Illuminati: A Journal of the Arts - Spring 2022 by notthatilluminati

A Journal of the Arts / Miami University Regionals © 2022 The Illuminati Press All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed only in its entirety and without modification, and only for private use. It may not be sold for profit. Excerpts may only be reproduced and distributed with permission from the copyright owners, except for classroom use or in the case of brief quotations used for book reviews and interviews. The creative works published in Illuminati do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of its staff or of Miami University. Editorial Offices: 129 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45042 Cover art: “Positively Negative.” Josette Kochendorfer. 2022.

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President/Editor-in-Chief Miya Alsip

Vice President/Assistant Editor Olivia Gronvall

Treasurer & Editorial Assistant Geneva Combs

Secretary & Editorial Assistant Olivia Gronvall

Staff Michael Edwards Adam Ward

Faculty Advisors Michelle Lawrence Eric Melbye

Like/Follow/Contact Web: notthatilluminati.wordpress.com Twitter: @illuminatiMU Instagram: @notthatilluminati Facebook: facebook.com/notthatilluminati Email: illuminati@miamioh.edu

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CONTENTS Foreword

A Witch’s Tune

Dark Imagination

Annika Baldwin*

The Reflection

Geneva Combs

Wasp

Riley Courtney*

A Year Below

Night is Darker Than Winter

The Lord Shut Up Her Womb

Tiger in Ohio Woods

September 3

Sugar Sour Baby Girl

The Pursuit of Happiness

You’re Overdramatic

Countenance

Scribe

Understory

Determination

The Tiny Little Things

Disappointment is Unbearable

Miya Alsip

Isabelle Del Turco*

Cynthia Fischer

Karly Hensley

Chandlier Jones

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Where’s My Lemon?

I Eat Poison for Fun

Josette Kochendorfer

Playing With Light

Anna Kopinsky

Loving is Losing

Benjamin LeFevers

The Art Eternal

The Red Stone Rolls Uphill

To Fill My Side

Makaylla Maldonado

Empty Capsules

Gwenevere Markey

Never Too Late to Change

Jason Otis

The Closer

We Bootless Drudges

Hailey Parker

The Statue Man

Kara Reedy

Jingle

Deja Reid*

Untitled

Emma Steigerwald

It’s Not a Phase

Jonah Van Lehn

Hell

Adam Ward

Finding Hope

Oversight

See Me

I Am Means to an End✢

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Jillian White Contributors’ Notes

* denotes Malcolm Sedam winner ✦4✦

✢ denotes a content warning

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FOREWORD Another year and another Spring issue from Illuminati has arrived. Many hours of work and dedication has gone into this newest creation. We here at Illuminati hope that you enjoy reading this collection of work as we did bringing it to life. As Editor-in-Chief I would like to thank our faculty advisors, Eric Melbye and Michelle Lawrence, for their guidance. I would also like to thank the editorial team and the students who submitted their work. Finally, I would like to thank our dear readers for taking the time to browse through this edition. It has been a pleasure to write and work with all of you. —Miya R. Alsip Illuminati Editor in Chief

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MIYA ALSIP A Witch’s Tune

She hums to an unknown lullaby as she stirs, counterclockwise as to set in protections. Her hips sway slightly to the mysterious tune she creates. Softly lilting the tune now, she places her utensil down in wait for the next stirring. She turns gently, the ends of her cotton dress flowing around her knees. The young woman walks from her kitchen; it’s small but she prefers it that way. She glides into her living room, dancing lightly to the music pulling gently out of her as if she was in a dream. Twirling ever so gently to her own song, she glances around her little home, from her favorite corner of the couch, to her reading nook up in the loft. She analyzes each little leaf on her plants, noticing that they seem to expand across the room a little more every day. Her body pauses while her voice still sings a song with no lyrics. Her gentle mouth turns up into a small, pleased smile. Yes, her home is small but it was hers and she had dreamed about it for years. Moving again, she picks up a cup to continue watering her little green friends. Humming now, as she finishes watering the last two plants. With cup in hand, she then turns again to the kitchen, bare feet padding gently in the direction of the stove. Placing the cup in the sink next to the stove, she takes up the utensil again. She hums, stirring counterclockwise to set the intention of protection for any in need who eat it.

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Dark Imagination

The chill of the fridge glided across my face and arms as I searched through it for something, anything to have for dinner. Mom and dad said they would be back by now with dinner. Where are they? Maybe they both had to stay at work longer? I thought as I located a pizza box from last night. Not much but it is better than nothing. Closing the fridge door I turned around, placing the box on the kitchen table and opening the box’s lid. I reached for the roll of paper towels that were in the middle of the table, fumbling due to being tall enough to pinch the roll’s edge but not having any leverage to pull it towards me until I wiggled them to move enough to tear the towels into pieces. One for me, one for Ariel. “Ariel, would you like some?” I asked my beloved companion, glancing in her direction lovingly and catching a glimpse of her expressionless doll face. Not waiting for an answer I gently placed her share of the paper towel along with a piece of pizza in front of her and then served myself in the same way. I sat down at the table and began to eat my pizza, swinging my legs back and forth to feel the linoleum lightly grazing the underside of my bare feet. “Who are you spirit? How old are you?” a voice pierced my contented silence as it was followed by a series of giggles. Spirit? Like a ghost? There are no ghosts here. Worriedly, I got out of the chair, pizza and Ariel left behind. Padding over to the right of the kitchen table where the voice floated from I found the basement door to be slightly opened. I frowned when I opened the door and looked down to see my sister Nicole and her friend Brittany hunched over a strangelooking letter board. They were surrounded by flickering candles as they sat in the middle of what looked like a circle. “What are you doing down here? What’s with the board?” I asked very confused, only to become more so when both teenagers gave slight yelps, ripping their hands from the board’s surface. “Rae! What the heck? Why did you scare us like that?” My sister snapped as she stood up and began stomping her way up the stairs towards me. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to see what you were doing with that board. What is it anyway?” I mumbled as she now blocked my view of the basement with her taller frame. I moved back to give her room to come into the kitchen if she wanted to. “It is called none of your business you nosey little brat! Stop trying to butt in, this is my time to hang out with MY friend! Annoying little sisters are not allowed!” She snipped, grabbing onto the basement door handle and closing it to give a resounding thud that mixed with their chuckles of amusement. I sighed and walked over to Ariel and my spot in the kitchen. “Who needs big mean old sisters anyway when I have you? Right, Ariel?” I mused, finishing off my pizza slice and placing Ariel's safely back into the box for later. I was closing the lid when I heard it: footsteps creaking in the other room. I got excited, quickly shoved the pizza into the fridge, and gripped Ariel’s little doll hand in mine as I raced towards the living room, passing the basement door. I spun around the corner now clutching Ariel's plastic body into my

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chest as I smiled wide for mom and dad. Only they weren’t there, no one was there. Maybe I just imagined it? This house can make odd noises at times. I thought as I dropped my smile, deciding to head up to my room to get ready for bed so mom can tuck me in when she gets back. I raced around the second floor, moving from closet to bathroom to bed. Finally, I settled in bed and lay down with Ariel to wait for mom to come home. Before I knew it I drifted off to sleep without being tucked in. ✶✶✶ I gripped onto the sheets for dear life. My knuckles were tight and beginning to cramp from their scrunched-up positions. My chest constricted painfully as if one of the boas from the zoo was wrapped tightly around me. I wish it was a boa, something familiar, something not…IT. I heard my heart pounding in my ears, mixing with the sounds IT made as it crawled towards me. The achingly slow sounds as IT moved, each sound of motion followed by a chilling noise of what sounded like a single knuckle pop. Creak…pop…creak…pop…creeeeaaaakkk…pop! The end of the mattress, my mattress, dipped as IT crept up the foot of my bed. Coming for me. Shuffle…pop…shuffle…pop…shuffle…pop! Closer and closer, hovering over my small quivering frame. I whimpered as IT neared even closer to where my head was ducked under my sheets. IT let out a breathy, foul smelling giggle that I feel as IT leaned its face close to mine. I whimpered again, partially gagging from the smell as I felt the creature's breath race across my cheek through the blanket. I tensed, feeling one of its hands move from blocking any kind of exit to the top of the sheet and begin to slowly rip the blanket from my head. I clenched my eyes shut wanting, needing to be anywhere else, but there is nowhere else to go. The final remnants of my blanket shield was torn from me and I opened my eyes to find myself blinking rapidly, covered in my own sweat. I bolted up, blinking bleary eyed in astonishment at the amazing miracle that was the sun shining through my window. Only a nightmare, so terrifying, so life-like. And so freaking repetitive! This has been going on for a week now! This is getting ridiculous! Sighing in relief at being free from the nightmare, I began to climb out of bed. The last bits of the nightmare left my mind as I worked my way out of the sheets. I finally got out of the knotted sheets, stumbling towards my vanity while rubbing my eyes. I sat down, eyes still closed as I blindly searched the table top for my brush. Blinking my eyes rapidly to get the sleep out of them, I looked into the mirror and became startled. Not by my reflection but what was suddenly standing behind me, a woman that was tall and skeletal-like with a disturbingly wide smile. I whipped my head back scanning behind me to find nothing and when I turned around the scary lady was gone. I gulped audibly. Is the scary thing from my nightmares real? I questioned fearfully, trying anything I could think of to explain what had just happened. As much as I wanted to not admit that

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the scary thing could exist, I had a gut feeling that I just experienced something real, and I began to doubt that my dreams were just my imagination. No longer wanting to be in my room in case it came back, I quickly brushed my hair and threw on a quick pair of denim shorts with a random shirt from my closet. Oh, the closet. It came out of here didn’t it? What if it’s invisible and is waiting for me to have my back turned for it to jump me?! I quivered, frozen with my hand on my closet door, suddenly terrified of the possibility of it coming for me in daylight. It showed itself in the mirror, what if it can get me outside of my dreams? I whimpered, quickly shutting the closet door and bolting out of my room going towards the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, I was greeted by the noises of my family rummaging in the kitchen and walked towards them quickly. “Okay, doctor, just so I can understand. You want Nicole for an E.K.G. at two, followed up by a blood draw at three?” My mom questioned into her phone as I walked up to her. “Mom, can I talk to you? There’s a creepy lady that has been…” I was cut off as she did that annoying one minute hand sign and handed me a random cereal box from the top of the fridge. I looked down at the box, walking away knowing she was too busy to listen. Lucky Charms? I hate this one but I can’t ask mom to pull something else down. She will get more agitated then she already is. I glanced over toward her, already dressed for work but even with the day just starting, her hair was already frizzled. I decided to talk with dad, maybe just maybe. “Dad, there’s a creepy lady coming out of my closet at night. I think it may have something to do with a board Nicole was using to talk to ghosts,” I rushed out, hoping for any guidance or really anything at this point. Dad was listening to his phone too but had moved it away to hear me. He scrunched up his eyes, confused. “Nicole, do you have a Ouija board I don’t know about?” Dad asked, glancing down to me then to Nicole who was seated at the table. Ouija board? Is that what that thing is called? “No? Honestly, what would I do with one of those things? Are you sure Rae isn’t just sneaking into the movie cupboard and watching ghost movies?” I gaped as Nicole not only denied using the whatchacallit, but she accused me of watching movies I wasn’t supposed to! “Rae, sweety, you know you aren’t supposed to be watching those types of movies. They give you nightmares, and you know that. Since you seem scared, I will let it slide but no more creepy lady. She is just your mind trying to scare you. Now hop along and eat. You don’t want to be late for school.” He whispered as he handed me a bowl and spoon. I nodded glumly, close to tears, and sat down getting the cereal poured. “Little snitch,” Nicole muttered. “Liar,” I snipped sadly back. Beginning to pour the milk that was out on the table, I went through the motions of it all while trying to tune out everyone. I know she is real. Why won’t any of them listen to me? I get that Nicole has a lot going on with her heart, and they are trying to keep the house running smoothly. But seriously, I think a creepy ghost is a top priority on this. How can they get rid of it if they don’t pay enough attention to my warnings? Slowly but surely as I ate cereal I watched everyone pack and go. Mom always goes first as she needs to be early to help open up the local bank. Then, Nicole, since her bus picks up before mine. Finally, dad rushed out,

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leaving me to place my bowl in the sink and rinse it so it is easier to wash later. I trudged back up the stairs to my room to grab my backpack and shoes. I stepped into my room, pausing to shove my shoes onto my feet as they are near my doorway. Turning in search of my bag, I stopped dead when I found something else. Is Ariel standing in the middle of my bedroom? I left her on my bed when I woke up. I walk further into the room slowly, unsure of how in the world Ariel the doll was just standing on her own. Her hands were down by her side as her shiny red covered head faced my closet door. I found my bag at the end of my bed, three feet from my beloved doll. I picked it up, slinging the bag over my shoulder, still transfixed on this doll just standing there, standing even when I had tried for years to lean her on to something only for her to fall back despite everything I did. “Ariel?” I called out warily. Suddenly, her head snapped towards my direction. Her face was clear and smiling as normal until quickly her little pleasant smile turned into a gnarled grin. Without me noticing, her body had moved to match her head’s new direction and began to slowly stumble towards. Screeching at the horror of her face and unnatural movement, I booked it out of my bedroom, slamming my bedroom door. Running down stairs, almost falling, my hand found the front door knob, and I wrenched on it to get it to open. A cruel laugh cut through the air as I finally flung the door open and closed it behind me. I stopped only long enough to lock it with my key before I again bolted down the porch steps and through the fence. I continued my run until I was at my bus stop. Heart hammering and lungs screaming, I leaned over my knees to catch my breath. “What’cha running from? You look like you saw a ghost,” a voice mused as I screeched in terror and stumbled away from it. “Rae! It’s me, it’s Brook! What happened to make you so jumpy?” the same voice rushed out. I paused to look over to see someone whom I had not realized was there. “Brook, hi, sorry. I am a bit jumpy. I…think I just got chased out of my house. You see, there’s this really creepy lady. I started seeing her a week ago in my dreams, and I think she just had my doll, Ariel, chase me.” I explained quickly. “Have you told your parents? This seems a bit dangerous since it had your doll chase you,” Brook asked as she walked towards me, putting her hand on my back as I was still leaning forward on my knees. “I tried to, but you know them. Mom was too busy with Nicole's doctors, and dad just thought that I was having nightmares from watching scary movies,” I answered back as I stood up fully, my heart and lungs slowly going back to their normal function. “You hate horror movies. Why would he think you were watching any? I still remember you hiding under the blankets when I tried to get you to watch that one movie,” Brook responded, confused. “Courtesy of Nicole. I tried to tell dad that the creepy lady started showing up after I saw my sister messing with something they called a Ouijia board, and she denied it while putting the horror movie idea out,” I explained, watching as the bus turned the corner to go towards us.

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“Nicole was messing with a Ouijia board?!” Brook screeched in alarm as the bus pulled up. “Yeah.What is it?” I responded slowly, beginning to walk towards the edge of the path where it meets the road. “This isn’t good. If they won’t take care of it, we have to,” she mumbled. I looked back at her with confusion on my face as I watched her suddenly lean onto her knees panting like I had just moments ago. “Brook? What’s wrong?” I asked, quickly walking towards her hunched form and rubbing her back trying to comfort her. The bus pulled over to the side as the bus driver opened up the door to let us in. “Hey, is she okay?” The driver called out. “Tell him to go on and that you are going to walk me home,” she muttered, still hunching forward. What is she doing? Brook can’t get this suddenly ill can she? I looked over towards the bus driver and into his worried face. “She isn’t feeling well enough to go. I’m going to walk her home,” I called back as I continued to rub Brook’s shoulders in a soothing manner, having no idea what she was thinking. “Alright, be safe you two!” He shouted over the engine as he closed the doors. The bus eventually pulled away back onto the road and turned down another street. As soon as the bus was out of sight Brook quickly corrected herself and began to walk down the street. “Where are you going? Your house is the opposite way!” I called, confused as to why she just had us skip the bus. “We are going to get help for you. The only way to do that is to go to the store,” Brook answered calmly as I finally met up with her. The store? What store? Oh, please don’t tell me. “We aren’t going to the store your mom works at are we? My mom said to stay out of there,” I exclaimed, worried about not only skipping school but also going to the one place I was forbidden to go. “You need a specific kind of help, Rae, and this is the only place you can get it,” Brook muttered seriously. I sighed both in exasperation and in relief from knowing I would be getting help. We continued to walk in the direction of the store Brook’s mom, Lily, worked at. It looks like any regular shop on main street but what they sell makes the local church goers, like my mom, nervous. It’s a place called Magical Momentos; it sells anything from crystals to witch cauldrons. Suffice to say, the customers are not exactly your run of the mill Christians, a good chunk of them being pagans or just witches in general. I know enough from Brook’s past ramblings to be able to understand how they would help. Of course the store and owner would help. It is run by a medium who is known for helping people get rid of ghosts. I wish I had gone behind mom’s back to read all those ghost books; I wouldn’t be flying so far in the dark if I did. “You never did answer me about what a Ouija board is,” I asked as we crossed the road onto the main street sidewalk. “It’s an object that is used to talk to the dead and other spirits. It basically opens up a portal and advertises into the void. A lot of people think it’s a game, and companies sell it as one. But in

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reality, it is a low vibration tool, and it attracts very dark spirits that can then use the doorway to come into our world,” Brook answered mechanically, shouldering her bag higher as we closed in on Magical Momentos. “Low vibrations? What does that have to do with anything?” I question, skimming through the various store front signs. “Everything with a soul vibrates with energy. We each have our own levels. The living give off different vibrations than the dead and other spirits. What happens is when we have high vibrations, we attract good things and spirits with the same levels. But when we or other objects give off low vibrations, we attract low vibrational things or spirits,” Brook answered. “So, basically my sister and her friend used a Ouija board that attracted and allowed a bad spirit to come into our house.” I summed up as we finally reached Magical Momentos. “Yep and I think I know what you are up against. We’ve got this, Rae. We just need to double check that it is what I think it is and just grab what we need to get rid of it.” Brook turned from the door to me as she answered, placing her hand on my shoulder and squeezing it lightly to comfort me. I couldn’t help but smile in relief as Brook is an expert at this stuff. Brook turned back around and gripped onto the shop’s door handle. Opening it, she went inside with me right behind her. “Hello! Welcome to Magical Momentos. How can I… Brook, why are you not on the school bus?” Brook’s mom began only to stop and begin questioning what was going on. “Mommy, Rae’s sister Nicole used a Ouija board and something came through. It just had Rae’s doll chase her out of her room this morning. She needs help, mama, and her parents don’t believe her,” Brook cut to the chase quickly as she walked further into the shop. Lily stopped short there, letting her daughter’s words sink in. “Oh dear, you were right to come as quickly as you did. Come into the back so we can get this taken care of,” Lily stated as she ushered us into the back room. “Maria, I am sorry. Brook’s friend needs help, I think there may be a poltergeist haunting her. I am going to go call your mom and tell her you got sick at the bus stop. That Brook is going to watch over you for the day” Lily mumbled as she sat Brook and I at a table with the owner of the shop, leaving to go call my mom. “Wait, poltergeist? What is that?” I asked confused and ruffled by the fact Lily was going to call my mom to lie to her. “A type of spirit, dear. Nasty things but not impossible to get rid of,” Maria answered gently as she got up to skim the books lined up on the shelves near her. She found what she was looking for and opened up the book. Finding the page she apparently wanted, she placed the book face up and slid it over towards me. “Here, read this. It should help,” She stated as she then walked into the main part of the store. I looked down to see what she wanted me to read: “Poltergeist or noisy spirit. These things are derived from people with spiritual gifts who cannot or will not control their release of negative emotions. Those with gifts need ways of converting negative energy safely through meditation and chakra learning. What happens if a gifted person does not control this energy is that their negative energies will leave their body in bursts and come together until there is so much separate energy that it becomes sentient. What

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comes from this creation is a negative shape shifting spirit with the ability to interact very directly with the physical world. They bang cupboards, move chairs, drag people, and have the ability to physically harm humans among other things.” So this is what has been bothering me this whole time? How am I going to get rid of it? Suddenly, both Lily and Maria came in. They were both whispering and heading over towards the shelves of extra supplies. Lily motioned for me to come forward, and I slowly stood up, scared to come over. What if they can’t help me? What if I’m stuck with this thing in my room torturing me for the rest of my life or something? “Are you sure we are out of the liquid sage?” Maria questioned, focusing on the packed shelves. “Yes, I sold the last bottle yesterday. We have a new shipment coming in a few days,” Lily supplied. She was twirling a cord necklace between her fingers. The pendant was gorgeous, a metal tree inside a circle that had the tiniest of beads on the branches to act as leaves. Lily noticed me watching her movements and smiled lightly. Though her eyes showed how worried she was, she lifted the necklace so I could see it more easily. The little pendant spun slightly as it caught the light that seeped into the backroom from the store’s windows out front. The tree shone in the light, making it more beautiful. Looking at it made me happy and a warm feeling spread through my chest. I suddenly had a desire, no, a need, to put the necklace on for whatever reason. “Would you like to put it on? This necklace has been made for the purpose to protect its owner from harm,” Lily offered, her hands stretching the necklace between them so it could go around my neck. I smiled and nodded, allowing her to put it on. I felt a rush of safety, my breath shuddered lightly at the sudden onslaught of comfort. I didn’t even realize that I felt so unsafe, so…exposed until it came. “Okay, dearie, we can help you, but we need to wait for some things to come in first. The necklace Lily gave you should protect you until we get what we need. I do request that Lily and I head over to your home though. By Lily’s descriptions, it sounds as if the spirit has attached itself to your doll. Unfortunately, that means you will have to part with it,” Maria explained turning to me, smiling in satisfaction to see the necklace already on me. Get rid of Ariel!? Why did it have to come down to this? Why did that creepy lady have to take Ariel from me? But let’s be honest here, after this morning, was there anyway I would want to be near that doll again? I guess this morning was really the final goodbye. I shuffled my feet as my eyes became blurry. “If that’s what it takes to get rid of the creepy lady, I will do it,” I whimpered out softly. “That a girl, sweetheart. Everything will be just fine. Do you have a key to your house so Maria and I can get in and get Ariel?” Lily soothed out. “Yeah,” I muttered weakly, pulling the key out of my pocket where I shoved it as I ran out this morning. I handed it to Lily, watching as they both prepared to leave. “We’ll be back soon. We will close down the shop while your girls stay here. Best if you don’t come with us. Did you say your sister had a Ouija board? Do you know where she placed it? ” Maria asked as she got her purse and keys, getting ready to head out.

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“Yeah, I saw it in the basement, but I don’t know if it is still down there though. I finished that passage you wanted me to read. Where do you want me to leave it?” I asked, shifting slightly. “That’s alright, we will find it. Keep the book, dear. Consider it a replacement for your doll. We will see you soon,” Maria responded as Lily and her left, closing the shop behind her. It took only an hour for them to come back with the items in hand. Before I knew it the day was over, and I was snug in bed asleep. “Rae, get up!” Nicole whimpered as she woke me up, shaking me. “What?” I mumbled, blinking up at her, bleary eyed. “I saw that creepy lady, Rae! She’s in my room, my chest hurts so much!” she cried while clutching her chest as she dropped heavily to the floor. “Mom, get in here! It’s Nicole!” I screamed, kneeling next to my sister as I heard sudden thuds of footsteps rushing from our parent’s room.

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ANNIKA BALDWIN The Reflection

So, this was what it all came to: being surrounded by a multitude of individuals and being completely alone. This was what it was all about: meaningless chatter falling on her deaf ears. Without a single sound word of advice or comfort. Not, she bitterly thought, that she would have taken it if it was given. Yes. This is what it’s all about. This was what it came down to. This is it. What she imagined Hell to be. The lighter flickered, and the cigarette glowed against Era’s lips. The burn sunk into her chest as she breathed deeply. Despite the effort of her muscles, she still coughed on the exhale. Her nose crinkled as she eyed the cylinder between her fingers. Poison neatly rolled in paper. Stunk of death, too. No telling why she still insisted on putting it in her mouth and airways. Era sucked on the cigarette as though her life depended on it. The smoke blew out in an aggressive huff. “Why do you insist on killing yourself?” Her mother had said, needing no answer. “My choice,” Era had answered anyway. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t.” Era had shrugged. Her mother’s added thought was said in an undertone— “Of course, it doesn’t matter what I say…” “It’s nothing, really,” Era shrugged again. The nonchalance spilled off her easy shoulders and bored mouth. Letting another exhalation of smoke fill the air, Era shook herself free from her thoughts. Her eyes drifted to the maze of puddles inches from the door. Rain painfully dripped from the miniscule awning. The sky must have been depressed that winter—it rarely stopped crying. The obnoxious nobodies huddled into their seats, cradling their cigarettes. Era leaned out into the rain, studying the puddle before her. She caught sight of her reflection, ghostly and insubstantial. Bold lipstick, slick eyeliner, eyelined-stars on the cheekbone, washed-out skin, hollow under the eyes. Era tapped ashes into the puddle, the resulting ripples disrupting the image. ✶✶✶ Samuel Marsen had the kind of arms that swallowed their recipient. Blue eyes that twinkled, wrinkles gathering around the edges. Strength and stubbornness passed on like a family heirloom. When she was twelve, Era didn’t need to witness the hospital conversation to imagine how it had happened. The doctor says, “Your heart’s clogged up in the right and left coronary arteries. It could be from eating habits, but it appears to be smoking primarily.” ✦16✦

“Smoking?” Mama says. “He hasn’t smoked in years.” The doctor shoots a look at Daddy, who shrinks further into the blankets around him. Mama’s face darkens with her own personal storm clouds. “This buildup would only be from consistent smoking,” the doctor says. “It’s either quit smoking, or shorten your years.” Mama glowers at Daddy down on the bed. “I knew it,” she says. “I knew you’d lied! You’ve been smoking at work, haven’t you?” But all Era certainly knew was what her Daddy told her. “When that doctor told me it was either quit smoking or die sooner than later,” Daddy would recount, “that was it for me. No more smoking. It was no choice.” Era knew the stubbornness, but she saw the strength. Resting her head on her arms, she had smiled—and inwardly she vowed to carry that strength like a coat of arms. ✶✶✶ The shot burned all the way down, a warm glow—bittersweet all the way. The alcohol dropped into her stomach and settled there, making itself at home. In ten minutes, maybe less, the aftereffects would sweep through her slim body. She swallowed guilt like a lump in her throat. Era motioned to the bartender. “Another Jameson, please.” The room squeezed in on itself like lungs deflating of air. She punched back at the nagging voice that dripped through her brain. She was a lightweight—a voice warned her. It didn’t matter— another voice fired back. The next shot was warmer, less like fire and more like candlelight. She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the flow through her bloodstream. She waited a minute before tapping on the bar again. ✶✶✶ Three shot glasses rested in a row on the metallic-sounding top of the ancient washer. Daddy shimmied the top off the bottle of Maker’s Mark. Like muscle memory of an old sport, he smoothly poured the whiskey into each glass.

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Over her shoulder, Era’s older brother grinned, shaking his head at their father’s rekindled interest in whiskey. Daddy handed them each a glass, peeping at the laundry room door. Mama was upstairs, but one never knew. “Cheers,” Daddy said. The glasses clinked, followed by the addictive fire flowing down Era’s chest. “Merry Christmas!” Daddy added with one of his wide, silly grins. “Who the hell are you, dad?” Her brother shook his head, smiling. When Mama found the whiskey, Era could hear her open mouth and fiery eyes, though she was in a completely other part of the house. “Are you becoming an alcoholic again?” She all but shrieked, her voice borderlining hysteria. The pressure she carried around on her shoulders came out in the irritability of her tone. “I can’t have a little whiskey at Christmas?” Daddy responded. “You never have a little whiskey at Christmas.” “Well, maybe I was craving some.” “And that’s what worries me—” Mama yelped. Era rolled her eyes to the ceiling, searching for answers she’d never know. A sip of whiskey didn’t make one an alcoholic. A single shot didn’t mean there was an addiction. She blocked out the sounds of the yells. “Know your limits,” Daddy nodded seriously at Era, later, where she sat at the kitchen’s bar, chin in her hands. “That’s what I do. When it starts going down too smooth, that’s when I know to stop.” Era had never truly enjoyed alcohol. She liked the taste of whiskey, but she had no intention of regularly drinking once she was of age. Yet she stored away her father’s advice. ✶✶✶ The third shot was smooth as fresh ice. The fuzzy sensation of warmth was finally dulling Era’s nerves. Her feet took on block-like quality, detached from her form, yet thick like bricks. She twisted her hands before her eyes, studying the ashen quality of them. Her fingers twitched, graceful and decaying. The crooked, done-in-a-basement tattoo on her knuckle seemed further blurred. The numbing spread through the knuckles and bones. Era’s body felt light as she studied the room. Forget, forget, forget, she told her brain. The country song playing cut through her like nails on a chalkboard. She flinched as the volume pounded on her skull. The karaoke volunteer lay on the music altar, a sacrifice, and he was dying slowly—or so his voice would lead drinkers to believe. Era tripped slightly as she moved farther away from the microphone. She slid into the high top in front of the wall spanned by a window. The glass of vodka and cranberry in her hand sloshed, unforgotten. She studied it for a moment longer than necessary before taking a sip. When Era had come from Florida, looking for an escape from the empty silence of her apartment, she had entered the bar to a hero’s welcome. Glasses raised, they sorrowfully saluted her. And every coming had felt like a victory—yet every return also like a defeat. And now? She nursed her solitude like a war injury.

✦18✦

Era built up the walls around her form, retreating deeper within herself. She radiated aggression, secrecy, and disgust—letting it paint her face and curl her mouth—her shoulders hunched forward. Forget, forget, forget, she blearily told herself. “When it goes down too smooth… Quit smoking or die sooner than later…” Die sooner—die sooner—die sooner—like the throbbing of her heartbeat. Her father loomed in her mind— She shot the vodka and cranberry, hoping the poison was good for something. The fluorescent lights behind her hit the glass and clashed with the night. The resulting mirror quality caught Era’s eye. A slight jolt flashed through her. But, no, it was just her reflection. Her own. Dark eyes, pointed cheeks, raggedy hair… ✶✶✶ She was sixteen years old again. Her legs pounded against the driveway, arms pumping, lungs burning from the exercise and the anxiety. She burst through the garage door. “Daddy—” the scream that broke free from her lips was unearthly. It called out for the ghosts in every corner of the house; it shrieked in the voice of the demons inside her. Every word was anguished, breaking into a million pieces, wrenching free from her throat. Daddy's blue eyes were terrified as he stumbled around the corner, catching the child that flew into his arms. Words got suffocated and choked in her throat, her fists, her screams—uncontrolled—as though there was no more Era, just the chaos. I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—The screams reverberated; the dogs cowered, one of them diving beneath the couch. Era could feel the darkness pressing in on her, trying to touch her body—caressing it. There was no way to cover herself. Daddy’s eyes searched the hallway behind the trembling form he held in his arms. She sobbed into his chest, the shirt soaking with saltwater. The stoic man said nothing. He smoothed her hair down her back, clutching her to him. And he never did find out what happened that day. Era never told him; he never asked. But the next time her heart shattered and flooded from her mouth like darkness in a fantasy movie, Daddy was no longer there. ✶✶✶ “What do you want, darling?” The blustering boy spanned the bar with his arm. “Anything you like!” Era masked the dripping disgust with a shy smile—shaky from Jameson. “Tequila!” Her voice rose over the grating music. “You heard the lady,” the boy grinned. He touched Era’s arm, and she flinched. Her fingers snatched at the tequila shot the bartender placed before her. Salt—shot—lime. Her mouth screwed up as she grimaced. “Woo!” He hollered. “I like a girl that can shoot her liquor.” If possible, he moved closer. “I could easily do another,” she fired off a smile that she hoped was coquettish. It hit its mark, sliding all over his glazed face.

✦19✦

“I’ll drink to that,” he grinned again. “Callie!” The bartender turned. “Two more tequila shots!” He shot his tequila and devoured Era’s appearance. Era swallowed the booze and the cringe that swept through her. ✶✶✶ “Era?” Her mother’s voice sounded faraway and stuffy. Era wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with this right now. She had to be at work in thirty minutes; she wasn’t even completely dressed. “Hey, Mom,” she struggled to keep the edge of exasperation out of her tone. “I’m already running late for work. Can I call you later? I gotta go.” “Your father’s dead.” The Marsens didn’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat truth. The words knocked the wind out of Era’s lungs. Her brain, meanwhile, continued to slowly turn the idea over, unable to comprehend. Your father’s dead—your father’s dead—your father’s dead—like her heartbeat pounding. “What?” She finally said. “Daddy’s dead.” Her mother’s voice caught on a splinter. “It was last night—in his sleep— his heart…You know, how his heart is.” “No,” Era numbly replied, though a reply wasn’t warranted. “I’m so sorry, honey.” The tears were coming through the phone. “I’m so sorry. We found him…” “No,” Era interrupted. “No.” No. The ground crumbled beneath her feet. There was nothing. ✶✶✶ The liquor burned just as much coming back up—probably more. Era retched out her intestines into the toilet beneath her shaking palms. Muffled, the mellowness of “Ain’t No Sunshine” drifted through the bathroom door. Era paused, feeling her chest squeeze. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Maybe it would end it quickly. “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s goneOnly darkness every day—” Era held her breath. Her guts spilled from her mouth into the toilet again. She would be surprised if she had any guts left. She wretchedly coughed on the bitter acid tearing at her throat. Era shakily moved to her feet. She turned to the sink behind her. Water flew from faucet to face. It was everywhere—dripping from her hair—sliding from her cheeks—blurring her mascara—or had she put any on to begin with? She gulped the metallic-tinted liquid, trying to rinse away the burn.

✦20✦

She straightened, and her breath caught in her throat. A creature of ash and shadow stared back at her. Something dripped from its torn and thinning hair. Its eyes were gaunt and red, yawning black holes. Its nose was hooked. Its mouth leered at her, teeth jagged, blood drooling from the corner of the lacerated lips. Era stepped back, squeezing her eyes shut and digging her nails into her temples. It was just her reflection. ✶✶✶ “I’m moving out, Dad.” She had said it quietly, packed with conviction. The sort of walking on eggshells she typically did at the time. Daddy had looked up from his mug—the kind that holds about four cups of coffee. “I got an apartment,” Era added. Daddy’s jaw tightened slightly, but all he said was, “Where?” “In Florida.” His eyebrows shot up. “I got a job down there. I’m gonna finish school there, too.” Daddy raised the mug and took a long swig of coffee. He swallowed with a grimace, pushing words out. “Why?” “I gotta move out,” Era simply replied. “Why?” Daddy repeated. “And why Florida? So far.” “I can’t keep doing this, Dad.” She shrugged off her own words and the words that echoed through her head. Always someone else’s voice inside. The plague of the Overthinker. Daddy studied the maple tree outside the sliding glass door. “Is it your mother?” He finally asked. Era was quiet, tapping her fingers on the bar. “I’m not a bitch, Dad. And I’m not a whore,” she quietly spoke without directly answering. She met his eyes. The day she was sixteen passed through their gaze. “I need to get out. It’ll be better for all of us.” Daddy absentmindedly nodded. “I leave in a week,” Era finished, leaving the room and her father in her wake. Letting his eyes chase after her. The night before she left, Era trudged up to the garage, stinking of cooking grease, her bones aching. Her father reclined in a folding chair in the mouth of the garage. A beer was in one hand as a cigar perched between his knuckles. Era was too tired to feel surprise. “How was work?” Daddy greeted. “Fine.” Era moved past. “Wait, honey—sit.” Daddy waved a hand to the floor by his side. Era hesitated. “Dad, I’m exhausted.” “Just sit for a minute.” Sighing, Era lowered herself onto the cement beside him. Their unspoken thoughts filled

✦21✦

the murky air. Their unspoken secrets—so like each other. Era thought of the full pack of cigarettes in the console of her car. Untouched. Just in case. God-willing, her mother and job would drive her to seek consolation in a cylinder of drugs. Yet she never lit one; she just kept it. A reminder— of her father’s words. “Sing something for me, would ya, baby?” Daddy finally broke the silence. “Dad…” But she stopped with another sigh. “What do you want me to sing?” “‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’” So, Era sang. The notes drifted around them and lifted out of the garage and into the twilight air. “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, and this house just ain’t no home, every time she goes away…” When Era finished, her father drank his beer, staring off into space. And Era simply rose and walked away. The next day, Era left. Ohio didn’t greet her again for two years. And when she did return, the garage’s music had died, shattering in a million broken music notes on the pavement. ✶✶✶ The tequila guy was jostling against Era’s body. How many cigarettes was this now? She mentally asked the flaring paper in her hand. She laughed, almost hysterically, the sound spilling from her lips and staining the air. She almost dropped the cylinder of hot ash. The boy smoothed her hair. Jerkily, she pulled away. “Someone bought shots for the whole bar,” a man shouted out the back door. The boy whooped, grasping Era’s arm. “Shots on the house!” He sang. Era grinned through the smoke. Her chest constricted like someone had placed a blood pressure gauge around her lungs—squeezing tighter and tighter. She clumsily brushed the guy off. “Cigarette first,” she told him. “Go drink.” She sucked the nicotine into her lungs, feeling them constrict further. Then she tossed the butt—missing the ashtray—stumbling back for another shot. ✶✶✶ His ashes were placed in a container and dropped within the ground. A burial plot that cost over $1000—cheaper than it could have been had Daddy not requested to be cremated. It was Era that wanted a stone. A plot. A place to sit and stare. A place to leave—well, flowers, she supposed—though bars of chocolate would be more appropriate.

✦22✦

In Memory of Samuel Marsen Aug 10, 1968 - Jan 5, 2020 Forever and Always The words burned themselves as an imprint into Era’s brain. She stood frozen, hands shoved in her pockets, letting the world of mourners continue to float around her. Arms around her shoulders—people that asked, “How are you?” —straight A’s a semester after—a move, a job, an apartment and bringing in the rent —people that said, “Your dad would be so proud of you.” So proud of you. Era replied, “I don’t think the dead care all that much.” “Your father would be so proud of you,” Mama told Era over the phone recently. “…I’m…proud of you.” The effort to push the words out pinched Era’s ear. She cringed away from the words she’d never heard from her mother’s lips—the words her father had never heard. Though Mama couldn’t see it anyway, Era turned up the corners of her mouth. “Thanks, Mom.” She should make a bigger effort. She should come around more. But she didn’t. And she flipped off the living room lights and locked the door. And she climbed into the car and drove back to the bar. And she pulled out the pack of cigarettes in the center console. And she ordered a shot of Jameson and quickly took it—letting it flood her senses that refused to be entirely silenced. And she took another shot of Jameson and let it silence the nagging that persisted, telling her what she was doing—but she never took advice anyway, did she? ✶✶✶ The wooden planks of the bar were uneven, grabbing at Era’s shoes, tripping her up. She just barely caught her footing. The room was full of faces—faces and faces and voices she didn’t know. Everyone was looking at her—at least, she thought they were. Their eyes devoured her like the boy’s. It was like a nightmare where she was naked. The eyes crowded in on her; the voices pounded on her skull like a hammer. The fortune of the bathroom door cleanly opening in front of her—rather than being locked—barely registered in Era’s brain. She slipped, falling to her knees in front of the toilet. Her kneecaps stung as her throat burned, more liquor and bile exiting. A trace of red laced the contents in the bowl. So, this was what it all came to: nicotine in her chest and four separate alcohols spewing from her mouth. The blue-eyed man with wrinkles around his eyes was a rotting corpse in the ground. His music and laughter silenced. His heart forever still. For all his words, his body still stopped. For all his advice against smoking and drinking, she had only failed. And after all, what were the words of a dead man worth? Nothing. “No,” the word hoarsely pushed free from Era’s lips. “Everything.” But it didn’t matter. She threw up the smoke that had gone to her lungs—and yet it stuck behind.

✦23✦

How could the world keep turning? She threw up the drink that swirled in her stomach, and yet her brain was muddled. How could the world go on when her rock was gone? She threw up the anxiety that twisted her chest—and yet it gripped her stomach. How could the sun go on shining? She threw up every thought that clawed at her brain—and yet not one was absolved. Wasn’t this all that it came down to? Nothing? “Your Daddy would be proud of you,” they said. But what were the thoughts of a dead man? Era achingly pulled herself to her feet. Every inch of every part of her body was sore. Her chest felt like it had been shot full of holes. As her hands gripped the edges of the sink, she rose her eyes to the mirror. The face was nothing more than a skull with grey rags of skin hanging from it. The mouth pooled blood, gaping at her. The hair fell out in chunks around her shoulders. The sockets dripped a smothering, sticky black liquid, pooling down her neck. Blood-struck, blackened eyes stared back at her. Era reached out a finger to touch it, and it reached out and touched her. ✶✶✶ She would have sworn on God that mirror shattered, the shards splitting her open. She stumbled from the bathroom, the earth lurching beneath her. The people leered like the reflection. Clowns in a haunted house. She tripped, banging her elbow on the bar. Pay… She blearily forced her brain to function. Have to pay… “Careful there.” The blue eyes, long gouged out and digested by beetles, stared her in the face. Her heartbeat flooded her ears. “You’re pretty pale,” he continued. “I’d ask if you wanted a drink, —” He frowned at her— “but seems you really need to be cut off. You’re not driving home, are you?” “You’re dead,” she gracefully answered, her voice dripping monotone. But he went on wiping the inside of shot glasses. \ “Need to pay?” He asked, looking up again. She numbly nodded—then shook her head. He paused and continued studying her. “Want a cigarette?” “You don’t smoke.” “No—but you seem to.” He moved from behind the bar, haze surrounding him like a hot car on a summer day. Era was moving, gliding—his arm gently leading her. The rain sent a spray beneath the small roof at the bar’s backdoor. He flicked out a cigarette and a lighter, lit the butt, and placed it in her butterfly hands. It burned out between her fingers. “Why are you here?” She asked. But he silently watched the falling drops, a calm across his face.

✦24✦

“Why are you here?” She cried. The ashes tumbled down her knee, landing on her shoes. “I’m not.” It was a voice as deep and warm of a bass as she remembered—yet it felt like a voice she didn’t know. “Why?” Era whispered. “I loved your mom, you know. Always loved you both. Sunshine. Now, wanna pay out your tab?” “Wonder this time where she’s goneWonder if she’s gone to stay-” Bill Withers was crooning again. “Let’s get you out of here.” She clung to the elbow by her side. “Come home-” Era whispered. “You’re not here.” The disconnected thoughts swirled in the pit of her stomach. “No, but you still are, baby.” The blue eyes sunk deeper into the head- into the flesh. “You can’t live like a ghost when you’re not.” Her melting flesh felt heavy on the metal of the door. Solid. Real. She was alive, imploding and fastening- collapsing and building- all at once.

✦25✦

GENEVA COMBS Wasp

Grandpa Ambrus’s house looked like just about every other damn house on the street that they passed. Grandpa Ambrus’ house looked like just about every other damn house on the street that they passed: two stories, a false-brick trim and matching sliding, large windows, and a chimney. The fronts all looked beautiful, the sides okay, and the backs were flat out ugly. This one house was copy pasted down the roads as far as Ruben could see, just with the colors changed out and with some people having minimal outdoor decor. Their interior layouts were more or less the same from what Ruben could recall. The family was awfully quiet the entire drive here. Christmas songs played on the radio, but it was the only noise in the vehicle other than typical car and street sounds. It was unnerving to Ruben, usually there was laughter and banter between the family members. But he also expected it. They were going to Grandpa Ambrus's house. It was always quiet like this during trips here. The car came to a screeching halt, causing the family to be pushed forward a bit before falling back into their seats. "D-Dalton!" His mother turned to his father. "You have to pay more attention to the road!" "I-I am…" he managed in a weak tone. Ruben looked up to see they were at a red light now, cars passing ahead of them. "I'm paying attention… to the road." His mother sighed and reached a hand over to him. "Hey, it's alright. We're alright. Just… Please, be more careful." "... okay." Ruben looked up at his older brother, but all Nick could do was shrug. So he looked away again, staring at the passing houses until he heard his father announce that they were at the house. Ruben and his older brother climbed out of the car, eager to stretch their legs and get into the warm house. As he got out, however, Ruben overheard his mother talking quietly to his father, "I know you don't like visiting Ambrus, but he's still family. Please at least pretend to be excited for the kids' sake." He wasn't sure how his father responded, as he didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. It wasn't long after that when his parents climbed out of the car, too, heading for the door. His father knocked on the door, only a second passing before Grandpa Ambrus opened it wide. "Aha! There's my favorite little trouble maker!" Before Ruben could even do much about it, his grandfather had pulled him into a gentle noogie. He whined and wiggled a bit before his grandfather chuckled and let him go. "Alright, it's cold out here - everyone inside!" The family filed in, Grandpa Ambrus shutting the door behind him. He smiled at the family, then paused as he saw Ruben's older brother. "... ah, sorry. You are…?" His older brother shuffled awkwardly in place. "I'm, uh, Nick…" he then looked over to ✦26✦

their father. The man just smiled nervously, a hand on his eldest's shoulder. "Ah dad, I've told you about Nick! Uh, how about we all sit down so I can tell you more?" Grandpa Ambrus just stared at Nick for a moment. "... alright." As the family made their way to the living room, Ruben brushed against his brother. "Hey," he whispered. "Grandpa can be intimidating, but he's pretty nice. You don't need to worry too much." Nick bit his lip. "I hope you're right…" Ruben frowned a bit. What made his brother so unsure? He took a seat next to him on the couch. Their father was on the other side of Nick, grandpa was across from them on a loveseat, and mom had found herself a recliner to sit back in. The house was decorated mostly in warm oranges and yellows. A choice his late grandmother made. A blanket with a honeycomb pattern was thrown over the couch, countless statues and wall decor of bees covering the place. There were even a few of his grandma's paintings hung up, all of gardens or beekeepers tending to their hives. She always adored honeybees. So the bees stuck around, always watching over the house even when she was gone. "So, I've told you about the mentoring program at my work, yes?" His father began wearily. Grandpa Ambrus seemed annoyed. "... yes." "Well, they handed me this scruffy lil' eighteen-year-old and told me ‘he's my responsibility now!’" He laughed a bit. "And oh, I couldn't help myself. I grew attached. And now he's here! As my newest and eldest!" He put a hand on Nick's shoulder again as he beamed. "From being a co-worker?" His father nodded slowly. "Yeah. Kid needed some help figuring things out, and so I helped him!" He ruffled Nick's hair a little, earning a grunt for it. Their grandfather just sat there, staring down at Nick. His expression was unreadable, arms crossed. Ruben could feel his brother tense a bit, and he put a hand on his arm. Nick looked down at him but… Ruben didn't know what to say. This wasn't like grandpa. "Hey gramps, who are you talking to- oh hi uncle Dalton!" A higher pitched voice called from the hall. Ruben turned to see his cousin Addilyn was here too. "Oh! Addie! I'm babysitting her for her mother while she's out." Grandpa Ambrus was smiling nervously now, seeming surprised. "Say, why don't you and Ruben go outside and play, hm? It'd be more fun than sitting with a bunch of adults!" Addilyn nodded, now running off to get her shoes. Ruben couldn't help but smile a bit. Ever since his uncle - Addilyn's dad - passed, he hadn't gotten to see her much. It'd be nice to hang out with her again. Though it felt a little odd he was urging them out of the house so soon after telling them to get inside and out of the cold. "Oh, and Dalton…" Grandpa Ambrus looked over to his son. "Mind if we head upstairs to chat for a bit?" ✦27✦

Ruben's dad tensed a bit before nodding and standing up. "Oh, ah… s-sure." Ruben stared at them a bit in confusion, but didn't get to think about it much as soon Addilyn rushed back in and out to the back door. He got up to follow her, his mother saying "You two be careful now. And behave." "Alright, mom." he replied, already in the kitchen. He was out into the backyard before she could say much else to him. Cold November air immediately hit the two kids, causing Ruben to grunt. Yeah, he'd rather stay inside but there was nothing to do inside. So this is what they got. The backyard was mostly what you'd expect from a suburban home. Decently sized, fully fenced in, with an entertainment pit off to one side. Along the right hand side of the fence were a series of four small ornamental apple trees. "Ugh, grandpa still has these nasty things?" Ruben complained. "Seems so." Addilyn was also making a face at the tree. They'd never tell this to grandpa, but the trees were rather gross. Sure, in summer they were a beautiful vibrant green. And in the fall for exactly one month, the apples in them were crisp and red. But at all other times, they were mostly bare and surrounded by rotting apples. Some of the fruit was even rotting while still on the branches. Ruben remembered once when he was little and tried to eat an apple from these trees. Even though it wasn't rotten, it still made him sick. His dad had begged Grandpa Ambrus to do something about the trees - to get rid of them, or at least fence them off so tiny troublesome kiddos couldn't get to them. Grandpa had insisted that he should've just kept a better eye on his son. It was the first time he saw his dad get into a loud argument with someone, but it didn't last long. He didn't remember what was said, just that his father backed down fairly quickly and was upset with himself for the rest of the week. It was weird. Wrong. He never saw his dad act like that either. "I at least figured out something we can do with these dumb things." Addylin went on. She grabbed a nearby branch and stabbed an apple with it, quickly making a face at how bad it smelled. "Uh… what are you doing?" Addylin smirked a bit. "Watch." She then flung the branch hard, causing the rotten apple to fling off of it and hit the white picket fence. It left a nasty yellow mark where it hit before falling to pieces on the ground. "Can you hit that mark again? That's it. That's the game." Seemed fun enough. Ruben took the branch, stabbed an apple, and flung it. It hit the mark, though landed a bit more to the right. "Hey, not bad." "Thanks." "My turn!" She took the branch. Stab. Fling. It landed right in the middle of the other two. "Niiiiice." And so they passed it back and forth, flinging rotten apples. Most hit in roughly the same spot, though a few landed off to the sides. As they played, they talked. "So, what's middeschool like?" He groaned a bit. "Bad. More homework. Meaner teachers. No recess to get a break."

✦28✦

"Gross. Not excited to start it next year." "I can try to help. No promises. But I can try." "Thanks man." Addilyn paused for a moment to watch an apple land before continuing. "Your dad seemed tense. Do you know what that's about?" "... no. I wish. He's always like this when we visit grandpa though." "Wait, really?" Ruben nodded. "Yeah. Tense in the car and tense while here." Maybe even nearly got into a wreck from it… "... my dad was always tense coming here too." Hearing that caused Ruben to look away from the branch. The apple missed the mark by a considerable amount, and soon after he just dropped the stick. He just… stared at her, not knowing what to say. "I always thought he was just weird, but..." she looked down now. "And grandpa didn't seem to like Nick." "Nick…?" "This guy my dad basically adopted. He's really cool, actually. Helps me with homework." Addylin paused. "You know how we have many cats?" "What does that have to do with this?" "All are dad's foster failures. Raised them back to good health and kept them. Was too attached. Grandpa always seemed weirdly annoyed by it. Still seems annoyed." "But that doesn't sound like grandpa." "No. Not the one we know." Ruben bit his lip. He didn't like the many ways that sentence could be interpreted. He was pulled from his train of thought as he watched the apple he just flung move a bit. "Is - something in that?" "Huh, what?" Addylin turned to the apple, watching it move. Slowly the two of them walked over to it. It wiggled more and more. A wasp crawled out from a hole in it. Both kids screamed, running off without a second thought. They were too scared to see how slow and lethargic it was. They tumbled inside of the house, just about slamming the door and leaning against a wall to catch their breath. A bee decoration hung above the door swayed a little from the impact, but didn't fall off. Thank God. Ruben turned to look at his cousin. "I'm - I'm gonna go get grandpa. Llet him know about the wasp." "Good idea. I uh," she crossed her arms, shaking a bit. "I'm gonna stay here." "Alright." Ruben sighed a bit and stood up now, heading for the living room. He could feel his mother staring directly at him, but he didn't want to tell her. She was too good at sniffing out lies, and he didn't feel like getting himself and Addylin in trouble today. He slowly made his way over to the guest bedroom, where he could overhear his father and grandfather talking. He paused just before reaching it though, his stomach twisting a bit.

✦29✦

"You just can't do this kind of shit, Dalton. Imagine the danger you could've put your family in." "Dad, I-I already told you I th-" "Don't talk back to me." his grandfather had an uncharacteristic hiss to his voice. Ruben couldn't help but bite his cheeks a little. I'd hardly call that talking back… "I leave you alone for a bit, and this is the kind of thing you do? Do you not care about them? Do you not listen to what I've said? Do you not care about me?" His father was dead silent. It made Ruben feel even more sick. "You may not realize it, but you need me. Look at what happened to your brother when he tried to leave me. Tried to cut the rest of us out like we didn't matter. He couldn't handle the pressure without my help. And now he's lost to us forever, abandoning his wife and child to escape. You don't want that to happen to you too, do you?" "That happened because you kept calling and harassing-" "Dalton." "... no dad. I - I don't… want that to happen again." "Exactly. You're still a stupid young boy and all of this proves it! You need me to guide you through these things and keep your family safe! When you guys get home, you have to kick Nick to the curb if you don't want that leech hurting -" "H-he's not a leech! He's my - my friend, my son, I can't just -" "Well you have to or-" "He will be doing no such thing!" Ruben jumped a bit, turning around to see his mother had followed him up. And she looked pissed. With her chin held up and arms crossed, she walked into the bedroom. "My husband took in a boy in need for no reason other than to help. You somehow managed to raise a fine man, but he doesn't need you anymore." At this point Ruben stepped around the corner to see what was happening. His father looked like he'd start crying any moment now, and Ambrus looked pissed as well. "Lauren, this doesn't concern you-" "Of course it fucking does! You're kicking my husband around like he's a stray!" She took hold of her husband's hand then, staring Ambrus down. "Do me a favor and stay the HELL away from my family!" "Or what, you'll call the cops?!" An almost evil smirk made its way across his mother's face. "Oh honey, you wish." Ambrus seemed genuinely intimidated then, taking a step back from her. "... c'mon, Ruben, we're leaving." She put her other hand on his shoulder, leading them both down the stairs. As she did, she whispered softly to her husband, "Hun, I'm sorry. You've never liked coming here, I-I should've suspected something was up." "... you're alright, dear." As they reached the bottom of the staircase, she explained "I'm gonna call your sister in law. I'm not exactly comfortable with Addie staying with him anymore. Then we'll leave, hopefully

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with her. Okay?" "Okay…c-can you drive us home tonight?" "Oh course, dear." She offered him a kind, if worried smile. They both watched her step to the side and pull out her phone. Nick just watched on in confused concern. Ruben just stood there, unsure what to do as he tried to process everything. He looked up at his father, who was now shaking a bit. "D-Dad?" He looked at him quickly, fear and guilt spread across his face. "Y-yes buddy?" Ruben didn't say anything more. He just held an arm out for his father, letting out a slight yelp as he was pulled into a spine snapping hug. With a sigh, he nestled into his father as all of the bees in the house stared down at them.

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RILEY COURTNEY Malcolm Sedam Winner 2022 A Year Below He cannot see, as his eyes are closed in such permanence But it does not take eyes To feel the true grief of winter As it takes its reins on the living Frost has infiltrated his tomb, Extending too far past the light of daybreak, For the sun brings no more comfort, Gathers no warmth, and provides no strength. The snow is the only conceptual pure he knows As it halts the degradation of his bones; The consumption of his being, Slaying those who feast off his unbridled corpse. Cold is natural within the Earth, And a comfort within Death. A spiraling panic hits his tomb With the thawing of a new dawn; not necessarily a better one, As the comfort of winter dissolves with spring. When his internals begin to thaw And he becomes nothing more than a bloodied puddle Within the ground and among the thistles, He knows his blissful chill has reached its end. Roots tickle those below In response to their earthly tug. Their touch is so jarring to the corpse, Though the rain is a much greater discomfort. The concept of growth is so foreign and external To those who have died; Whoever said spring was gentile Is far too composed for the decomposing. Spring doesn’t extend its pleasantries ✦32✦

To those consumed with their slumber. Drought captures the land, And the parts of him long gone don’t mind the dry, But the majority of his captured being Flourishes in the bare heat. The rains of rebirth have slowed Allowing him time to fall completely into God’s hands; The warmth of day is so consuming, More so than the ravenous life around him. The sun can never reach his ever painted skin again, It grows numb even though it’s coated in some form of light. He’s reached his final destination, With his ears pressed against the ground that entraps him. The leaves that walk the earth So closely resembles the dancing of those he once loved. His graven yard has been so desolate; It’s been so long since any true life has walked among the dead, Though he listens to the autumnal crunch with all spirit he has left To feel the living -- to grasp one’s blood -Would be such a pleasant comfort to his dead

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Night is Darker in Winter The day is dreary and bitter; Its violent kiss of cold presses up against her frostbitten soul In winter, only sun relieves me, But she finds her comfort in the moon She represents harvest no longer: her serotinal hue has aged Into a far too ghastly ivory; the moon in her entirety, drowned -doused in bleach as the world moves from cold to colder. Those who once kept her hidden Have since fallen, gifting her Ample space to coat the world in her purest form of blush. And yet, The night is darker in winter. Her skin is blanched, not like snow -She mimics the enduring bliss That clings to the moon as she disputes change. Her muse was comparable to Day; She would bluster how her body held the power to starve me dry. But, her luster provides no light Without Day’s effervescent blaze. The nights reign cold for a reason. Her light brings no warmth -- she lacks passion. Her powers stem from those of Day: Dusk simply mimics dawn, Cold simply mimics heat. I think I prefer Day to her: My skin may blister and bite And my eyes may grow sad and frosted, But I’d much rather cry with the minimal winter dayglow Created for the sole purpose ✦34✦

of illuminating my tears. To weep in the night would be to weep in the darkest of times, For the night is darker in winter.

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The Lord Shut Up Her Womb She wept and became familiar with starvation; Fertility was too much to ask for, Had she been the one to sin enough That her prayers be only whispers? In the ear of God her voice Easy to ignore, fun to pity Woven was her cervix She had become a prison Filled with blood, bone, flesh And the unspoken glory Meant to extend through kinship. Such a divine exchange Can never bring her pleasure Nor produce a being to make such torture of worth She was a whore So far from a virgin, it was sickening. Her legs had grown tiresome and cold; She had grown barren and woven shut. Pray as she might, Her womb would remain starless And her body be stuck in the night.

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Tiger in Ohio Woods Oh tiger in Ohio woods You don't belong here Anymore than a viperous tongue On a lady of any satire You prowl but only in the rain When there aren’t any local eyes To halt your hunt. Foolish tiger, Against the soft blue sheets Your orange is all a wandering eye may see The resident snake Could call you her friend And we may be mutuals But even she knows There is no room for the roaring tiger In our world of lions. Luxurious homebodies Along the ocean bound hilltops May desire your skin; They’ll rip you dry, Use your tail as a whip And your blood to fill their glasses. They’ll mount your leathered face Along their wall of dead Mistaking you for the bears And realizing your flesh Is far too bright And far too striped to be honored You will die in vain, Let your corpse be once again A tiger in Ohio woods; Even dead you have no place.

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ISABELLE DEL TURCO Malcolm Sedam Winner 2022 September 3 On September third I buried her that day. She clawed and screamed, But I could not let her stay. Oh, how she howled Pouted, kicked, and shoved. Nailed into that coffin, Was the girl that I loved. "Please," she whined, "I'm not ready to go." But the deed was done, And I dropped her down low. She was bubblegum scented And toothless and brass, And I mourned for what she was As I knelt in the grass. In that pit in the meadow Of all that I am, He had come in a tiger, And slaughtered a lamb.

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Sugar Sour Baby Girl

Anna, the girl across the street, set up shop with her instant lemonade pitchers and single wrapped Oreos, prepared specially by her, sealed safely with saran. Her prices were reasonable. Quarter a cup, fifty cents an Oreo. Or they seemed reasonable. Sweets seemed more valuable than gold at this age, and her mother's willingness to purchase the packets of lemonade mix led her to think that maybe it wasn't too expensive. So came along the poster board sign, bought with last year's profits, slathered with yellow and pink glitter pens and oblong doodles of citrus and cookies. Her entrepreneurial spirit was acknowledged by old Mrs. Crocker across the street, who graciously braved the road, looking no less than five times before crossing. Anna greeted her with a toothless grin and a cup already poured, as she had ample time to pour into a red Solo after noticing she was moseying over. The clatter of quarters in the bottom of the glass jar sounded like collectible plushies and in-game purchases on online games to Anna. The chime of luxury, independence, and about ten dollars by the end of a busy day. She manned that sidewalk with the persistence of a Wall Street tycoon, eyeing passing cars with a small scowl when she didn't hear their brakes grind to a halt to come see her wares. The July sun baked her pale skin and freckled her shoulders. Still she sat, wiping the sweat from her lip and swinging her feet back and forth impatiently on her fold-out chair. With the sun sitting squarely in an empty sky and quarters littering the bottom of her jar, Anna watched greedily as a rusty Corolla pittered to a stop across from her. A tall girl, several years older than her, and therefore more intimidating, sprang out and hurried across the street. In the unforgiving heat of the afternoon no car had driven by for quite some time and Anna had almost neared the end of her stamina. Suddenly reinvigorated by the idea of a sale, she beamed at the tall girl. "Hey," the girl said, instinctively kneeling in front of the table, crouching to Anna's level so she didn't have to stare into the brightness of looking up. "What's your name?" The warnings her mother had smoothed over her regarding talking to strangers were nonsensical precautions that she threw away when it came to business. "I'm Anna." The girl smiled back, amused at the spunkiness of the young lemonade salesman. "Nice to meet you, Anna. I'm Goldie." Anna looked at Goldie, from her bare feet, which were planted in the dry grass to avoid the smoking asphalt, to the top of her brunette head that was streaked with summer sun. She was tanned from the brutally bright months, with the same freckles that Anna bore with pride scattered on her own shoulders, which had a hot pink halter top tied over them. The bottom of her midriff was exposed and met with the denim from a worn pair of shorts. Anna thought she was incredibly cool and old and pretty. But she was not gold. "You don't have blonde hair," Anna observed, hoping she seemed cooler and older and smarter as she commented on the obvious.

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Goldie laughed, light and airy. "No, I'm not gold. I was born with a head of dark hair, but I was yellow. Jaundice. The doctors had me wrapped up in a little glowworm blanket. Fixed me right up." "Yellow!" Anna exclaimed in astonishment, which was met with more laughter from Goldie. "I've never seen a yellow baby." "Yeah, that's 'cause they usually fix them up before they're let loose in the wild." Anna's face only grew more incredulous with disbelief. Goldie continued, "So, my dad thought it'd be funny to call me Goldie. Next thing you know my name was on the certificate and I was going home to an Italian family with a silly name." "No!" She exclaimed again. "I love your name! That's so cool. Wow. I'm Anna after my grandma, I think." Goldie nodded and eyed the table between them. "Whatcha selling, kid?" Anna usually bristled with stoic pride when she was called a kid. But coming from cool and tan Goldie she wore it like a badge of honor. Like an inside joke had been formed between them in the past few moments. "Twenty-five for lemonade, fifty a cookie. Sorry, Oreos are more expensive than lemonade so the price is more." "Inflation, kid. Supply and demand," Goldie said. "It's all economics." The words she was using were so big and unfamiliar to Anna, but she would never admit as much. She found herself sitting up straighter in her chair and nodding seriously along with Goldie, like a miming shadow. "Economics," she repeated. The rusty car behind them honked, short and loud. The girls both jumped before returning the driver’s copycat glares. "Who is that?" Anna asked. "A boy," Goldie stated back. When Anna thought of boys she got a little giggly and expected Goldie to be the same way. Instead, her answer was flat, one dimensional. Even little Anna could feel that there was nothing there. "Do we like him?" She asked again, inserting herself into the narrative. Goldie smiled at the idea that this little kid would have picked up on something so quickly. And that she seemed so extreme in her emotions regarding things she didn't know. Goldie couldn't remember the last time she felt extreme about anything. Quietly, she answered, "Yeah, I mean… I like him." Her hesitation was not lost on Anna, and she looked around Goldie to stare down the driver. The reflection of a scrolling phone screen illuminated his face with a pasty blue flush. His curly hair tufted out in chunks from underneath his baseball hat and his cutoff tank top showcased the unfamiliarity of armpit hair to Anna. She frowned hoping he would catch her dislike towards him. He didn't notice at all. Irritated, she asked Goldie, "Why didn't he come out?" "Oh, we are getting back from the pool right now and he's tired. I saw you setting up your table earlier and I wanted to come by again to see if you were open for business. I made him stop. Or, rather, I guess I begged him to stop." "Begged him? He doesn't like lemonade?"

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"He might. He just thinks kids are sticky." "Lemonade is sticky, too." "Yeah, maybe that's why he doesn't like it." Anna huffed and felt herself slip into a childish pout. After knowing Goldie she had become quite determined not to be childish, but old habits do die hard. "I can buy something," Goldie started again, picking up a wrapped cookie. "I mean, I want to buy something." "Okay," Anna said, matter of factly. "I just don't know why he didn't come out of the car." "He just–I don't know, maybe he didn't want to. Maybe his stomach hurt. Maybe it's too hot to stand on the side of the street and watch a little kid shakily pour from a pitcher. He always has his excuses. His reasons. His limitations. Anything I want has to be fought. I can't just ask him to pull over. I can't just say 'hey, baby, let's go splurge on some crappy lemonade from that little kid'. No, Anna, I'm sorry, it's not crappy. But let's be real, we know this came from a pre-made packet. I remember squeezing dozens of lemons in summer. The cuts on my fingers ached with fire. None of this pre-packet stuff. I'm sorry, I'm sure it's fine. Here, let me buy some. Please?" "You're scaring me," Anna took an instinctive step back. "No, listen– I'm sorry. I'm not trying to scare you. I just don't know. I just don't know when I got here. When I stopped being the little kid on that side of the lemonade stand and became," she gestured to herself, "this. When did I grow up? When did I start wearing this? When did I start dating that? I just– Anna, please, don't be scared of me. I see so much of myself in you. I was you! The girl peddling lemonade for a quarter and saving for things that felt so big to me. The toys and the stickers and markers and… I don't know, Anna. I don't know. When did I get old?" Anna had no answers. Her stomach felt stiff and still inside her and she wanted nothing more than run into the house and grab her mom. But she stayed still because she felt like that's what Goldie needed. Goldie needed someone, or something, to be still for her. Even if just for a moment. The car honked again. This time longer and louder. "I've lost so much of myself, Anna," Goldie's voice wavered for a moment before she stilled it with a rehearsed determination. "More than that external stuff. Yeah, I lost friends, but those can be replaced. At least he said they can be. I don't know. I don't think I've had a friend in a long time." Anna swallowed and watched Goldie. Whatever was in Goldie that was once intimidating and beautiful looked broken and soft now. "I can be your friend." She smiled but it never met her eyes. "How much do I owe you, kid?" "Nothing," Anna answered. "I've been told it's crappy." Goldie shushed her and looked behind her towards the front door of the house, which now harbored Anna's mother who was watching critically. "Don't let your mom hear. You might get in trouble." The old Goldie was back. Joking and smiling at Anna. But now Anna struggled to keep up with the sudden changes in tone. Goldie shifted from inconsolable ranting to gleeful giggling and

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back to sober reflections like heat lightning cracking against an overcast sky. Anna felt dizzy at the sight of things that felt familiar and foreign at the same time. Like she feels Goldie's aching but hasn't lived through it yet. Now Goldie was holding two plastic cups and turning towards the Corolla. She flipped her hair over a pinkening shoulder and flashed Anna one last mischief-laced grin. "You're gonna be fine, kid. I'm sorry I freaked you." That was the last time Anna would hear a teenage girl endearingly call her kid. The next older girl to come across Anna would find her annoying and small and insignificant. Anna would only let it sting the first few dozen times. Anna would age into a young adult and still think about the sun-streaked girl whose eyes were a little cold and dead. She would always remember Goldie, who snuck a twenty in her glass jar.

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The Pursuit of Happiness I crave happiness like a hawk chases open skies. I follow where it leads, looking for peace, but I cannot trace it. I'm a prisoner in my flesh, captive to my mind, I pick up joy then forget where I place it. Happiness leaves behind it a trail to follow, Littering bits that I grab and I try to lock it. These pieces are me, but smaller and dumber, I pick up the leftovers and put them in my pocket. When I go to look at them again, The parts of me don't look the same. They slip through my fingers and float away, And I know, to happiness, I have no claim.

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You’re Overdramatic On the precipice of heartache Planted on the brink of despair I howl for reconciliation But no one is there While screaming at the wind I tire and grow hoarse But it feels this reaction is fitting I'm overdramatic, of course That is who I am, I wish I could be unapologetic Yet I find myself sorry For those who do not get it

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CYNTHIA FISCHER Countenance

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Scribe

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Understory

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KARLY HENSLEY Determination

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The Tiny Little Things

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CHANDLIER JONES Disappointment is Unbearable disappointment is unbearable it is those eyes, personally, the golden hues of my grandmother’s eyes barely covered by her almost translucent lids, she’s tearing up, red from stress, the wrinkles creasing in her forehead like folded paper, her eyebrows are limping, not furrowed her lips are a fine line with all the words she could say tucked in her mouth. when her lips do pry themselves open, she swallows her sentences like her favorite meal honeyed ham with mac n’ cheese and a cup of chilled frustration instead, a sweet sigh rushes out she didn’t care too much for dessert and the bumps on my arm rising like bread in the oven, she holds her elbows, arms crossed, her hands are tired but not relaxed, her boney fingers flex once, twice and like a losing enemy, she raises her white flag, the pitter patters of her feet retreating, the groans from the floor as it’s squeaking my heart dances irregularly, off-beat and awkward but deep in my chest, like the major chords of a piano, and soon, I’m tearing up too

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Where’s My Lemon? i always order the water with lemon and they always forget but i hold my tongue because i don’t want to make a scene like my grandma says “you are too emotional” so i learn to swallow my feelings never truly satisfied my wants never satiated my needs put last because my family believed i was under them people believed i was next to nothing the world saw me as a disposable object so i fought hard to be useful to the world to people to my family but not myself for i saw myself as that burdensome load never needed. just too much my need for happiness was too much i didn’t deserve that i should be happy with what i got because like my auntie said “people have less than you” for you are ungrateful too ungrateful for love for a hug when you need comfort a kiss to confirm their affection for the simple words of “i love you” pulled from their tightened lips like it was a chore ✦51✦

it was a chore to love me methodical. an obligation. convincing me to be okay with the bare minimum events that require no energy acts that held no value like that glass of water that is free like its familiar bland taste i take sips of it to appease them but i am forced to ponder where’s my lemon?

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I Eat Poison for Fun shame on me. for looking like this. being like this. feeding the insatiable. wanting the impossible. it’s dark. it gets so dark, so quickly. i fear i’ll kill myself in the night. sneaking into the kitchen. rummaging through the cabinets. guiltily unwrapping cakes. slowly cracking open cans of soda. i’m scared of getting caught but not scared enough. i chew desperately, swallowing comfort. it settles in my stomach. it starts to ache. but i still eat. healing wounds with snacks, sanitizing with sweets, wrapping it in the lingering feeling of bubbly on my tongue as i rush to my bed. pretending to be sleep.

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JOSETTE KOCHENDORFER Playing With Light

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ANNA KOPINSKY Loving is Losing The day you left I knew it would happen. I woke with a pain In my stomach. My gut was twisted in swirls Of dread and fear. I couldn’t unwind them No matter how I tried. I didn’t know they meant It was the end. It was time to say goodbye And let you leave in peace. I would’ve kept you As long as I could. But love isn’t fair And to love is to lose. I loved you, I love you So I lost you.

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BENJAMIN LEFEVERS The Art Eternal For so alabastrine this canvas could sit Yet moves so steady The ink has laid for years or days Lumbrosyne be ready The color matches the dark circles under their eyes Which close for too long, that ethereal blue should never hide Be it fair Be it faded The art eternal Not a man and his whim Slight slang Slight bliss The art eternal.

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To Fill My Side I dig the idea Of a pale little me All brim with further And as dumb as his father So easily swayed By my pupils who can’t sit still To the deep ideology that this land is as it seems Till time has so come To give him, her, or the being I am up To feed The guests who venture unto my shanty

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The Red Stone Rolls Uphill Of child of I Whose name I’ve never known Except for what the tyrant man spoke into the existence of our future He could speak so seductively But frightened to show Take my blood and I’m stoned. Piece by piece, what religion says must not be breached Is taken in stark red The earth which you, whisper so close to Says to please this must, there is a debt Crescent by crescent, death of children so ‘tis time for a celebration It is given in stark red Four whole Black eyes, let blue needle by Says wear yer paint, floor is a bed Take my blood and I’m stoned. For no blood tissue Will he evermore dare to consume Oh well What was taken was not given The red stone rolls uphill

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MAKAYLLA MALDONADO Empty Capsules

When I drew my attention to the glass, I saw the familiarity that was our home. More specifically, what we saw day-in and day-out. It wasn’t welcoming, but we were always greeted with a slate-colored sky and shimmering grass. The sun was always hiding behind a blanket of cotton and whenever this blanket got rung out, it’d drop its excess water onto the earth below. Although gloomy days and persistent rain were common here, we usually did experience all four seasons in one week. Hell, here in Blackwood, we were sometimes lucky enough to experience all four seasons in one day. “What are you staring at?” She asked, which resulted in me blinking a few times and turning my head to look over at her. She gawked up at me with a contorted face. Sarah’s nose was scrunched, and her brows furrowed under misted and squinty eyes. She wasn’t a morning person, and I knew that. “Nothing, just the weather I guess,” I admitted as I stepped back from my window. We both walked into the kitchen but parted ways once we got to the wooden tabletop. She plucked a plastic bottle from the fridge while I rummaged through the cabinet above the stove. It was the one spot I could put all my prescriptions without her laying her hands on them. This was mainly due to our height difference and how she always grew a little tense whenever the stove was in use. I scanned through every bottle with warm fingertips before I eventually pulled it down to eye level. After seeing the blue scribbles on the lid, I opened the orange capsule before two pills slipped into my palms. With little to no hesitation, I leaned my head back and took them like a shot of bourbon. However, when it comes to the difference between taking a shot and taking pills, I didn’t need a chaser for the medication. Once I put the bottle back in the cabinet and closed its beige doors, I could feel Sarah’s eyes staring me down before I turned to see her. Her beady little eyes were practically searing through my skin and when I made eye contact with her, I felt it shoot through my brain like a bullet. “I don’t understand why you need to take so many different meds,” she admitted as she turned back to her beverage, almost ashamed to make her remark. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “You always say that,” she admitted. She wasn’t wrong, this wasn’t the first time she asked, and this wasn’t the first time I said I’d tell her in the future. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the last time we discuss this either. Over the years, and I mean literal years, this has been an ongoing banter between the two of us. “I promise I’ll tell you when I’m ready to,” I admitted, “you know I don’t break promises.”

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After this, all she did was sigh before she leaned back. Sarah untangled her fingers from the tiny holes in her shirt before she crossed her arms over her chest and simply nodded in response. As she lowered her head down, it seemed like she was staring down at the wood flooring, but I couldn’t tell because her face was curtained with her long black hair. The flooring below resembled a light shade of grey and seemed to have matched the gloomy world just beyond the window. It was no surprise that she was looking at it instead of me, although there was no difference between the two. I checked the time on the clock above the stove before I started to trudge towards my bedroom to get ready for the day. My feet slapped down and peeled off the ground with every slap as I ventured down the hallway. It reminded me of when somebody slapped a sticky note on a book then peeled it off the cover at a steady speed. “Don’t you work today, Jere?” She asked. She always called me that. Well, when she was little, she called me “dare”, but she never used my full first name. She always thought it was too formal, and I was the furthest thing from that. “Sometime in the evening. Why?” I started from the other room. Although she was still a few feet away, I could hear my voice echoing down the hallway to reach her. “Do you have somewhere you want to go beforehand?” “No, I was just wondering,” she admitted as she set her bottle down, or I could assume she did. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear the plastic hitting the tabletop with a subtle thunk. “I’ll be back by eight if you want to do something when I come back. I think Colin will be over too.” I admitted. Without her saying anything, I could assume that she had a toothy grin plastered across her lips. Colin was my best friend. We’ve been best friends since kindergarten and regardless of everything over the years, he’s the only thing that has remained the same. Hell, it wasn’t hard to tell that I’ve changed quite a bit. Sarah, on the other hand, has been persistent with her positive attitude and naïve sense of self. Other than her height change and her need for pads every few months, she has stayed the same throughout the years. I didn’t think the incident would really affect her, solely because her brain was the size of a clementine, and she didn’t even know how to verbalize any real words. She was too young to remember what happened, but that was probably for the best. I remember it like it was yesterday. Most people say this and refer to an amazing experience, like when somebody’s child gets married or when a teenager goes to prom with their crush. However, in this case, I only remember this incident vividly solely because I see it every time I close my eyes. Despite this being over a decade ago, this is the accident that kept me on meds, the encounter that caused our parents to split, and the incident that made me grow up too fast. This was the event that I refused to tell Sarah about, and this is why I didn’t want to tell her about the meds I take. If she knew, she wouldn’t be the bubbly fifteen-year-old that I know and love today. Once the sun had fallen behind the trees and the warm hues in the sky shifted to twilight, I came back to our home. Maybe “home” wasn’t the best word to describe the shambles that we

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resided in, but it would grant me dirty looks and scrunched faces if I called it anything else, especially out in public. Although there wasn’t much natural light, the headlights of my car illuminated the front of the ranch house and I stared ahead. I remember thinking this place was a wonder. I could still recall when the aluminum siding was still white instead of the cream color it turned out to be today. I remember the grass being as vibrant and soft as a blanket, I could remember the burning bushes on the sides of the garage and the morning glories that spread around the porch. Today, the pale yellow grass was stiffened, the burning bushes were now bare, and the flowers hid their indigo petals from the world. Once the headlights glow faded after I snatched my keys from the ignition, I popped my door open and then slammed it shut behind me. I didn’t slam it out of anger, but my car doors wouldn’t fully close unless I closed them with a great amount of force like that. I could barely make it out, but I saw Colin’s black Honda Accord in the driveway. Well, it was parked on the extended piece of cement that wrapped around the side of the house. I remembered when that was installed too. My dad got it because he wanted to park his truck somewhere other than the side of the road. I remember when the grey mush turned into a white slab. Today, it was a cracked and weathered sheet of beige with grey chunks in it. When I fully processed that Colin was here, I felt a sigh creep up my throat and slip out of my nostrils as I slumped on my feet. Although I was veering into my twenties and Colin was barely an adult, he felt like an older brother to me. Whenever I was feeling run down, he was always there. He was always like that, even back then. When I stepped inside, I was welcomed with The Evil Dead playing on the television. The screams and mockery practically echoed throughout the house, but it wasn’t annoying at all. In fact, it was merely pleasant. It was like background noise at this point. Although these films only aired because Halloween was just around the corner, they were a pleasure to have on. For us horror buffs, every day was Halloween. I found myself drawing closer to the television, but I took a sharp right once I got past the coffee table and strolled into the kitchen to get a beverage, preferably a can of Diet Dr Pepper: a sweet, bubbly refresher. As I had my mind dead-set on that drink, I quickly snapped out of it when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Out of instinct, I flinched and about slapped the hell out of whatever, or whoever was behind me. Fortunately, it was Colin. “Woah! Chill out Jeremy, it’s only me,” he admitted as he held his palms up in defense. After seeing his gleaming smile and the glare of the light on his bottom lip ring, I sighed and relaxed once more. My shoulders lowered as my hands slid off his jacket and flopped down to my side. Although my body slumped back a bit, my heart was pounding through my chest and beat a persistent melody in my eardrums. “Sorry if I startled you,” he added. “It’s fine,” I admitted as I looked down at him. I was practically towering over him due to the height difference, but he looked more intimidating than me to say the least, especially in build and looks. We didn’t contrast too much, especially when it came to aesthetics and likes, but it was weird really, this whole relationship we had. After what happened years ago, I got rid of everything and everybody that our parents associated with, including family friends and some items they left

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in the house after they left. However, despite all of this, Colin stayed through thick and thin somehow. After the little distraction, I finally went back to what I was doing, which was getting a beverage. I opened the fridge and plucked a can from its cardboard box of a vine. Once I cracked the top open, the crackling sent chills down my spine. It was a rather pleasant sound. I drew the metal to my lips as I scanned around the room. I could see Sarah sitting in the living room as she watched the film in the living room. She was flopped on the wrinkly and almost smokey leather couch in comfort, but it looked like the cushions were swallowing her whole. My attention shortly shifted beside me as I saw Colin grab a box from the table: a semi-thin, square, cardboard box. It was a dark beige, but there was red lettering upon it and some stains on the front of the box. It could only be assumed that this was grease almost splattered across the lid. “I brought pizza, so you didn’t have to make anything,” Colin added after a moment of awkward silence. I didn’t say anything yet, but he could already tell how much I appreciated it. I don’t know how he knew it, but I could tell that he was proud of himself for helping out, solely because his crooked smile slowly spread across his lips and his elbows straightened out as he pushed the box closer to me. “You didn’t have to do that,” I admitted. I’ve said it time and time again, but he doesn’t quite get it. Ever since our parents practically called quits on parenting, Colin was almost always helping us in one way or another. I didn’t mind if he helped, but I hated knowing that he felt obligated to do so. I hated the pity. “Oh, I know,” he admitted. “I wanted to.” ✶✶✶

As the evening progressed and time flew by, Sarah called quits and went to bed. The Blair Witch Project came on as Colin and I were slumped on opposite ends of the couch. I checked my watch and saw how late it was getting, but it wasn’t too late yet. In fact, I had to take another dose of my pills. With little to no hesitation. I got up and strolled into the kitchen once more. Colin knew about my meds, so it wasn’t a surprise when I felt his eyes following behind me. In fact, he knew everything about us. Not because he was a creep, but because we were so open to him about everything. Me and Sarah had each other, but we couldn’t share everything with each other. Colin was our middle ground, our outlet. Besides, who else were we going to tell? He was the closest thing to family that we had other than each other. “She asked about the meds again,” I admitted as I opened the orange capsule within my grasp. “I figured. She asked me about them when I arrived,” Colin admitted softly. He was always soft spoken, timid almost. I put the bottle back into the cabinet before I closed the door that hid them once more. “Do you keep it a secret because you don’t want her to know about what happened, or because you don’t want her to see you differently?” he asked. “Both,” I admitted. “But I really don’t want her pity,” I added as I took a swig from my pop can. ✦62✦

“You know, it wasn’t your fault, right?” Colin asked. When the words slipped between his lips, I practically crumpled up as the words hit me like stones. I could feel my chest tighten, but not out of fear, which was odd to me. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. There wasn’t anything you could have done,” he added. “If he hadn’t died then our parents wouldn’t have split and left,” I said numbly. I remembered it clearly, almost like I was reliving the nightmare in my mind. Around the anniversary of this incident, the meds seemed to wear off a bit and the memories grew more frequent and were more soluble. It almost came into my head like flashes of light. It didn’t take long before these images seemed to flood into my brain and shortly consumed my sight. I could feel my body growing heavy and it wasn’t long before I felt my limbs hang and my head lower a bit. When I was seven, my older brother was seventeen. Stephen would have been eighteen over the next month or two. He only had two semesters left in high school and he was our parents’ favorite. It was as clear as day. I didn’t mind it of course. In fact, I could see why he was more favorable than the rest of us. He was the star baseball player at Blackwood High School, he had a full ride to some college in Georgia, he was dating the love of his life, and he was their oldest child. I don’t remember where I heard this over the years, but it was assumed that the parents took care of and favored the oldest child, and the oldest children were meant to protect and teach the younger ones. In our house, this was how it went. On a certain Friday evening, Stephen was getting ready to go out with his girlfriend. I think her name was Amber, but I didn’t care enough to remember her back then, especially since she always craved his attention and took him away from me every weekend. I remember that on this particular weekend, Colin came over to hang out. Our moms were friends with each other and that is how we initially met. That night, Stephen and Amber were going to leave our house, and they promised to be back by nine. Well, it was nine, then ten, and finally eleven before our mom received the call. Stephen’s car was totaled because they collided into a drunk driver by the railroad tracks. Amber died on impact, but Stephen was merely flickering eyes in a shell of a body. This was when everything changed. Our parents provided Stephens meds and such, but I had to take care of him starting at age seven. It was depressing really, seeing a child in second grade take care of their now disabled older brother. While my parents worked during the days, I stayed home a lot and took care of Sarah who was two and Stephen. In fact, I missed so much school that I got held back that year. Stephen had these shots that he had to take twice a day, but I never knew what was in the syringes. He needed two millimeters every twelve hours and I had to give them to him. One day, I put in six millimeters and gave it to him because I was supposed to go over to Colins one afternoon and probably stay the night at his place. I gave him this dosage because I still tried to maintain some friendships and have my own life. Instead of giving all my time and energy to Stephen and his needs, I took this one evening and tried to do something I wanted. This was the worst thing I could’ve done, and there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about this selfish act. When I got home, he was dead. Did I do that on purpose? No. Do I regret it? Not really. That was the worst part about it. I’ve ripped myself apart because of this

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accident, but I don't regret what I did. In my eyes, this was evil. This was selfish and despicable, and I still had no answer as to why this was so relieving even to this day. After Stephen passed, our parents left us at home more often and they eventually split. However, when it came to who would have custody of us, neither of them wanted to have me or Sarah. She was three and I was eight when Stephen was no longer around. Although they supplied us with money to pay for food and such, it messed with me. I had to grow up faster, I started working and doing schoolwork at the age of fourteen, and I relied on antidepressants and other medications. I didn’t believe in any real diagnoses, but despite this, I had a few pills that I had to take everyday in order to go through the day as a semi-normal person. “I think you should tell her Jeremy,” Colin said, which snapped me out of my dream-like state. “You don’t have to tell her everything, especially not in detail, but you should at least tell her some sort of summary of it. She won’t pity you. She looks up to you and always has, like how you looked up at Stephen.” After an hour or two, Colin left, and I was left with what he suggested to me. I ventured back into my room and was welcomed back to my bed with open warms. Once I accepted this nonverbal invitation, I crawled under the flattened quilt and tried to sleep, but I could not stop myself from thinking about the whole incident all over again. However, this wasn’t the only reason why I was still up. It was my fault, but not entirely. It was all an accident, but I could never convince myself of this. I could tell myself until I was blue in the face, but I’d never believe it. The following morning, after a hot shower and a quick breakfast, I grabbed the orange capsule from the cabinet above the sink then opened it. I grabbed a pill or two then popped it into my mouth before I downed them with ice water I had with my meal beforehand. I stared down at the clear beverage then gently circled my hand, allowing the ice cubes to clank against each other and the sides of the glass. Before long, I heard feet shuffling down the hallway before they stopped with a sudden clap once they hit the wooden flooring again. “What are you doing?” Sarah asked tiredly as she pawed at her eyes. She trudged over to the table then sat down at one of the chairs. This snapped me out of my trance. “Nothing,” I said before I set my cup down at the table. “You know, I think I’m going to call off work for today. I think it’s time you know what happened. I promised that I’d tell you.”

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GWENEVERE MARKEY It’s Never Too Late to Change

General Stricken hit the table with his baton. “Here!” He said, in his bellowing voice, “Is where we will strike tomorrow.” The valley was in between two mountains, the Hubaris army would be marching through the valley according to our spies in their network. The mountains would make it the perfect point to ambush their troops. They would never see us coming. “Meeting dismissed.” General Stricken yelled, and everyone filed their way out of the conference room. I walked back to the bunkhouses, which meant I had to walk through the cold winter snow to reach them. My shoes crunched underneath me and I could feel the snow melting through my shoes, soaking my socks. My bunk was nicer than some of the others. I didn’t have to share a room with anyone, which was a luxury many weren’t provided. It didn’t matter to the Hirabelds if you were young or old, poor or rich. Everyone was assigned their worth to the cause based on how helpful they were. I had given the Hirabelds information in exchange for this room. My sister was a very important person in the Hubaris army. She told me things. It felt bad to tell on her, but I didn’t like what she was doing. She was messing with the natural order of things. The Hirabelds have always ruled, and it will be that way for a very long time. I took off my soaked shoes and peeled off my wet socks and plopped down onto the bed. I needed to sleep. We had a big day ahead of us. The next morning, I was awakened by the siren. Living anywhere else, this would be a cause for concern, but this was the wakeup siren. It went off every day at 6:00 sharp. I threw back on my shoes and socks which had dried out and went to the armory. The armory was next to the conference rooms. It held all of our supplies and weapons. I grabbed a large gun, a sniper from the rack. General Stricken was shouting out orders as people filed into the room. I was instructed to march to the top of the mountains before the rest of the army came along with a squad of skilled shooters. From up there, we would be able to see their troops approach and could alert of any difference from the plan. I met my group outside by the gates to the base. I had only ever seen one of them before. Kilda. She was arguably the best shooter on the base. Kilda yelled directions at the guards manning the gates and the gate slid open with a metallic whirring noise. The snow was thick, and even with snowshoes and a parka on, it didn’t prevent the cold from getting to you. I was freezing, but complaining doesn’t help anything. I marched on with the rest of the squad for the mountain. It was only a couple miles from base. We had to get there before noon, and seeing as the sun wasn’t out yet, we were on track.

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After three hours of hiking, we reached the base of the mountain. It was a snowy monstrous thing. No plants were growing on the jagged rocky sides of the cliff. Kilda handed us rock climbing equipment. I grabbed the picks in my hand and attached the spikes to the snowshoes I had on. Kilda went first up the mountain, and the rest of us followed suit. One by one, we silently scaled the mountain. I could hear the heavy breathing of the people climbing with me. Never looking down at the ground once, I made it to the top of the mountain. We had gotten up unharmed. The wind was very strong from up this high. Kilda handed me the binoculars and I scanned the land around us. I could see the base we had come from all the way up here. The distance looked tiny. There were bunches of tiny people following the same path we had taken, the Hirabeld army approaching closer and closer. Out in the distance, I could see the bright blue uniforms of the Hubaris. They marched in uniform, slowly edging closer to their ambush. Kilda handed me a sniper. “You know what to do.” She said, I loaded the gun and attached the scope. The scope gave me better magnification than the binoculars, but not as much coverage. “They’re approaching!” Kilda whispered. “Who?” I asked “The Hubaris. Get ready.” I gripped my gun harder as the first blue coats came into my view. The leader of the army was dressed in a blue uniform but had on a wolf skin cloak that identified them as someone of impotence. Their red hair blew in the wind. The same red hair I have. My sister had gotten farther in the ranks than when I had last seen her. She was a general now. And she was marching into a trap. I didn't like her all that much, but she was my blood. The last of it. My parents had died in combat. I couldn't let her die. I couldn't kill her. I raised my sniper gun and aimed. I pulled the trigger without looking and waited. I heard the loud echoing bang of the gun bounce off of the mountain. The Hubaris stopped marching and ran away, breaking their uniform marching pattern. Kilda looked around in disbelief. Where had that shot come from? Our position had been blown and Hubaris had realized that they were walking into a trap. I felt bad that I had betrayed the Hirabelds, but no one had gotten hurt. No one needed to get hurt. My sister would live to see another day, and so would my army. A newfound sense of peace washed over me. Violence wasn’t the answer. I guess it’s never too late to change.

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JASON OTIS The Closer The grime that hides its head in the corners Sometimes looks nicer than the streaked tiles No matter how tirelessly they’re scrubbed The light always reflects differently from Angles of those who didn’t toil themselves But what of the mire that heeds no reflection And is still let to remain in its rightful place Pushed off to the side, left to fester A buildup of grime from years of waste You can’t get rid of it And you don’t want to Because those who didn’t toil Pay no mind to its absent rumination

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We Bootless Drudges We use fine shovels to dig our holes. Depressions of yesterday scatter an unbounded field some are chasmic others only skin-deep each filled with varying degrees of Decay Amalgamations of foul scents choke us between stabs deeper each pained jab downward reveals only a dirt harder than diamond nothing of value lies Here

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HAILEY PARKER The Statue Man The statue man Patient, Hushed, Gazing at my bed From his corner of shadows Limbs stretching, He moves Spider-like He crawls Perched on my chest His vacant eyes leer His breath tickles my ear Whispering He whispers Of lost love, Sorrow, Death, And solitude As dawn breaks The spider man retreats Returning to his corner A statue once more

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KARA REEDY Malcolm Sedam Winner 2022 Jingle

…jingle…jingle jingle… I’m frozen where I lie, the mattress sinking and swamping my sides with immovable weight. I’d been in and out of a restless slumber, preoccupied with the fact that this would only be my second time getting out of bed tonight. I roll to my left side, pinching my wrist underneath the sharp folds of my pillow. I slowly rip off the thin layer of jagged fabric clinging to my legs and sit up into the low dip. Alright, time to start moving. The blood in my veins began to flow rapidly as I prepared to start moving through my nightly routine. My house shoes feel icy cold and the edges stab into the surface of my feet. I slip on my glasses, taking in the faint light from the hallway. I sleep with my door open so that I don’t miss a thing. Stepping lightly to my door, I realize that no one else is awake. I squint towards my digital clock stood precariously at the edge of my dresser to see the red glow showing 1:34. It’s time to start up again. I inch towards the pasty banister, placing my left palm up against the rough edge. Every other door on the upstairs landing is shut. I shiver a little recognizing the silence that grows the longer I stand in the pitch-black hall. A glare reflects dull light on the TV screen in the middle of the upstairs sitting area. The light is cast in from the street lamps, a dim flicker bringing me back to the task at hand. One step at a time, I’m tiptoeing down each step as quietly as I can possibly manage. Even still, I cringe at the harsh squeaks that squelch out at every rushed movement. The ragged old Tshirt I’m wearing engulfs me as though I am sopping wet. The jagged fabric is now too old to place scratches on my knobby knees. I grip the handrail leading down the stairwell, my knuckles turning to snow from the pressure and freezing temperature. The house is always set colder than it should be, but I’m not tall enough yet to change the thermostat. On the tenth step down, a particularly shrieking crack sounds from one of the boards, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s ok, just the step. I ease myself back down from the bubbling terror wrenching through my stomach. I wait for a few moments, my heart settling a bit, before starting up again. I’m now at the bottom of the stairway. If I turn to my left, I’ll be in the kitchen. If I turn to my right, I’ll be in the living room. I choose to check the kitchen first and find everything is still. I walk towards the laundry room at the far side of the kitchen and find nothing but dust and drying clothes. The door leading out to the garage is right across from the laundry room, so I check to see if the garage door is down. It is, so I gently shut the door and latch the deadbolt. Now, for the other two. I stalk towards the back door next to the kitchen sink and find it locked. Then, I check the front door, and it's in the same condition as the back. Satisfied with the safety of my home for

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another hour or two, I slide towards the staircase once more. I hear it again about halfway up the stairs, this time coming from the kitchen. …jingle jingle…jingle jingle… My feet turn to stone as I stare at the step directly in my field of vision. I gulp back the rising tension as I turn back down the stairs. My hands have begun to sweat, the slick smoothing the glide of my hand on the railing. A tightness settles itself in the center of my chest, and I am gripped in the minute sounds that traverse the house. Soft echoes rummage through every corner as I descend to the first floor of the house, steeling myself for whatever would come. I make my rounds yet again, going to check every little corner now. The kitchen is empty; the laundry room and extra bathroom haven’t changed either. Nothing is out of place, and I can’t figure out what could have been the cause of the noise this time. I work my way through the entire first floor, checking windows, doors, cabinets, even my parents' desks. In the end, I can’t find the cause of the jingle and decide that, whatever it was, is gone now. I hear it again when I’m checking the garage. Jingle…jingle jingle jingle… “What the-” Right as I hear the jingle just behind my right shoulder, I’m falling in towards the garage. I smack against my mom's car, bruising my left thigh as I slam into the concrete below. I’m pretty sure I screamed while going down, but all I could focus on was the shadow darting from the bathroom into the kitchen. ✶✶✶

I woke everyone in the house. Mom and dad came running down the stairs and threw themselves on me, trying to check if I’d broken anything in the fall. Once they realized that I wasn’t hurt, their annoyance at being awakened abruptly during the workweek had them yelling at me for being up. I’d never told them about my nightly escapades. “It’s way past your bedtime, Tink. You should be asleep right now; it’s a school night.” My parents looked a little angry, but they mostly seemed concerned. I don’t think they understood the babbling responses I’d given them. Unfortunately, every time I cry, I turn into a blubbering mess. The tears from the corners of my eyes slid crisply down to my chin. I had started to cough up a storm, my breath ragged from my distress. I tried to tell them about what had happened, but all I could get out was incoherent whimpers. “Come on, let's get you back to bed.” Mom and dad led me back up the stairs and into my bedroom. They tucked me cozily into the folds of the mattress, my blanket reverting back into its pillowy plushness upon being introduced to the light source of my room. I was still in the grips of waning fear, but the anxiety slowly subsided to the warm, comforting glow of the dusk bulbs above my head. I sank deep into the bedspread, the ache of the fall still dull in my bones. “Can you and dad please stay the night?” I brokenly mutter, a runoff of my terror. They look at one another, silently deciding their fate for the night. Mom speaks first, “We’ll stay and sleep by the door.” Dad smiles at me tiredly, and they both slump towards the door. I quickly ask them to keep the lights on, and they oblige me. I rumble ✦71✦

off into slumber while my parents lean by the door waiting for me to slip away so that they can slip back into their own rooms for the night. They turn off the light once more before leaving me to my relentless slumber. ✶✶✶

Jingle jingle…jingle jingle… I’m startled awake once more to feel the emptiness of my house. I peer over to my clock and see the face reading 4:08. I whip my head to look over towards the door, expecting to see the sloped forms of my parents, but am greeted with an empty, pitch-black hall. It’s time to move again. I flip my body into a roll and fall to the floor in a controlled crouch. I quickly slip my shoes on, not needing to grab my glasses since I had neglected to pluck them from my face before lying down the third time. I walk into the upstairs sitting room. All of the stillness and quietness have faded away, replaced with a notion that I have somewhere to go. I turn to the stairs and watch a shadow drag around the bottom step to move towards the front of the house. I creep down each step, wary of the dark shape; I don’t even notice the noise I make with the shrieking of every creaky board I step on. It’s at the bottom step that I feel the chill hit me. The front door is wide open; I’d never even heard the door hit the back wall. I tried to get a good look through the door but could only see darkness. I hesitate only for a moment before breaching the safety of my home. ✶✶✶

I step out onto the street and find that only my house and four street lamps remain. The street lamps emit a soft light that shimmers off the surface of my glasses. The area surrounding my home, the street, and the street lamps consist of a thick fog. There are no clouds in the sky, but I can’t see any of the flickering stars either. All around me is a grungy black film, and everything looks dirty. The grass caking the lawn in front of my disheveled-looking house is razor-sharp with spikes lurching in odd ways. The concrete beneath the rough soles of my shoes is cracked and decayed. My neighborhood has disintegrated into an apocalyptic and lonely street. Movement draws me back from the silent wave of confusion, planting me in a new reality of horror. Standing maybe fifty feet in front of me is a tall and lanky being. This creature wears a black, skin-tight suit that clings in a twisted manner to what I could only assume is its skin. The body underneath the tough-looking fabric reminded me of the sporadic stuffing of a teddy bear that’s lost most of its fluff. The only expression worn by the being is an ornate mask. The face was made of fractured porcelain, discolored and yellowed with age. Black and red paint splatter across the holes where eyes should be looking back at me. Golden designs glitter across the edges of its face and line the sides of the mask where skin should meet. Five long and spindly tendrils reach incomprehensibly out from the top of the mask. The spirals are smothered with black and white checks; glints of gold hang from the ends. The mouth is set in a firm line, ✦72✦

and a bright rouge paints the lips and pinches the cheeks of the mask. It’s just glaring at me with a mysterious look. I think of screaming, but part of me recognizes that it will rush me if I do. I consider running back inside, but I know I’m not fast enough. Somehow amid my puzzlement at the new positioning of my house, I’d wandered into the street itself. I have nowhere else to go. …jingle…jingle… The familiar spritely jangle sounds again, and I finally see where the sound originated from with my own eyes. The gold that dangles from the tips of the tendrils are bells, and the ringing occurs every time the creature tilts its head in a questioning manner. It’s almost as if the being wants me to approach first. And so I do. I muster up every ounce of courage that I can and walk minutely towards the thing in front of me. I take one step, then another, all the while this being ahead of me continues to watch almost schemingly. I am only about five feet from the creature when it snaps into motion, stalking towards me briskly. There’s no way I can run now; why would I ever choose to walk towards it? Am I trying to get myself killed? Before I can gag on the choking of self-conscious questions, it stops, in arms reach of me. I am glued to where I stand, my shoes feeling like rocks embedded in the ground. The being is hulking compared to me, being at least six feet tall, maybe more. We just stare at each other quietly. I can hear my heartbeat growing rapidly in my chest in the dense silence. The palms of my hands are slippery from the anxiety rising in my stomach. It looks at me before placing a gnarled hand against my shoulder, giving me a comforting squeeze. What I’d perceived as a glare had been a look of concern; it was no different from the one my parents had given me. This creature wasn’t angry or menacing; the darkness it represented was far from dangerous. I could feel through the soft hold on my shoulder that every time I’d heard the jingle, this thing had been watching over me with a gentle and kind heart. This being wasn’t some monster; it was an integral part of who I am. We share a knowing look with one another, and I feel myself drift back into a restful state. Only, this time, I got the best sleep I’ve ever had in my life. I awoke the following day, having been tucked back into the cushion of my bed. My glasses are set carefully upon the dresser. My shoes have been neatly placed on the scratchy old carpet underneath my bed. I move calmly throughout the rest of my day, having experienced one of the most exciting nights of my life. I still feel the weight of the being on my back, the fear and anxiety bubbling back into fruition every now and then, but we have an understanding. I know that the creature doesn’t mean me any harm and that it is always as scared of everything else as I am. We feed each other with our shared emotions and protect one another in the face of possible danger. My fear is not a thing to be afraid of, but I must learn from it. I no longer need to move through my nightly routine, but I still find myself checking to see if the doors are locked tightly. Just because I know the face of my own demon doesn’t mean that the monsters all seep away to nothing. I can remain calm in the night because every time I hear the creature's soft jangly song, I know that something else is watching over me and keeping me safe.

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DEJA REID Malcolm Sedam Winner 2022 Untitled 90 A plate Serves a Dish With a Fish That’s LongBeen- Gone what went wrong The Water Or the Prong Bounded across time & space we walk ALone Yet We Meet in the Night I tell you of my eternal Love The sky crumbles as I AWAken A taste So sweet The Bees are Jealous - Yours. So much So It’s World Rectifying 66 Comforted in Another’s Gaze- A Haze Of which We Know A LAck - FLack 32 The ebbs of the ocean wave back graciously A Smirk envites u in Though not one ignites A Match Next to U

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106 A Glimmer in The River A serene Bliss That you see A wish could it Be A Fish, Is what I see? A Tune Comes to we A Mystic of such A Lust, too to Hush A Beauty, oh, if only 43 Some Strangers R Strange Some quaint in a way To where we can Drift Once Apart- People Stay with you Away in Not so many- Ways 7 My heart sings a song I’ve never Heard Before But I’ve seen it- I’ve felt it It is more than I can put into words The Birds know it So Does the Wind And the glimmer of She Sun’s kiss too- Do you? 79 We walk A straight Line one that Doesn’t curve No exceptions Except for maybe one, ONE you don’t see It Breathes- just Like you & me Yet, we’ve never been formally acquainted Someone approaches There’s a Knock at The Door For Christ’s SAke it’s Four in the GD Morn’ 78 The water crys with me The thunder pounds my chest The wind tauntingly circles my head I Fear the Faint Sounds of Sirens The Watch says “12 o’clock”

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As the Purple Elephant walks the tightRope No one is Here to ca… SPLAT 111 I walk with you, In my Lonely Days We Sea, A Cloud Up ABove Too Which There’s- A Thunder You Sea, We BeeLOng To the Sky The Wind Wisps us- AWAy In Solstice's Solace- Together We Sea- A StrikeLIGHTning Bolt, You See? Here The Sound A Ring of The Ear BeeSeach- Once a see Now an ocean- with Sand Between my Toes 63 The Moon Is a Friend She sits n’ stands- with you As we walk, the Skycrumbles. Tears aren’t shredded For you- Are you by my side The Strings play- ACCordingly Destiny plays the Harmonica Tumbling All Around Us We wazily waltzThis life (So Called) In each others’ Arms The Troubled tract once Tread is no Longer- to be So Tiresome I hear you. 60 At Will’s Freedom Independence is often Sought After Yet Laws created to cage those who’ve FLown Nature’s quest to gain what was one already her’s Structures constructed for those willing to ABide The Slyness of a Fly Doesn’t go without Fine

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40 hold a fist to the Powerfor the hour we walk in these showers against those Bowsers what a day for Rain. once aGainThe Sun Shines 102 The Ground I walk on- I make I see this world for my own the colors so vibrant of Flowers in prime BLoom Feathered Wings walk Behind me Like you’ve never seen The wind & her light Breeze So Serene The symphony that is the wind My friends, we sing in a ring of glee Gleammor for which we are protected by this Trees aren’t in lack of these bees, we see Can’t you Communities follow in suit Without honey in pursuit Words don’t work But these dew The clouds give a glimpse Perhaps that’s not enough To be so limpsome- Or not It’s up to you Your heart wonders Wanders to a place/unknowingly familiar For you seek a home To flourish in beds a flower- Thriving Lying- In yours Which direction shall you take, my love It is up to you A bush thrice divided, where does the bud gore?

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144 An owL Hoots for me For when I cannot see Up Above- The Tree There he Bee I wonder Do You Sea the Nights I Lay Awake talking to the stars I feel my Scars As Behind Bars Cannot Escape The RestLessNess Do you Heare- of my cares worries & wares At Times- I Fear This Impending Sense- Impeding Aim at a Target--- I wonder who I thought I Knew

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EMMA STEIGERWALD It’s Not Just a Phase

It was the Spring of my senior year when I realized that I wasn’t normal, but looking back, I knew way before. I'd hoped it was just a phase and that it would end soon enough. That was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with at the time. Growing up in a Catholic church gave me no other option. Then, middle school came around and that didn’t help, but middle school was supposed to be a confusing time, right? I started to have these tiny attractions, but I wouldn’t necessarily call them crushes. There were just some people that I’d tend to look a little bit longer at. Some of those people included girls. I should’ve known then, but then again, maybe it was just another phase. As years went on, it wouldn’t go away like I hoped it would. Flash forward to high school. Everything was going great. That was until I had the idea of going to a party with all of my friends, including her. We had met before, but we didn’t really know each other. I needed some time to myself, so I made my way to another room in the common area. Shortly after I sat on the couch she came in. The moment she sat next to me, I felt my heart skip a beat. We talked for a bit, but then things went silent. It felt like we were the only two people in the world. That was the night where I realized I couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore. I had to accept that it wasn’t just a phase.

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JONAH VAN LEHN Hell “What did you do?” I spouted, confusion slowly being replaced by anger. We stepped out, back into the world, into the sunlight. The green portal closed behind us. The signs and advertisements were nearly blinding. Jack held his head in his hands. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. I just wanted to look into a couple of the temporal anomalies. I was just gonna tinker a little bit with the spacetime continuum. I thought…but…” We looked around us. It was everywhere. Forever. “Now, every month is…” Jack started but couldn’t finish. I sunk to my knees. “Every month is what?” “Now, every month is Ford Truck Month.”

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ADAM WARD Finding Hope Every day I search for something new A purpose that eludes all blind eyes Trying to find a meaning that is true Invisible to others the shades of my blue The gray emotions that I despise Every day I search for something new Hiding what you have put me through Dying slowly inside under blackest skies Trying to find a meaning that is true Escaping my darkness, like a bird you flew So sure, you would find a better prize Every day I search for something new Left to my devices, things you never knew The disgust of failure, is my disguise Trying to find a meaning that is true Moving on in solitude, not needing you Escaping all the years of lies Every day I search for something new Trying to find a meaning that is true

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Oversight Her blind eyes constantly see right through me Eyes that see me, only know where I stand A shadow, I am yearning to be free Loneliness forever clutching my hand My songs always fall upon her deaf ears Noise surrounding her, acts as distraction The pain of losing her, consumes my fears Am I alone feeling this attraction It's not a loss though for me in the end Her complacent vacancy, I elude I will grow and strive for more than a friend But it will be her that I will exclude My endless worth, is seen by another I will search to find, my long lost lover

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See Me It’s not that I don’t care, It’s not that I don’t love, It’s not that I hate goodbyes, It’s not that I didn’t try, It’s not that I can’t feel, It’s not that I don’t dream, It’s not that I try to fail, It’s not that I want to be alone, It’s not that I am broken, It’s not that I need forgiveness,

it’s that I can’t care anymore. it’s that I have no love left. it's that I am afraid of goodbyes. it’s that I tried too hard. it’s that I now feel numb. it’s that I dream nightmares. it’s that I always seem to fail. it’s that I have to be alone. it’s that I cannot be fixed. it’s that I need acceptance.

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JILLIAN WHITE I Am I am the sunlight flickering through the branches of oak trees, I am the red leaves swaying in cool autumn wind. I am the winter snowflakes slowly covering the dead rose bush. I am the smell of old books resting on a bookcase. I am soft angel food cake topped with sweet cream and strawberries. I am a steaming hot cup of coffee (always sweet, never bitter). I am spaghetti, with its overabundance of noodles and too little sauce. I am the daughter of a woman who walked through fire and waded through poison water to survive. I am the courage and sacrifice of my mother. I am the daughter of a man whose gentleness knew no bounds but was gone from this world too soon. I am from “Learn to control your flames and use them, not extinguish them.” I am from “The light at the end of the tunnel.” I am from “What goes around comes around.” I am from “Beauty is kindness, compassion, and strength.”

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Content warning: self harm, suicide Means to an End my eyes stare back at me, blood red veins contaminating the milky white. I don’t blink, I don’t think I could if I tried. What does it feel like, I wonder? to know your fate is coming out to you, to know your time is up. am I afraid? Is it cathartic? I don’t know who is staring back at me now. In her eyes, I can see desperation. the desperation to know what it feels like. if one can’t find a way out, one can always make their own way. this is how I save you I whisper to the woman in the mirror. she does not blink, I don’t think she can. I wish you well, I tell the girl. her eyes close at last. the lights shut off abruptly, but I’m far from afraid. the blade falls to the floor knowing its job is done. It was just a means to an end. finally, this means it’s the end.

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CONTRIBUTORS' NOTES Miya Alsip Miya is a senior English Studies major who will be graduating this May and will be the first person in her family to graduate from college. She also is the first in the family to dabble in writing. Alsip's hope is that everyone has a wonderful experience at Miami University and in their future endeavors.

Geneva Combs Geneva Combs has been writing stories for fun ever since 5th grade. She mostly writes about stories she find enjoyable to read; sometimes that means a lighthearted adventure, and other times this means something more serious but comforting. She likes to see characters be dragged through the mud and be made to crawl back out, as that sort of perseverance is what she finds comforting.. She doesn't like to hold back when it comes to more serious topics, but also doesn't like it when situations are hopeless. There's a balance to be had there and it's what she strives for in most of her stories. Geneva has been inspired by many published stories - books and video games alike - as well as stories her friends have made but have yet to publish. Currently, Wasp is her only published piece of work. She created and re-worked it for her creative writing class that she took this past fall. After getting a good final grade on it, she figured she "may as well try to publish it!" The story isn't based on any particular event she’s witnessed or experienced. Rather, it is the culmination of other experiences: leaving behind a toxic family member, the joys of a found family, and the curious thoughts of what your old family would think of your new one.

Riley Courtney Riley Courtney is a current senior in high school at Anderson High School and has been taking classes through Miami Regionals through the CCP program. She has previously published a short poetry collection and has more works self-published through her creative writing blog, rileycourtney.com. She has been writing since the first grade and will be attending Miami University in the fall as part of the class of 2026 as an English Creative Writing major. She takes inspiration from moments in her life, personal experiences, and other forms of art and stories she has heard over time. For these pieces in specific, “The Lord Shut Up Her Womb” is a poem ✦86✦

inspired by a Bible verse along with the accompanying thoughts when reading the verse regarding her own fertility and femininity in regards to said fertility. “Tiger in Ohio Wood” was inspired by a much lighter and much more simple moment: seeing the way an orange construction sign looked in the rain. “Night is Darker in Winter” was inspired by the way days shorten in the winter, leaving more room for the darkness of night, as well as the way that snow clouds make the day feel darker and heavier. It also was inspired by her experiences with seasonal depression. And finally, “A Year Below” was inspired by the myth and historical practice of putting coins on the eyes of the dead in order to ensure their passage to the afterlife. Her writing process often includes 2 rounds of drafting followed by countless rounds of editing. She typically handwrites her first draft and then types the second, allowing for a smoother process and a quicker flow to get her writing out.

Isabella Del Turco Isabelle Del Turco, a full-time senior at Miami pursuing her English Bachelors with a minor in Psychological Science. She resides in Northeast Ohio, where she was born, bred, and continues to be. She is a cat mom of one and a novice writer. When not studying or working she’s usually found reading or slaying fantastical beasts in RPG videogames. Her inspiration for most of her writing is a result of the lingering effects of her childhood. Somehow, she’s both nostalgic for the ease of childhood and the hurt from growing pains and finding yourself. When looking to start a new piece, whether a short story or poem, she finds that reading through old journals that she has kept for a decade is often where her ideas arise. These ideas are then spun into stories that she lived through, stories she haven't experienced yet, and others of things that she never will. At long last, her over-romanticism and dramatics have their place and purpose in her life as pieces of herself that she can purge onto paper. To her, that's the beauty of writing.

Karly Hensley Karly is a 16 years old high schooler attending a program called College Credit Plus (CCP). This allows her to take college classes online (or in-person if she wants to since she lives close to the campus) at Miami University. Her whole life, she’s always been interested in drawing and anything artistic. Alongside her passion for drawing, she also has developed a strong interest in photography as well. She never would have found this passion if it wasn't for her online homeschool, Connections Academy. She plans on becoming a freelance photographer

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as a hobby and hopefully running that as her own side business. On the other hand, at Miami, she plans on getting a Bachelor's degree in Science and Audiology, because she’s always been fascinated with ears and the deaf community. Coming back to photography though, for these two pieces, nothing really inspired her to take them. Whenever she looks at the world, even if she doesn't have a camera on hand, she still views it with great appreciation for all life on earth. Her eyes are constantly "taking pictures," admiring the world around her. The story behind these pieces might make you laugh. tiHer family was visiting one time, and her sister had on her makeup and was just sitting next to a lamp that they had in their living room, which had really good lighting, and she snapped a picture. As for the photo of the strawberries, she happened to have been craving strawberries because she kept seeing these commercials where the strawberries looked like they had been sprayed with water to make them look extra fresh. So, when her mom bought some one day, she washed them and took some pictures. She then save the photos onto my computer and went through the thinking process to come up with a title for one favorite photo of the bunch. She’s seen other photographers plan their whole day around taking pictures with the goal to find a scene that fits a certain theme or title they have in mind, but she does things a little more casually and kind of backwards, one could say.

Cynthia Fischer Cynthia is in her second year at Miami Hamilton, majoring in Applied Biology with an environmental concentration and a GIS certificate. Her creative process is a deeply meditative experience and one that she treasures the mental, physical, and emotional sanctuary that nature photography affords her. She uses an Olympus OMD EM5 with a fixed lens (45mm f1.8), a polarizing filter, and a neutral density filter. She likes to capture things as they are, not wanting to ask or make subjects pose or rely on photo editing software for effects. Fischer finds herself drawn to contrasts and loves to capture images from unusual points of view. To her, the photos selected reflect the fragility and strength inherent in transformation. She’s very grateful for the opportunity to share these photos and hopes they will inspire others to take an extra moment for a closer look at nature.

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Chandlier Jones Chandlier Jones treats writing like a coping method when she can't find solace in anyone or anything. She writes. Of course, the writing is cleaned up for this issue, but her process is messy. Grammar mistakes litter her pages. Misuse of verbs and analogies that seem right at the time, and long run-on sentences convey her bottled feelings. She writes to comfort herself. She writes to acknowledge her pain. She writes to remind herself of her place. Chandlier Jones: a graduating senior who went against all odds to avoid becoming a statistic. A black woman. Delicate and fragile. Strong and uplifting. A walking oxymoron of potential and the insatiable need to thrive and exist within a world that sees her as the bottom of the barrel. Jones sees her poems as an extension of herself and the tumultuous trials that she participates in, willing or unwilling. Words to a battle of emotions that she couldn't think to describe in her head but finds it so easy on paper. A way to self-soothe. She finds it in writing. And she just hopes you enjoy her poems as much as she needs to write them.

Josette Kochendorfer Josette Kochendorfer is a 2-D artist in Southwest Ohio inspired by the natural landscape and organic forms. She strives to highlight the beauty of the world around us to find the extraordinary in the ordinary often through color, texture, and contrast. She focuses on organic forms in her drawings. Her close-ups and textures in photography result in abstractions, making it difficult to recognize familiar objects. Viewers pause. “What is this?” and “Where was this photograph taken?” Josette’s goal is to invite audience members to pose questions and consider what they are perceiving. She is passionate about making art accessible to everyone, regardless of socioeconomic status.

Benjamin LeFevers This is Benjamin LeFevers’ first semester as a student at Miami. He loves playing the guitar and making music. He also is a giant film lover. There's nothing he enjoys more than making music and writing and hopes to always be able to do so. Lefevers loves poetry for how it can allow us to make strange abstract connections with things we experience in life. And show how surreal the world around us can be portrayed. It’s just such a free art form. And he loves poetry for that reason, so all of us can express ourselves and our opinions in our unique ways.

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Makaylla Maldonado Makaylla Maldonado is a junior here at Miami University, but her main campus is here in Hamilton. She has been working towards her major in English Studies with a minor in Creative Writing. Maldonado wishes to minor in Film Studies as well but hasn't pulled the trigger on that decision yet. She has various hobbies outside of writing and academics, and these range from playing video games to watching horror films or spending time with her family. Until middle school, she never had a spark for anything regarding English. Since 8th grade, she ventured into many genres and has been inspired by many, between S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders and Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. Although she has read numerous books by these two authors, these two books heavily influenced her and promoted her to create “Empty Capsules”. Furthermore, when it comes to certain elements within this story, not everything came to existence all at once. She has always created characters with diverse backstories. She’s been keeping tabs on this document since middle school and continues to add to this list today, and this is where all her characters from “Empty Capsules” originated from. Blackwood is also a place that mimics a few different places. This place has been in her notes for years, but it didn’t have a name until early 2020. Most of her extended family lives around Champion, Ohio and this is where Blackwood stemmed from. This is a place that she frequently visits and is a place that contrasts with her life here in Cincinnati. When it comes down to the two, Champion is more of a small town, and this is the essence that created Blackwood. Throughout the years, she’s written some material that many people try to steer away from. She’s written about death, mental illnesses, divorced families, disabilities, overdoses, crimes, and various traumas. Besides these, she always finds herself writing about families as well. Maldonado was raised on the notion that family is more important than anything or anybody else. Thus, when it comes to her stories, Maldonado tries to instill this into her works whether this is direct or not.

Gwenevere Markey Gwenevere Markey is a student at Lebanon High School that attends Miami University through the CCP program. Her story, "It's Never Too Late to Change," was written in a practice round at her school's competition creative writing team. The prompt that was assigned to base their stories on was, "It's never too late to ____". The first thought that popped into her head was change. It's never too late to change. Markey has a little brother, and they fight just about as much as regular siblings do. On the rare occasion she is actually mad, she never truly means it, and they always make up. This was the inspiration for her story, to write about sibling fights and rivalries, and about growing further apart as you age, which is represented as opposing sides in a war in her story. Markey hopes her story was as fun to read as it was to write.

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Jason Otis Jason Otis is in the process of earning his bachelor's degree in English Studies at Miami University Regionals with hopes to either attend graduate school or law school upon completion. He holds a great love for the work of H.P. Lovecraft and loves to write about similar subjects that fall within the surreal. This will be Otis' second publication of poetry, with his first attempt earning him the 2020 Gary Mitchner prize for formal poetry for The March. When crafting “The Closer” and “We Bootless Drudges” I found great inspiration in the works of Charles Simic, Charles Bukowski and Dylan Thomas. Both poems come from a place of criticism concerning my occupational history, coming not from a place of hatred but rather questioning. I wrote these years ago while attending Sinclair Community College but only now decided to present them for publication. That being said, I'm in a different place both mentally and emotionally when compared to my mindset at the time of writing. I hope that my writing can find relatability with readers, even if my perspective on these pieces has changed as I have matured.

Hailey Parker Hailey is pursuing an English Studies major with a minor in Creative Writing. Writing has been an important aspect of her life for as long as she can remember, and storytelling has always been one of her strongest passions. For years now, her genre of focus has been horror stories and more recently fixating on poetry. Parker’s poem, "The Statue Man," is a work from an Intro to Poetry class here at Miami. As part of her final project, she created a chapbook of poems, and "The Statue Man" was her favorite. Much of her poetry has hidden meaning behind it, and this one is no different. Most of her poems tend to relate in some way or another to mental health, while "The Statue Man" is meant to personify a sleep paralysis demon. Parker hopes you enjoy it.

Kara Reedy Kara Reedy is a junior at Miami University, majoring in English Studies. Reedy’s piece, “Jingle”, was inspired by a writing assignment in a Disability Studies class taught by Dr. Tory Pearman. The class was tasked with composing a Braided Essay, a type of essay that incorporates personal and research subjects into one coherent piece. Students were to write about either their own disability or the disability of someone else they were close to; Reedy wrote about her mental condition: anxiety. “Jingle” encompasses a decent chunk of her childhood in which she would have such stark paranoia that she would be unable to sleep at night. The creature portrayed in the story is not a real thing. Reedy pulled inspiration from a Venetian-style mask that her grandma had given to her. The story ends with the main character realizing that her anxiety was not a separate ✦91✦

part of her. Over time, she has also come to the same conclusions, and she now embraces her anxious mind. When it comes to mental health, the first step is always recognition, followed by acceptance. If we are to be who we are truly meant to be, we must accept ourselves for who we are.

Emma Steigerwald Emma Steigerwald is a junior majoring in Small Business Management here at Miami! She was honestly driven to submit her work by her creative writing teacher, Dr. Kulbaga. Steigerwald took Dr.Kulbaga’s class during the fall semester and she gave her the confidence to get back into creative writing, so shout out to her! Steigerwald’s inspiration for “It’s Not a Phase” came from that phrase. As someone in the LGBTQ+ community, she has always hated the phrase “it’s a phase, you’ll grow out of it”. However, she was also trying to convince herself that it was only a phase and that she was “normal”. The truth is that there is no “normal”. Steigerwald tried for many years to suppress that part of her life, but she was also really unhappy. She thinks a lot of people don’t talk about this, but coming out to oneself is one of the hardest things to go through. That’s one of the reasons why she loves this piece. To be honest, this piece not only brought her tears, but it also brought her acceptance. She stands before you, a proud bisexual woman, and it’s not a phase.

Jonah Van Lehn Jonah Van Lehn is a sophomore, majoring in English and Western Studies. Poetry, prose, and art have always been significant interests of his, but he never started creating in those outlets until he came to Miami. The supernatural, the scary, or the "weird"- that is what he loves to write and create about, whether in subject matter, or the feeling that is created. Lehn often is inspired by the real world, but in a way where he wants to see what it can be, for better or for worse. Lehn’s main goal as a writer and creator is to simply provoke thought, to spark discussion, whether internally or externally - which is the goal of all media, to an end.

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Adam Ward Adam Ward is a junior majoring in nursing and minoring in creative writing. His goal is to be a nurse in pediatric oncology. As a single father of three and a full-time student, he doesn’t have a lot of time for himself, so uses writing to work through things. The inspiration for his writing, in general, comes from personal dealings with his PTSD from his experiences during combat in the military. Ward finds that writing is his therapeutic way to work through thoughts and feelings.

Jillian White Jillian White always believed that poetry is meant to strike a chord in us. She writes to show the innermost parts of herself, hoping that anyone who reads her work might find comfort in knowing they aren’t alone in their experiences. She’s the daughter of an extremely hardworking single mom, and has had to deal with the death of her father, among other things. She very much likes to focus on feminism in her work because of the woman her mother is, and the woman she raised her to be. White doesn’t like to shy away from painful topics, because that’s what it means to be human; raw and transparent pain and the beauty that can be found within. She sincerely hopes that you enjoy her work and that it might resonate with you in the best way possible. She thanks you, from the bottom of her heart.

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Illuminati: A Journal of the Arts - Spring 2022

Articles inside

See Me

Oversight

Adam Ward Finding Hope

Contributors’ Notes

Deja Reid* Untitled

Emma Steigerwald It’s Not a Phase

Makaylla Maldonado Empty Capsules

Gwenevere Markey Never Too Late to Change

Kara Reedy Jingle

To Fill My Side

The Red Stone Rolls Uphill

Jason Otis The Closer

We Bootless Drudges

Benjamin LeFevers The Art Eternal

I Eat Poison for Fun

Where’s My Lemon?

Chandlier Jones Disappointment is Unbearable

You’re Overdramatic

The Pursuit of Happiness

Sugar Sour Baby Girl

Isabelle Del Turco* September 3

Dark Imagination

Geneva Combs Wasp

Tiger in Ohio Woods

Annika Baldwin* The Reflection

Riley Courtney* A Year Below

The Lord Shut Up Her Womb

Night is Darker Than Winter

Miya Alsip A Witch’s Tune