hairs on one’s head is a metaphor for infinity. When I was poor one year, I didn’t get my hair cut, didn’t buy any clothes or shoes. I felt like crap. The latest style in hair coloring is to color the ends. This is called Ombre. It is cheap, since you don’t have to keep

covering up the roots. It is also for cowards who are afraid to commit. I remember the 1970 Barbie with the retractable pony tail. I wish I could pull all the gray hair back in and never need a haircut. Long hair is supposed to be a glorious thing, the Bible tells us; grey hair, a crown of splendor. I am not feeling the splendor. I don’t want to look like Grandma Barbie of the Happy Family Collection. Especially because Grandpa Ken looks like Mitt Romney! I will, however, settle for Grad School Barbie. She even talks: “I wish somebody would drop a bomb on the school so that I’d have an excuse to stop working on my degree that’s sucking every last drop of life force out of my withered and degraded excuse for a soul...” Once, when I was still coloring my hair at home, I asked my daughter, who is a nurse, for help. A little while later she called out, “Mom, are you ready for me to help you dye?” Of course, what I heard was, “Mom, are you ready for me to help you die?” We laughed hard. It could be worse. I could be bald. I would write more, but I have to go now. I have a hair appointment.

Zgoda, K., (2013). Graduate Student Barbie. Retrieved from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-zgoda/graduate-studentbarbie_b_4184482.html

Amanda’s Autumn Courtney Snodgrass

We danced like two leaves spinning and twirling around each other in the wind. Our own waltz, as we fell from the branches in the beginning of October. We bickered and touched each other in ways we did not mean. Our memories glaze my thoughts as the foliage along the side of a road grows deeper shades of red. We argued and we yelled and we placed our hands on each other so much that I found love in the way your fists kissed my cheeks, more than your lips ever did. You yelled at me the way thunder rumbles after lightning breaks across the sky in the middle of the night. We were a thunderstorm that lit up the bedroom each time our skin touched the other’s but we weren’t making love. We were a string of thunderstorms in the spring—a flood of tears fell from my eyes night after night after you used me to reach a climax all by yourself. In the beginning of summer, our tempers rose like the temperature in the heat.

Kids who lived in the other units of our apartment building played outside with sweat dripping from their foreheads, their hair wet, their faces red from the sun. They laughed with each other while we argued and we yelled at each other. I held our daughter in my womb and felt her kick me after you had just done the same thing. One day, our daughter would be laughing outside, her face would be red, and sweat would be dripping from her forehead. But she would not ever experience you arguing with me and you yelling at me, you hitting me. She would know the peace in silence, because she would know that I left you. I left your abuse.

Momentos

Carmen Delgado Harrington En momentos de miseria Durante el dolor Tiempos de tristeza Soledad incerteza O vergüenza Momentos misericordiosos Días de alegría Tiempos de ternura Compañerismo Amor Dios es mi amparo Consuelo Luz

Moments

Carmen Delgado Harrington Moments of misery Slashes of pain Times of trouble Loneliness uncertainty Or Shame Merciful moments Joyous Seasons Times of tenderness Togetherness Love God is my shelter Solace Light

My Baby

Alyson Oberdries She wants to be independent. I want to help her as long as I can— Be her momma like I did years ago. Hold her hand, wash her hair, feed her, Kiss her goodnight. She’s growing to be her own person. I see myself—young and ambitious. I let her blossom, but I’m never too far To catch her when she falls. I know how the cruel our world can be. She digs to find her own flaws. I look at her and see the beautiful miracle I created. Not knowing I would nurture my best friend, I see her beautiful blue eyes that stared at me On the nineteenth of August. She fights every day to be the best. I picture my baby rolling over for the first time. She has always been a fast learner, an overachiever. Failure has come and will again But she’s my girl, and she is just like me. She desires approval and to make me proud. I have never been more proud Of the young woman she is, Of the decisions she has made, Of the mother she will one day be.

Waking and Weaving Carmen Delgado Harrington I rise in the morning and force my mind to return to the waking world and to leave my dreams woven with memories behind and return to the living where my daddy is dead and I am the parent and to see my daddy in my son’s sandy brown triple cowlicks and summer sun bronzed skin and my daddy’s smile in my son’s milk chocolate eyes and dimples yet seeing my daddy in the waking world roaming the halls patting his tummy and making silly noises or whistling a merry tune while my children’s laughter bubbles over as we weave his dream—of a college degree—into reality—and my daddy looks on proudly— that’s what I long for. 27

I Had Begged My Dad for a Hamster Hilary Nekvinda

When I woke I found my hamster stiff on her wheel her frozen feet forever in motion black eyes glossed over I have never held anything so cold and hard I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand how someone could feel so warm alive when my family was asked if we were ready to turn off the machines that kept my father breathing.

Growing Space Natalie Diester

Sometimes I wish I could grow like a supernova Exploding all at once in dazzling colors Lighting up everything unknown inside myself, Fading out in an instant But no. We grow like trees— Slowly, in a few directions at a time Limbs branching off more limbs sprouting leaves, Expanding, powerless to stop the gradual stretching of ourselves Across time, yet fighting for every millimeter we gain As if we have something to prove, as if we are unsure if the passing of time really changes us. But it does. A friend once told me: “Trees do not have to bear fruit to show that they’re growing.” For trees are only supernovas in slow, slow motion. In the quiet, the in-between, the spaces that feel unoccupied but for our forgotten breaths and wayward thoughts— This is where we unfold.

Meaning of Words Doriann Whitlock

Sound is life. Life is surrounded by sound. A babyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s laugh reminds us of childish innocence. Singers sing to bring joy to other people. Water flows, bringing tranquility to all it serves. The Earth moves to an inner, silent rhythm. Air dances to the colors of the wind. Fire crackles and spits like a breathing person. A spirit has its own unique, powerful sound. Sound is part of all our worlds.

Fleeting Thoughts

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg I remember being a kid lying in a field of flowers in a meadow near my grandparents’ cabin. I loved being surrounded by the sweet fragrance that intoxicated the air. It was the middle of summer: my favorite time of year, with wildflowers in full bloom. Each time I visited that meadow, my eyes became hypnotized by the vibrant colors: purples, pinks and yellows. The yellow ones were my favorite—they reminded me of butter. Butter that melted all over the top of my grandmother’s famous pancakes. She made them for me every morning while we were on vacation. I swear I could never get sick of those silver dollar pancakes. My grandfather gave me my first silver dollar at the age of eight. It was my lucky coin and I took it everywhere. I was heartbroken when I watched it slowly sink to the bottom of the lake. I had been lying on the dock, sun tanning, when I clumsily let it slip through my fingers. It rolled right off the edge and into the dim water: never to be seen. Everything in this world is made of water: two hydrogen and one oxygen. About seventy-one percent of the earth is water. This liquid is part of a self-recycling system: the water cycle. Rain cascades from the heavens, makes its way to the ground, only to be sent back up through the process of evaporation. It’s fate: the clouds. I have always loved clouds, the way they float effortlessly above us all: not a care in the world. They appear to be playing a game of charades, changing from this shape to

that. Imagining what they are trying to be has always been my favorite pastime. Then again my mother did always say I had my head in the clouds when she caught me daydreaming.

Daydreams are a funny thing: you’re awake, but you dream as though you’re sleeping. Imaginations act up to help people through even the most mundane situations. Most girls dream about their wedding day: not me. I drift towards one subject: art. Art is my life. I live, breathe and sleep art. Without it, my mind would go crazy. I need that outlet for my creativity. Creativity that has so many layers due to my ADD: an affliction I use to my advantage. So long as I’m quick to write down the fleeting images that pop into my head, I will never run out of ideas for my next piece. ADD, creativity, and positivity: things I luckily inherited from my grandmother. Sharon Ardell Oldenburg, my grandmother: the pancake queen herself. She is one of the most inspiring women I have ever met, teaching me so much over the years. Mostly to follow my dreams, regardless of what others say. When I think of her I think of lilyof the valley. She always had a flock of them growing behind her house, and I love how they smelled: a smell that to this day reminds me of home. Home: where my happy place is, not my actual residence. Home, where we gather for the holidays. Home, the place I long to be: Wisconsin. Everything is better at home with my family. Family is home, and I miss them every day. Family: a six-letter word that means something different to each person. Some families are enormous in numbers, while others have only a few members. My family is on the larger side, yet we are very close-knit, even the extended branches. The older I get, the more I realize how important the word family is.

Together we work well, and we work well together. I started working for the family business when I was five-yearsold. Back then it was working on crafts in my grandma’s basement, which we would then sell at craft shows. Now it’s evolved to two craft stores thriving all year round. Even though business is booming, we still gather in that cool basement to work on our merchandise. That basement is where it all began, where I made my first dollar. We all secretly long to be in that basement: we have jokingly nicknamed it the dungeon. Dungeons and Dragons: a game my brother is infatuated with and that I have a hard time understanding. Although, from an artist’s point of view, it is interesting to see how video games have evolved over time. The graphics now-a-days have become so realistic it’s almost scary. My dad has always loved scaring people, especially my mom. Growing up, we became accustomed to her screams from his scare tactics. My favorite time was when my mother was in the bathroom cleaning: all Dad had to do was say the word mouse. Terrified of mice, she jumped up on the toilet and wet her pants. I never thought pants would be a good hiding place, but that didn’t stop a chipmunk from running up my dad’s pant leg. He had fallen asleep in his recliner when he was suddenly awoken by the pitter-patter of tiny paws against his leg. He jumped so fast out of that chair and proceeded to do a dance I had never seen before. When he stopped, out ran the chipmunk, and my mom shooed it out the door. That was the first and the last time we had a chipmunk house call. Sunday mornings meant one thing: Alvin and the Chipmunks. It was always a rush to get to the car after church, as not to miss my favorite cartoon. Patiently sitting through the entire service, I wondered if God watched cartoons. What

did he think of their funny voices? I bet he didn’t have to wait to watch them: he probably watched at whatever time he wanted. Time: like my thoughts, it’s fleeting. The hands on the clock are constantly moving, just as my brain is continuously thinking. If you don’t catch each second and each thought, they disappear for eternity. This is why I find it hard to sleep at night: what if I miss something important; what if I have another nightmare? I try counting sheep, but it doesn’t work. Insomnia at its best. I focus on the slow, shallow breathing of my partner next to me. How is it so easy for him to sleep? The clock says it’s two in the morning, and I try to snuggle into comfort. Comfort: something that eases my mind after my troublesome past. Mikel, my boyfriend, is that comfort. With him, I am safe. He is the first man I have trusted in a long time, and he knows how to soothe me. I snuggle up next to him, and he wakes up and scratches my head. I focus on the rhythm of his nails against my scalp and slowly fade.

I Shouldn’t Have Bailey Rickels

They said everyone at my high school drank. I might have been the one exception until the night before graduation day. I kept accepting drinks, leaving a lasting impression on those who only knew me as the class salutatorian. I shouldn’t have ignored the burning in my lungs from one too many tequila shots. I was the virgin trying to outdo the rest. The police rang my mother at midnight. I crossed the median, driving too fast, colliding with a second-shift man. The car burst into flames, charring my lifeless body. Dead on impact. No pain, but no peace. How is it that I can score a thirty-four on the ACT, be in National Honor Society, and quit drinking when Emily says I’ve had too many,

but I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t smart enough to give her my keys, and she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t smart enough to take them away from me?

Fingerprint Abby Herb

A finger pressed Against white paper Cannot tell If it is a black Or white man pressing All it knows Is the black smudge Dirtying the white.

There’s No Place Like Home Char Jacobson

“Will you now stand and take the Pledge of Allegiance?” Shades of brown, black, and white splashed the faces of the crowd at the naturalization ceremony. Amira stood dark and petite among the 24 others. A wave of joy and a piercing sorrow she did not expect almost overwhelmed her. After a moment to compose herself, she added her voice to the musical accents from many nations and proudly recited, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…” When they finished, the judge smiled and concluded the ceremony: “Congratulations—you are now citizens of the United States of America, with all its rights and privileges.” Cheering applause erupted from family, friends and new citizens alike. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Amira returned the hug from her foster sister, Stephanie, who had raced down from the audience. “I’m so excited! Now you can stay here forever!” Amira’s foster parents, Mark and Trish Wellman, followed with their congratulations and hugs. Her dream had come true. But with the dream came a strange sense of loss. The Victorian mansion that was the Wellman’s home was festooned with banners and balloons for the surprise party. There was cake, Adele’s latest hit blaring from the speakers, a trove of friends, and her extended foster family. Amira’s elderly foster grandmother, who always dressed in Chanel suits complete with pearls and rose perfume, hugged her and said she was so proud.

Amira’s college friends kept up an excited chatter, tossing hair and glances in the direction of the few young males in attendance. Her courtly foster grandfather patted her shoulder as she walked out to the verandah, while bragging to the mayor, “My granddaughter is the smartest and prettiest girl this side of the Atlantic…” The mayor took another bite of cake and nodded. Amira blushed, but smiled her thanks to the old gentleman who had warmly welcomed her into his family ten years before. “Welcome to America, Amira,” a tall blond young man said. Troy, the neighbor boy not quite comfortable with his newly acquired height, spoke nervously. “I mean, congratulations. I guess now you never have to go back to Iraq.” Amira cringed inwardly at his pronunciation of Iraq as “eye-rack,” but thanked him with a faint smile, and moved to greet other late arrivals. His eyes followed her across the room. Later, after the last guest had left, the house had been restored to its typical order, and the rest of the family was in bed, Amira had time to think. As she made her way up the stairs, she thought about how nice it was to be fussed over. She felt she didn’t deserve any of it. But it was nice. At the second landing, other feelings percolated to the surface. Relief she was no longer the center of attention. Amira supposed that came from being a refugee. The different one. The special one. The one who couldn’t speak English. Who didn’t have the right clothes. Whose ideas about modesty were strange. It had taken years of intense observation and practice to change the way she dressed and acted, to learn English, think in English, lose her accent and try to forget she ever knew Arabic. She hadn’t succeeded. All those years of feeling like she didn’t belong boiled up, threatening to steal the joy of the day. And the fact that people couldn’t pronounce the name of her country was so annoying! As she lay in bed under the canopy, the darkness allowed her space to give free reign to her conflicting emotions. She wept for her lost family in Iraq, for the school friends she would never see again,

for the flavors she might never taste again. She was an American now—wanted to be an American–but wanted to be Iraqi too. She wanted to fit in and be different at the same time. The tug of war between sorrow and hope was killing her emotionally. Exhausted by intensity, she slept. *** In the morning on her first full day as an American, Amira decided to take the dog for a run before breakfast. “Stephanie, do you want to come?” “Sure. Hang on a sec,” Stephanie said over her shoulder as she went in search of her running shoes. Twenty minutes and two miles later, they were cooling down and walking slowly with the panting dog. “I saw Troy talking to you at the party. Pretty hot, don’t you think?” “I suppose so,” she admitted. “I think it’s supposed to be much hotter later. Glad we went out now.” “I wasn’t talking about the weather, Amira!” Stephanie laughed. Amira smiled at her eager sister, and wiped more sweat off her face. “I don’t think he’s my type.” “You’ve got to admit he’s nice, and he’s been sweet on you for years.” She poked Amira with an elbow. “Why won’t you go out with him?” Amira continued walking without answering, wanting to change the topic. Stephanie continued, “You’re so pretty! It’s such a waste. I wish he’d ask me out.” What Stephanie couldn’t understand is that she didn’t want to make so many ties here that she couldn’t go home if someday some of her family was located. “Okay, I get it,” Stephanie said. “Subject closed. Want to go to a movie tonight? Some of us are going to see Mockingjay.” Again, Amira felt conflicted. Different. Stephanie just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t enjoyed movies like The Hunger Games even though she’d read the books like all the other girls in the seventh grade. Reading descriptions of violence was one thing. Watching it was quite another.

Amira just couldn’t stomach the watching. “No thanks, Stephanie. I ‘m pretty tired after yesterday.” What she wanted to say was that war was not entertainment to her. Stephanie chattered on about the latest high school gossip as they walked. Amira tried to remember what her house in Baghdad had been like, but images of broken concrete and dust, and the taste of smoke still blocked it out. She remembered her family: her mother, father, grandmother, sisters and brother, aunts and uncles, cousins. They had all lived in one big house, not separately, like here in America. She didn’t know if she looked like her sisters or her mother; she didn’t even have a picture to remind her of them. She didn’t know if they had survived the bombings and the fighting. Ten years of not knowing sometimes overwhelmed her and pulled her into a black hole for days. In the confusion of the war’s aftermath she’d been moved from one place to another, and finally come to the Wellman’s home,where they’d virtually adopted her. “…and then she said—Amira, are you listening? I don’t think you’ve heard a word I said!” Amira had stopped to stare at the spray-painted scrawl on their garage door. It said Terrorist go home, and she knew there was no place to belong.

Collide

Dahlia Porter Millions of years ago land masses collided against each other. The world collided. Two adolescent bucks fight for dominance and horns collide. They keep colliding. The ground collides with the light post. And the light post collides with the van. Now all three are collided. My mom and I have colliding views on who deserves the last piece of lasagna. After a long debate, that lasagna collides with my mouth. Opinions collide constantly in the real world. Violence often follows colliding opinions. Death and anger was a consequence from the collision between two airplanes and downtown New York on that September morning. Will the world ever stop colliding? Young admirers meet on the street and their eyes collide. Then their hearts collide. Soon enough their names, too. And for a moment, just maybe, does their world stop colliding.

Syria: 2015 Dahlia Porter

I see him. He is yelling, yelling for help we both know will never come. Something is always happening. Civilians tortured and buildings burned and most of our people fleeing or being forced out of our homes with nowhere to go. I witness these horrors daily. I want to go to them. I want to help her, yet I cannot even help myself. So I watch, watch as he runs through the broken street carrying her weightless body. Something has happened. Maybe she was beaten, maybe it was rape,

or maybe she was buried under her blown-up home. Whatever the case, he is yelling, yelling for help we both know will never come.

(AFP) Sim, David. "Pictures of the Week: Best Photos of Past Seven Days." International Business Times RSS. IBTimes Co., 6 June 2014. Web. 15 Sept. 2015.