Illuminati: a Journal of the Arts Spring 2020 by notthatilluminati

A Journal of the Arts / Miami University Regionals ÂŠ 2020 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: "Slithery Dee." Olivia Melbye. 2019. Quotation from "The Slithery Dee," by Robert Scott. Logo: Alexceunna Krewson. 2019.

President/Editor in Chief Sam Schenck

Staff Anna Fink, Vice President Matt Hollon, Treasurer Emily Steele, Editor Charlotte Waldron, Editor Alexceunna Krewson, Editor

Faculty Advisors Michelle Lawrence Eric Melbye

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CONTENTS Sam Schenck

Foreword

Lessie Day

Where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m From

Appointment

The Flight

Silent Night

What I Wish I Knew Before

The D Word

Meatloaf Surprise

Crimson Tears*

Candy Hearts

Shot Up

Burnt Hands

Thoughtful Roses

Statue*

My House

Musicality

Fading Pages

Day by Day

Emma Laye

Bricks and Beams and Hopes and Dreams

Elizabeth Mehltretter

Poetry Collection*

Nick Harrist

Village*

Life*

Awareness*

The Question of Fire: Ablaze*

Let me bleed*

A Special Place*

A.I. Catraz*

Emily Steele Adam Ward

Sam Schenck Alexceunna Krewson Hannah Kuhn

Annika Baldwin Carter Surber

Ana Sanford

Olivia Gronvall

Contributorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Notes

Tick Tock*

Here We Go*

Ode to the Weirdos*

The Good Book of Truths*

The Change*

Watched Pot*

Well*

Tall Tales*

Rinse and Repeat*

100

The Girl and the Star*

101

Blueberry Song

114

Reading is a Fine Repast

115 116

Foreword 2020 has already been a year of curveballs and adaptations to new normalcies. In recognition of these themes, we present to you our spring 2020 issue as a collection of works that reflect the ways that we overcome adversity, obstacles, and life’s challenges. This semester, Matthew Hollon, Anna Fink, and I were The Illuminati’s first interns as we took on the opportunity of spending class time uplifting and evolving our organization’s campus involvement, culture, and impact on our surrounding community. Between the three of us, I have made life long memories as a senior and executive member of Illuminati at Miami Regionals as we graduate together. I would also like to congratulate our Malcolm Sedam winners of both 2019 and 2020, Mehl Mehltretter, Nick Harrist, Adam Ward, Annika Baldwin, Carter Surber, Olivia Gronvall, Ana Sanford and Alexceunna Krewson. Your work is invaluable in our issue as it speaks to your experiences as academics, people, and Miamians. Lastly, I would like to thank our editors and co-advisors for their hard work, diligence, and collaborative efforts to make our organization run like the machine it is. Alexceunna Krewson, Emily Steele, and Charlotte Waldron, you have no idea how much you are valued by this organization and your help with this issue has made it the best it can be. Eric Melbye and Michelle Lawrence, you have built this organization from the ground up and we could not have pulled this off without you. I present to you Illuminati: a Journal of the Arts spring 2020. Enjoy. Sam Schenck President and Editor in Chief

Lessie Day Where I'm From I am from hard work pays off, from late shifts and rough palms. I am from the backyard Maple tree, (Strong, sturdy, protecting us in our sleep). I am from the North End-The poor side-Where neighbors were like family And children played outside until the street lights came on. I'm from late night meteor showers at Hueston Woods, From Mom and Dadcula. I'm from the practice makes perfect, And the â&#x20AC;&#x153;play it againsâ&#x20AC;?, From Roll Out! and Play Nice! I'm from two wrongs don't make a right, With a song in the air And lyrics I know by heart . I'm from Bowling and Brock's tree, Fried eggs and black coffee. From the child my mother lost to ailment, To the cane my father used to help his gait. Under my pillow was a diary Full of old memories, A story of nightmares and forgotten dreams To help relieve my mind. I am from those stories-composed before maturation -Free spirit from love rich lineage.

Appointment Eternity has a Waiting Roomâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; full of expired magazines and uncomfortable chairsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

The Flight I fear it must be said, The Reaper laughed, once I was dead. Inside his eyes my soul took flight, upon his robes, a starry night. Behind his smile, hides dark and thin, the hope you feel, is lost again. His eyes are dark, just like the sky, his fingers bone, white and dry. He lifts me high, into the wind, my final flight, here begins.

Silent Night The water was boiling and I still didn’t have all the vegetables ready to throw in the pot. I’d made a mess with the lobsters and there were little pieces of broken red shell splattered all over the white tile countertops. I figured that wouldn’t matter too much because they were cooked appropriately and would be a tasty addition to dinner that evening. I remember watching my mother prepare dinner for our family and she would always tell me to make sure that everything was chopped and diced to the same size in order to allow for even cooking. “Women are judged on their skills in the kitchen, and if you can’t properly chop an onion, you may as well leave the rest of the meal alone and call in a professional.”she’d say. My mother had varying anecdotes on what a woman should or shouldn’t be able to do around the house and, when I was young, I stored all of her advice away in a special file in my brain. I would refer to that file throughout most of my early 20s, but with age comes wisdom and I had come to the realization that all of her sage advice was outdated and mostly irrelevant in my own life. As an adult, I no longer shared her view about a woman’s place in the kitchen, nor did I believe that my cooking abilities could be directly tied to the way I cut an onion. Still, I found myself lamenting over the fact that I was unable to dice vegetables evenly for a simple hash. Looking at the pile of vegetables, I could see that they were covered with shiny red speckles and realized that they had not escaped the lobster massacre earlier. I sighed, knowing that I would have to go through them and pull out the pieces of lobster shell. Maybe cooking just wasn’t for me. I began to sort through the food, removing the miniscule pieces of shell shrapnel, and started thinking about my decision to make Christmas dinner for the whole family, instead of letting my mother do it as usual. Initially my intentions were good and there was some excitement to show off my new place, but the only emotion I felt at that moment was

overwhelming frustration. It would be the first Christmas with my daughter, and also the first Christmas without her father. At just over two months old, she was a perfect, little pink flower of a baby girl who was beginning to coo and smile at me when I talked to her. She was asleep in her room just down the hall and through the baby monitor her deep breathing kept pace with Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” playing on the holiday Pandora station. I smiled to myself as I sorted through the vegetables and glanced down at my hands, noticing that it looked like they’d been spattered with blood. Little bits of bright red here and there with some pieces of shell trapped underneath my fingernails. Paired with the random dots of red on the counter, it looked like a murder scene. That’s exactly what it was. I had purchased live lobsters, dropped them into boiling water and listened to the screaming sound of air escaping from their shells while they cooked. It made me shiver. I had never cooked anything that was still living before. This year since I had asked to make dinner for everyone I suggested making lasagna instead of our usual Maine crustacean dish and my mother had strongly objected. “If you don’t think you can handle the dinner, I’d be happy to do it myself,” she’d said and once again I insisted that I could do it. I now had something to prove. Boiling innocent creatures alive was no problem for me! The red blobs on my hands and countertops were starting to blur together and I could see the beady, black eyes of the remaining lobsters glaring at me from the platter I had placed them on. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them. I wiped my hands on a dish towel, placed the vegetables in a skillet and rested my hands on the sides of the kitchen sink. I began to focus on the sound of my daughter’s smooth, easy breathing, and started to sing along with Judy Garland trying to slow my heart rate. I could feel the panic attack building up. I was used to having anxiety at night, especially after being awakened from a particularly bad nightmare, but lately the attacks would happen during the day

too. I walked over to the Christmas tree and started looking at some of the old ornaments for a bit of nostalgia, focusing on childhood memories of Christmas morning in an effort to stay the rising panic attack. My anxiety slowly evolved into a strange sense of unease. Still trying to focus on the brightly lit tree and colorful decorations, I noticed that an ornament was missing. It was an old porcelain angel my grandmother had given me many years ago; it had belonged to her mother and, while I had never liked it (it was a creepy looking thing), I thanked her for it and promised to hang it on my tree. The angel was so old it was chipped in several places and her painted on blue robes were worn through in the back, revealing the shiny bone white porcelain underneath. One side of her face had been poorly glued back together after being smashed by a child’s foot. Her blond hair was faded to almost white, and beneath her tiny closed eyes and upturned nose, red cherubic lips appeared to be smirking as if her mouth held deep, dark secrets. Her head was crowned with a tiny copper wire halo that had a bent and dented appearance after so many years of being packed away in a box after the holiday season was over. I disliked the angel so much that I had only put her on the tree since I knew my grandmother would be coming over. But now being unable to find her, I began to question if I had indeed gotten the angel ornament out. Perhaps in my frantic rush to get the house and meal taken care of, I’d forgotten to grab her from her usual box in the basement. I turned to head toward the basement door off the kitchen, when I heard the creaking of a door from the other end of the hallway. The holiday station was now playing “Silent Night” and I felt the tiny hairs on my arms and neck stand up. Through the baby monitor, I heard footsteps in my daughter’s room, her heavy breathing had ceased and I could just barely hear the jingling bells of her flowered mobile, the same jingling sound it made whenever I bumped it reaching down into her crib to pick her up. I started toward her room and heard quick thumping that sounded like footsteps as I peered down the

hallway. I felt my panic resurface as I stared at the now open door of my daughter’s bedroom. I wanted to run down the hall, but it was like my legs were heavy blocks of ice, frozen in place too heavy for me to move. A dizzying array of lights began spinning around me and I could taste bile as a feeling of nausea swept over me. As the light headed feeling worsened, I lost my balance and reached out for the door frame. The solidness of the wall kept me from falling and the cool feel of the plaster helped to quell the urge to throw up. I looked back down the hall to see a robed figure standing outside the nursery, staring at me. It took me a few moments to realize that what I was looking at was the porcelain angel, as tall as me, staring right back at me with dark, lifeless eyes. Other than her size, she looked just as she had on the tree, chipped forehead and crushed cheek, standing in profile as she seemed to glide out of the room. Her head tilted down and away as she gazed at an object in her arms, revealing the enlarged Christmas tree hook looped through the blood covered eyelet screw in the back of her neck. As she got closer, I saw that it was my infant daughter she carried that held her attention. She then looked up and cast her dark, ghostly eyes at me; it looked as if they were not really on her face, but somehow floating just in front of it. She advanced down the hall, gliding as if weightless, her red lips cracked in a ghoulish smile revealing rows of pointed white teeth. She began to speak, and her voice was like a cold, damp wind, leaving goose bumps on my skin as her breath reached my face, “This is a sweet child” she said “sweet enough to eat.” She began to turn away, and where her robes had worn through, her white, bony, porcelain back was visible. It was somehow stiff and sinewy with her spine poking through, the blood from the hook soaking her garment, turning the robes a dark, wet, purple color. I screamed and reached for my daughter, but my arms were like heavy weights, dead at my sides. The Angel began to cackle and glided toward the Christmas tree, singing “Silent Night” in her windy dead voice to the infant in her arms. I could do nothing but scream while I stood

paralyzed as she leaned in, with her red, bloody lips, to kiss the baby. The sheets are clinging to my body as I sit up in the dark to turn the lamp on. I rested my hand on my pregnant belly and took a deep breath, thankful that the dream was over, but wondering how many more nightmares about losing this child I was going to have. My bad dreams had gotten much worse in my third trimester and even though my doctor says that it is normal to have vivid dreams during pregnancy, I’d much rather mine be about something nice like unicorns or winning the lottery. Instead, I get horrible death scenarios involving my unborn child. I slowly wobbled to the kitchen to get some juice, and glanced at the grocery list for Christmas dinner, hanging on the fridge. I grabbed a pen from the junk drawer, walked over to it and scratched out “lobster” replacing it with “lasagna.” Feeling better about the impending meal, I sorted through some baby bottles and miscellaneous items sitting on the kitchen table as the nightmare faded further from my mind. I had managed to get almost everything set up for my little bundle of joy, the swing, the crib, and the baby monitors. I rinsed my glass in the sink and put it in the strainer. Suddenly, static comes through the baby monitor on the table. It sounded as if it was picking up on another frequency nearby so I picked it up to turn it off. Music began to play and I held the monitor closer to my ear. My entire body goes numb and a cold sweat breaks out on my face and palms. The static clears and through the monitor, I can hear “Silent Night” playing somewhere off in the distance.

Emily Steele What I Wish I Knew Before I lost you. Okay. But no one ever told me What that really means. No one ever told me About the memories, How I’d scream them into the pillow & Pound them into the walls, Praying for just one moment to forget. No one ever told me About the pain, How I’d spill my guts every time I woke up & realized night terrors are real— Every time I shook the cobwebs off the bad dreams & went through them over & over. No one ever told me About the regret, How my lips would ache with words unsaid & My bones would crush under the weight of nostalgia, Longing for one more chance to get it right. No one ever told me, & maybe I’ll never know What it’s like to wake up & not miss you anymore, Not to look up from my greatest accomplishments and miss your face among the crowd. But I suppose no one ever told me Because no one knows what they’ve got until it’s gone, Never to return to you again.

The D Word They think they know you, That they’ve got you figured out. You, the elusive D word, Your symptoms they tout. “Depression is tearfulness, Being wedded to one’s bed. It’s unmistakable sadness, It’s wishing you were dead.” And so the stigma is set, Mystery solved by shallow sleuths. But as your closest companion, I’ll tell them all the truth. They’ve only met one side of you, They’ve barely scratched the surface-To paint you as two dimensional Would be nothing short of remiss. Sometimes you wake me in the night-No rest for the weary. You bully me to come out and play, And so I must agree. We go for a long drive Past all the painful memories. You tell me it’s just what I deserve, I brought this loss upon me. We make it home in silence, Your voice in my head replacing music. I scream it out into my pillow Till the cacophony makes me too sick. In the morning I wake before you, And I try like hell to leave you behind. I go to work, dinner, clubs, bars, I make them believe I’m fine.

I don’t give myself a spare moment, I spend no time alone. I laugh, joke, banter, debate-No one would ever know. I know I can’t hide forever, You always catch back up. I put up all my defenses, Yet you still come to wreak havoc. Some of the days are better, And some of them are worse. Some days you’re on top of the world, Some, you want a hearse. I hope they never get to know you Quite the way I do, But I hope they learn to be kind, Even when they can’t see what I’m going through.

Adam Ward Meatloaf Surprise This foul smell engulfs me, It’s running down my throat My stomach starts to tighten, I hope I don’t throw up Why did you make this? How do you call this food? We may be in the backwoods, But doesn’t mean you should. Next time let’s just hit a store, When shopping for some meat Instead of going down the road, To peel it off the street.

Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 Crimson Tears The dust hangs in the air like small clouds. Once it begins to clear, I become aware of the faint outline of the crater in the ground. It’s eerily quiet, yet not quiet at all at the same time. The high pitched ringing in my ears drowns out everything else. I look around in a slight daze, not fully taking in the gravity of what has just happened. I check myself and I don’t see any blood-everything is where it should be. I look back at the hole in the ground. The smoke and dust are still billowing out of it. Faint mumbles are starting to break through the ringing in my ears. I can hear him now, the cries. I scan the area looking, but all I see is the aftermath. Parts of the truck are thrown about, some dripping crimson tears. The cries are getting louder now. I see his foot sticking out from the busted door. The door has been bent in half like a charred tent over him with his foot poking out of the end. I rush towards the screams and throw the door to the side, but it isn’t sheltering him-- only his boot is there. I reach to grab it and that’s when I notice the blood running out of the top. ****** An old desk sitting in front of a window. The sunlight pours through the window onto the desk, slowly changing from yellow to a pinkish orange. The light highlights the scratches on the surface, small splinters poking out each indentation. A man is sitting bent over the front of the desk, hovering across a pad of paper. Sticking out from underneath is an envelope with a name scribbled across the front. Just off to the side is a short glass sweating beads as the ice slowly dilutes the amber liquor. “Chad, I am writing this letter to you because I feel like I need to give some explanation. I don’t know

how to explain why I am this way and how I got to this point. All I can tell you is that I’m not the same as I was before. Life seems so much more fragile now than it did before. We never really thought about anything when we were younger. We were careless as fuck, spending our summers climbing trees and jumping off of bridges. Our biggest worry was how much trouble we would get into from Mom and Dad. We were, for all we knew, invincible in our minds. That was before I joined, though, before we went our separate ways. You went off to college to grow up and mature into a man. I guess I chose a different path of growing. I am proud of you, though, you worked hard to earn your opportunity…” He pauses to take a sip of his drink and gazes out the window for a moment. The clouds hang in the distance over the treetops, their colors bleeding into each other from yellow to pink to purple. I can still hear his cries as I start to make my way further through the wreckage. Calling out to him for his location, I continue trying to see through the clouds. Our platoon leader staggers in front of me, blood running down his arm. I grab him and pull him off the road. I pull open his vest to see a piece of metal embedded under the edge of his shoulder piece. I sit him down and pull the vest off of him. After laying him against it I begin to cut away his uniform to get a better look. The metal is jagged and has cut deep into his shoulder; I cannot remove it safely. I just dress it and have him hold fast for medics. I can still hear the screams; the ringing is all but gone now. I head back into the grey smoke and search for the others. I find the boot still motionless in a crimson pool. I follow the screams further until I come across the rest of him. He has propped himself against a tire lying on its side. His face is covered in red and black paint from this battle, but I can see his piercing blue eyes open wide. He is in shock, but managed to wrap his belt around his leg to fashion a tourniquet. It may have saved his life. I lift him up and

he uses me as a crutch as we make our way to the lieutenant. I sit him down and go back for the boot. I still can hear the screams in the distance. ****** “We both grew into men at the same time, but we were educated in different institutions. You spent your time studying and learning how to thrive in the future. I spent my time studying how to save and take lives. I majored in staying alive today, not worrying about tomorrow. I wonder about the friends you made in your fraternity. I always wonder about the strength of your brotherhood’s bond. I miss it, my brotherhood. There is no way to describe it, we lived for each other until the very end. The things we did and saw, no one could understand it but us…” I move deeper into the wreckage, covering my mouth with my neck gator as a mask, my eyes burning from the fumes engulfing me. I try to listen for the cries, but they have gone faint again. I trip into the shell of what remains of the front end of the gun truck. It is just a burning metal frame now, its fuel sprayed everywhere. I make my way towards the driver’s side, its door ripped off its hinges. Hunched over the steering wheel is the driver. He is partially blackened on his right side with cracks of red from which blood leaked. He is gone. I stand there, looking. It has gone quiet again. I hear nothing and I feel nothing, I start to feel my heart sink with each beat-- this is how I know I am still alive. I slowly remove him from the truck and lay him down. I crouch over him, taking a moment to breathe again. He is laying there, badly damaged from the explosion. Though he is still intact, he is as burned as the truck he had been resting in. I look up at the truck and see crimson tears running off from the driver’s seat down to the floorboard. All that remains of the roof is the soot-covered frame allowing the sunlight to shine down onto his seat. It was almost like a glowing memorial to him now. He was only 18 and had arrived here two weeks ago. He barely knew what life was, but he at least had known our brotherhood. He

was one of us. I take a deep breath and pick him up to carry him to the side. ****** He finishes his drink with one tip of the glass and then reaches into the drawer on the left side of the desk and removes a bottle, taking a moment to look at the near half-emptied bottle before refilling his glass. He puts the bottle back into the drawer and closes it. Taking one more sip, he returns to his pad. “How close were you to your fraternity brothers? Were you as close to them as we were? When you ventured off on your own into your corporate jungle, did they follow alongside you on your flanks? My brotherhood is still there, in thought at least. A part of all of us stays behind when we come home. It remains alive in our past, a past we all shared together. We can always find it, though. We just have to think back to it and it immediately is there waiting for us. I guess in a way both of our brotherhoods are similar. It’s an unbreakable bond we share with the others who went through the influential moments of our lives with us. We can all sit back and joke about the old times. For me, at least, we try to joke. I guess that’s how we learned to mask the pain. My brotherhood was more than a bond. I would do anything to protect my brothers and I could move forward confidently knowing that the same was true for them…” I lay him gently next to the others. I can tell from the expressions on their faces that they already know from just seeing him. No sooner than I stand up, the lieutenant places his hand over the motionless chest of the driver and is praying. I don’t know if it will really help anything at all, but it does momentarily lift my heart. He isn’t suffering, and maybe now he was at peace far away looking down on us. The ringing in my ears has disappeared, but now I can hear everything. The sound of flames crackling, the faint whisper to the lieutenant asking, “do you think it was instant?” I hope it was. I walk back into the smoke and dust. Once again, I hear it--

the cries. I try peering through the dusty cloud, but I still cannot make out where it is coming from. I make my way back to the driver’s seat, now vacant and soaking red. With a deep breath I look up, already knowing what to expect. The roof is gone and all that remains is the frame of the gunner’s turret. There is no one standing there now. I grip my rifle and turn around. I know what is next. This isn’t a rescue, it is just a recovery. ****** He puts his pen down and rests his face in his hands. The ends of his elbows dig into the desk, holding his head up. He slowly brings his face up with his hands trailing down until they rest over his mouth. He just stares out the window. His eyes become lost in the clouds lingering over the treetops. He stares intently into the now solid purple clouds, as if watching a performance from the birds swirling and dancing in the twilight sky. He reaches for his glass and takes another large drink from it. He holds it up, looking at it as if he would be able to see a message floating around in the golden-brown whiskey. He places the glass down again and reaches into the drawer. Removing his messenger’s vessel, he refills the glass. Knowing it will be completely empty soon, he gives a sigh and places it back into the drawer. “Do you ever wonder what happened to your brothers after you have all gone your own ways? I’ve only seen a couple of mine since I got out. I guess the distance is the biggest factor. We went from living together every day all day to occasional messages back and forth. I know we still think about each other. Any time one of us passes, it turns into a family reunion over Facebook or through text messages. All the jokes and memories come flooding in from all over the country. It’s funny how we mask the pain of the loss. We all know we feel the same way, but just refuse to admit it. What would you have done if it would have been me years ago, Chad? Would you laugh and joke through fond memories or would you have stood there with your arm

around Mom and Dad. Would you have put your hand over my casket and prayed? I guess only time will answer those questions down the road. I wonder all the time if it would have been easier for everyone if I had been in that gun that day. I may have been gone, but someone else’s family wouldn’t have had to pray over a casket…” He pauses to wipe a tear away from his bloodshot eye. Looking to the glass, he just waits as if he is waiting for the glass to come to him. After a minute he relents and reaches for it. The ice, barely surviving the last pour, now rattles against the side of the glass. He takes a sip and places the glass down. I take a deep breath and walk deeper with my rifle at the ready. At this point I only know what I can see, hear, and remember. What I see: there are small flames scattered around, causing the smoke and dust clouds to glow a deep orange. Everything else is hard to make out. What I hear: silence, the whispers coming behind me from the lieutenant trying to reassure the others, the pops of equipment burning, and the faint cries. What I remember: there had been small arms fire just before the explosion and the gunner calling it out to 11 o’clock, but we never had a chance to respond. Then, I remember: the other truck. We always go out in pairs. I turn and sprint behind my truck, or rather what remains of it. I move further and further, trying to find any sign of it. Then, I see the glow of the headlights. At first, I feel such relief: we aren’t alone and we have support. That sense of relief leaves as quickly as it came. The headlights are not right. Instead of being side by side the headlights are shining directly at me, one on top of the other. I run to the truck, yelling, but there are no immediate responses. When I approach the truck, it is on its side, the gun hung in its mount on the roof unmanned. I run up and look through the windshield. The TC and driver are piled on top of each other against the door. With the buttstock of my rifle I bang on the windshield, pleading for any type of response as I kick the roof

of the truck above their heads. That’s when I hear something moving behind me. I spin around, raising my rifle, only to find the gunner trying to pick himself off of the ground, moaning. I rush over to him and help him up, thankful that he is no worse for wear than myself. We make our way back to the truck to find that the other two have woken up and are crawling out of the passenger’s side door. They had been lucky and only minorly battered. I bring them to the side of the road with the others. The gunner, though shaken and beaten, joins me on the recovery. ****** “You have purpose in your life. You know what you are going to do from day to day. I just feel like that’s all gone now. Does that make sense to you? I am not saying I have no worth, I just mean the drive is gone. Every day had meaning before, everything that I did had purpose. It seems like that all has slowly faded away. I’m sure there are plenty of great purposeful things left ahead for me, but it just feels like I left my best self behind when I got out. I know it is probably hard for you to understand. Hell, it is probably hard for anyone to understand who hasn’t been a part of my brotherhood. I don’t think there is any way for them to really see anything other than the masks we wear, us laughing and joking. My brothers are a rare breed, Chad. You face your problems in an organized manner. We are anything but organized. I swear, we just steamroll through things and assess the damage later on. More times than not, we just put that off too…” He tips the glass back and swallows the last bit of chilled whiskey. He takes a moment to enjoy the smooth, cool sensation as it runs down his throat and finally stops, warming his belly. He rests the empty glass against his forehead as he looks out the window. The clouds are now a dark blue with breaks of the fading orange sun peeking through. It’s like the darkness is trying to mask the sun, but it refuses to be forgotten. It won’t go without showing that there is still light at the end. He sets the glass down and reaches into the drawer, pulling out the bottle and once again

filling the empty glass. This time there is no ice to meet it. He fills the glass to the brim with the warm whiskey and without thought-- just a reoccurring instinct-- he places the bottle back into the drawer. We branch out in search of our missing brother. While my brother is hoping and trying to remain positive that, like himself, we will find him having just been tossed aside dazed and confused, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hold the same optimism. I have seen the truck and I have seen the bare, burnt skeletal frame that remains. As we move deeper into the wooded border to the road, I can still hear the faint cries. I ask him if he hears them as well, but I alone hear them. We still find small pieces of the truck strewn about the ground, so we know that we are still on the correct path. I glance behind me-- Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure why. It was like I needed to make sure I knew where I was coming from in order to find where I am going. I turn my head back to face forward, but as my view passes over my right shoulder I see something off to the side. The smoke and dust have not reached this far yet, so I know exactly what it is I am seeing. I give a quick shout and make my way. I walk to a thick tree that reaches beyond my view. It could have reached the sky for all I could tell, maybe even heaven. I walk to the tree and rest my head against its trunk. I look down slowly to my feet. His boots lay motionless on top of each other. He could have been sleeping judging by how peaceful he was laying, curled up on his side while hugging the base of the trunk. He could have been sleeping and thinking about what it will be like when he gets home. He would have great stories to tell his family and get to joke about everything with our brothers. I feel a hand on my shoulder gripping tightly-- so much for optimism. There would be no family reunion full of celebration. He is asleep, but not really. This time he is not waking up. My eyes begin burning again, but this time not from fumes and smoke. The tight grip has made its way across my back and now is an arm around my shoulder and a head pressing into my neck. I can

feel the stuttered breathing from his chest as he tries to hold back from crying aloud. I should say something, maybe a small prayer. Instead we stare, our hearts sinking and chests tight. We pick him up and hold an arm over each of our shoulders. We walk him out of the woods to the others, our brother joining us one last time. I hear it again-- the crying-- and again I’m the only one hears it. We find the others huddled up waiting. The lieutenant tells us medics and support are on the way and we need to set up a perimeter for security. Those of us who can walk move out. That’s when I hear something out ahead of me. A faint crying, but this time I see something also. There it is in the distance: I see something curled up on the ground just in front of the wood line by the road. I call back for someone to cover me and I make my way to the crying. ****** He takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair, lifting the glass and taking a big drink of the warm whiskey. It’s no longer chilled and the taste burns his tongue. It now burns as it slides down his throat like a flame racing to his stomach. His face winces from the harsh aftermath in his mouth. He slams the glass down on the desk as he gives a deep exhale. Some of the whiskey splashes out, leaving a small perimeter of drops around the glass. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Chad, sometimes I’m envious of you. You can go about your day and not think about things. You have memories, of course, but do you get to choose when you think about them? I wonder, do you ever come across a smell that just takes you away to somewhere else? I can get lost for days and days. It gets harder to find my way back. It sucks that you and I have grown so far apart, but I guess that’s what brothers do. We move on in our lives. We only know each other in our memories. I guess all brotherhoods are like that. We can live forever in our memories. I wish we could have spent more time catching up when I got back. It’s been hard for me and

sometimes I’m just left empty. I’m stuck remembering the part of me that was left behind and all that I have to remember and grasp onto are the cries I hear. I hear the cries that no one else can hear. They followed me home as a reminder of how I grew up and changed. I really wish I could explain things better to you. I guess it’s like I speak a different language than everyone else these days and there is no translation to help. It leaves me feeling lost and confused, wondering if there was anything different I could have done. I wish there was a translator between our parents and me. Maybe that’s why I am writing to you, so you can put all of this into a way they can understand.” He leans in and grabs the glass to take the last drink of the warm whiskey. It still burns the same as the last time. He sits staring at the empty glass for a minute, just gazing into the last couple drops pooled at the bottom. A solemn expression passes over his face as he puts the glass down. There was no message to be found after all. He folds the letter and places it in the envelope. Looking up at the window he can see the golden sun is no longer peeking through the dark blue clouds. He reaches down into his drawer again and pulls out the bottle. He gives a slight chuckle as he looks at it. The vessel is finally empty and has nothing left to share. I slowly walk towards the curled-up mass. I notice it is slowly rocking back and forth. The cries become louder, but now I can make out words also. They are foreign to me, but I need no translation once I get closer. Ahead a man lay across the ground; a leg and arm were missing. He is covered in the crimson red blood. To the side is an AKA-47, just arm's reach from his body. The crying is louder and from above his chest a young boy is leaning over the man. He is rocking back and forth, crying and moaning. I need no explanation; this was his father. I try to figure out what to say, but I’m at a loss for the right words. I could show compassion or concern, but I never get the chance. The boy looks up at me, his face covered in his father’s blood. The

tears running down from his eyes over his cheeks are turning into to crimson blood, covering them. In an instant he reaches for the gun and begins to point it at me. Compassion is no longer what I search for, I now reach for my education in taking and saving lives. With one single shot the boy falls back. I rush to hold him. Throwing the rifle to the side, I cradle him. Still he cries, but this time not for his father. I hold the boy, who is not much older than eight years old, trying to reassure him that it will be okay. I apply pressure to his chest wound, but the blood is running between my fingers. I hope the medics will arrive soon, but I still am not the optimist. He stares at me with the crimson tears still running down his face and I stare back. I feel the warmth of his blood running off his back, pooling in my lap as I continue to cradle him. I sit there holding him until finally the cries stop and his empty eyes are fixed on me. ****** He sits the empty vessel down on the desk and leans the letter against it. He stands up and reaches down into the drawer one last time and finds what he is looking for. He pulls out a cold, steely object and holds it tightly in his grip. It is a grip his hand is all too familiar with holding. This is the grip of certainty and one with which there cannot be any second thought. He pushes the drawer closed and walks off through the doorway into his bedroomâ&#x20AC;Ś

BANG.

Memories hurt and the pain doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t subside, Nothing helps hide the feelings inside. Cries and screams will echo through the years; No way of explaining the thoughts that you fear. Dreams are torture and your sleep is rare. Anxiety becomes more than that you can bear. Regrets will stay, leaving you with sorrow. The internal shame will be there tomorrow. Working so hard, so nobody can tell. You are living in your own personal hell. Carefully planning out each next step, Not wanting to lose what you have left. Burying the thoughts and keeping a smile, Going through motions should last a while. So memories stay and the regrets will remain, Put on your mask to hide away all the pain.

Candy Hearts The empty glass before me, Won’t destroy the pain The tender love beside me, Doesn’t feel the same Meaningless discussions, Full of pointless shame Where is the life around me, Another soul down the drain. Can you reach into this heart, To find all that is left? Wisdom full of sorrow, This blindness leads to death. So open up empty arms and hold this lifeless bliss. Entertain me one last time, With one emotionless kiss. Forced fumbled footsteps, Lead to the path of truth Sounds of muffled whispers, Resistance is the proof So can you pass beside me, Put me past this blame Start this world all over, Try this day again. Will you reach into this heart, And find all that is left? Wisdom full of sorrow, My blindness is my death. With empty arms and tearful eyes, You watch me slip away. Faintly think back to when we were and that kiss would stay. Maybe one day you’ll find me, Walking on my own Fighting to remember, Why I’m still alone.

Sam Schenck Shot Up I Did I ever tell you about the time my school was shot up? II February 29th, 2016. A leap year, obviously. My teachers always said that February was the worst month of the year, that all it did was snow and now I think of it as a delay for spring to come. I wish February didn’t exist sometimes. Especially now, only 3 months left before I would be a graduating senior. I would finally be done with school. I hate school sometimes...wish it didn’t exist either. It’s only a delay for the rest of your life. An 18 year old knows everything. Math class was the biggest drag, I was never any good at it. I was good at English though, always had been. I could write the best papers and tell jokes and get my point across. Never bothered me to be up in front of the class, and my teachers got along well with me, unless they taught science or math. I wasn’t ever very nice to them because their subjects frustrated me. Oh well, I would be a writer one day and I would prove to them that the quadratic formula and balancing chemical equations didn’t matter to me, or anyone for that matter. But unfortunately I’m in math class with my least favorite teacher, a young woman that had just gotten out of college and didn’t know how to corral a bunch of rambunctious seniors. We treated her bad, I wish we hadn’t. But then I guess she picked her poison and I could only feel so bad for her. She was standing in front of the class writing letters mixed with numbers on the board in stinky Expo marker and asking questions to a silent classroom. I was drawing eyes on my notebook paper, ones with huge eyelashes and deep shadows contoured into the crease when the silence of the class was interrupted by three distinct pops. Almost like three textbooks

slapping the tile floor, but more violent. Almost like hearing a belly smacker at the pool from a failed dive, but without the water, and more staccato. I looked across the class whose ears had immediately pricked up and we had seen enough of the news to know what might have just happened. I am shocked, shell shocked even, when one of my friends on the other side of the room says “What if those were gunshots?” The guys in the room start laughing so I back her up, “No, Kaleigh, I thought the same exact thing.” To support our fears, five students immediately ran past our door like lightning cracking through clouds. They were blurs, running for their lives. The intercom clicked on, and after a tone that silences any classroom, Mrs. Watson said through the speaker with an adrenalinestricken voice, “Nurse to the cafeteria. Nurse to the cafeteria.” Our class all stood up and started game planning. We pushed the desks away from the far wall, the wall that you can’t see from the door, and our teacher shut the door so that a locked piece of wood would protect us. We hid in the alcove together, shoulder to shoulder, then knee to knee as we hunkered down to make sure everyone had a spot in safety. III Time is a funny thing, sometimes it slowly drips by like cold molasses and other times it flashes by like a bullet. Time flies when you’re havin’ fun they say. I always think of a square black plaque that I inherited from my maternal great grandmother when I think about time...it reads, “TIME MOVES ON/ If you would do a kindness/ it is not wise to wait/ you never know how quickly/ it’s going to be too late.” She was always wiser than anyone I ever knew. I think about the summers I would spend at Kings Island and how I would be there when the park opened and in no time at all it was dark and my mom was picking me up. And I think of all the math classes that I sat through, drawing and tapping my foot as I glared at the stationary

hands on the clock above the door, every click of the second hand felt like a century. Time makes a space, decides how long you’ll be trapped in a room or how little time you spend on a roller coaster. I wish I was screaming as I cascaded down a metal hill with my friends. IV Instead I am silent with my classmates, tears dripping from the corners of our eyes. We all cower and begin praying, I even prayed like I do when I begin losing hope, praying that somebody out there will hear me and help me. Maybe not everyone prayed, maybe it was just me, but I wasn’t watching what everyone else was doing. Mrs. Watson’s voice proved what happened and her voice seemed to echo off the eggshell walls and bounce endlessly between the white board and the ceiling. “Nurse to the cafeteria” rang in my ears, filled up my head, twisted and squished around til all I heard was “There’s a gunman in our school and he is killing children” instead. I am a child. I am no adult, I shouldn’t have to deal with this. I am certainly not in a battlefield. I am most definitely in a battlefield. Somebody cussed really loud and we all looked to the teacher, a self-confessed devout Christian, fearing she would have something to say. Before she could say anything, I spoke, “If there’s a time to fucking cuss, it’s right fucking now.” With wide eyes we all looked back to my teacher and she gave a slight nod and turned her shoulders upwards. Morals don’t exist in times of crisis. Nick stood up and looked out the door, we all whisper-screamed at him to get away from the glass. He reached out and touched the handle, grabbed it, and pulled. The lock clicked. Our teacher didn’t shut the fucking door and it would have been just as easy to get in our room as opening a cereal box. I remember that Jessi was to my right, I remember because we held hands. Kaleigh was

to my left, all three of us sitting in the corner of the yellow-white classroom with 20 of the people we mostly knew since kindergarten that we were supposed to graduate with in just a couple months. Oh god, we’re supposed to graduate in just a couple months and now we’re locked in a classroom and there’s a shooter down the hall and all we can do is pass our phones around so that we can tell our parents that we love them for maybe the last time and Jesus Christ I want my mom she would fix this maybe she wouldn’t fix this but at least she would be here with me. We texted our little siblings, told them we loved them, knew they were in the same building as us, knew they too were in the presence of a deranged gunman, and I think about it now with tears in my eyes that my baby sister could be in the headlines as a victim of a school shooter. They told us that we weren’t supposed to have our phones in school, that for reasons exactly like this, shooters could coordinate a strategic shooting by use of cellular communication. I find it funny that cell phones are prohibited but guns really aren’t. Who is gonna argue with a gun? A teacher will confiscate a phone, but I would love to see any of my teachers ask a shooter to put down a gun. Authority doesn’t matter to a cell phone. Authority doesn’t matter to a gun. Take his gun away so that I can live. Please.

V I remembered suddenly that I had a project due for my college class and I texted my partner, telling her there was a shooting happening, that I would try to send the project that I hadn’t prepared, that didn’t even exist, later on when I got home. She responded, “Okay! Be safe!” VI

Through the windows that faced out from the classroom toward the parking lot, we saw a boy running up over the hill and into a small patch of woods that butted up to residential yards. Not long after that, we noticed there were police cars all over the school grounds, civilian cars with police lights fixed in the head lamps of the brand new black and silver sedans. We could hear choppers circling us, whether they were news reporters or police helicopters, it was nice to know that something was watching over us. We slowly eased out of our safety alcove against our teacherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wishes and peered out the window. Yup, there were helicopters alright. And a crowd outside? Yes, a crowd was gathering in front of the cafeteria. Parents, grandparents, guardians, all united in front of a school where children had been maimed and attacked. They were corralled by yellow tape, distancing them from the cafeteria doors. I wish I could be with them, not knowing what was happening inside here. What happened after this is a blur. Actually, more like a cut in film. I remember being at school, then I remember being home. No transition. I was laying in bed, shaking, watching Family Guy when the cartoon showed a man shoot a gun and instead of the cartoon gun sounds, I heard three distinct pops. Trauma is real. VII We shared stories of what happened in every classroom, and I heard about how the baseball coach that taught psychology armed his students with baseball bats that he grabbed out of his playersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; ball bags. I heard about how the shooter in the cafeteria caused the 8th graders eating there to evacuate the entire cafeteria in 8 seconds. 8 Seconds. I heard about how once they escaped, they fled school grounds and stuck together in flocks, running like they were being chased.

I heard about the gunman. A 13 year old, an 8th grade student. I heard about how he pulled out a handgun, shot 6 bullets, no maybe it was 7, I can’t remember, before his gun jammed and he ran out of the cafeteria. He ran up over the hill and into a small patch of woods that butted up to residential yards. They caught him and he didn’t put up a fight. He shot four students all together, well really he only shot three, but a girl was struck by shrapnel. I heard about how he told a friend, a girl, that he was going to do this, and she did nothing to stop him. His name was Austin Hancock. VIII I’m 21 now and it’s hard to think I was 17 when this happened. Of course I was in danger when at school that day, but I didn’t have to run like those children had to. Still though, when I’m in class and somebody stands up abruptly, when a textbook slaps the floor, when a scream or yell is heard down the hall, I can’t help but think of how to escape. IX Most sincerely, fuck your thoughts and prayers. Give us reform.

Burnt Hands I His hands were dirty, a little dry, probably from being out in the sun so much. They were tan. I can see them now, from the back seat, while he sits passenger and spells out every word he speaks with his hands. His bald spot shines as bright as his fingernails, little lines of dirt under the whites of them. The crown of his head gleaming at 17, his mother’s father must be bald. His fingers are thick, and I want him to put them in my mouth, inside me. I get hot thinking of this so I think of something different. Soccer sucked. I was so bad at it, I hated running, I hated getting up early. But I loved him, and he was there at practice with me, he slapped my ass. Maybe he slapped my ass. Maybe that was a fantasy. He always grabbed on me, cuddled me, when nobody was around, when everybody was around, but we never kissed. His hands were as close as I got, and I got close enough to feel his hands on my body. He always said it was because we both didn’t have girlfriends, and it didn’t click then that I wanted to be his girlfriend. His little spoon. We almost fell asleep together while watching a movie, the other two boy-and-girl couples cuddled up too. But Ashley’s parents came home and we all scattered, and my memory fractures and I forget what happened after that scramble. We’re in Yellow Springs and I’m with all my friends and him. He overdressed, we all wear jeans and hats because it’s February, but he’s in khakis and wears a fashionable, red scarf, covering what his long peacoat doesn’t. Always dapper. His rough hands close around the door to the coffee shop, pulling it open, letting everyone in before him. Always gentlemanly. I wish his hand would close around my neck, pushing me into a pillow, but I can’t think of that now so I think of him some other time. I never got to hold his hand.

II I used to pray for forgiveness…how disgusting. Dear God, I love you. I’m sorry to disappoint you, again. I beg you to remove this sin from my heart, make me clean, and let your son Jesus come into my heart and cleanse me. I love you, I’m sorry for this. Clean me, in Jesus’s name I pray, Amen. In Jesus’s name I pray, Amen. Amen. Clean me. My hands are clean, washed into ruin so that blood seeps out of the dry cracks around my knuckles. Soap cannot clean me deeply enough. My sheets are not clean. My phone has a picture of a woman, naked, on it, but all I could think about was the boys in gym class with tight shorts and the football players with shoulders as strong as oxen. I clean up the mess and wash my sheets quickly, before my parents realize that this is the third time this week I’ve washed my sheets. Nobody had told me about using kleenexes. The stomach pain hits me. The guilt of thinking about boys. A baseball to the face from my dad. He did it on accident, but he laughed before he said sorry. I said I hate you you asshole and he told me that I couldn’t say that, I’m your father. I’m not playing baseball ever again. I don’t feel like your son, now. Baseball won’t make me into more of a man, it just shows how girly I am. God I hate how girly I am. God, make me into a man. My stomach gurgles with stomach acid, I haven’t eaten. I’m not hungry. I haven’t been in days. All I can think about is going to hell. I think of boys and touch myself just like the devil wants me to and I can practically hear him laugh when I release. I bet the devil is gay. I hope God forgives me this time. Hands folded, all the feeling squeezed out of them, tears dropping on them, anointing them. He sends me stomach aches and storms, my two biggest fears. Punish me.

I deserve it. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. III Although the wrist is immobile, the fingers are held in extension by four springs fixed in the palm. The fingers may be brought into flexion and are kept in position by sprockets controlled by metal levers, thereby allowing a reliable grip on objects.1 Eli came to our school in seventh grade, and he had only a right arm. Well, he had a skinny left bicep and the beginning of a forearm, so he had a shorter arm than most. He was born that way, but he took great pleasure in telling people he lost his arm to a shark. Once, we were at a basketball game together because our younger sisters played on the same team, and a little boy asked Eli, “How do you eat food?” Eli coyly responded, “Sometimes I use a fork, sometimes a spoon, it all depends on what I’m eating.” Eli ditched his prosthetic arm in grade school, but he never told me why. He always cared too much about what girls thought of him, maybe he thought it made him look less cool. His having only a right hand never stopped him. He pitched for the Bombers, and that was remarkable for anybody, even those with two hands. He never boasted this fact, I think he was scared of looking cocky. I wish I could play baseball like Eli. IV I washed my hands a hundred times a day. I washed them every time I released, every time I touched a door knob, every time I grabbed something off the ground, every time I did laundry, every time I touched my face, every time. I was afraid of germs, they made me more dirty than I already was. I washed my hands before and after I prayed. After I went outside, I didn’t want to be sick, because being sick was a God sent sign that I did something wrong and I

had to pay, be brought to my knees in the glory of God so that I could pray for humility. God, make me well again. I swear I’ll go to church on Sunday and I will never call my mom a bitch again. That was wrong. I’ll never think of boys like that again, I swear- no, I promise. Forgive me for swearing. My hands were like static to flannel, every soft surface dragged across my hands like freshly cut wood begging to be sanded down into smoothness. Blood glued my hands to the front pockets on the belly of my hoodies. Lotion only helped so much. Third grade. Mrs. Kerr’s class. Tristan D. “Why are you putting on lotion?! That’s for girls!” I held up my rotting hands, “It’s medicated. My hands are dry.” He laughed and ran to the other boys in class who were putting on their coats at the end of the school day to tell them about how Sam wears lotion. I stuffed the gigantic tube of Avon lotion my mom got for me into my pencil pouch and repressed what happened next. Skin care is magical. Sometimes. It can make older women look younger, like Grandmom. It can make hands that look like alligator skin into a supple, baby soft canvas. I guess it washed out after I put it on. How could it not? Lotion does not contain: super glue, masculinity, peace of mind, or brotherhood. Moisturization occurs only if not washed away within the minute.

V She’s cutting your nails too short. Metal clippers biting into the quick of your fingertip, howling as your mother says she’s sorry. Soreness for two days. Rubbing the tip of your finger without relief. Making the hand into a fist, pushing the finger tightly into your palm for

protection. You used to have an old television set that all the buttons had fallen off of. You didn’t tell mom and dad because your brother found that a screwdriver easily fits into the cavities that the buttons left open. On a Saturday morning when mom was vacuuming down stairs, you were watching a princess special on Nickelodeon that featured Barbie. You tried to turn the TV up because you couldn’t hear over the vacuum, and once you jammed the screwdriver into the “V +” hole, a long blue spark arced across the tool and zapped you. You dropped the tool and the spark hit the middle of your chest. The TV turned off immediately and wouldn’t turn back on. You didn’t care that you were almost electrified, you were only scared that the TV might kick back on and reveal that you were watching a girl show. You’re afraid that your parents will be upset like when you rubbed a magnet across the glass, turning the color of the TV all rainbow and wonky, but you’re more scared that they might have caught you in the act of watching something that wasn’t for boys. Burning your hand on the inside of the stove, reaching far into the back of the oven for the rogue corn dog that rolled off the baking sheet into the recess of the hot metal box. Your skin bubbles, puss pops out of your blister. Neosporin helps minutely, only cold water is your friend, blistering you further. Burns don’t hurt you now. You got burned enough while working at Wendy’s. You brag about how burns don’t bother you now, but there’s a fear still lingering that you’ll bubble up just like when you reached for that corn dog and burnt yourself all to hell. No—burns don’t bother you anymore. Smashing your hand into the trunk of Grandmom’s car while you tried to retrieve her purse for her. It’s night fall and there’s a party going on inside your house. The lock clicks,

shackling you to the car. You scream, holding a purse that’s not yours. Nobody can hear you. You frantically feel for the latch for the trunk but it's only openable by key, and those are inside from when you opened it remotely. You scream louder. Your fingers feel like they’ll fall off, you’re stuck and nobody will save you. With one last heave of your entire body weight, while still holding the purse, using your legs on the car’s fender, your pry the trunk open. Freedom. You return inside with the purse and nobody noticed you were gone. VI In the future, my hands are healed, hairy, nails manicured into red talons, sharp. They touch my face and where my nails press in, blood pours out of each pore slowly. I feel the hurt I’ve always wanted to feel. Every time I said I wanted to kill myself, to hurt myself, I do so then, with my sharp red nails. And before I bleed out, I smear my hands across my face, with a mixture of blood and lotion, that I don’t need anymore, and glue the cuts shut. I take the blood and draw a slick, dripping seal on my face, banishing the thought of hurting myself again, and sanctify the seal with a kiss to my hands. A seal in the shape of a diamond, connecting the center of my forehead to the corners of my eyes to the point of my chin. A shield. Now I’m clean.

Notes 1

The details about prosthetic hands come from “The Evolution of Functional Hand Replacement: From Prosthesis to Hand Transplantation” by Kevin J. Zuo and Dr. Jaret L. Olsen in the journal Plastic Surgery from the Spring of 2014. 2 This quote in section IV. is from Brenda Miller’s essay “A Thousand Buddhas.”

Alexceunna Krewson Thoughtful Roses Whispers breathe from down below Leaves twirl, trees must watch them go One breath, two breaths, three breaths Four Oceans seldom crash to shore Hearts race, stop, and skip a beat Mouths smile, lips stretching Eyes searching, listening, glistening Stomachs turn, but they are silent Fingers close, nobody knows Stars blink on, though they are quiet Heart rates stutter, start to sink How sweet when the roses think Short circuiting oceans Whirlpools- warm, cold, wet Overflow, twirl down a drain Ears pound No sound Where is the rain? Silence catches Guilt leeches Latches Wraps up neatly in absent bottles Dead-end lane, misplaced pain Sit back, take a seat, watch them swallow A dial turns the thunder down Smoking blood Where are they now? Leaves reverse, snap back for the sky Branches snatch them Wonder why.

Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 Statue We have a statue in our backyard of a girl. She is gray and made of stone and is holding two little trays in each hand, presumably for bird feed, palms facing up and flat against them, raised to her shoulders. She was there when we bought this house, among all of the landscape of thorny rose buses, a cute, small tree made of green leaves shaped like hearts that droop downwards, of tiny, green prickly bushes, and soft purple and pink daisies that bloom in the summer. She’s kind of an odd addition to the mulch bed, her face carved into an almost mournful expression, but not quite, more like she’s just there, unfeeling, and always, always just holding up those two trays in her tiny hands. She’s not something we personally would have wanted for our yard, but she’s been here so long we hardly even notice the statue anymore. In fact, it would seem weird if she weren’t there; she is so ingrained in our minds. The statue wears a gray stone dress with a ribbon made of rock, tied just under her rib cage, simple on her small straight frame, reaching all the way down to her feet. Her hair is cut up to her chin, stone barrettes pinning a strand of hair back on each side, a girlish and, yet again, simple hairstyle, with bangs across her forehead, right above her unblinking eyes. What is odd is perhaps how heavy those trays would be to such a small, young girl. Each one is level to her shoulders, and the width of each is wider than her entire frame. On a second glance, perhaps her face is supposed to look just slightly dispirited, not dejected, not unhappy, but you can’t really even tell just by looking at her. Maybe the trays aren’t so heavy after all, given that she herself is made of stone. Maybe the weight just of herself is enough to be warranted as heavy, such a contrast to everything you would assume she represents. Girl made of stone, what is swimming inside of your head? You can’t have a thought without it being stone. You look soft, but feel hard. The sound of birds singing and wind

blowing across trees blows across you too, but what can you feel? What can you hear? Here you are, until the end of time, but unable to do anything but look slightly crestfallen, always just slightly, slightly everything, and hold these thick trays up to your shoulders; stone filling you from top to bottom, to everything you touch.

Hannah Kuhn My House “My body is a temple,” says the Queen of the castle. But my temple is a two-story brick house with panel siding. My temple will not stand for one thousand years, Only a tenth of that, if I’m lucky. No, my house has a cracked foundation only twenty years in. My front door closed at fifteen. My kitchen falls to disrepair every time I leave my street. My living room catches fire when there are guests. My bedroom becomes infested with creatures that claw and tear their way through the rest of the house and there's nothing I can do to stop them. If I were optimistic, I’d point out that my house is still standing, but tell me, would you want to live in my house?

Musicality Music moves through me. The beat of the bass echoes through my chest. Inspiration is the case; the cure is to put my mind at rest. This isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t existential, merely preferential. The words are ambiguous, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the sound that flows through us. Style is indicative of character. What sounds make your being shudder.

Fading Pages Pages fade with interest. Screens glow with Pinterest. Clouded by connection and mastering perfection. Imaginations dwindle. How do we rekindle imaginationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glow to stop the pagesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; fade?

Day by Day We try to sleep, wishing we could stop time. Watch minutes turn to hours as the sun starts to climb. We lose meaning in the motions. We take our daily potions. We never cease to think. What's your kitchen sink? We yearn for tomorrow, perhaps it is void of sorrow. We fear for tomorrow, no bravery left to borrow.

Emma Laye Bricks and Beams and Hopes and Dreams Dining Room Sometimes I think about how it was when we were all sitting around the dinner table on Sunday nights. The ornate dining room that felt like a space for special occasions laid out with casual silverware and plastic wine glasses. Your mom, outdoing herself yet again, cooking a feast that was fit for royalty and never stopping to relax the way we all pleaded with her to and could you all please get seconds so this doesn’t go to waste? Your dad, swirling his third glass of gin and firing off corny one-liners at anyone who would listen and how dare you roll your eyes at that masterpiece of a pun? Your sister, laughing so hard at the wisecracks that Summer Shandy nearly came spurting out of her nose and she had to clutch her husband’s arm for dear life and can’t you people ever behave yourselves? Your brother, performing an impressive balancing act as head DJ, loudest dad joke objector, and adoring boyfriend to the girl practically in his lap despite the fact that we were eating and honey you know I love you but this steak is gonna get cold okay? You, always attempting to wrest control of the playlist with one hand and gently interlocking our fingers under the table with the other and can’t we please just listen to something other than this redneck bullshit please? Me, often quiet, taking in the resplendent chaos and not daring to believe that I had gotten so lucky and hey how did I get so lucky? The eight of us, perfectly in sync, perfectly balanced— a perfect family. After years in my mother’s house of awkward distance and polite small talk and passive aggression that made me want to hurl my hamburger helper at the whitewashed walls, I had finally found a home. It had to be too good to be true. It had to be.

Living Room All too often I found myself sitting on the brown leather living room sofa and praying for everyone else to get the hell out. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them— they were my family in a way that my family could never be— it was just that all I wanted to do was take the hand that was currently holding with yours and move it somewhere else and take the leg that was currently grazing the edge of yours and straddle it across your lap and wasn’t it past their bedtime already? I knew that the passionate debate over whether or not pass inference was an overused NFL penalty could wait until tomorrow, damnit. It could wait until the end of the world for all I cared at that moment. I was feeling passionate about other things. I stared at the ridiculously detailed Passover painting that clashed with the rest of the decor and contemplated its necessity until I couldn’t anymore and turned to push a stray spiral curl off your forehead with my free fingers, watching for your absentminded half smile that was triggered by my touch. God, how I wanted you. How I want you. Kitchen Some of our best times were spent in the kitchen. You loved food more than anyone I knew, except it wasn’t in a gluttonous way. You loved it the way Isaac Newton loved physics and Shakespeare loved English, the way Christopher Nolan loves cinematography and the way a mother loves her child. It was a craft you were constantly improving, a world full of techniques that you were continuously soaking up like a sponge. You cared more about how each ingredient worked together than the final product-- the journey is greater than the destination, if you will. But your ice blue eyes would light up like the sun sparkling on a glacier when everything came together, and I never grew tired of watching that star break through the clouds. Seated on the

counter, I’d smile as you’d feed me a bite and then kiss me before I could finish it. “Best two things I’ve ever tasted”, you’d always say, and I’d have to focus on something mundane like the refrigerator handle or the sink faucet to keep from jumping off the counter and tasting more than I should have before dinner. I’d pour cheap chardonnay into two glasses and we’d toast to something silly, like having two clean plates to eat off of or your ability to make a meal for less than $20 at Kroger. The glasses would clink, you’d drink deeply, and one night I realized just how deeply I had fallen for the single best thing I’d ever tasted. I pulled you onto the counter next to me and silently toasted to a lifetime of nights spent adoring you under an Ikea chandelier just like this. Exactly like this. Bathroom I guess I should’ve known it was the beginning of the end when I found myself crying on the bathroom floor one night when I should’ve been perfectly content. But humans are rarely what they should be and that’s just free will or the spice of life or something like that, they say. It’s just that all I wanted was for you to tell me you loved me and that wasn’t so crazy after everything right? After a year of tracing your features while you slept with your head in my lap, a year of charming your aunt from Georgia and your great-uncle from California and everyone in between. After a year of picking out the perfect present for your brother’s birthday and planning sleepovers with your sister, a year of owning your best friend in beer pong while you buried your admiring, lustful gaze into my skin. I guess I just thought it was inevitable. I thought that I had beaten the game, cracked the code, hell, even used every cheat code you gave me to my advantage. I thought my prize was long overdue, I couldn’t be patient anymore. Turns out the heart is fickle, no? Turns out that you can do everything right and it can still feel so, so wrong.

Turns out you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really want me after all, but how could you know until it was too late? It turns out that these bathroom walls and I will be closer than you and I were ever fated to be. When I am gone, I hope they keep the secret I whispered through tears for weeks until the end: I love you. Home I am a stranger in the place where each nook and cranny once knew my name. I stand in the foyer, of all places-- the part of the house that judges you to see if you are truly fit for entry-and I feel so utterly unworthy. Why did I come back here? Why did I think I ever could? Damn you for entwining our lives so tightly that I cannot extricate myself from fray, lest the center fail to hold. I am tempted to turn and run, but instead I traverse the house in my mind-- the dinner table where it all started, the brown leather couch where it intensified, the kitchen counter where I fell for you, the bathroom floor where I gave you up, and every other space in between. I thought about the house that had become my home, the bricks and beams and hopes and dreams that had become so much more to me than a shelter from the storm or a place to rest-- it, and the group gathered within it, was the shelter from my storm, the place to hide from my world when it all became too much. I understand why you threw me out into the downpour, I understand why my universe could no longer coexist with yours. But each night I pray to God and the stars and the walls and anything that might be listening that one day, I will find my way home again.

Elizabeth Mehltretter Malcolm Sedam Winner 2019 I. Hiding I long for something I can’t put a finger on. It lingers on the tip of my tongue. It hides in the shadows. I hide in baggy sweaters, Sleeves like wings. He holds my hand like a cage. I’d pick him flowers, but that would not ensure his love. I’d pick him flowers, but that would only ensure their death. Maybe loving him ensured mine.

Leaving Leaving was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I think I left a piece of myself in his car. I think (he left) a piece of himself in my soul. I gave until there was nothing left to give (but), He took until I was left in black and white. All (I) am is a blurry photograph. All I am is a stem without petals. All I (am) is a stooped back, stiff fingers; Rotten core like fruit gone bad. How much heartbreak until (enough) is enough?

(

(I’m) missing parts of myself. He left me (not quite whole), (But) the sun still rises each morning. Yesterday he didn’t cross my mind at all. I know (soon) I’ll forget what he put me through. Sunlight catches on my window and throws rainbows Against my wall and slowly (I’m finding joy). I dyed my hair last night even though he told me it was childish; I wear red lipstick just because he hates it; I never realized how much of myself I gave up for him. My sister called the other day and mentioned that she saw him, And for the first time (his name) didn’t make my stomach hurt. He (has) a new girl now. Not the one he left me for, (no), But more (power) to him. Me, (I’m) not ready yet. But tonight I take myself to dinner. The stars are bright and (unafraid), (And) I’m slowly (learning) to enjoy my own company. I don’t know (how) I fell so hard And got so lost, But I still know how (to love) with my whole being, And I think I’ve finally forgiven him and (myself).

*These poems can be highlighted to reveal a new meaning.

II. (Moving On)* (I’m) missing parts of myself He left me (not quite whole,) (But) the sun still rises each morning. Yesterday he didn’t cross my mind at all I know (soon) I’ll forget what he put me through Sunlight catches on my window and throws rainbows Against my wall (I’m finding joy.) I dyed my hair last night even though he told me it was childish I wear red lipstick just because he hates it I never realized how much of myself I gave up for him My sister called the other day and mentioned that she saw him And for the first time (his name) didn’t make my stomach hurt He (has) a new girl now Not the one he left me for, (no) But more (power;) to him. Me, (I’m) not ready yet But tonight I take myself to dinner. The stars are bright and (unafraid) (And) I’m slowly (learning) to enjoy my own company I don’t know (how) I fell so hard And got so lost But I still know how (to love) with my whole being And I think I’ve finally forgiven him and (myself.)

*These poems can be highlighted to reveal a new meaning.

Summer Nights Summer nights make me feel alive. We gather around bonfires to warm our cold hands, And sparks throw themselves into the night. We throw ourselves too. My friends and I go out All red lipstick and glitter. The music so loud we feel it in our cores. I used to come here to forget you, Now I come to remember I’m alive. Being young is limitless-Liquor burns my throat and warms me from the inside out, And when we finally call it a night Our only worry is how soon we can do it again. The sparks throw themselves into the night and for a moment Just like us. They are infinite.

Epiphany The lights are dim and the music throbs So loud I feel it in my bones. I’m with a new man now, But he’s more concerned with my hips than my mind. His idea of conversation Is only two bodies between sheets. I feel his eyes on others, Fingers too tight against my hipbones. When he goes outside for a cigarette I know who he’s really going to. I long for the snowy silence outside; The cool November night air.

I turn to leave, to escape, And that’s when I see you. Our eyes meet across the room, And maybe it’s the liquor in my blood but The rest of the world blurs at the edges. Everything goes quiet except my heart beating in my ears. It’s like being at the top of a rollercoaster Just before the free fall; It’s like hearing the first notes of an old favorite song and realizing I still know the words by heart. It’s like I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath But now I’m breaking the surface and air floods my lungs. It’s like the way you look at me Makes me feel more alive than ever before. And yeah, maybe it’s the liquor, But maybe I’m safe to fall again.

III. Falling When I look up and see the sky Bigger than life, so blue I could drown in it, I long for a place I have never seen. Go outside in a thunderstorm. The ground shivers under my feet Rain Falls Like Tears I long for a place I have never seen. You make me a cup of tea And loan me a dry shirt.

I long for a place I have never seen, But when I look at you I’m home.

Pressure Sometimes this world is so dark I can’t even find my hands in front of my face, But in every dark night You’re a lighthouse, Reminding me that home is more than just a place. Sometimes the clouds get so heavy, I can no longer find the sun. The weight of the world presses my shoulders down and I’m Atlas but I’m also Zeus, I condemn myself to carry this burden. But on days where it’s so heavy I can’t get out of bed, Or the clouds are too grey for anything to shine, You come to my door with sunflowers, And that infectious smile, And the weight lifts a little.

Remember Do you remember (I remember) The way we sat on the edge of the cliff Tree roots in hands, smoke in our lungs The sky purple with twilight? Do you remember (I remember) The trees whispering around us, Counting the shooting stars, Intertwining your fingers with mine? Do you remember (I remember) The way we tasted of smoke and summer, The dust on our palms and the seat of our pants, The way we were both infinite and momentary?

I wonder if you remember And then you curl into my side Your head on my shoulder And I know that you do.

Sunlight Winter is the loneliest season Darkness falls too fast. Snow keeps my feet frozen In place. Winter is the loneliest season. Days are short but nights are infinite. I wake up and look at the stars, But all I see is darkness. In this icy world youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re my sunlight. Warmth radiates from your core. Snowflakes dust my eyelashes, And you hold my mittened hands tight. Winter is the loneliest season and The sky is too overcast to see the stars but I see the fire in your hearth and Maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s enough.

Nick Harrist Malcolm Sedam Winner 2019 Village A rose gold hand appears from a spare plot of farmland. A farmer appears to find this hand, but instead of carefully investigating its value and legitimacy, the farmer pulls on it aggressively, snapping every finger on it except the ring finger. The farmer begins evaluating his plot of land, then stares back at the gold hand. The ring finger was still there, but shrinking. The farmer begins to evaluate his life choices. His kids were on his mind first. He began to wonder why he even brought them onto Earth. He wanted his son to be a local farmer as he was and to become equally successful. He’s afraid that his son is secretly homosexual. He’s afraid that the reason why he’s afraid everyday, is that he doesn’t want that. He’s also afraid of his oldest daughter who is in the process of marrying a drug addict. The farmer begins to sit down and evaluate his life further. As he’s staring at the glaring ring finger, he begins to think about his wife. His wife is the woman who made him. She sells his crops during the business season and then pays bills for months in advance. The farmer only does his work, comes home, either has intercourse with his wife or brutally beats her for reasons above his nature. Her bruises and cuts are mere factors in their upcoming divorce plans and the kids have absolutely no idea. He begins to cry in his field, with the wisping wind blowing the tears across his cheek. He then thinks about his past. In the farmers past, he evaluates his homosexual behavior with the football team. His heterosexual behavior with multiple women during his sophomore year in highschool. His parents intended that he visit colleges, but in secrecy, he evaluated parties and experimented with drugs. He was still an underground agricultural advocate.

As the sun dimmed down and the moon appeared, the farmer was still sitting, praying upon the rose gold hand. As he slept beside it, dreaming of his future endeavours and issues, he began to weep. He cried louder and louder every minute until someone appeared from the brush ahead of him. It was a figure of himself, missing what was his right hand. The figure gently rubbed the farmers head, glared into his eyes with soft hastened love, and picked up the rose gold hand. Slowly attaching the hand, the farmer grabbed onto the figure's loose skin. He pleaded his sins and guilts and hoped for redemption, but was met with a message of loss and resentment. The farmer didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep that night, and returned home to nothing but his bed and no memories of his children or wife. He was left with one less hand and the inability to farm ever again.

Life The windows are gaping in a way that isn't visible. I see a sense of redundancy and a hidden message of equilibrium and in this case I see not only the pure image of myself looking back at me, but the sense that my own being is aware of my insecurities and judgments. It's nothing I can escape, nor can I try to persuade, but it's like being stuck in a cage that is littered with white and straps, with the occasional interaction with someone that I think looks like me; but is the sheer image of someone that I cannot fathom becoming, nor want to. I can only spit and spew, talk and swallow, cry and laugh, pity and wallow. It's a sense that if I hadn't of done the things in my past that I wouldn't feel like a snake is wrapping me and that the only light I see is the dawn of the morning and the night's gleaming awakening, but what lies ahead of me is my own well-being looking over me and damning me to eternal suffering and the cries that I will bellow out will never be answered because of my insecurities and sexual fantasies and my unnerving will to harm. I'm stuck, strapped, and all I can see is an officer and the courtyard.

Awareness Late night Boggled by adulthood The tentacles from my palms reach out to ME My eyes cannot move I’m succumbed to mouth breathe I scroll Scroll SCROLL Until something clicks Until something grabs me The tentacles reach farther I cannot hear The show is not important I’ve wasted hours on this I go back though Because It’s too intriguing And It’s an addiction. I can’t seem to close my Eyes Without seeing what’s next Before it’s gone I face my palm against it’s Black covered back It’s an addiction, I say That’s running through Everybody’s veins I close my eyes at night To its vibration That awakes

Annika Baldwin Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 The Question of Fire: Ablaze A child of caramel and chocolate turns from her bagel and stares at the flickering fire behind her. The soft music wafts around the booths. She toys with the bagel in her hands, her molasses eyes lit by the burning fingers behind her. The only thing that breaks her wide gaze is the yank on her shoulder from her mother. Humans have been fascinated with fire for centuries now—the flickering tongues reaching up to lick at their fingers. * Fire was necessary to our development. We needed it for warmth, for better food, for safety, for survival, for more children. It allowed more stationary areas. It allowed protection and progression. It is believed that homo erectus was the first being (an early human) to discover fire. Grind stones or wood together— and you gain a spark. * According to our knowledge of the universe, earth is the only planet, as of now, that allows fire to burn. That would be because of oxygen. Like humans, fire breathes it to live. * Hordes of teens circle around a bonfire. Twirling. Dancing. Chanting. It could be a ritual —or a tradition of a native culture. It’s not. It is a game of tag—of ghost in the graveyard—of the acting out of ghost stories. The eerie, orange firelight paints their faces in supernatural designs. The smoke, like moaning ghosts, encompasses their bodies. *

The moans of Prometheus—no longer screams—drift through the air. Greek mythology recounts the story of the Titan, one of the few that wasn’t locked up, who gave fire to the humans. With a big heart, deep with burning love for ashen, weakened beings, shivering in the cold, Prometheus stole the flame from Hephaestus’s workshop. In the form of a plant stalk, he gifted it to the human beings. Outraged at Prometheus’s theft, Zeus had Prometheus chained to a cliff, forever to have an eagle eat out his liver. Every day the liver grew back, and every day the eagle returned. After hundreds of years, surely the screams simply faded off into moans. The fire that was love smoldering in his soul. * your fire. throw her to the flames and she’ll become like fire - r. h. Sin * Dozens of fantasy movies and books deal with characters with a strange power they can’t control. The power grows and grows. Like Enna, in the book Enna Burning—unable to control the burning force within her. Feeling it slowly consume her from within. Where is the fascination in this force—this issue—this whimsical proposition and magical complication? After all, what humans do we know with a burning fire within them, able to push it from the palm of their hands? * The fire. It’s the emotions—they’re burning us. Love, sorrow, anger, joy, fear. Fire on earth is the existence of every single one of our emotions—it warms us and destroys us. *

“When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” -Isaiah 43:2A swirling, twisting, thick black flame, tattooed into my skin—swerving yet motionless. “What’s it mean?” They ask, pointing at my chest. I run a finger along the curving lines. “Isaiah 43:2,” I say, “When, not if, you walk through the flames you won’t be burned.” And I wonder again how it is walking through metaphorical flames doesn’t destroy us as physical flame would. * Fire is warmth and light. The Christians, the Chinese, and the Hebrews viewed fire as a symbol of divinity. Some cultures believe it stands for enlightenment. Freud believed it represented forbidden passions, often consisting of sexual pleasure. Some see fire as wisdom or knowledge. However, in Christianity, fire also represents Hell. Fire is divinity, sin, passion, and wisdom—all at once. It is beautiful and lifesaving; it is also destructive. * “Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.” - Robert Frost * The dark of a morning in another time. The warmth of a bed, the blankets curled around you. Dawn is just barely peeking through the window. Cresting the hill. Peeking between the buildings. 5:12 AM. Your whole world seems to be crashing in around you. You’re vibrating like a clock chiming—like you’re breaking apart. San Francisco, 1906, 5:12 AM. Directly following the earthquake and its devastating shocks, fire spreads. The ignited

fires burn for three days, sweeping across five hundred blocks of the city. 3000 people die. 400,000 are homeless. * The crackling warmth filters through my mama’s bones as she sits across from me. A book lays open in her lap. She stares into the flames. The soft crinkling is comforting, filling the cool, pleasant silence. The heat is relaxing after the bitterly cold wind just outside the sliding glass door. * The crackling warmth chases them down the street, somewhere in northern California. It eats everything in its path. It is a flood of flame, faster than the cars can flee. The images that flash across the news screen are smoldering. Black and white. Melting metal, cars perfectly aligned, still smoking and sizzling. 200 people still missing. The heat is terrifying, the predecessor to the bitter wind on its way. * We call it comfort. We call it danger. We love it; we hate it. It fascinates and terrifies us. Maybe we are fire. * Adolf Hitler, rigid and shrunken, stands on a podium amid crowds of starving people. The blazing swastikas cascade down the buildings’ stone walls. His voice rises and falls, stirring a spark within them. The fire ignites. It spreads through, the roar becoming deafening. It begins to sweep through the country—into its neighbors—devouring, consuming, eating, destroying everything in its path. People topple left and right. The soldiers march them through the streets. They shove them into the showers. The fire burns and devours. They fall, gasping, trying to

escape. The fire eats and eats and eats and eats. * 1431—the death of Joan of Arc—burned at the stake. The Spanish Inquisition deemed her a heretic. “Heretics”—those with beliefs in contrast with that of the orthodox doctrine of the church, often burned at the stake because of different beliefs than others. Eyes lifted toward heaven, as they describe her, Joan of Arc goes up in smoke. * “Fear is like a fire. If you can control it, it can cook for you. It can heat your house. If you can't control it, it will burn everything around you and destroy you. Fear is your friend and your worst enemy.” - Sui Ishida * A piece of irony: we often imagine the witches in the Salem Witch Trials burning at the stake. In Europe for years, they would burn the women accused of witchcraft. In Salem, Massachusetts, the women didn’t go up in smoke, the flames eating at their flesh. Bridget Bishop was the first to hang—June 1692. The hysteria led nineteen people in all to the gallows—not to feed the fire. * Fire is mystery—a mystery in its destruction. We don’t understand it; we don’t understand many things. Fire terrifies us. But aren’t we fire? And, as humans, isn’t everything black or white, one or the other? So, is fire destruction, or is it life? A silly question, perhaps. It is both. *

“Big or small, gradual or sudden, change rhythmically punctuates human life.” – Luba Mullen. Fire burns—like the Christian belief of Hell. Humans fear destructive change— something that forest fires are easily categorized as. A single spark from a cigarette. A forgotten campfire. Arson—if you want excitement, horror, and mystery. All it takes is a flash of orange— a tiny golden star. Poof—the forest goes up in flames. The fire rages through, stopping at nothing, starving—devouring every piece of wood, every creature, in its path. How despicable, we think, when we hear the claim that forest fires are important for maintaining growth and forest health. How could disaster, pain, and destructive flame be perfect for rebirth? * Dormancy. The soil is ash-churned and charred. Chunks of crushed and burned wood are strewn about. The wreckage is colorless—empty—silent—dead and waiting. Until at last, a shoot begins to peek from the earth—pale green and hesitant. Rising from the ashes. It could take decades for the forest to regrow. And what is there will never be the same. That burned-down forest will never come again. The roots will take—the trees will soar upward. But it will never be the same forest. So is change. But it returns just the same, no matter the difference. The trees’ bark thickens—more resistant to fire. They develop fire-activated seeds. Their growth is spread during any fire in the future. * The emotions are burning us. Love and happiness warm us—flow through our hearts— like flames that gently warm our hands. The joy of warmth—heat—after so much cold all the time, so it feels. *

“They say a good love is one that sits you down, gives you a drink of water, and pats you on top of the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix; the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you can't stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch! I say that's a good love; one that burns and flies, and you run with it!” ― C. JoyBell C. * Ancient legend tells of a bird made of fire: the phoenix. It lives a hundred years—only to burst into a ball of flames at the end of its lifetime. Its feathers, like sparks, float away and around and down. In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, the phoenix Falkes dies in an explosive burst, leaving Harry devastated and alone. Imagine Harry’s surprise when, in his time of need, the phoenix, reborn in fiery glory, arrives with a strong cry, beating wings of fire. Rising from the ashes of its death, the phoenix is born again. It lives across many cultures and many centuries—dying in fire and living from the ashes—an infinite number of times. * For years, we have been deeply drawn to fire. Prometheus, homo erectus, the phoenix, the church—even in the myth that Salem witches were burned. For years, we have been both drawn to and repelled from instincts within us. The anger consumes us, burning away at our melting insides—stemming from pain. Sadness is a sour sickness in our stomachs, burning our hearts ‘til they ache from the heat. Because if love warms and brings comfort, it also burns us and damages. * The stony buildings of Hamilton rise on either side of me. The silvery Christmas lights

paint the spindly trees. 93.3 echoes through the stale car. “What’s something you’re thankful for that you never thought you’d be thankful for?” Brant Hansen’s recorded voice mellowly blows through. “I’m thankful for my husband’s alcoholism, as strange as it sounds,” crackles the staticky sound of a woman’s voice over a phone. “Because now we’re able to share his testimony everywhere and help so many people. So, I’m thankful for my husband’s alcoholism, and for his now-eighteen years of sobriety.” That woman, I think, is thankful for the years of drunken abysses—possible screaming— words slurred by liquor—pain and degradation—fiery eyes and flaming profanity blazing through the hall, eating up the floorboards, for God-knows-how-many-years. What a horrible thing- odd to be thankful for, my mind ponders. And yet. * “They don’t care about me. No matter what I do, they’ll always have known each other first. I’ll never be able to get in.” The anger and bitterness burned in my mother’s eyes as she spoke. I could see it—the icy blue blazing. And I wondered—will my eyes one day look like that? Will the anger seize my face, burn within me—always? Evident for all the world to see? * Perhaps the greatest and most destructive fire on earth is anger. Ask Frozen. If the secret to thaw a frozen heart- the key to melting Elsa’s ice- is love, then what is the secret to put out a blazing soul? * I glance left and right, alert like a deer emerging from the woods behind the house. Darting from the car, I slip to the mailbox. Tiny yellow roses— “bubbly roses,” they’re called.

Smoothly I slip them into the mailbox and slip away. Five for you—and five for you—and five for you. When the anger burns within you, sometimes you spread flowers instead of fire. * We try to smother the flames—suffocate the fire’s oxygen—just as we suppress our full emotion and capacity to love—to care. But instead of succeeding, the fire just eats away at our hearts until we’re on the edge of a bridge or building contemplating the water beneath. My, that ground would be mighty nice, we debate to ourselves. * In the video game Doki Doki Literature Club, the character Sayori—bubbly, ray of sunshine, caring, firm believer in her friends’ happiness—is always late to school. Every morning she struggles to get out of bed. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in bottles, all in a row. In [my friends] come, in such a hurry. Do they want my bottles that much? I frantically pull them from the shelf, one after the other. Holding them out to each and every friend. Each and every bottle. But every time I let one go, it shatters against the tile between my feet. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in shards, all over the floor.” The depression chains her mind, trapping her in its confines, suffocating her—to the point that the bed is too warm yet too cold. The bed is too comfortable. Her limbs are too weak. Why get up for the day? If you can’t help yourself, you can’t help your people. So, you feed the fire—that sorrow eating you alive. *

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” - Friedrich Nietzsche * As the aforementioned fire raged through desolate, boiling Germany, human flames softly flickered under the radar. Irena Sendler, 29-year-old social worker, worked a job aiding those in the Polish ghettos in Warsaw. She took advantage of the situation and began smuggling out impoverished Jewish citizens. Sofka, princess of Russia, held captive in Paris, sought to hide names, obtain fake passports, and smuggle out Jewish prisoners. The fire burned through, cutting her off from them, eating up all but sixty of the prisoners. Polish Karolina Juszczykowska hid two Jewish men in her basement. And the fire devoured them all. Humans are incredibly and surprisingly durable, though. The memories crushing the survivors, the horrors flooding their dreams, suffocating their minds—and yet some of them still lived, long after the fire in Germany was put out. * “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” - Friedrich Nietzsche Living is like being strapped to a pyre and lit with gasoline and a spark. Surviving is that moment in the middle of the flames licking your flesh when you look up, and say, “Look at the sky—lavender and peach.” Living could mean the weight of your chest in the morning, struggling to pull yourself from bed—like Sayori. Succumbing is just gasoline for the fire. Surviving, then, is looking for lovely, forcing yourself to find something more. Maybe it’s standing in the midst of the shrieking flames, your skin screaming from the heat, and finding just a tiny touch of color—a tiny speck of

meaning—in the oblivion. * She pulled me aside with a sense of urgency, the rest of the house church lingering behind —their laughter echoing after us. My stomach began to twist, my heart dropping in anxious anticipation. Mama looked at me with solemn eyes. Whatever she said before came down to- “She has breast cancer.” Everything bottomed out. Everything swirled a bit. And my first thought was of the boy I loved at the time—across the ocean—and how he’d break to hear of his mother’s cancer. The second thought was the tiny purple hope that was already stubbornly blooming within my heart. * “[He has sent me] to comfort all who mourn, to provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” -Isaiah 61:2-3* January 2018. The Women’s March—a global protest. Women coming together to celebrate progress—but also to protest sexual harassment and assault. Rainbow signs hawking connections and love for each other. Supporting each other in the wake of rape, difficulties, pain, and degradation, they hold hands—arms around each other—shouting and pumping their fists triumphantly into the air. Togetherness. Like the short story about home my friend writes—of tiny moments one belongs. Like the feeling of the sugary-sweet warmth of chai tea, flowing down your throat and into your stomach. Like the blanketing warmth of the fireplace, crackling, giving off the scent of

woodsmoke, surrounding my mother and I—a book in hand, fire in mind. * Fire terrorizes; fire comforts. Humans terrorize; humans comfort. To live is to burn. To survive is to keep walking anyway. We are born with a fire. And we live to comfort or to destroy. We are both. Yet that is the obvious, isn’t it? Something else hides in the flames, drawing us in, trying to keep us. * We are born with a fire. The emotions. That is the appeal. It is not because we are like fire, or because we relate, though those are true. It is because our emotions are a fire within us. And we can’t understand our own emotions, just as we cannot understand fire- and the nature of fire. We fear fire—we live with and revel in fire—as we do with our emotions. But we succeed in burning away our insides—an out-of-control force that we didn’t channel and instead suppressed until it suffocated us. The fire is meant to burn—whether it’s Hell or not. If old forests burn, new growth comes. If the phoenix explodes, it is reborn from the ashes. We are creatures of fire, and we do not understand our own depths. Something fierce—something strong—something beautiful— something both risky and rewarding—lives within us. It was meant to be there. We are not fascinated with fire because it is us—or because it awes us—or because it’s lovely. We are fascinated because we do not understand it, because we cannot predict it. And we are so busy trying to predict everything—to control it. So, we suppress what we deem the unpredictable in ourselves as well—and yet our fascination with fire- the destroyer, the lifegiver, the unpredictable- proves that this passion, this range of emotion within us, is natural. *

Prometheus loved the humans and gave them fire like his heart.

Maybe homo erectus saw the fire and it felt like the pain of loss.

A girl stands on the edge of a bridge- mind screaming- heart burning- staring into the water below- put the fire out, she thinks-

The fire from Enna’s hands was just a focal point for all her anger.

Maybe there was fire during the Salem Witch Trials. Maybe Abigail Williams, playing with matches, set the whole town ablaze. Maybe, as the witches hung by their necks, maybe it was the rest of the townspeople who were burning. Burning with fear—and power.

You love, and you burn with passion. You fear, and the fire spreads. Your sadness blazes through your chest like heartburn. Your anger’s flames destroy all around you- especially yourself. And America’s society preaches against the show of emotion—the extremity of our feelings. Because what we can’t control might burn the whole country. So, you take the oxygen from a fire, suffocate it, and it dies. That’s what we do to our hearts. But that is where fire is not like us. Suppress fire, and perhaps it sizzles out. Suppress emotion, and it eventually consumes the entire world. So, the next question is—what happens if you embrace fire and hug it like an old friend? Do you sizzle to ashes, or do you blaze into a firework?

let me bleed my heart on this page: believe me when i say, i

love

you.

or believe me when i say, i am happiest when your head is on my lap.

i feel peace when you hold me in your arms like i’m yours. even when i’m not.

when i say

love

you,

what i mean is i love the way you drink black coffee like taking a kick in the gut. i love the way you taste whiskey like it’s a performance to be critiqued.

when i say

love

you,

what i mean is i love the way you enter a room like a 1920s moonshiner, confidence flowing, attitude showing, every bit of clothing spiffed-up.

i love the way you throw yourself on the couch in a faded t-shirt and soft pajama pants, your hair a mess all over.

believe me when i say, i.

love.

you.

or believe me when i say, my soul is always giving yours a hug. our fears collide, our minds waltz, some of the most hidden parts of you are mine to know, and yours are mine.

when i say

love

you,

what i mean is .iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m. terrified. to. lose. you. The devil returning in a wave of cancer, your heart stopping within your sleep, cars smashing with you in the middle, you backing away from me. You running the world like a labyrinth i can never fully navigate. what i mean is thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so little time to live & so little chance to survive.

when i say

love

you,

what i mean is i love the way you plan for the inevitable— the way you care so much about your people— your heart spilling all over them— and the way you carry them on your shoulders, no matter the exhaustion which you mask with a smile.

when i say all of this, what i mean is take a chance on me, baby. what i mean is i won’t leave you— not this time— what i mean is i love you like a woman loves a man.

i apologize for the blood on your fingertips— my heart has its own will, bleeding across these pages.

so, believe me when i say,

i love you. or believe something easier, as you probably will. but the truth cannot be anything other than that it is.

Carter Surber Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 A Special Place He hadn’t heard this one before. When working as a crossroads demon, one seldom received new requests. Fame, fortune, sex, love, revenge. Same story, different details. It was an endless cycle of deals with people who, frankly, were already going to hell. (Faustus wasn’t sure why they made those deals in the first place). This was a new request. A new request from a girl who stank of innocence, kindness, and… and… Anger? He blinked at her. The blood was still dripping from her cut palm as she glared up at him with dirt streaked across her face, the moonlight illuminating what the flickering candles didn’t. Her voice didn’t shake. “Can you do it?” He tapped one long, clawed finger slowly against his chin. “You do understand that you’d have to be taken now,” He explained. He expected her to recoil, but she held firm. He continued, “There are training protocols, for that sort of thing. They aren’t pleasant.” “I understand.” She said. Her shoulders were tense. He could see long-dried tears across her cheeks as the candlelight flickered over her face. “I’m ready to leave now. Nobody-“ Her voice caught, for the briefest moment, “-is left to miss me.” Well, then. There was really only one thing left to do. “You’ll need to break the circle I’m bound in.” He informed her, eyeing the salt with

trepidation. That shit burned like… well. Like Hell. “We need to shake on it.” “How do I know that I can trust you?” She asked. Her voice was oddly flat, like she was reciting a script she had made for herself. She was already moving to break the circle, the tip of her boot dragging through the dirt as she freed him. He dusted off his hands. “You don’t.” He said, simply. “But that seems to me like a risk you’re willing to take.” The corner of her mouth twitched up. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Do we have a deal?” He asked, holding out his hand. She took her still-bleeding palm, and placed it gently into his. Her grasp was firm, her jaw tense. He decided that he would be keeping a close eye on this one. ### Ten years felt like the blink of an eye when you’d been doing your job for ten-thousand. Their deal didn’t have any sort of time table. It was by pure irony that Trey Everhart died on the tenth anniversary of the contract. And Faustus was delighted to take him down into the pit. He could smell the fear radiating off of him. He knew it would be nothing compared to what he would be feeling in twenty minutes. “So, is this the part where I’m thrown into an acid pit?” Trey asked, swallowing. “Given to a pack of wolves? Tossed into a-“ Faustus cut him off with a sharp laugh. He grinned, and it had just the right amount of teeth. “Oh, no. No acid pits for you, friend. There’s a special place for people like you.” He told him. “And I know a little girl that paid a hefty price to make sure she was put there, too.” Trey gazed up in confusion. Faustus stopped before a steel door. He grabbed the handle

and pulled it open. The lighting inside was sharp white, in contrast to the rest of hell, which flickered a dull red. For a moment, there was hope in his eyes. And then, she spoke. “Hey there,” She said, stepping into the light. She snapped her fingers, and a table appeared. Faustus took great glee in laying a hand on Trey’s back and shoving him in. “You might not remember me. But I’ll bet you remember my sister.” “Hey, no-“ He tried to turn, but Faustus stopped him with a quick punch to the stomach. Trey let out a wheeze, stumbling back into the room. “I didn’t know what was going to happen. I’d just had a couple of drinks-“ “And you just accidentally pushed her unconscious body down a flight of stairs?” She questioned, giving a sympathetic ‘tsk’. “I’m sure.” “I was acquitted,” He parroted, “This isn’t fair!” She reached down, pulling a dagger out of her belt. She had many tools, various instruments that she had collected over the years. Faustus felt an odd sort of pride; he had given her that one. He also recognized it as his cue to leave. “I’m going to leave you to it.” Faustus informed her, taking a few steps backwards, out of the room. This time, Trey didn’t try to follow. He was shaking in his boots, face white as a sheet. “You aren’t going to stick around for the confession?” She asked. “I think this is between you two.” He said. He leaned in, a grin splitting his face. “Besides, I already read his file. I already know why he did it.” Her eyes, when they turned back to Trey, were literally blazing. A black magic trick that she had picked up somewhere around the fourth year. Trey let out a soft whimper, and the smell

of piss filled the room. “You’ll fill me in on the juicy bits later, I trust?” He asked. She nodded, her grin wicked. Trey turned, one last desperate plea on his trembling lips. “Please don’t leave me with her, please, I don’t know what you read but it wasn’t-“ Faustus slammed the door with a roll of his eyes. As he walked away, he heard the screams begin. They tapered off into gurgles before he rounded the hallway—he was sure she was saving the more sophisticated stuff for later. For now, she had ten years of pent up rage to exorcise. He walked a little taller, his heart a little lighter. Sometimes… Sometimes, his job was worth it.

A.I. Catraz “Welcome to A.I. Catraz!” The Warden announces, a smile threatening to split his face. “At least, that’s what the sleaze bags on the news are calling it.” This does not deter his enthusiasm. “No offense.” You glance down at the notebook tucked under your arm. Your visitor badge hangs flat against your chest. “None taken.” His hands push firmly against steel buttons, his fingers flashing in an incomprehensible blur as he keys in the password to the heavy door. He is clearly familiar with this dance. “You seemed different than the rest of them, over the phone,” He says, an explanation that you didn’t ask for, “And I’m ready to put some truth out there. Straighten out the narrative, ya know?” You do know. The door swings open with a heavy mechanical whirring, and the Warden steps inside. He walks forward. For a moment, you struggle to keep up with his brisk pace as you adjust to the cooler temperature. He leads you past a room full of prisoners with glassy eyes. He gestures inside. “This is one of our recreational areas.” He stops, suddenly. You almost run into him, but quickly regain your composure. He gestures into the room and leans forward, like he’s about to tell you a secret. His voice is just as loud as it was before. “We like to bunch up the ones with similar crimes together, sometimes. Druggies are in here. The system is calibrated to shut down any talk of drugs or paraphernalia within these four walls. It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” The television in the corner is chattering as a Wendy Williams-type teaches them how to make chicken tortilla soup. One or two of them watch. The rest sit in Silence.

“A thing of beauty.” You repeat. You can hear every word from the television. You slip your notebook out from under your arm, and almost miss that the Warden is on the move again. You quickly shove it back into place. You do not take the time to close the cover. The sound of the exposed paper wrinkling under your arm as you walk is somehow louder than the sound of his combat boots against the tile. “Some people are saying that it’s cruel, but they have more freedom this way.” He stops again, suddenly, and turns to the left. You have to jog to keep up as he strides towards a pair of double doors. The Warden walks through the doors and you follow behind. Your eyes are drawn immediately to the line of prisoners against the wall, their eyes vacant as they patiently wait. A machine sits at the end of the line, inlaid into the wall. As each prisoner approaches, they hold their wrist out, and a beeping sound can be heard coming from the bracelet on their wrists. As each one steps forward, another tray pops out of the machine. The food is grey. You can taste it from here; that is because there is nothing in your mouth. “They can eat here as many times a day as they want.” The Warden says. You glance around the half-empty cafeteria with your eyebrows raised. He catches your attention again, and his piercing grey eyes hold it. “You see that bracelet, on their wrist?” You nod. You’ve read the news. “It serves more than one purpose. It keeps track of how many calories these boneheads burn.” He says. You watch as a prisoner receives only enough gruel to fill a shot-glass. “They only get as many as they’ve used since the last time they ate. Genius system. Hardly any waste.” The prisoner who received the shot glass portion takes her tray and walks to the other

side of the room. She sits down at a table alone. Your eyes scan the room again, and you notice the space between each of the prisoners. Nobody is close. In between the ding of the braceletreading and the whirr of the machine, there is the Silence. You watch a prisoner get up and throw away half of a bowl. You wonder why there are trash cans. Before you have time to reach for your notebook, the Warden tugs at your elbow. You’re walking along with him before you get the chance to take any notes. He leads you down another impossibly long hallway. “This is my favorite part of the compound. The new recruits are kept separate until they’ve gotten used to the way things are done around here.” The room he leads you into is full of beds, interspersed by thin plastic walls. Looking down through them, you see what you think is a body. It is distorted by the layers of plastic between the two of you. “This is where they stay until they’ve lost that rebellious spirit.” The Warden informs you. You’re almost to the end of the room, almost to the prisoner. The beds so far have been largely unwrinkled. You reach the woman, and the Warden comes to a stop. “This one is close to joining general.” Her knees are pulled to her chest. There are long, angry red streaks coming down from the bracelet on her arm, one so long and dark that it skims her elbow before fading into memory. She looks up when the Warden speaks, but she doesn’t look at you. You expect her to speak, but she doesn’t. There is only the Silence. “She’s had our longest stay here, but she’ll be our biggest success story. When she first

came here--” He’s walking again, and you’re following. You try to catch her eyes but she doesn’t take the bait. You’re oddly relieved. “--She got reprimanded four times in the first hour. Came here with some sort of friend. Kept trying to hug her or somethin’. Anyways, they eventually gave up.” He’s walking faster now, and you look back one last time to see her through the plastic, distorted again. “One of the most beautiful things about those bracelets,” He says, “Is how they correct physical touch. Keeps ‘em from whorin’ around on Government time. So effective, we were able to mix the sexes the first week we implemented the program.” Suddenly, his watch beeps. He looks down at his wrist and frowns at it as he pushes open the next door. You walk in before him as he thinks. He comes up after you, but quickly takes the lead again. “Sorry to cut this short, but we’re going to have to skip to the finale. I have a meeting with the investors at five.” He begins to walk you back through the facility. Somehow, the route is entirely different than the one you took to get there. You’re back in the recreation area. He leads you straight past the room you had initially observed. You no longer hear the television. “I guess what makes me mad about all of this,” He explains, leading you into an empty room with a line of prisoners up against one wall, “Is that none of these hacks see how much good this is doing them. Nobody is asking them how they feel about all of this.” “How do they feel?” You ask him. He blinks at you for a moment before his smile returns. The change is so fast you’re uncertain of whether or not you imagined it. He steps forward. The boy he’s pointing towards, first in the line, is young and handsome. His skin is ashen

and his eyes are sunken in. “Well?” “This is good for me.” The prisoner says. The words sound worn in his mouth. The Warden moves on. It takes a few repetitions before someone hesitates. The Silence is in the air, thick and heavy. It is heavier than the Silence had been anywhere before. The air tastes like hope. You know, without looking at the Warden, that this is unacceptable. You don’t know what triggers it, but creeping into the Silence, there is a soft whirring. Maybe it’s the computers, or the air conditioner, or the sound of the Machine’s heart steadily beating life into the limbs of the facility. Whatever it is, it picks up the heaviest brick it can carry and hobbles over to the Silence, smashing it hard over the head. If there is blood, you cannot smell it. When the prisoner speaks, it sounds like the sound has been punched out of him. “I’m happy like this. This is good for me.” And on, and on. The Warden is looking at you expectantly as he walks down along the line. You reach down and grab your notebook from under your arm, conscious of his eyes on you. “This is good. I am happy.” You feel a static settle across your skin as you force your freezing fingers to write it down.

Tick Tock I drew a clock Across my Wrist A pen, two strokes, To hear the tick My eyes were glued Upon the spot And came the tick And came the tock Around, around The hand did move While my hands stilled Unmoved, uncued With eyes of twelve Its pupils black The clock, its face Was staring back.

Here We Go My mother sits me on the carousel At the Cincinnati zoo, A unicorn underneath me, And I cling to the bar. My hands are sweaty Skin greasy with sunblock And I turn And tell her that I'm afraid of falling. She points up towards the painted Ceiling, a gradient of daytime Into the night. My eyes are full of stars. She says, "I've always said you were my star Destined for greatness, Destined for fame. You cannot fall, because your Rise is not over yet. I Believe in you." And she let go. I am still aboard that carousel. I think I always will be.

Ode to the Weirdos To the goths To the gays The theatre-jocks “We’re doing this my way”s To the cosplayers To the furries The Dungeons-and-Dragons Monster slayers “The line between good and bad is blurry”s To the poets To the ADHD The know-it-alls “You won’t get the best of me”s To the polyamorous To the trans To the always amorous “My life will never be that bland”s To the painters To the unapologetically black The art majors “Curiosity never killed my cat”s To the people who refuse to conform, To the ones who refuse to bend The people who create their own norms Those people? Make the finest friends.

The Good Book of Truths I read a poem today That made me fall so deeply in love I wished to tear myself from this timeline And place myself in that poet's arms I wonder whether or not She would let me love her The way I know she deserves to be loved. My friend pulled a card From the top of his tarot deck Judgement; we did not know, so We checked the good book, To see what it said. "Life may be unfair to you," He read, "You don't always get What you deserve." My mouth is dry And there is a feeling in my chest Not unlike the feeling Of pockets full of stones. On this wine-saturated night I wonder if Sappho knew of longing Before she began to pen it Or if it was something that she found Along the way.

The Change Mother, oh Mother, What is this Cocoon? I have never Seen anything like it. I do not know If I like it. My fingers are the color Of rust. Growing up Cannot be this difficult Surely; there is another way? My head is swimming with Cheap whiskey, and I become convinced That romance is dead. How can I hide from this If I flicker like a flame When gazes fall upon me? Yet they tell me to be grateful Before Grandfather Clock Snuffs me out.

Watched Pot [I am a watched pot, Heaven help me I Pray That I never boil.]

Ana Sanford Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 Well Ankle deep in murky water, all I have to give me hope, is the bright blue sky above It dares me to climb these flimsy walls knowing I'll only fall after every attempt, and crash into that dirty puddle again I scream out to that sky, begging and pleading, only my strained voice answers back A familiar storm rages on above me, and the meager pool at my feet, becomes a rampaging ocean wanting to consume me While my lingering strength fights its currents, I am afraid that I will give in and be swept away I've learned the dance to summon the rain, and as forbidden as it is, I long for its poor company I weaken every day I lay at the bottom of this hole, and the sky only grows further away.

Tall Tales I am named after the woman of many stories, a folktale passed on by the mouths of those who remember her She carried ancient history on those broad shoulders, and held the secrets to life in her weathered hands A crown of silver ringlets danced around her face, and a gilded smile that enriched what she spoke You'd swear she were royalty, with fables and so colorful and grand Legends are never lost, only hidden in the files and folds of the memory I found the woman of many stories, and all that remained was a broken spine and torn pages, What am I to read?

100

Rinse and Repeat With these stumpy legs of mine, How can I ever touch that blue sky? Sucking in the cold air, I look up, to find it unchanged I've just been running laps, Circling the clouds above How much faster must I sprint, Before I pass through the atmosphere? How much farther do my legs have to go, I mean, they've already turned to jello Your magnificence teases me, I was always told that if I tried, That if I pushed hard enough, That I could do anything Well I'm still running on this track, Without a hint of progress.

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Olivia Gronvall Malcolm Sedam Winner 2020 The Girl and the Star There once was a girl who found a fallen star. It happened, as all mysteries do, on a cool, summer night. A gentle breeze flew across her yard, smelling of dew and nocturnal flowers. The trees whispered softly in their sleep, their limbs creaking as they dreamed. The sky was pure and clear, like a pool of water, and the stars twinkled like diamonds thrown into its depths. The grass felt soft and damp beneath her feet, and she breathed in the air and held it in her mouth like she was tasting honey. Anise couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep, not on this night. Her thoughts had crowded in her head like bees, buzzing and flying to and fro, busy, busy, busy but bringing about nothing. She had snuck outside to look at the stars and listen to the trees talk so she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to think. She stood and looked up, up at the sky, even though it made her neck feel sore, and tried to make out constellations. She tried to remember what she learned from her big blue book of the night sky; it was sometimes hard to make out the lines of a bear or a crab from the sparkling scatter, but it was fun, like when she played Connect-the-Dots when she was little. She was just making out the lines of Cancer when she saw it; a rapid streak of light. A shooting star! Her mind raced to make a wish until she saw another. And then another. As if this was the calling shot beginning a race, armies more of shooting stars streaked across the sky. It was a meteor shower, and her heart swelled with the knowledge that she had the rare chance of being awake to see it. She stood there a long time, watching all of them fly until the last straggler zoomed after his brothers. She sighed with both pleasure and disappointment, and feeling it was time, turned to go back into the house. Suddenly, she heard a high, spinning whistling, the squealing of a firework, making her

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jump out of her skin. Then, a soft, airy whump, like a leaf falling onto the grass. She spun around, spidery veins of fear shooting cold through her body. There, in the middle of the yard, a faint light flickered from the uncut grass. She crept forward, curiosity grappling with her fear. She gasped when she saw it before her feet, pure and shimmering like glass. A little, prone form lay on its side, no taller than a large apple. Elegant legs and arms came to a point like a starburst of a stick figure, and a round head burned like an ember. Phantom-blue wisps of flame licked about his body and centered on his head like a candle. The fire burned low, fluttering weakly. Her mouth gaping, she wasn’t sure what to think, or say, or do. Her heart threatened to burst in panic. But then she saw how his limbs were splayed awkwardly from the fall. He looked like a little child, and her fear melted into concern. It was injured and desperately needed help. She knelt as close to the figure as she dared. Up close, she could see how its body was as thin and transparent as a shadow yet wavered like the ghostly glow of moonlight. She spoke to it. “Are you okay?” she asked, feeling a bit at a loss on what to do. She racked her brains to remember what she learned in health class in school last year, but nothing had prepared her for caring for comatose fire people. With a shaking hand, she gave a quick poke to its right arm as gently as she could. Despite its fiery form, it did not feel burning hot at all, but toasty warm. On some sort of instinct, she felt the creature should’ve been hotter. Its light looked so dim and weak, dying in and out, the death throes of candles before they sputtered out. She bit her lip hard, the image of this simple death chilling her. Candles went out because of wind, water, because of the lack of wax. Fires needed fuel to continue to burn. Fires needed wood. Wood. The empty fireplace in the living room flashed in her mind. Perhaps it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try.

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With a plan in mind, Anise felt bolder. She still felt a bit nervous because she knew she shouldn’t move an injured person, but there was nothing else she could do. “I’m going to pick you up, okay?” she said, praying silently to herself that it didn’t have any broken bones if it had any at all. Gingerly, she slid her shaking hands beneath the little person’s form, lifting it onto her palms. It felt as light as a feather, as delicate as snow. She never knew what’d it be like to hold a flame before. The tongues licked around her fingers and dissipated, leaving a comforting warmth. It was as soft as smoke, as thin as mist. It was so nice she almost forgot to be worried about injuries. Fighting the urge to continue staring, she hustled across the yard and onto the porch, opening the door painstakingly slow as to not jostle the fragile thing in her hand. She also did not want to wake her parents; time was of the essence. She tip-toed through the kitchen and into the living room, the light of the flame child guiding her way. There stood the stone fireplace, barren and cold, waiting for the arrival of winter. The brass log-holder was just as empty, of course, because it was summer. She wished she could’ve smacked her face to berate herself for being so stupid, but her hands were full. Her mind raced for wooden things to place the fire child onto, things that wouldn’t be missed, until she noticed it flicker more, faster, weaker. “Oh no, no, no, no, please no,” she pleaded, her voice rising in panic. “Please don’t die!” The thought of seeing such an amazing light, let alone a child, disappear into nothingness made her stomach drop. It would be as if it never existed at all. And its death would have been her fault because she was too stupid to realize there wasn’t any wood, too slow to realize she should’ve grabbed some twigs outside. She held it close to herself as if she could shield it from the hand of death.

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“Please don’t die,” she whispered, and her heart cried out. Suddenly, light burst forth. Anise gasped as the figure started to wake. It raised its shining head, and as the spurting flames flowered in her hands, it looked straight into her eyes. It seemed to have no eyes, yet the girl knew it was looking at her. It was not just looking at her, it was assessing her, past her bewildered face and into her very soul. “…What are you?” she breathed, unable to look away. It answered, barely a whisper. A small voice, a young boy’s, yet one of otherworldly tongue. She couldn’t understand all that he said, but somehow, the meanings slipped through, like words in radio static. “I am a star…I fell…away from my brothers and sisters…I am lost.” Then it plaintively stretched out its arms towards her, and pleaded to her, tearful and afraid. He had suffered too much from the fall, he told her, so the world was too cold for him. Unless he had the shelter of flesh and blood, he would not be able to survive. She knew exactly what to do. She drew him to her breast and let him pass into her heart. He entered in as easily as a fish slips into water, gently but assured into its open door. She felt warm all over as she felt him snuggle in, safe from harm. As the blue light glowed from her chest where he was, she knew he would be able to heal now. It throbbed fast like a feverish drum from the shock of everything, yet she tried to settle it into calm. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit uncomfortable,” she mumbled, “I can’t seem to make it stop quivering”. The short spark of relief and gratitude that washed over her told her that he didn’t mind at

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all; most of all, it said thank you. “It’s so soft in here…” he said, “Like velvet. Please don’t worry; I am very comfortable”. Anise answered back with her own wave of relief, so happy she was to know he would be alive and well. She had saved him, and her joy made his fire flare up a bit. The sudden heat pouring into her veins made her jolt. He was growing stronger already, but the thought of his missing family worried her. “Where is your family? Or your parents?” she asked, “They must be worried sick.” “I have a father,” he said, his silvery voice beaming with pride, “He is a great prince of the night, second only to the Moon. He’s a mighty warrior!” She felt his light die down a little in sadness. “He lives in the Sky, between earth and heaven. Far, far, far away from here.” “I’m sure they’re looking for you! They wouldn’t leave you behind.” “Father is away at war,” he sighed, “And my brother and sisters would get hurt just like me if they tried to get here. Your world is different from ours. We get used to it when we’re grown-up. We’re too little, and if they tried, they…they might…” His voice quavered and her heart hurt as they both remembered how he was sprawled half-dead in the grass. “Hey, shh, it’s okay” she comforted, putting a hand to her chest, but she down on the couch in front of the fireplace. She stared at her hands. She couldn’t imagine not being able to see her parents again, to be all alone. She grasped the hem of her nightshirt, pulling the white fabric taut. You could stay with me,” she said slowly “I’m sure your brothers and sisters can send a message to him, right? Then he’ll come back to get you.” “Yes, you’re right,” he said, “But I don’t know when he will be back. And I don’t know

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when I’ll get better. It’s…I don’t know how to say it, it’s hard for you to know …but I am…I am connected to your heart. What enters here can feed me and help me grow stronger. But, other things can…other things can also be poison.” “Does this mean…” she stuttered, unease creeping in, “That something could go wrong? I mean, If I did something wrong, you could…I’d-“ She felt the warmth dim. His voice was so sad and far-away, a forlorn echo. “… You’ve been so nice to me, Anise. I don’t want to make you sad…please don’t be scared. It’s my fault I fell. I was flying too low…like father told me not to do…” “Oh, no, please don’t say that!” she protested, “It was an accident! There’s nothing to blame yourself for.” He continued, and the light glowed anew. “But I trust you. Other’s hearts can be too small or too cold. Some even have no door. Yours is so warm, and I have so much room to grow. I know I’ll be all right with you.” Overcome with his complete faith, all she could do was sputter out an awkward “uh, thanks!”. She pretended to scratch an itch on her nose that wasn’t there. “…I know you don’t believe me. But it’s true.” She froze, her face reddening. Could he read her thoughts? She madly tied to brush some strands of hair out of her face. It felt all limp. “How..?” she asked, half-hearted. He giggled a little, a sweet, tinkly noise, like tiny sleigh bells. “I can feel the emotions flowing through here. I can’t read all of them, but the strongest ones come through, like music.”

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She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the way the sky looked outside. But the peace didn’t come; the thoughts started to buzz in her head again. Would his brothers and sisters become nervous and try to come to earth themselves? What if the father took too long to take the star back? What if she did something terribly wrong in the meantime, and the child would get sick? What if her heart shriveled up? Or became cold and hard? What if she fed him so terrible and toxic things, that poor thing would become ill and shrink and go out? It’d crush her completely. She covered her face with her hands. “There has to be some way to get you home.” He was quiet for a long time, and she fretted that she hurt his feelings “There is a way,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear, “But it’s very dangerous… Father told us to never go there, but…it’s the only way your world and ours are connected.” “Really?” she said, sitting up, “Where is this place?” “I don’t think you’d understand it.” He thought for a moment. “It’s nowhere, but it’s also everywhere. My father says it is in the middle of here and now, at the borders where light and shadows meet. It’s…the in-between.” “That…doesn’t sound like it’s easy to get to.” She sat back again, faster than she wanted. “Yes, for most people. But it’s funny how much humans fall into it by accident! Stars can find the way there easy if we want to. That’s why he told us never to.” “So, it’s easy to get in, but not to get out.” She put an arm over her eyes. Humans wandering into another world…Something about it was like a story she heard before, somewhere.

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“Mmhmm! Just like that!” “Um…did he ever tell you why?” “Not a lot, only…” He gulped. “Only that there are horrible monsters there. He said we wouldn’t be safe, that’d they want to…to eat us.” “Oh…oh, gosh. That’s awful!” she exclaimed, rushing to sit up, horrified and confused. A morbid part of her wondered why they’d want to eat him when he didn’t seem to have any real flesh whatsoever. He was barely the size of a starfish. “Why?” “I don’t know. I never wanted to know.” He shivered. The chill in her heart made her hair stand on end. She put her hand on her chest again, feeling bad for having asked. She didn’t mean to make him feel so scared. Another thought came to her, blotted scarlet with sharp yellow teeth. She swallowed. “Do they…eat humans? Do people get out?” “I don’t know about them eating people…” he murmured, “He didn’t say anything about that.” He brightened. “But I thought you knew the stories! Humans have many tales about people who pass through and return. I love it when Father tells them to us.” Anise couldn’t help but smile at his excitement, imagining a big, stoic soldier telling bedtime stories to star-kids tucked in bed. It was both comical and adorable. “But…” he added, hesitantly, “They’re different when they leave.” She didn’t like how ominous that sounded. “What do you mean by ‘different’?” “Well, um, it’s hard to say,” he said, stumbling over his words, “They’re just…not the

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same person. They change on the inside, sometimes on the outside…they become something new.” Anise was quiet. She didn’t want to turn into somebody else. “You don’t have to go,” he piped up, “I like being here with you.” Despite this heartfelt statement, she could hear the longing bleeding into his voice. She membered how it would tinge hers the very same way when she told her mom that she was fine. “N-no,” she said, her voice returning, “It wouldn’t be right. I’d be keeping you from your family. And you’re injured. Your dad would know what to do to help you best heal.” “Anise…” “I’d want you to stay too,” she let the words spill from her mouth, smiling, “You’re so sweet to think of me. But I want to help you get home. Your brothers and sisters must miss you so much.” She felt her heart grow warmer, and the light flowed through her like water from a spring. He was smiling too. “See? You do have a big heart! I told you so!” He laughed his tinkly, tickly laugh again. She didn’t know what to say to this, but his laugh was infectious. “How do we get there?” she chuckled, forgetting to be concerned about travel. “Easy! We stars can make our own doors! The one in here is perfect.” She looked at the living room entrance. “Oh, you mean I walk through this?” “No, not that! The stone one right there, silly.”

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“Stone?” she trailed off, looking around in confusion until her eyes landed on the hearth. “Uh, ah!” she chuckled, realizing, “That’s the fireplace!” “Right, a place for fire!” he stated matter-of-factly, “That’s why it’s a perfect door. Can you stand in front of it, please?” Brimming with curiosity, she did as she was told. Despite her misgivings, the rapid butterflies of excitement fluttered in her stomach. “Now what?” “You’ll have to touch it when I tell you to. Just wait a second, okay? I need to think…I sort of forgot the words.” “Um, okay,” she said, rubbing her arm. He wasn’t saying anything still. She leaned back and forth on the balls of her feet. Staring at the fireplace was starting to feel awkward. She hoped her parents wouldn’t wake up from whatever he was going to do. Or walk downstairs and see her staring at nothing. After another moment, she thought to warn him to not be too loud. “Hey, uh, you probably shouldn’t—” The star’s voice rang out with surprising clarity, pure and true. It pushed away any taint in the atmosphere, everything sorrowful, fearful, or unkind. It started soft, and grew in strength and warmth, the open embrace of sunlight upon the lonely darkness of the void. The silent exultation of a tender plant as it burst forth from the earth. The caress of oceans upon the sands of time, and the laughter of the wind as it passed by. It was all that was finite and infinite, overwhelming power and enduring tenderness intertwined in the lyric of song.

“Warmth and gladness be my light

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Shining through the darkest night Open us a great, new door To the unknown’s distant shore Hidden from the human’s sight To the deep lands of twilight.”

Suddenly, a power surged through her, the spring becoming a rushing river of fire. The room became awash with azure light, liquid, shimmering, alive. She gasped, trying to catch the breath that left her as it blazed from her heart and flowed outward. It was trying to escape from the tips of her toes, her fingers, and even her hair. The wisps that tickled her cheeks made her realize that her long hair was floating like it was underwater. She wasn’t sure she could even contain it, so buoyant and joyfully overflowing. It didn’t hurt, but it was like trying to stifle a huge laugh. Any minute now, and she would lift off the floor like Peter Pan. “Now!” he cried, and she reached out and placed her hand on the mantelpiece. All of it rushed out of her body and through her arm, and her weight snapped back like a million bricks. Her body felt strangely heavy and she caught herself swaying on her feet. As the sensation passed, she wasn’t sure if she felt exhilarated or relieved. The radiance traveled through the wood, glowed through the cracks, and trickled into the stone. The drab grey was replaced with brilliant blue, and they glowed like sapphires in the darkness. Suddenly, they started to pulse in unison, like a heartbeat, and the fireplace grew bigger. With every pulse, its mouth widened and grew taller, the whole wall morphing and

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adjusting as if it was made of clay. The arc now looked like a real entrance, as big and wide as an old church door. Inside it, the back wall immediately stretched backward, on and on and on into darkness. It became a tunnel, and she couldn’t see where it ended. The fireplace grate was the only thing that remained unchanged. Her body shaking like a leaf, all she could do was ask, “Where did that come from?” She wasn’t sure if she was asking about the fireplace or the star magic. “Well, I did most of it,” he answered, voice bright, yet breathless, “But it came from you! The kindness you showed to me…it fed me and made me strong! I just released it into words.” She laughed out of the wonder for it all. “I don’t think we need to fear the monsters then!” She felt the tears streaming down her face, but it was the good, happy kind. “Yeah!” he agreed emboldened, but warned, “I had just enough to do that though. It made me feel so tired! I won’t feel that way when I’m better...” He yawned. “Hey, you should rest,” she gently advised, noticing the tiredness in his voice. Her brow furrowed, remembering he was still recovering. “You shouldn’t strain yourself when you’re healing. Save your strength. I don’t think you should use your, uh…magic for a while, all right?” “Mm. Okay,” he mumbled, half-asleep. He yawned again. It felt like a slight heaving in her chest. She started to yawn herself. Who knew? It was contagious with stars too. She stared into the abyss, starting to realize what she was undertaking. She thought about the existence of living stars, the monsters, and the unknown world beyond. She shook her head of all of it and took a deep breath. Instead, she focused on the star’s brothers, his sisters, and his dad. They’d want their brother and son back.

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“And anyway,” she thought bitterly, “It wasn’t like anyone would miss me here.” The star groaned in his sleep. She stepped around the grate, gave one final look over her shoulder, and stepped into the darkness.

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Blueberry Song Sing my soul to sleep With a nice warm piece of blueberry pie Sprinkle cinnamon into my thoughts And a dash of lemon into my dreams

Sing my soul to sleep With a spoonful of sugar to chase out the bitterness Some flour to keep it all together So it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all fall apart

The berries stain my heart blue But the juice tastes sweet on my lips So sing my soul to sleep So I may eat and be full of your sweetness And rest weary and unafraid.

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Reading is a Fine Repast Words are my meat and ink my drink I come to get my fill From tales and stories, poems and songs Fresh from the writer’s quill

New books are baked bread Fresh from the oven, warm Old books are fine wine Aged to perfection, well-formed

Hand me a fork, I’ll dig right in I’m hungry for some knowledge High school was a good restaurant, But fine dining is had in college!

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Contributors’ Notes Lessie Day My name is Lessie Day and I’m an English Studies major at the Miami University Hamilton campus. I’ve always loved to write and I am so glad to have the opportunity to share some of my pieces. As a non-traditional college student, I am thankful for the support of my family. My wonderful husband, Chris, inspires me everyday to work hard and never give up on my goals. We have five wonderful children and they keep me grounded and focused when I’m feeling overwhelmed while trying to balance work and attending school full time. I believe it’s never too late to start writing your own story.

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Emily Steele Hi everyone! My name is Emily. I graduated from Miami last spring, but Illuminati holds a special place in my heart and I am grateful for the opportunity to stay involved.

In “What I Wish I Knew Before”, I really wanted to capture the raw emotion of how it feels to lose someone. It sounds simple, but it is a pain that all of us can relate to. When I started writing I had one person in mind, but it morphed into a tribute (if you will) to everyone that was important to me for one reason or another that is no longer in my life today. It is not something you can prepare for, and each loss—be it through separation or death—hits differently. We feel like if only we could have seen the loss coming it might not have hurt so badly, but as both the old saying and my poem state, no one knows what they’ve got until it’s gone.

“The D Word” is obviously about my personal struggle with depression. Mental health is something I’m passionate about, and despite all the positive conversation surrounding it recently, I still feel like it is often something that is misunderstood on a variety of levels. Those who don’t struggle with mental illness may have an especially difficult time relating to those that do. Although “The D Word” is a family simple poem, I hope it helped you realize that depression does not always look like the stereotype many have come to know it as. It may be quite the opposite— your loudest, craziest, life-of-the-party friend may also be your saddest friend. Check up on those you love and always be kind. You never know whose life you might be saving.

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Adam Ward Adam Ward, a graduate of Fairfield High School class of 1999, combat veteran of the 82nd Airborne Infantry, 38 year old nursing student at Miami University Hamilton. Crimson Tears is a collection of some memories and events from my experience in Iraq back in 2003-2004. It is meant to be a reflection of the problems that some veterans have with reentering society, after tours of combat.

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Sam Schenck Hello friends! In my pieces that are published, I accessed some of my darker moments, moments that have been repressed and had only just recently resurfaced in my mind. I wanted to air them out through my gift and opportunity of creative writing because it has been my outlet since entering college. I hope that in tackling issues of traumas regarding gun violence, sexuality, gender, and love resonate with some of you so that you are not alone because I felt alone for too long. Just as a reminder, you are loved and accepted by at least one person even if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel like it. We are all writers in each othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; stories, and if you can be a source of light and energy to at least one person, you have done your job. We are all capable and worthy of being loved. This is a reminder for myself as well. I know my writing deals with quite traumatic themes and ideas, but these stories deserve to be heard because they are too often a part of a lot of other peoplesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; stories as well. My goal in writing these pieces is to let at least one person know that they are not alone, that their story matters, and one day, everything will be alright. One day is coming. Hang in there.

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Alexceunna Krewson My name is Alexceunna Krewson. I am majoring in English Studies, with a double minor in Creative Writing and Film Studies. As could be inferred by my major and minors, I love reading, writing, and watching movies/shows. I adore animals as well and when I'm at home I can usually be found with a cat in my lap. Animation is another passion of mine, and I have a huge appreciation for animators and animations I watched as a child (and as an adult now). I also love playing piano! Though I’ll admit I’m not good at reading sheet music or knowing chords, I love memorizing songs by remembering where my fingers go on the keys, and the array of songs I can now play are “Once Upon A December” from the animation Anastasia, the theme from La La Land, and a number of Vampire Weekend songs. One of my main professional goals is to work in book publishing! I am very interested in the idea of publishing, editing, and writing. I have a deep admiration and passion for books, stories, and films, and I aspire to create and make my own ideas into a reality to share with the world too. "Statue" and "Thoughtful Roses" are both very personal works of mine, and I am very excited and grateful to be a part of this organization's publication! Thank you!

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Hannah Kuhn My name is Hannah Kuhn and I am a senior EGS Major with a CRW Minor. My poems mostly touch on my experience with anxiety, but you’ll see some appreciation for music and books thrown in too. I hope you all can find some enjoyment from my writing! For some clarification, “What’s your Kitchen sink?” From “Day by Day” is actually a reference to one of my favorite song lyrics: “A kitchen sink to you, is not a kitchen sink to me, okay friend?” from Kitchen Sink by Twenty One Pilots. In my context, the reader is being asked what their perspective is, I’ll let you figure out the rest!

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Elizabeth Mehltretter My name is Mehl, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m graduating from Miami with a degree in English Studies and a minor in Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. I wrote these poems after a tumultuous breakup, and so I tried to develop a theme throughout them of growing through the pain and healing enough to move on. I also played around with the format of the poetry to represent how disjointed and complex the emotions surrounding a breakup can be, and how they can be interpreted to find meaning and strength from within. Ultimately, these poems are meant to be an expression of growth, healing, and finding strength within oneself.

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Nick Harrist I'm an individual who has lived in a small town all of his life, surrounded by routine people. My writing process is pretty sporadic. Sometimes I might have a clear idea of what to write and will write it out within a week, other times, I have nothing for months. I build up all of my storytelling until I implode. My perspective on writing is based around reality, perception, and creativity. All I wish is for the reader to delve into my work, enjoy it, and simply wonder about it. If discussion is brought upon because of my work, just know that I've been in that exact moment you were in. I also enjoy macaroni and cheese.

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Annika Baldwin I've been "writing" since I started homeschool in fourth grade and was a lonely, depressed dreamer. I'm pursuing a double major in Applied Communications and English Studies with a minor in Creative Writing. In that and writing, my largest goal is to build relationships, help others, and impact their lives. If I touch one person, my life won't be in vain.

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