2021 Spring Soliloquy

soliloquy

disrupted

Volume 6, issue 1

soliloquy volume 6, issue 1

a note from

the orial t i d e staff

If we had to describe this past year as anything, it would be disrupted.

In the winter of 2020, before the word pandemic entered our lives, a small group of writers and artists sat lounging on the couches in our Soliloquy writing room for a discussion intended to lead to the theme for our next volume. We slathered the whiteboard with words and phrases, many of which described what we love about artistic expression, some of which addressed why we create, and a few of which tried to name our current cultural reality in contemporary America. None of them struck us the way we like to be stricken when the new theme announces itself.

A few minutes later, Drew Braaten, an artist whose work we have published and who frequented our magazine meetings that year walked by the door. We called him in. “We need your input on this, Drew,” we said.

What happened next might seem prophetic, and all of us who were there reminisce about the irony, the un-

likeliness, the wonder of how it happened. Mrs. Cicero posed the suggestion, “Why don’t we talk about what dkfjn sdljk lkdjf lkdj lklkf d s;lkd; ljdlfks;ld jf ld,flksdjf ld jklfjsd lfklart does to us, about its effect?” We then left the whiteboard behind and delved into a deep conversation

about how art causes joy and pain, how it stops us, arrests us, interrupts us. We decided that art by its very nature, when it is true and human and beautiful, and even when it is ugly and frightening and challenging of our thinking, always has a disruptive effect.

Art -- whether written, theatrical, musical, two dimensional, or three dimensional -- stirs us, causes the beholder to pause, to halt, to think differently, to reconsider. Art is disruptive in the best possible way.

And so, after much inquiry into the idea, we decided that we wanted to be disrupted by art, that we wanted our readers to open Soliloquy and feel disrupted by beauty, by ideas, by images, by the response each piece evoked.

In the winter of 2020, before the pandemic disrupted our lives, disrupted our ability to be together, disrupted our culture as we know it, before the hundreds of thousands started protesting in the streets of our cities, before schools and businesses closed, we chose the theme Disrupted for our 2020-2021 volume.

Disruption, because of the negative tone of the prefix dis, often connotes something problematic. We ask you, dear reader, that while you read and view the works of art included in this magazine that you open yourself up to the idea that sometimes we need to be disrupted in order to see from a new point of view, to awaken in some way, to remember, to explore a new path. Art offers that experience to us and also provides tangible evidence that we as human beings have the power to create beauty even in the midst of challenge.

It is also to important to acknowledge that disruption is a temporary state of being. Disruption either reverts back to its original state or becomes a new reality. In our case, as more of us become vaccinated, as rules and regulations are slowly being lifted, and as we tentatively begin to hope that an conclusion is indeed near, it is safe to assume that our reality has forever shifted. Reality changed the lens through which we view ourselves, and we, as a staff, will never view our world the same again.

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-alexandra grosso, EIC + Staff

table of contents

2 4 6

note from the editorial staff

24

disorder

theme introduction rupture

48

unity

70

staff and acknowledgements 3

disrupt i e

dis-’r

the act or process of disrupting a. to break apart: rupture. b. to throw into disorder. c. to interrupt the normal

4

s

t ion. e

g

p-sh n

something.

course of unity.

5

P RU T

u p u r 6

E R TU Kelley Elliott Digital Art

7

Ava Meester Acrylic on Canvas

8

A

Aching Reluctant and

Kaitlyn J. Sisney Consider me a gift in change of view.

You scorn me, loathe my arrival, and still— Haven’t you always wanted to be new?

Those who have welcomed me, by nature they grew!

You, also, can deem the sight of me a thrill.

Consider me a gift in change of view.

I bring second chances to many like you.

Your platter I’ll load, your goblet I’ll fill.

Haven’t you always wanted to be new?

A long way I have traveled; on iron wings I flew.

Forgive my reputation, forget its chill.

Consider me a gift in change of view.

I may not be fair or right, but I’m true.

Recall your pleas for change. Your pleas. Your will.

Haven’t you always wanted to be new?

No matter your answer, what was is through, But heed—you’ll never be content until You consider me a gift in change of view Haven’t you always wanted to be new?

9

Lily Cook Digital Art

CAC HE

isabella brooks 10

s

I mask my face again like an isolated castaway

The conversations we now have derive from worn-out souls.

We cache, cache, cache, our marvelous displays.

I try to envision your laugh, your temperament is dismay.

I re-analyze your eyes, your hair, your array,

Connections the pandemic erodes are hardly portrayed.

look for your faint smile, feeling gray.

student

STUDY Hannah kennedy I’ve got the essay to write The article to cite The test to prepare The presentation to share The lab to do The guide to review I’ve got the yearbook to design

Lily Cook Digital Art

The photos to align I’ve got the book to read The club to lead The homework to complete I got the ACT score to beat Then the problems to solve And the ideas to evolve Fill my ears, music Let me feel the beat Play me a melody And make me complete

Compose a song Perform it for me Surround me with acoustics And make it carefree Notes, keys, beautiful verses Harmonies, instruments, hymns, and refrains Pop and rap You are all that I have to relieve these pains.

Take me away Console my fast heartbeat Give me a rhythm And fiddle me a treat

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Jayden Malicki Photography

jason pan

breathe

10

Breathe through your mouth, your soul, through life, unto death.

Will you accept this as truth — holistic, beyond normal belief, Left festering, brooding, yet serene as baby’s breath — Or will you resist, disrupt, beholden to nothing, a thief?

Hold still, a thought, fleeting through light, and through night.

Have at it: you had rather be free, than indebted.

Though doubt has arrived, come to fight, rather than succumb to flight.

Destiny shook us towards dusk, willful and deadly, disrupting as we dreamed.

Led on, we traversed through mind, through body, hidden within no more, Broke out in soundless struggle, silent spite, sooner, but still for naught.

Periodic lapses, penetrating senses, a story, intretched in the lore, Yet we wonder regardless, asking despite what we have lost and sought.

Perhaps we pause, lest we succumb also to corruption, But we go on, forward unto twilight, our mission, our own disruption.

And like my namesake I will roar, My face turned sunward, My face young and bright and loud And a threat to this sea of the green status quo, To this sea of green-eyed monsters, Succumbing to stagnation.

elizabeth foster

dandelions roar.

d.

A seed falls, It is not planted but falls among the blades of grass.

It grows.

Tendrils reaching, grasping, grounding, carrying my lifeblood through the dirt.

Through my roots, through my stem, through my leaves.

In the midst of where I am not wanted, I bloom, For I am a weed, a dandelion.

I will not idle complacently.

Green demands growth Motivation demands mobility I am the one with the means to manifest a change Let me learn and age and mature Let my hair grow thin and white Let my words scatter with the wind Let my seeds scatter with the wind Let my legacy scatter with the wind Like my namesake, I will roar.

I will roar of a generation surrounded by suppression, Of a generation stopped by stigmatization, Stifled by isolation.

In the fields they will find me In the fields they will find the pieces of me They will find the remnants of my heart and soul and art and song They will find the residue of my tears of joy and mourning They will find the fragments of a broken, still-beating heart, the lifeblood still pouring through open veins, spilling onto soil, seeping into the seeds sown, inspiring the change of tomorrow.

This sea of the green status quo Is driven by greed, by seizing more green bills And they are jealous Of my passion to learn to grow to adapt to mature And they are zealous Enough to pursue me to pluck me from my roots to squeeze my lifeblood from my stem to reduce me to a pulp to sip from my skin and grow drunk on my dandelion wine The evolution of a weed rejects stagnation, welcomes innovation The grass withers and the flowers fade But I am a weed and I will continue to scatter my seeds.

Tendrils reaching, grasping, grounding, carrying my lifeblood through the dirt.

Through my roots, through my stem, through my leaves.

In the midst of where I am not wanted, I bloom.

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small fish,

smaller pond

Taylor Apel

You’re a small fish in an even smaller pond.

The tiny town is suffocating,

but you couldn’t possibly hope to leave the safeness.

You know this world is greater than you

could ever hope to be.

You think that

you could drown in the space.

You’re the small fish in a smaller pond.

A tiny piece in the expanse of the universe

that could swallow you whole.

It’s much too great for you, one could never hope to make it out there, all alone in the big pond.

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You’re a small fish in a smaller pond.

This little town can’t hold you any longer.

There’s an intangible bond fraying at at the ends, not stronger than the voice calling to you from beyond this inescapable place.

You’re a small fish in a smaller pond, longing for something more, something to make you feel alive once more.

You think that maybe, if you could just make it out there, that life wouldn’t be such a bore.

You’re now a small fish in a big pond, drowning in the sea of people.

Yet it’s not as overwhelming as once thought

since new water brings a joy you never could have bought.

Everett Curan

no-space-between

Once upon a time there was a place where people of all walks of life could come together to share the enjoyment of a subtle shaking

of rib cages

in front of big black speakers

pounding the same sounds through all of us.

The neon lights shining through the grey smoke and pointing in every direction.

Left, right, up, down, three, two, one.

One spotlight stuck on the energetic man who holds the microphone.

People pushing,

pulling, prying their way to get closer.

Bodies pressed against each other, skin-on-skin-no-space-between-anyoneexcept-the-mass-of-the-crowd-and-the-man-on-the pedestal.

His energy brings life to the sea of strangers, the rise of adrenaline and dopamine, an excitement to be in the presence of the man who wrote the words known by all of us.

All of us, all of us in a crowd like that seems to be a memory and this place that was once beautifully bright is now abandoned.

A silent stadium, an empty arena, a cold bare club.

The skin-to-skin-contact-of-a-stranger who once sang the same words as thousands of others, is now outlawed.

Six feet separate us all at all times.

Those lips that sang with thousands now covered up by little blue masks, making the most familiar of faces nearly unrecognizable.

What was once a line of growing anticipation to be in the room with others who shared the same love for this artist has turned into a line of panic over the last few rolls of toilet paper.

The concerts have been compromised.

They’re advertised and televised but the feeling is minimized.

There is no rush from seeing the celebrity on the same screen we are so used to seeing them on.

They revert back to the image we all of have of this person who doesn’t seem real.

The chills that are only attainable by singing those words that mean so much to you with a thousand other people and the person responsible for their presence in your life is snuffed out.

But one day, one day we will flood back through those gates after those lines of anticipation.

The skin-of-strangers-slipping-past-one-another will be allowed again.

And that man on the stage will bring himself out with more energy than any artist had ever brought to a stage before.

The crowd will scream louder than ever just to share their voices with someone other than those who live with them.

What was once a place to party is going to be something even

more magical than it ever was before.

All of us will get our happy ending when the man says “thank you” and the lights go to black.

Anna Strunnets Mixed Media

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Ava Meester Acrylic on Canvas

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airborne.

Paige Liedtke-WALLNER I take a deep breath in.

Illness and anxiety permeate the air.

All the days meshing into one, Creating an endless and uncertain loop of disturbances.

Borrowers of time, we lay effortlessly still, the feeling of holding all the hours, all spent doing nothing, as all we can feel is to worry.

Reconstructing the new normal, newborn creative thinking, forming new intentions, inhabiting what makes us content with this time given.

Getting in touch with the winds, brand-new realizations of what’s offered to us each day, even without the old normal, and as a pause in the world slows everything down, we see the gift of opportunity with time.

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AVA MEESTER Mixed Media

18

the

BEAST Max Franks

i kill the beast and drop down to my knees, my blade stained dark with blood of stygian hue, and for a moment these scarred hands shake free, and hold a world unfurled for me anew. but once-mourned victims, victors, vices find; fear winged me; now its absence strips me bare. my sword now dulls, my legs, my voice, my mind; the beast, pried from my throat, leaves no skill there.

and still, I hear it laugh, O DEVOTEE—

O CHILD DEAR, NO GLORY WITHOUT ME.

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Abdul Samad Quryshi Mixed Media/Digital Art

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f o t e c a f e th

CREATIV CRE ATIVITY ITY Carys Ross

The flavor of creativity is exciting like a new recipe a chef is reciting the path of two artists colliding, Or simple items we find enticing.

The scent of creativity is beautiful, like the teachings of art classes that are irremovable, the art of legends that don’t seem to be refutable.

Or the failed attempts that are completely pitiful.

The size of creativity is infinite, similar to the art pieces the world deems as most legitimate. Like the techniques that remain the most infamous, Or the artistic relations I find the most intimate.

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generation Salvador Magarreiro I thought about him Night After Night Missed the laughter We shared, loud and free The innocent conversations The times when I fell d o w up n he would pick me back Stood strong at seventy one years old Seen as a brave soul A great man and role model and grandfather When s e p e r a t e d from his family, he made sure to call His legacy of love, family, loyalty And wisdom will live on forever And will be passed on through many generations generations generations generations

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Finn Donahue Digital Art

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DI S

OR

RDE R Kelley Elliot Mixed Media

Trinity Otto Digital Art

WHAT WE CALL

THE WIND

KAITLLYN J SISNEY

Walking through the wood, I feel as though I am enough If I am a visitor, then I am a visitor of my own self The trees welcome me, leaves murmuring at the ends of branches that take the shape of my own bones The squirrels and snakes hurry from underfoot My footprints join the temporary history of the forest floor, next to the fading, telltale hoofprints of this morning’s breakfast exodus The air here is different It feels as though it should be heavier, yet, it is easier to move through, easier to breathe Still, this air weighs heavier on the conscience making sure to remind me that with every inhale a moment begins and with every exhale the moment is already fleeting This place may not remember me, I wouldn’t blame it – There are many just like me who come here to breathe To breathe and to walk and to listen And I do listen. The woods call me and I listen to whatever they want to tell The wind may not remember me but just the same it calls me “daughter” The forest calls me “daughter,” this place with my bones and my footprints and the savoriest breeze And although I feel no need to call back The air-kissed leaves always advise me otherwise: “Beauty finds itself in what we call the wind”

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AJ Faber Marker

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black is

BAD carys Ross

Black is bad when it equates to evil, when it represents all things dark, and threatening.

Black is scary to many who do not have much experience around it, or choose to not even bother.

Black is good when it is disguised as white. When it morphs into something so that others are more comfortable.

Black is appealing when it entertains, or tries to make itself as small as possible.

Black is the underdog in every movie plot, underrated.

Black has been hated since before it had time to prove itself.

Black is strong, the evidence lies on the backs of those who built and nurtured the very soil this country occupies.

Black is innovative, the blueprint for food, style, hair, music, and even the way we talk.

You’re welcome for the creativity we have spread, and even taught.

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Dominic Silho Pen Art

Elise Rickert Pen art

Th E by Th th La Fr Th do C B E

s r o l o C Gabi Martin

Dominic Silho Pen art

Intro As I sit in every class, Every assembly, Every lunch period, I am hyper aware of my differences.

Of the tone of my voice, My eye contact, My shoulders, My smile (or lack thereof).

I am hyper aware of the surprise of my teachers when I walk into advanced classes.

Hyper Aware of the eye rolls, Immediately emitting from my classmates when I speak of racial issues.

Hyperaware, That no matter how many octaves I raise my voice, How many times I am invited to their houses, No matter how many times we share secrets in cars at the late hours of the night.

I will never be one of them.

I will always be on the outside of their world, Isolated, myself, because of my skin.

Stationed in a constant revolving door of hiding my blackness and defending it, I am Hyperaware

H G Th So ey A

Of what I look like.

Hyperaware That I am more than their token.

Gold He stands in the doorway 7 o’clock sharp! her father eyes him, but not disapproving. the boy’s feet moving with the rhythm of nerves.

She rushes on the second floor, Wallet, Purse, Shoes, Jacket.

Check, check, check, check.

She kisses her father’s cheek and runs with the boy, Hand in hand down the driveway.

As they speed through the quiet streets, He smiles, Davis blasting from the speakers, His hands moving as he talks about college, About away, About the world outside of a dangerous, deprecating, down right devastating bubble.

“I

Th sl Le A lik H as A

Gr M in Th W w W W Ta B B B Sp co I lik Sm m

o

His earrings (little hoops his mother gifted), Glint in the same tint as his white smile.

The sunset Soaks into his walnut skin, bouncing off of his dark eyes.

And he makes her feel like gold.

They sit cross-legged on the top of the car, Ellington is now emitting from the car as they read by flashlight.

The Baldwin and Angela they exchanged making them nod their heads, Laugh, Frown.

The lay their heads down and look up at the night sky dotted with clouds and stars, Calmed by each other’s voices, By presence, Each inhale making the other smile.

Hoping I could be pretty like them.

Honey in the eyes, lemon on the skin, starving myself paper thin to avoid curves, and dimples, Anything and everything to seem like them.

I saw that they were loved.

That they didn’t have to have this funny personality, or a bangin body.

They didn’t have to be pure this, pure that, seen and not heard, always smile, no ma’am, yes ma’am.

They didn’t have to say, yes I’m supposed to be in this class.

Yes, I wrote this paper.

You’ve met my father. My mom’s a doctor.

I saw that they were beautiful to others.

That they got the looks, the smiles, the eyes.

People were kind to them, idolized them simply because they didn’t look like me.

“I am more than their token.”

Their speed towards her house to make curfew slowed by 12 on the side street) Lets the wind kiss their faces, A warm breeze melting into their pores like butter on a pan.

Her father stands in the window as they walk up the path, As the boy kisses his gold on the front porch.

Green Interlude (to the white girls I used to want to be) My mother used to remind me that deep voices run in our family.

That hefty, booming sound Was passed down through generations of strong women with strong opinions.

Women who never took shit, Were never talked down upon, Tall, Beautiful, Black women.

But my mother also told me to raise my octaves, Speak softly, sound dainty, use the high pitch to avoid confrontation.

I used to sit in school and mimic my white friends like a parrot.

Smiling, smirking, giggling, burning the hell out of my hair,

But I learned.

I learned to not burn with envy of the woman who was ideal.

I learned not to scrub so hard, Not to cry so much.

I had to learn and understand that I have to be stronger, Tougher, Smarter.

Blues (inspired by blk boys in the moonlight) To the black boys who look blue in the moonlight.

We see your sad eyes, Your bitten cheeks and clenched fists.

We see the tears that are not allowed to fall, The voices unallowed to be raised.

We see you and watch your “friends” cause you pain, Call you a nigga like its your name, They eat at your table and reap what you sow, Gathering around like your life is their show.

You are loved.

Can’t you see you are loved?

By the women like your mother, the ones who are your brothers, The ones who hold you back on traffic stops.

Who is there to cry with you after?

The world is against you, This much is true, But your life isn’t simply the tale of a black boy’s blues.

You and your sisters are the spectrum of colors that makes the world look bright.

You are the backbone of a world destined to burn you to the ground.

Your life has meaning, Has substance, Will not be reduced to moments on the ground or shots in your back.

From the naps of your hair to the tips of your toes, The gleam of your smile to the bridge of your nose.

You are loved.

Mood Indigo (end scene) It is in the final hours of high school, That my classmates reveal their complete and utter b.s.

That my existence to them has been, Their token, Their sis, Their gate into a world full of color, of flavor, of loud laughs and rhythm.

While it was a long time coming, It is in these last weeks that the development of absolute hopelessness Has turned An indigo darker than death itself, A weight on my chest like a foot.

A mood indigo that rises from the ground, Darker than the haze of Billie’s voice and the moan of Mahalia.

When will it end?

Where can I be comfortable to relax, To lower my voice, To let out my hair, To let my chin down.

My utter exhaustion sets in on a world ablaze, The feelings of defeat as I watch justice never served, and lives never avenged.

I fear for my father, For my friends, For myself.

For my little sisters as they watch the world that hates them burn.

The haze of indigo sets in, Through the sleepless nights of anxiety filled texts to those in the trenches.

The false cares of my classmates, The lack of speech from my educators, The apparent turn the other cheek attitude of my town, Shows me where I stand in this world.

And my mood indigo holds my neck like the hands of death.

We are struggling.

We are dying.

And you. You are

S I L E N T.

Ava Meester Pen and Pencil

Ava Meester Mixed Medium

b

L

I a I N i M b S b a b I b

T M M M U

I W I I I a w t a

I r o o

I a o o a a

I s m a p

I m b c 34

bigger problems.

Logan Hisle

I hate when people compare the entities on my face to mountains, as if people stare at my face in awe.

It’s more like, “Aww, poor girl.”

Nobody is going to shame a landscape for having mountains, in fact, I don’t think their existence in a visual sense has ever been looked down upon.

Mountains are not considered the eyesores among a flat plane, but that’s the—beauty—of acne, I guess.

Sometimes mountains come with lakes, beautiful pools of blue, and a lush, healthy surrounding valley, but I don’t have those, either.

I have eyes as brown as the soil at the bottom of those lakes and the entirety of my face is about as lush as a desert, but that’s the—beauty—of acne, I guess.

The inaccurate comparisons exhaust me; screw a mountain and call it what it is: ugly.

Mountains don’t cause all kinds of pain.

Mountains don’t bleed.

Mountains don’t make me just as afraid to look people in the eye as I am to look myself in a mirror.

Ugly does.

I am not “better off” without mountains.

With the past seven years under my belt, I feel as if my struggle deserves to be described with a bit of reality.

It’s ugly.

It’s countless hours of picking and prodding, attempting to squeeze out every last bit of insecurity with the nasty contents of every last spot, the blood from the broken skin diluted by my tears, and I can no longer tell what kind of pain they’re from.

It’s countless remarks I have received from close relatives and distant strangers, resulting in my attempting to explain how I can’t “just wash my face”, or justifying why I’m wearing “too much” or “too little” makeup, or exasperatedly sighing as soon as I hear something as repetitive as “well have you tried…”

It’s countless invalidations of my (admittedly) strong feelings because at least I have nice hair or a nice body or something as specific as a nice lip shape, and since I have these, anything about my acne that falls out of these lips is a moot point.

It’s countless treatments that started before I was taught how to do algebra, scrubs that were abrasive enough to scrape away my dignity, moisturizers that clogged my pores and my mind, acids that burned through my moisture barrier and parents’ wallets, pills upon pills upon pills that should’ve been labeled “for a limited time only!”

It’s countless side effects that could permanently ruin my body, my liver and digestive and immune functions down but my confidence goes up, climbing up this stupid mountain for no reason but to accept myself

35

in the reflection of other people’s eyes.

My dermatologist gives me hope that soon I’ll reach the peak but all I can think of is falling back down.

I’m afraid of my countless everything going to waste.

Countless everything.

It never ends and I keep trying, but-He gave me bigger problems.

On the ramp of the highway four blocks from my house, and forty minutes from yours, I can still smell the rubber burnt into the pavement.

It’s branded into my memories like the print of your hand on my thigh like the tiny crescents that remain in your passenger seat from every single one of my fingernails, as you drove us right into the danger you promised you’d never put me in because apparently there’s no better way to put hair on your chest than to drive unnecessarily fast in your shitbox excuse for a car.

You promised.

You promised you’d be better.

You promised you’d be better than your friends, You promised you’d be better than your father, You promised you’d be better than that failure of a person that did the exact same thing you ended up doing: break me apart in the exact way I told you it could be done.

Perfectly.

And now you walk around with your bird chest puffed up like you’re allergic to empathy.

And deep down you know that I’m just like the pistol your daddy found hidden in your bedroom.

My magazine is empty but I have way too much ammo lying around, your best friends having no issue with wanting to load me up with plenty of rounds-I wish we could box in the ring you never intended to give me.

Now I find comfort in my sweat sprinkling my paper like holy water, blessing it with the low-down words about you that could only come from somewhere higher than me, but You were the god who used to tell me You liked my writing just as much as You liked me but not nearly as often as you told me how much I should change.

I hope your mom prays for you so you don’t get baptized in flames, your ashes floating down from the night sky you act as if you hang the stars in, like my tears falling into the palms of your hands and you’d slurp them up like a vampire does blood— dripping from your arms pounding the porcelain of your bathroom sink like concrete.

Every perfectly-timed slit in your stick-thin limb for every tire mark you left on that pavement for every lie you told me for every lie you told about me.

Every cut you made to manipulate me every picture you took to calibrate me every crocodile tear you shed to tease me every word you spoke to appease me lies not only within you, but in the hoodie that hangs in my closet,

t i e b I a m b I S a “ I w b Th

M Th f i a a o S

M Th b b w

M Th b w b

G

Th n A s t t

G

Th N a t H t

G

Th a y S i t

G

Th

the one thing I can say I took away from you in hopes that one day you’ll give back every bit of happiness you stole from me— but for now, I’ll fantasize about taking that shitbox out of that burnout, all the way back to my house in reverse like the transmission went out, making us strangers again because if I had known you were going to wrap our relationship around a tree I would’ve bailed.

So now just like you wanted, this is the end, and I’ll never speak of your existence again.

“What are you?” they ask.

I usually feign ignorance to these ignorant questions, waiting for an ignorant explanation that usually follows but until then, I revel in the awkwardness of their hesitation.

The combination of all of my aspects seems to confuse people.

Mixed girl.

The one who can never speak with the correct dialect for the correct people in the correct setting at the correct times, always speaking with a little too much “attitude” when unnecessary, or a meticulous pronunciation of consonants when inappropriate.

She can code switch all she wants but it’s never enough.

Mixed girl.

The one who’s only apparently only identifiable by her lips, body and hair in the winter because someone wanted to check “just in case” she said something out-of-line, but at least she fits in at school around Christmas when she gets compliments for dressing up when her hair is straight.

Mixed girl.

The one whose existence is invalidated constantly, being bombarded with questions about what about her is real, whether her daddy would buy her a car or if she could find one to steal, but she says neither because she’s the Good girl.

The one who’s never been anything but sober no matter how hurt she feels.

A pain submerged so far it claws at her nerves and she’d rather feel burning in her throat than burning in her eyes but that would ruin her image.

Good girl.

The one whose grandma’s voice rings in her head.

No matter how deeply she loves, a touch more meaningful than a friendly embrace is too much to receive.

Her tangible body too pristine to give because that would make her an object.

Good girl.

The one who holds her tongue within the household no matter her age, a child much too young to have a considerable opinion, yet an adult too old to be without such responsibilities.

She gives respect not to where it’s due but to where it’s expected and is unable to ask for any in return because that would make her ungrateful.

Good girl.

The one who puts more tears than words onto paper,

no matter the burn out, she possesses a work ethic never sufficient enough to appease whom is most important.

She aims solely to satisfy them because that is the only way she’ll get by.

Good girl.

The one who is outcast by most.

No matter how many missed opportunities to enjoy life, one without experience is worth it if it’s innocent.

She simply deals with the loneliness and monotony with the hope that someone will come break the mold that makes her the good girl, but She has bigger problems now.

The word “race” has never been kind to her.

She is told to choose one over the other, but she refuses, especially in times like these to split them any farther apart from one another because today the topic of race consists of a color running to win gold as if they didn’t get a head-start, as if they weren’t equipped with the better spikes to sprint on the track we call life, some of them choosing to step on and puncture those in different lanes.

They will hand off the baton of racism down to each generation of the relay, often not resisting to use them to cause pain.

My mom is just as afraid of me going to protests as I was taught to be of the people I’m protesting

f o

I m t s t t I o t b I a b I w fi l b I w l t f a

S t s i t Y

38

for I have no fear of the cities or the people that inhabit them.

This is

I watch them take turns marching through streets and trudging through life so maybe one day, they won’t have to run from the people that try to take both from them.

I hear mothers chant the last words of other mothers’ children, their wails and cries sound as if tragedies happen to their own because they do.

It sounds just like every other year before this, and every year after this because it never changes.

I feel the prayers of the people whose ancestors were lynched outside of churches, fingers paging through the Bible like every single chapter is named after another black life taken.

It’s the 21st century and white sheets and confederate flags still wave in the breeze like dead slaves’ bodies hanging from poplar trees, their names blown away in the wind like a dandelion seed for the wishes for freedom that they have yet to receive— and you cannot keep telling me that you are surprised.

See, I’ve experienced racism but not to that degree; there are few people of color born with more privilege than me so I say “they” instead of “we” in order to recognize the different ways they have lived their lives.

Yet I was still taught how to talk to police,

the biggest problem

NOW. Jacob Malland Acrylic

39

Ryan Gettelfinger Photography

blinded and consumed Jenna Clark

d

“Mama! Papa!” Shoved and jostled merclessly, Addilyn pushed through the mad exodus. “Where are you?” She peered at the townsmen rushing past, desperate to see a familiar face.

Flames spurted from nearby houses. Men fought beneath the burning roofs, swords flashing in the fiery gleam.

Horses bolted in every direction, eyes rolling in terror and mouths frothing with spit.

“Move, girl!”

A horseman yanked hard on his reins in an attempt to divert his frantic horse from trampling the small girl. The horse reared, kicking out its forelegs wildly. A flailing hoof caught Addilyn on the side of the head. She screamed. Her vision flickered, and pain threatened to blind her completely. She crumpled to the ground.

The retreating footsteps and ear splitting cries faded, leaving only the sound of the cackling fire. Ash floated down lazily and covered the street like a blanket of snow. A nearby house exploded with fire, washing over Addilyn in a blistering gust of wind. The bright light dazzled her, and the sound was deafening. Her hair swirled around her like a golden mane, as if it too was attempting to flee from the inferno. Addilyn rubbed her eyes with dirty fists and blinked away tears. She glanced up and froze.

Chewing thoughtfully on a long, wooden pipe, stood a tall, unfamiliar man. He looked down slowly, cold eyes glowing with each puff from his pipe. He lifted a pale hand and combed back his ebony hair, only for the locks to curl back over his eyes defiantly. The man appeared perfectly at ease among the dancing flames, basking in the destruction and blood. Addilyn shrank back as the man knelt beside her. He slipped a knife out from his leather jacket and leaned his chin on the pommel, regarding the petrified girl with unconcealed interest. With a long fingernail, he tapped the blade. Addilyn flinched.

“Mama! Papa! Addie! Where are you?”

The familiar voice shook Addilyn from her trance, and she glanced over her shoulder, peering into the smoke and sighting her brother’s tear streaked face.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders. The stranger gently lifted her from the ground and set her on her feet, turning her in the direction of her wailing brother.

“Run!” the man whispered, and Addilyn obeyed.

She hurtled herself into the smoke and flung herself onto her shocked brother. In one swift motion, they clasped hands and fled, sidestepping shattered doors. Only when they reached the top of Old Man’s hill did they stop and look back. As they watched the blinding flames engulf their town, devouring their home, their family, and their childhood, another fire sparked within Addilyn. She squeezed her brother’s hand tighter.

“What do we do now?” her brother whimpered. He fell to his knees, shivering and sobbing.

Addilyn knelt down beside her brother and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her eyes never left the torched town.

“We search for Mama, Papa, and little Theo,” she said through a quavering voice. “And if we do not find them, we find whoever took them from us.”

Afternoon light glinted off the glossy film of a worn photograph as a cool breeze swept the remaining clouds away.

I narrowed my eyes against the glare and ran a finger over the image, longing for the occupants to step from the page and stand before me. My thumb slowly passed over the smiling faces of my family. I recited their names, their habits, and their quirks, as I had done a million times before. I paused over the chubby face of my baby brother. I frowned. Panic cascaded over me like a tidal wave as I fought against a sudden surge of oblivion. What was his name? A lonely echo drifted above the fog. I seized the memory with wild eagerness, letting out a sigh. Oh right, little Theo. A dismal thought quickly quenched my relief. He would be eight in a few more days.

I sighed again, but the realization that I would miss another birthday affected me less than my forgetfulness. As my heartrate slowly returned to its normal pace, I flipped the photograph over and ran a chipped fingernail over the tiny inscription on the back.

Dear Mama and Papa, Until we reunite, even in death, I won’t forget you.

Give me courage. Insulate me from fears. Never leave me.

I miss you and love you with all my heart. Give Theo a kiss for me, wherever you are.

Love, Your Addie A drop fell onto the photograph. I quickly dabbed the water and felt my cheeks, but they were, as they had been for several years now, dry. I wiped my forehead as another bead of sweat trickled between my eyes. The photograph crinkled and creased as it soaked in the salty drop. My family’s expressions darkened. I dropped my gaze, focusing on the mossy roof tiles inches from my nose.

“Hey.”

I twitched in surprise and looked up. My mentor, Warren, eyed me over his broad shoulder and beckoned me with a flick of his wrist. I stuffed the photograph back into my shirt and crawled forward, molding tiles scraping my elbows and stomach.

“Listen. Go,” Warren whispered when I was finally beside him. Even with his mouth centimeters from my ear, I had to strain to hear his words.

I tilted my chin in a nod and continued forward carefully. On the edge, I lifted myself a few inches above the roof. Pity sent a tingle up my fingers as I observed my surroundings. The crippled building I crouched on wasn’t the only testiment of recent bombings. Clouds of smoke cloaked the streets. Echoes of collapsing buildings sporadically broke the grim silence that hovered over the city, sending shivers down my spine. A feverish breeze swept over the solemn city, wafting thin trails of smoke and the choking stench of burning cloth. I screwed up my eyes and scrunched my nose. There were no signs of life: no dogs, no crows, and no people.

As if to purposely contradict me, the clomp of a horse’s hooves suddenly broke through the silence.

Warren’s calloused hand pushed me roughly back down against the roof. I flattened myself against the tiles and closed my eyes as the sound grew louder, coming to an abrupt stop below. Ear pressed against the mossy tiles, I held my breath and listened intently.

I heard a soft knock. Someone on the inside opened the door. A few words were exchanged and footsteps stomped inside, leaving the horses snorting in the streets.

A tap on the side of my boot severed my concentration. I tilted my head just enough to glance over my shoulder at Warren. The roof sagged slightly underneath my mentor’s bulk. I eyed the tiles skeptically. Should’ve left the bear on the ground, I thought mildly. Catching my attention again, Warren raised a bushy eyebrow in question. I hesitated before giving him a faint nod and mouthing, “He’s here.”

With a small shift of my body, I inched closer to the edge, peering into the shadowy streets. Warren tugged on my boot, reminding me to be cautious. The only danger would be if the roof suddenly decided the strain of holding up my mentor wasn’t worth it anymore. I waved him away and glanced from the horses to the outskirts of the city, frowning. Where was Nathaniel?

The sun dipped further beneath the horizon, staining the sky a dark shade of red. I bit my lip, torn. Time was ticking away. I had to go. For my family. With one last glance at the desolate streets, I reached back and gripped my greatest companion: my bow. My fingers found their familiar place on the slender wood. We would have to act now.

Warren’s eyes widened when he saw the determined look on my face. He shook his head furiously and tugged on my boot again, harder. I rolled my eyes and gave him a swift thumbs up. It wasn’t like I was jumping straight into death’s embrace... hopefully.

Pushing away the doubt and ignoring the increasing pressure on my ankle, I leaned further over the edge and gave two short raps on the door. The murmurings within the house fell silent.

The rickety door creaked open and a bald man appeared. I resisted the urge to duck out of sight. Any slight movement would arouse the man’s attention. The bald man cocked his head. After a small shrug, he retreated back inside the house.

“Must’ve been a bird,” grumbled a disembodied voice.

I released a quiet sigh, trying to clear my mind of the overpowering adrenaline that coursed through my veins. I let a few seconds crawl past before repeating the knocks. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure the city would echo with it. Warren had released my foot, but his exasperated huff warned me he had no pleasure in proceeding with my plan. A vision of his future rebuke floated into my mind. I shrugged the thought away. There were more important things to worry about. I quickly swung back onto the roof and quietly lifted myself into a crouch, tucking a few rebel strands of hair back into my golden braid. The roof groaned softly in protest but faithfully held my weight.

This time, the bald man stepped all the way out of the doorway and onto the deserted street, swinging his head left and right in search of the mysterious knocker.

In one swift motion, I leapt from the roof. For a brief moment, my stomach twisted in fear and elation. Then, I landed heavily on top of the bald man. My nose smashed into his shoulder with a sickening crack.

Though gasping and blinded with pain, I managed to break my fall with an awkward roll and spring back onto my feet.

Inside the house, two armored men stood frozen, mouths gaping as I stepped through the doorway, pinching my nose as blood flowed freely. I shrugged at their incredulous expressions. “I did knock.”

The grim-faced man furthest from the door was first to recover. He turned and fled to the back door, fumbling with the lock. What a wimp. The second man took a different tactic, unsheathing a curved rapier and charging. I reached for my bow, but my hand grasped thin air. Crap. I took a step backward. Maybe this wasn’t such a great“Move!”

I dropped to the floor just as Warren’s body swung from the roof and through the door, his boots missing my head by inches. His feet drove into the oncoming man’s chest, sending him flying. The shingles Warren hung from tore off the roof with a resounding crack. Unable to stop, my mentor shot through the air and slammed onto a short dining table. I ducked as pieces of wood soared past my head. Unfortunately, the grim-faced man wasn’t as quick. A fractured chair leg pelted him in the face.

He slumped to the ground.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. I stood alone as an eerie silence engulfed the room. Probing my nose gingerly, I trudged over to the bald man and spotted my bow. I sighed as I fingered the frayed rope and dented wood of my best friend.

“Warren, you okay?” I asked in a nasally voice, glancing around the room.

My mentor groaned unintelligibly and stuck a hand out from the rubble. He gave me a thumbs down, glaring at me underneath dust. After one last groan, he patted the broken table around him like it was a relaxing lawn chair and leaned back, closing his eyes.

I snickered, despite myself. “Alright, go back to bed, you old man.”

The surviving light of the dying sun filtered into the room unevenly through battered blinds on the windows and spiderweb cracks in the ceilings. I stalked past a shattered mirror and paused. Suddenly, I didn’t blame the grim-faced man from running. I looked terrible, face smeared with blood and hair twisted in more of a disheveled knot than braid. My bony shoulders were hunched and tilted forward, like a cat ready to pounce. My eyes were bloodshot and wild. I shivered, grossly entranced by the reflection. Movement in the corner of the room tore my gaze away. I peered into the darkness beside a depressed counter. A cabinet swung gently from its broken hinges. I took a cautious step forward, bowstring taunt.

“Addie?”

I jumped and spun, raising my bow high as another figure entered the room. A rough-looking boy raised his hands in surprise.

“Woah, Addie...your nose looks awesome.”

The feathered arrow tickled my cheek. I frowned.

The boy ruffled his dirty blond hair uncertainty. “Hey, Addie. It’s your brother, Nathaniel. Remember?”

The arrow quivered. “Why didn’t you come?” I demanded. “Warren and I waited hours for you to show up. I had to jump from the roof and broke my stupid nose!”

“Addie,” Nathaniel said uneasily, flinching away from the arrow.

“You said he would be here! I’m starting to think our family means nothing to you.”

Nathaniel’s eyes hardened. He took a hesitant step forward, palms up in a peaceful gesture despite his anger. “They mean everything to me. Everything. You know that.”

I sucked in a breath and glanced away. Shame warmed my cheeks. What was going on? He’s my brother. “I don’t know... what I’m doing anymore,” I confessed softly. “It feels like I’ve been eaten up inside. Empty. Hollow.”

“I know. Set the bow aside. I can help you.”

The room swayed before my eyes. Smoke filtered into the room, conjuring the image of my home town buried in ashes.

Houses crushed. Skeletons entombed by rubble. And a single, pale face grinning among the debris. I blinked and stepped forward, increasing the tension on the string. “Then, tell me where he is.”

Nathaniel backed into the doorway. “Sure, when you tell me where Addilyn is.”

“Stop playing games.” I poked the arrow against his chest.

“Addilyn would you stop?” Nathaniel growled, slapping the arrow aside. “You aren’t being reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” I could have exploded with the anger. “How can you use reason against...against that monster? What about our little....?”

“Theo,” Nathaniel whispered, but I ignored him. “....brother? He was a baby for heaven’s sake! Was it reasonable for him…” I shuddered, unable to finish the sentence.

“You aren’t listening to me,” Nathaniel said gently.

“You aren’t listening to me!” I hissed back.

“Shut up. I am, and I’m not liking what I’m hearing,” Nathaniel muttered. He glanced towards the counter, eyes narrowing.

“You can’t even look me in the eyes. Am I really that hideous to you? Coward.”

“Shut up!”

A loud squeak emitted from the cabinets. I spun and released the arrow. The bow buckled, creating a giant crack alongside it smooth outside, but the arrow shot forward with tremendous speed. The squeak ended abruptly, tall shaft protruding from the mangy body of a rat. The unfortunate rodent wiggled once before growing still. My frown deepened. I turned back to my brother.

“Nat, I don’t know--” I gasped as Nathaniel’s face appeared a few inches from my own.

“I said SHUT UP!” He clasped a hand over my mouth. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut...up!”

I clamped my mouth shut, looking at my brother with wide eyes as he leaned close. “We’re not alone,” he whispered.

My heartbeat quickened as Nathaniel dropped his hand. I fetched another arrow from my quiver. “Where?” I whispered as I followed my brother’s gaze to the counter. A shadow shifted beneath the cabinets.

“Show yourself!” I called to the darkness, annoyed at the tremble in my voice. “I’ll shoot!”

“No doubt,” Nathaniel muttered, hand falling to his sword.

The shadow leaned forward. The dim light revealed a passive, human face. Long, black hair cascaded over cold eyes that surveyed the room slowly.

“Who are you?” I ventured.

The man reached into his heavy coat and pulled out a long pipe. He stood there for a moment, puffing great rings of smoke. The sense of familiarity stung me like a bee.

“I’ve seen you before,” I murmured. A tremer of excitement surged through my body. I had found him.

Amusement tugged at the edges of the man’s lips as he watched my expression transform. He remained silent, gleaming eyes flicking from brother to sister.

“Look, I didn’t come here to offer my extermination services,” I said, motioning toward the shambled room and dead rat.

The man stirred. “Then why are you here?” he asked, as if my answer held some profound explanation.

The old photograph beneath my shirt pricked my skin as I raised my bow and glanced over at my brother. I’m not running this time. I pulled the string back to my cheek, pointing the arrow directly at the pale man’s heart.

“You destroyed my family,” I spat, satisfied with the confidence in my voice.

“Not quite.” The man tapped a finger against his pipe, dusting the floor with ashes.

“Not quite?” I mocked vehemently. The man’s perplexing denial and calm stance was like an irritating itch, and I couldn’t wait to scratch it. “So you’re not a murderer?”

The pale man rubbed his chin in thought, pulling on the thin hairs of his neat beard. “Not quite. You see...what I do is part of my nature. I was born in this wreckage and havoc. This war powers me, fuels me. I am consumed by flame and sword, blinded by this terrible rage. Consequences of pursuing me are mainly that...consequences: death, loss, pain, and an unquenchable thirst.”

“You robbed me of my family.”

The pale man yawned, flashing bright, white teeth. “No.” “No?” My temple throbbed painfully with confusion.

“No, but I can help satiate your thirst.” He held out a long hand, setting aside his pipe. “I can help avenge your family.

That’s why I’m here. You brought me here.”

A cold shiver traveled down my spine as I stared at the hand, seized by an invisible pull. I brought him here? I glanced back at my brother. His eyes were wide with terror and rage. His knuckles were white from clenching his sword. “Addie, don’t do it,” he warned through gritted teeth.

“I must,” l whispered. “For our family.”

“Our family’s gone,” Nathaniel said flatly. “Nothing is going to bring them back now.”

An image of my family blossomed in my mind, their faces shadowed and unrecognizable as fire enveloped them. I took a step forward. The pale man’s eyes glowed. I dropped my bow, taking another step. And another. I reached out my hand.

Something hard slammed into my side, knocking the wind from my lungs. I tumbled into the counter, yelping as my nose dug into my shoulder.

The touch of a cool blade brushed against my chin. I swallowed, the sword rising and falling with my throat. My eyes traveled up the blade, expecting to see that cold, pale face leering down at me. Instead, I met the sorrowful eyes of Nathaniel.

“Please,” he said again, pain laced within the simple word. “Don’t do this. You’re better than that...thing.”

“Let me up,” I snarled. “I have to do this!” Sweat dripped onto the trembling blade, but Nathaniel refused to move.

Anger, disbelief, and fear twisted through my thoughts like a knife. “You infidel! Stop! Let me go! I hate you! You pathetic little-” “Yes!” The pale man leapt forward eagerly, eyes flashing with inhumane delight. He held his arms wide, as if he was trying to embrace the tension between the siblings. Nathaniel jerked back in surprise.

“What poison...what are you doing...?” I hissed, flinching away from the gleeful man.

The pale man brushed away small specks of ceiling from his shoulders, recomposing his features back into nonchalance.

Nathaniel swallowed hard and looked back down at me. “Addie, let’s go.” He offered me a hand. “We don’t have to be blind anymore. We were supposed to stick together. You’re the only family I have left. I can’t lose you too.”

I glanced from Nathaniel’s outstretched hand to his hopeful face. “We were supposed to stick together,” I repeated softly.

My voice sounded unfamiliar. Avoiding the hand, I picked myself off the ground and thrust my chin forward. “But I will have my revenge!”

A glimmer of sadness streaked through my brother’s eyes. He blinked. “You’re not my sister. You’re just an empty shell.”

He turned away without a second glance and disappeared out of the room and into the darkness.

The door slammed shut. I shrank from the violent echoes and crumpled to the floor in defeat. Cold descended from the cracked ceilings and settled on me like dust.

I blinked away tears as I considered the lifeless room. A weak breeze tugged my clothes, freeing a small paper from my jacket pocket. I caught the piece as it floated to the ground and rested my tired eyes on the photograph. The film was now torn and dirtied. Standing alone in the photograph was a small, blond girl. Her face was smeared in dirt and blood that erased her mouth and blackened her eyes. Horrified, I flipped the photograph over. A faint, smudged writing clung to the back. I squinted to read the remaining letters.

Until we reunite, even in death, I won’t forget you.

Give me courage. Insulate me from fears.

Love, Your Addie I stuffed the note in my boot and glanced down at a gleaming sword, the blade Nathaniel had discarded when he offered me his hand. I felt myself slipping. He was the last link to my...my.... A deep hatred began to boil within me, tearing apart my stomach and clawing its way up my throat. The loathing overwhelmed my mind, blotting out all reasoning. Fighting back angry tears, I scooped up the blade. The pale man waited patiently by the doorway, holding out his hand once more.

“Addie,” called a weak voice. My fingers froze over the pale palm. The familiar voice pricked the edges of my conscience.

“Where are you going?”

I glanced up at the pale man and then down at the sword in my hand, its hilt strangely absent of scratches or scuffings.

Whoever had owned the sword before had hardly used it. I looked out the door at trails of smoke waiting to welcome me. I shifted my gaze to my free hand. I clasped hands with the pale man. He smiled.

“Where are you going?” The voice repeated.

“To get revenge,” I answered mechanically.

“Why?” “I don’t remember.”

A lone girl abandoned the quiet room, smoke quickly consuming her.

Alyssa Fitzsimmons Graphite

Trinity Otto Mixed Medium

birth from below Gray Stueber

In the past year, we’ve all gone through disruptions — disruptions provoked by COVID 19, protests, fear.

Fear that the world as we know it willend end in violence and rage.

Rage that people have built up like a fire that’s uncontrollable.

Uncontrollable factors have built up and reached new breaking points…

Breaking points that never are for the good of the people — People’s beliefs contradicting America.

America facing brutal adversity — Adversity that seems endless in problematic situations, Situations where people can only control the controllable.

Controllable freedom is what we strive to accomplish — Accomplishments that people look for in the future.

A future that contains optimism, peace, and well-being is all we look for when the fire subsides.

47

UN T

NI T

the blossoming Lauren Fitzzsimmons

of flowers

Flowers of invention blossom from the works of creativity.

Creativity is to our minds as flowers are to a garden?

One might grow due the watering of a seedling.

Do our imaginations start with seedlings too?

The mind can grow to great lengths But is it the size of the mind, or the limitless amount of imagination that it can withstand?

I believe that it’s the thoughts that wind through our brain, that reveals our everyday motives.

But will there be a day when this slows?

What roots our imagination?

Perhaps it’s the experiences we blossom from, like flowers.

How great are those experiences that make us who we are?

Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we find out what changes us the most.

Does the mind think about what’s next or what is to come?

The anticipation only waits as time goes by.

And does anticipation have to be rapid or slow at pace?

The eagerness to fulfill potential races through my mind.

Flowers of invention blossom from the work of creativity.

Eagerness, time and imagination, come from creativity.

The mind will work as it may.

But does it start from a seed or rather, the water that grows it?

Lauren Fitzzsimmons 50 Digital Art

s

JT Snow Self Portrait

a

wise

man

JT Snow

He is a man of many words.

He shares his knowledge with others, One sip at a time, we drink in his ideas About how to be morally conscious And about the correct way to treat people.

He’s not afraid to speak.

The more words he uses The more intrigued the students grow.

He is a celebrity in their eyes.

If he were a man of few words, The fountain of his inspiration would not quench our thirst.

His ability to saturate his students With enough knowledge to become successful Shows us the power of words.

51

2020 alessandra benitez

Lockdown started The world stopped I learned how to bake bread Filmed a tik tok dance People lost their jobs And even died Babies were born, Hugs were outlawed, Work is now from home, Zoom parties are the new rage Did life go on? Not truly I went in at 16 It’s almost my 18 birthday now The world has been quietly falling apart Masks everyday I’m starting to forget your face New normal, they call it It was supposed to last two months Never been this sad Yet never been this happy How can that be?

We’ve stitched up a new earth With threads of trust and love To happy times we clung Devastated with the losses, Celebrated each survival “Roaring Twenties,” they said More like the modern plague A paradox of joy and pain

Seyla Dillon Mixed Medium

52

53

the hardest day. dylan Bradley

I awake sore in every place. I draw my arms over my chest, the left, then the right. Luke still sleeps, contorted in his share of our tiny mobile living space. I place my hands on the mat next to my hips and raise my torso upright, cocking my head to the left, then to the right. Days of paddling have worn down my body in a way that I did not understand to be possible prior to this trip, yet we endure.

Each day we arise to the chirping of birds and the lapping of waves.

We bemoan the fatigue and that we are forced to rise at the crack of dawn to pack up camp and get out on the water by 8:00. Luke and I dress, donning our same clothes as the day before, exchanging our dry pair for our wet. My khaki-colored shirt protects my body from the elements and is an extension of myself in some ways. I slide my gray, polyester, all-weather pants on, still wet from our travel the day before. Lastly, my green woolen socks. Wool because of its property of keeping one warm despite being wet, which they often are, an uncomfortable feeling at 7:00 a.m. on a cool morning.

The wind and cool cuts my face when I poke my head out of our minuscule tent. Rain and squalls loom. Travel will be uncertain, treacherous, and tiring. I don my black boots, a sort of fake leather, but uncompromising nonetheless. Boots like those worn by American troops in Vietnam. We experience a similar wilderness, but with none of the human propensity for evil that those men knew personally. Drawing myself to a standing position, I summon the mental clarity to act as a decent crew leader should, despite being the youngest member, a shortcoming that I seek to overcome with my sense and composure. I lastly zip on a black windbreaker and don my green wide-brimmed hat, pulled down just right above my eyebrows and the ends bent downwards to create the perfect shape; it invokes the feeling of a drill sergeant dressed to a “T” who seeks to appear intimidatingly composed for his men. I mentally wash myself of my soreness and bruising, instead donning strength, wisdom, and judiciousness. I march away from Luke and my section of the camp, a sequestered part of this island. At the main camp, other members of the crew are gathering, their faces wearing their fatigue. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

54

My dad puts down a spoon of oatmeal and responds, “How did you and Luke sleep after last night’s little adventure?”

I crack a smile. “We fell asleep soon after that, I’m a little sore though.” Aiden, our trusty guide or “interpreter” as we are supposed to call him, steps out of his two-person tent, wearing his same clothes as the day before. He chooses to bring only one pair of clothing rather than two on these trips, feeling that the redundancy is unnecessary. He has his same single bowl hanging from his hip, a plastic spork in his hand.

“You guys ready for today?” he asks through a yawn. His casual nature always cracks me up.

“Dylan, do you think we could do some sailing today? We might have good wind for it and I have always wanted to try it.”

“Let me gather up the troops, I have a few ideas.” As the other boys and men come to gather around the romains of last night’s fire, I speak back and forth with Aiden about reasonable campsites for lunch and how far we hope to travel by the end of day. I reference the charts wrapped in their plastic casing that never leave my waist when we are underway. I trace my finger along our route, informing the entirety of the crew. I then pitch the idea of a sail, an improvised spinnaker of sorts.

In sailing, the spinnaker is nicknamed “the shoot” for its similarity in appearance to a parachute. The sail is only used for sailing downwind on a “run” traveling in the same direction of the wind. I believe it would be possible to improvise a spinnaker of sorts with the dining fly that we have packed with our pots and other cooking devices. Like a large, thin tarp, this fly can be used to offer some protection from the elements for a crew hoping to eat a meal in the rain. I explain my idea for the sail: paddles are to be lashed to each upper corner of the fly using thin paracord run through the reinforced eyelets. Those paddles can then be hoisted into the air to expose the face of the dining fly. On the bottom, I would run paracord through the bottom two eyelets to draw the bottom corners of the rectangular fly together, creating a triangular shape. This line can then be eased out or drawn in in order to maintain the correct shape and belly of the sail while we are underway. Just how a skilled sailor will play the spinnaker on a downwind run in order to keep it full of wind but not to take the “belly” out of the sail: effectively depowering it.

Once hoisted into the air, this improvised sail would catch the wind, creating forward pressure that would draw the canoes (lashed together as one vessel) forward. Some of my less-sailing-inclined crew do not understand what I mean exactly. I ask Elliot and Luke to assist me in a demonstration.

Working feverously, I attach the paddles and tie together the bottom corners with a long line I could play in the wind. The three of us walk over into a clearing at the water’s edge. Wind ripping across the lake, threatening to blow my hat from my head, I ask my assistants to raise their paddles high into the air; immediately wind catches the improvised sail, straining against the line in my hand and visually tiring the forearms of Logan and Elliot. Aiden cracks a smile, he seems hopeful. I am proud of my handiwork and my dad makes a comment about my sailing ability, clearly a moment of pride for him as well. The rest of the crew seems interested, but a bit critical, asking how exactly this would work. I beseech them to trust me and to allow me to make an attempt. Until then, we must pack up camp and prepare for our next day of travel.

As Luke and I pack up our limited personal items, a few articles of clothing, a headlamp, and our sleeping bag and mat, I look out over the water to see today’s challenge. Gray skies, clouds tearing across the sky in heavy wind, and rippling waves with small whitecaps at times. These are precarious conditions for our crew of eight in three aluminum canoes. We load down our bags, stuffing our items down in the bag to use the entirety of our limited space. Each of these bags will be carried by someone on the portages that are to come today and thus must be evenly packed with the heaviest items on the bottom. Working as a team we carry our vessels from their overnight resting places on the shore and set them into the water, wading in to load them.

Water rushes into the holes in our boots, once again soaking our feet for the entirety of the day. We will not encounter anything warm and dry again for many hours. Many miles to go before we sleep.

With all the gear and bags loaded in our vessels, we step within, finding our cold hard seats and grasping our paddles. The nose of the canoes point off towards the unknown. Away from this

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Stella Scott Digital Art

temporary home and towards lands and waterways yet unseen. I sit in the bow, my hat cocked just right, my boots settled on the slippery floor of the canoe, and my charts and water bottle hanging near. Logan sits behind me, once again settling into his buffer-seat spot. My dad gives us the shove off and jumps into his spot in the rear. A few paddles and we are away from the island we called home for a night and where we will forever leave a part of ourselves.

The other two canoes draw up next to the one captained by my father and myself.

I recommend that we try the sail while the wind is at our backs. The other crew members oblige and I proceed to lash the bows and sterns to one another, keeping my canoe in the middle. I unfold the dining fly and attach it to the paddles, one to Elliot’s in the boat to my left, and one to Tom’s to my right.

I grip the line in my roughened hands and look dead ahead with the wind to my back.

“On the count of three. Ready?”

Elliot and Tom nod in agreement. I look behind me. My father, Mr.Ludgrow, and Aiden nod in hesitant agreement, each ready to use their paddles as rudders to steer. One. Two. Three. Raise your paddles!” I command. Instantly, the roaring wind catches the improvised sail and we lurch forward. Elliot and Tom strain against the wind and I feel the line go taught in my hand. I ease slightly, then drawing back in slightly, keeping a belly in the sail. To my right and left I see a white wake forming along our canoes as they accelerate forward. The lines connecting the canoes to either side of me appear too loose, allowing the outside canoes to drift away, then back together under the strain of the passing water. This contracting movement causes a swell of water to rise up and pour over the gunwale into my canoe. Clang! Clang!

Aluminum against aluminum. We are jostled back and forth, lurching backward against the strain of the sails and side to side with the slamming of the canoes. I see my dad and the other human rudders straining to hold a steady course. “Keep it up men, we are moving!”

Above and around us, we are crushed by gray. Yet we carry forward with newfound speed.

The coast travels past quicker than we have grown accustomed to, tree after tree passing alongside our caravan of 21st-century explorers. I play the line, keeping the belly of our sail and look to Elliot and Tom. Their arms seem strained and their faces wince. They are leaning back against the force of the wind, easing some of the strain off their biceps. The rest of us relish the reprieve this new means of travel has granted us. However, our reprieve is short lived, as we round the island and take a new heading of travel we find that the wind is no longer directly to our backs as it was just moments before. Instead, we are blowing off course.

Excitement fades from my face, “I think we need to drop the sail, the wind isn’t to our backs anymore. We will just blow off course if we keep this up.” The rest of the crew recognizes this as well. I let go of the line I was using to play the sail, and the sail depowers, allowing Elliot and Tom to drop their paddles and lay the dining fly across our three canoes. Our joint vessel slowly creeps to a stop. I untie the paddles and fold up the tarp, stashing it in the middle of my canoe. Perhaps we would have another chance to do some sailing later in the day. I untie the other canoes, and with a shove to each side, we are once again floating free. I pick up my paddle once again and set it into motion, my back and biceps bemoaning the beginning of another day’s hard paddle. The strong wind, now pressing from the side

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of our craft rather than to the rear threatens to blow us off course, and my dad and I must both paddle from the starboard side in order to maintain a straight course, aiming for the far end of this expansive lake. Pull. Woosh. Draw. Pull. Woosh. Draw. Pull. Woosh. Draw. Pull. Woosh. Draw. Pull. Woosh. Draw.

Pull. Woosh. Draw. The boat rocks side to side, sloshing our stomachs and brains in the process. I grip the handle of my paddle tightly, careful not to irritate the beginnings of blisters on my palms. The waves seem to be growing in number and size. Like an approaching army towards a Roman phalanx, we must remain composed and strong to weather their attacks.

The canoe weighed down by our three 50 pound bags and three persons rides low in the water. With each coming wave, water threatens to pour over the gunwale and into our canoe, soaking our measly personal items, food, and bedding. Our rocking also teases our minds with the possibility of a capsize. I envision the canoe being broadsided by an unseen wave and us tipping over the side. We would be thrashing in the water in our heavy long-sleeved clothes and boots, with our bags soaked and floating on the rough water. Our paddles strewn about. And our canoe sideways or upside down, filled with stirred-up lake water and listing badly. We would struggle to right the canoe, get ourselves within, and bail out the water. Not to mention that we would be burdened with wet food, clothing, and bedding for the rest of our trip, that is if we can even manage to recover our items without them sinking to the bottom of the lake. Despite my growing fear for the dreary potentialities that lay before our weary craft, I paddle on, my dad taking deep strokes and taking moments to repoint the craft in the proper direction of travel, resisting the all-powerful gusts. Ahead, I spy a set of waves incongruous with the rest of the lake. Especially large. Powerful. And threatening. I envision our demise.

“Dad, Luke, look ahead. Watch the waves coming directly for us!” With a sense of heightened awareness, my father and I paddle ahead. Luke grips the gunwale on either side of him, balancing himself and getting a look at the waves ahead. “Here they come!” Suddenly I feel the bow rise from underneath me, lifting my view of the gray horizon and feeling the furor of the howling wind.

As I pass over the peak of the wave, I feel myself falling into the trough.

Water splashes against the side, spraying me and the bags behind me. I lurch forward with the violent movements of the boat. I sink the paddle into the water and help to draw the canoe up the next wave, even bigger than the last.

Bang! The bow comes crashing down the whitecap, water washing over the sides of the boat, soaking me and Luke behind me. Our canoe rides down the other side of the wave and into the next.

Up. Up. Again. Then. Bang! Once again slamming into the trough. I try to pin my eyes on the horizon ahead, but I am rocked sideways and up and down.

I feel utterly lost at sea.

I wearily try to draw the paddle to fight the wind. Pull! Pull!

“Pull Dylan. Pull!” My dad yells over the howling wind.

We haul and pull. Rock and crash against waves. I pull like I’ve never pulled before, yet we hardly move.

The wind is pushing directly against us head-on and we are bombarded by one wave after the next. Then comes the downpour. Rain comes in an onslaught. We are instantly drenched as the water comes down in buckets. My hat and windbreaker keep my chest dry, but my legs are utterly soaked. I look behind me to see Luke wet to the bone, head down, trying to keep his weight down for stability. My arms and back scream in pain and soreness. I look off to either side of us. Each of the other canoes is in a similar position: paddling for their very lives. I spy a small patch of dry rocky ground a few hundred yards ahead.

Yelling over my shoulder, I point it out to my dad, straining to even keep the canoe in the same spot, much less moving forward. The canoe’s nose shifts back and forth as the wind attempts to resist us.

“Paddle on three. One. Two. Three. Pull!” “One. Two. Three. Pull!” Our canoe gradually begins to gain momentum towards our resting point. I continue to pull with all my might. As we move forward against the wind and waves, I get within earshot of the other canoes. I wave my arms and signal towards the rocky island. They nod in understanding.

We each sprint like tortoises towards this reprieve. After an hour or so of struggle, the nose of our canoe finally strikes solid ground. We had only covered a few hundred yards in over an hour of brutal paddling. I step off the canoe and fall to my knees. Rain pours on my back and neck, dripping in a steady stream off my hat brim. I set my bare fist against the rock and bow my head to the humbling power of nature.

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Rebecca Yang Digital Art

58

Megan Carley

metamorphosis

Aging is a transformation, A complete metamorphosis of body and mind.

Like the tadpole swimming in the pond.

All it knows is the water.

It is a stranger to solid ground, A foreigner to land.

Yet given time, It stamps its passport.

Growing legs and a head, It changes and adapts.

It takes the land by storm, Becoming a native to land and water.

Like the caterpillar crawling in the leaves.

All it can do is walk.

It has never felt the wind on its face.

It lives chained to the ground.

Yet given time, It crawls into its cocoon Where it shifts and morphs, Changing every aspect of itself, Until its wings take it into the sky.

Aging is a key to a bolted shut door, A path to exploration unattainable without it.

The child, Sheltered and refined, Lives by the light of their parents, Learning skills and following rules.

Yet like the tadpole’s skin and the caterpillar’s cocoon, Those rules are broken.

Changing and adapting, Exploring and investigating, The child takes to land and flies through the air.

Flying far from what it has ever known, The path always leads back home.

Everybody knows the frog was once a tadpole, The butterfly, once a caterpillar.

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Kigbi Ti Afefe

Grace Adedbogun

The clamorous sounds of people coming and going only added to the commotion coming from the Idumota Market in Lagos, Nigeria. Desperate sellers could be heard vying for the attention of unsuspecting patrons perusing the market square. The calls of a variety of different animals melded with the cries of the small children shopping with their parents. The aroma of exotic spices and food cooking over fire permeated the air, surrounding the men and women socializing in and around the market. In the midst of it all sat Temitope and Tiwalade behind their father’s stall playing ayo and talking quietly.

“Tomorrow’s the night,” Temi murmured softly as she moved her seeds from one hole to the next. “I packed both of our bags so we can leave at exactly eight at night and be back by seven in the morning.”

“Ok… do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Tiwa asked uncertainly. “Maybe we can find another way to help Baba.”

“No. This is the only way. Without our help, there’s no way he’ll make it to next year, and without him, we may not be able to survive.”

“I know… but maybe there’s another way. I’m not sure if we should do this, especially because we’ve been warned not to.”

Temi glared pointedly at her sister. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll go on my own. Either way, this will be done and Baba will get the medicine he needs to heal.”

Before Tiwa could respond, a woman appeared in front of the stall, and Temi rushed to attend to her.

-- The next night, Temi and Tiwa grabbed their bags, slipped on their shoes, and began their journey towards the woods. Though they walked silently beside each other, Tiwa’s mind was filled with deafening thoughts of fear and doubt that she felt were consuming her. “Temi… I’m afraid,” she admitted. “You know the stories as well as I do. The ẹmi and eṣu that fly at night are hunting now, and if we’re not careful, we could become victims.”

Temi audibly sighed in response. “I know you’re afraid, but the oluwosan clearly predicted that tonight would be the night. If we don’t complete the journey now, all will be lost.”

“But what if something goes wrong? What if we get hurt and Baba spends the rest of his life alone?”

“You can’t think like that Tiwa. We just have to believe that everything will work out in the end. All we have to do is follow her instructions and we should be fine.”

As their conversation came to an end, Temi and Tiwa continued their trek through the town on their way into the woods. They tried to be cautious of their surroundings as they traveled, for fear of the many stories they’d heard about the terrors of the night. Both of them seemed to recall the tales their father had told them when they were younger about the eṣu that lured women and men alike to their deaths. Neither of them wanted to admit that they believed in those stories, but they both unconsciously moved closer together as they walked.

When they arrived at the edge of the woods, they stopped. It was clear that they were both afraid of what they would find when they ventured into the woods, but it was too late to turn back. Tiwa turned towards Temi and reached for her hand. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Ok. Let’s go.”

Fear gripped their bones as they took their first steps into the dark and silent woods. Neither of them knew where exactly they would find the plant they were looking for. They only knew that it would find them when the time was right.

--The ajẹ knew immediately when the twins entered her woods. She had been expecting them and had prepared for

Aziel Carson Ceramic Sculpture

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her ẹ̀san. Years of festered rage and single-minded plotting had produced a diabolical plan to exact revenge against their father for all the pain he had caused her long ago. The day he killed her son was the day she lost her soul, and from then on, she had been waiting for just the right time to take all that he loved away from him, just as he’d done to her all those years ago.

“They’re here,” The eṣu announced as he slithered into the room.

The ajẹ turned towards the door at the sound of his voice. She struggled not to grimace at the sight of his hideously marred face. The eṣu had also been wronged by the twins’ father. His face was a constant reminder of the fire that took the lives of his wife and daughter. Every time he saw his face or saw the reactions of others to his scars, his anger was renewed, and he was also eager to make certain someone paid for the murderer’s sins.

“Everything is ready for them. Just give me the signal and it will begin.”

The ajẹ turned away from the eṣu and back towards the window. She knew no signal would be needed. When the time was right, everything would fall into place, but to appease the eṣu, she simply nodded in agreement.

-- Meanwhile, Tiwa and Temi continued to slowly creep through the woods, attempting not to disturb the creatures of the night as they traveled deeper and deeper into the abyss. The unsettling silence that surrounded them presented a stark difference to the constant clamor and commotion that usually surrounded them at the marketplace.

Even the hushed sounds of their footsteps and breathing were swallowed by the disturbing quiet.

As usual, Tiwa’s mind was dominated by thoughts of their father and his worsening condition. For months, he had been suffering from the unknown disease that had been rapidly spreading through the town, killing many in its wake. No doctor could accurately determine the cause of the disease, and thus none could accurately treat it. Because of this, townspeople feared for their lives and some left to escape death. But for those that stayed, fear was a constant companion and death an unwelcome friend. Despite this, Tiwa never believed that the disease would come knocking at their door, but six months ago it had. Since then, it had begun to feel as if she was fighting for her own life along with her father’s.

“Did you hear that?” Tiwa was shook from her thoughts when Temi abruptly stopped walking and nervously whispered into her ear. “I think it was an animal of some sort.”

The girls stood soundlessly beside each other, holding hands as they listened for the source of the sound.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting howl of the unidentified animal broke the silence. Temi and Tiwa struggled not to cry out in fear, and for a brief moment, both stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do. If they ran back to the town, all would be lost; their father would probably continue getting sicker and would eventually die. But, if they stayed in the woods, they risked being found by whatever had produced the unnerving call.

“What should we do Tiwa? Who knows what that is. We could be eaten before we ever get the chance to find that plant.”

“We can’t leave now. I think we should just keep looking, and if we hear the sound again, we’ll run.”

“Well… if we keep looking, we’re going to need to find some weapons to protect us or at least something to use to disguise ourselves from the animal.”

“Ok… maybe we can find some mud to cover ourselves with. And we could pick up sticks and stones to use as weapons.”

--The ajẹ watched on from her post atop a tree as the girls began constructing their futile plan. She chuckled quietly to herself at the thought that they would never find the plant and they would never leave her woods. The time had finally come and the plan of the ajẹ was in motion.

She tuned out the sound of the girls’ confab as she continued to go over the steps of her plan. Step one had already begun; the cry of the aderubaniyan meant that it had identified the scent of the girls and was on the prowl. As soon as it found them, step two would commence and she would meet the children of the man who stole her soul.

The ajẹ frowned as memories of her son began to overtake her mind. The sound of his laughter was the one memory of him that was permanently embedded in her mind; all the others were gone. However, some days she could still see glimpses of his radiant smile. Her son had been a happy child despite the struggles their family endured. Even on the worst days, his smile and his laughter had been able to bring her joy in the midst of all the fear and pain. But then, he was taken from her, and her joy was taken with him. Tears fell from her eyes as she recalled the day he died. She would never forget the feeling of hopelessness that filled her heart as she held his lifeless body in her hands.

Suddenly, the piercing shrieks of the twins pulled the ajẹ from her memories. As she wiped the tears from her eyes, she grabbed her staff, jumped out of the tree, and walked towards the screams. Step two had begun.

-- Tiwa and Temi couldn’t hold in their screams as they dashed away from the aderubaniyan. At first, they hadn’t noticed it lurking in the shadows, watching them cover their faces with mud and fill their packs with stones. It wasn’t until it stood directly behind them that Temi had felt its breath on the back of her neck. Her body shook uncontrollably as she slowly turned around and came face-to-face with the grotesque beast; she stood frozen in place, staring at his face of nightmares. When the aderubaniyan opened his mouth, Temi caught a glimpse of his teeth. They looked like daggers that had been stabbed through his gums, and the slashes on his tongue were evidence of their sharp bite.

She gasped in horror but still, she couldn’t look away.

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Noticing her sister’s frozen state, Tiwa stopped what she was doing and turned around. At the sight of the ghastly creature, she immediately grabbed Temi’s hand and ran the other way. The aderubaniyan followed Tiwa and Temi as they tried to escape. He opened his mouth again, and the same ear-splitting howl that they’d heard before came out. The sound of his cry only prompted the twins to run faster. Unfortunately, they ran straight into the ajẹ.

--While the ajẹ and the aderubaniyan cornered the girls in the woods, the eṣu creeped through the town in search of his prey. He had been tasked with searching for the twin’s father and bringing him back to the woods. While he moved through the streets, checking every house in his path, his mind traveled to thoughts of his wife and daughter, as it often did when he was alone.

In the past, he had been happy. When he met his wife, he was a poor student struggling to get by, but before they married, he promised to do anything in his power to always protect her. He worked tirelessly through school and was soon able to get a high-paying job in the city. And when his wife became pregnant and gave birth to his daughter, he made the same promise to protect her. Unfortunately, in the end, he couldn’t protect either of them.

Memories of the fire set by the twin’s father that took the lives of his wife and child and left him scarred assaulted his mind. He had tried all he could to save them that day but, when the fire became too large and the smoke too potent, he realized that the only one he could save was himself. On that day, he made a new promise: to give up his soul and dedicate his life to avenging his family.

The eṣu quickly redirected his thought when his heartbeat sped up as he came upon a house near the end of the street.

He peered into each window of the house, and when he peeked into the window of what seemed to be a bedroom, he saw the face of the man who had destroyed his life. The twin’s father looked frail and close to death; it was clear that the disease had slowly deteriorated his physical health. Nevertheless, the eṣu snickered gleefully as he broke the window, stole into the bedroom, and grabbed the man.

-- “Your time has finally come,” the ajẹ sneered as she leisurely circled around the twins. “I’ve waited years for you, and as soon as the eṣu returns with your father, step three will begin and my ẹ̀san will be total and complete.”

Temi gaped at the ajẹ in shock. This was the oluwosan she had gone to for advice on what to do to save her father. The woman had seemed so kind and trustworthy when she offered a shoulder for Temi to cry on and divulge her woes. Now, as she stared into the eyes of the ajẹ, she saw no trace of the good-hearted oluwosan who had provided a solution to her family’s issue. All she saw in the eyes of the ajẹ was death and sorrow.

The ajẹ smirked at the look of shock on Temi’s face. “You look surprised. I guess you remember me from our

talk a couple weeks ago.”

Tiwa rapidly glanced between Temi and the ajẹ. “T-T-Temi… do you know this woman?”

“This is the oluwosan who told me about the plant in the woods. She didn’t look like this when I met her… I-I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” the ajẹ stated dryly. “What’s going on is that you, your sister, and your father will finally pay for all the pain he caused me. He will watch as the lives of his children are snatched from him, just as the life of my child was snatched from me. Then, he will live the rest of his days with the knowledge that he was the ultimate cause of his children’s death, and he will die suffering both physically and mentally.”

When the ajẹ finished her short monologue, the eṣu appeared with the twin’s father. “Baba!” The twins shouted and rushed to their father’s side. But as they tried to reach him, they were abruptly stopped by the claws of the aderubaniyan tightly gripping their arms and holding them in place.

“No, no, no,” the ajẹ tsked at the twins. “Let’s not be rash.” She then turned towards the eṣu and commanded him to wake up their father. The eṣu lifted the twin’s father up and shook him awake. When he groaned in pain and slowly opened his eyes, the ajẹ commanded that the aderubaniyan kill Temi and Tiwa. As the aderubaniyan used his claws and his teeth to tear the twins apart, their father’s cries echoed through the woods and into the town.

To this day, whenever the wind cries at night, parents in the small town tell their children the story of the man whose cries at the death of his daughters now cause the Kigbe ti Afẹfẹ.

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Glossary

Aderubaniyan: Monster Ajẹ: Witch Ayo: Mancala Baba: Father Ẹmi: Spirit Ẹ̀san: Revenge/Vengeance Eṣu: Demon Kigbe ti Afẹfẹ: The Cry of the Wind Oluwosan: Healer

Alyssa Fitzsimmons Acrylic on Wood Panel

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S l i n k y

Lauren Fitzsimmons A slinky lives inside of me.

A slinky stretches And tumbles And rolls Down the steps, one by one, In its own jubilant jive.

Yet, as soon as it stretches just one inch too far, It will never return perfectly to its original shape.

Never again the same.

I am stretched too far.

I am stretched with frustration, and I am stretched with fear.

But worst of all, I am stretched with guilt over these feelings.

How I can justify my anger over this paralyzing isolation When there are humans reliant on ventilators for each breath?

When there are daughters saying goodbye to their mothers For the very last time?

How can I sit in my fully stocked kitchen And feel bad for myself?

Yet, “feelings are feelings, They are not right nor wrong,” My mother said to me.

These nine words ground me In the swirling sandstorm of my stretched-too-far slinky.

A slinky lives inside of me.

Although my slinky might be stretched too far, There is unwavering grace in its spunky sprawl.

As long as I keep tumbling and rolling and dancing Optimistically, Grounded, And full of gratitude, I will move forward in my own Jubilant jibe of imperfect Growth.

K M

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Kylie O'hagan Mixed Medium

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Lily Cook Digital Art

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the

angel

Sasha Shapsis

She never danced with the devil.

Her behavior never reeked of recklessness.

Her attitude never revealed dishonesty.

Every step of her life laid out in front of her.

Never immoral, never dishonorable.

Her world was absent of risks.

Every action monitored and analyzed, Her hands were locked in restraints.

Never uncautious, never careless.

Her life contained rules like a board game.

Roll the dice, Move two steps, Follow the path.

Never off track, never distracted.

Her words never strayed from perfection.

Line to line her eyes moved, Every sentence written for her like a script.

Never look up, never mess up.

She never danced with the devil.

She was the angel, paralysed.

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Harry Kroft Pencil on Canvas

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the color of Calvin Reimer

INVISIBILITY

Gray, the invisible color.

Gray, the invisible color.

A natural void compared to all the rest black is its father, white its mother purposefully generic for when bland is best

It comes from white, the color of purity and innocence but where white seeks attention and shines bright, gray is devoid of any resonance It comes from black, the color of the evil and the dark but where black makes clear it wants to attack, grey’s meaning is much less stark.

Grey, the invisible color. neither here nor there, gray the invisible color looked for nowhere but found everywhere

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staff

Alexndra Grosso

Editor in Chief

blair martin manaal nasir max franks ava mcnarney margaret mackinnon serena hodge Josh Kloss ANGELINA CICERO RACHEL RAUCH

Writing Advisor Production Advisor

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acknowledgements to the staff. to the students. to ms cicero. to ms rauch. to ms hustedede. to everyone who picks up an issue of soliloquy.

Thank you. Because of your dedication, contributions, and tireless faith in Soliloquy, we were able to publish our sixth issue. To the artists and writters, your work inspires me daily. You are the heart and soul of this entire publication. None of this could be done without you. To each teacher who allowed for the publication of Soliloquy to be possible, I thank you for donating your time, effort, energy, and spirit to the production of this magazine. To each student who sat around the computer and encouraged, suggested, and inspired, thank you. To the staff, thank you for your edits and donation of your personal time to attend meetings.

And to each and every student who chooses to spend their time reading a labor of our love, thank you. Without you, there would be no audience to share our souls with.

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on the cover Harry Kroft