Sequel 2023-2024

Sequel

2023-2024

SEQUEL

2023-2024

Editors

August Albertson, Jo Brockman, Kalen Stefanick

Editorial Design

Justin Nostrala

Faculty Advisor

Jeremy Griffin

Sequel would like to thank Dennis Moore, ’72, for his generous support of the publication.

Sequel would like to thank the Departments of English, Graphic Design, and the Office of Marketing and Strategic Communications

The content in Sequel is not necessarily representative of the opinions of Simpson College. Content is the sole responsibility of each author/artist. Subject matter may be sensitive to some readers.

701 North C. Street Indianola, IA 50125 www.simpson.edu

Table of Contents

Poetry

“A Conundrum” by Dennis Moore..............................................................................1

“When” by Lily Garlich..................................................................................................2

“Rebuke of Time” by Marlon Jackson.........................................................................3

“The Home I Lost” by Maddy Gunzenhauser...........................................................4

“Tonight’s To-Do List” by Jo Brockman......................................................................6

“Priorities” by Dennis Moore........................................................................................7

“I Must’ve Died in an Alternate Universe” by Jo Brockman.................................8

“An Open Letter to my Masculinity” by Kalen Stefanick.......................................9

“Shapeshifter” by Maddy Gunzenhauser.................................................................10

“An Ode to My Leg Hair” by Kalen Stefanick.........................................................12

Prose

“Cedar Lake” by Lily Garlich......................................................................................14

“Sensitivity” by Ellie Gray..........................................................................................16

“Recess” by Ellie Gray.................................................................................................17

“The Old Dodge” by Keelin Curley...........................................................................18

“In Shades of Brilliant Blue” by Hazel Morgan-Fine............................................29

“Names for Women” by Hazel Morgan-Fine...........................................................35

Artwork

“Herald of Change” by August Albertson…............................................................37

“Green” by Daniel Garcia............................................................................................38

“The Former President” by Abby Hintz...................................................................39

“Big Sky” by Macy Emgarten.....................................................................................40

“UDL” by Rachel Terlop...............................................................................................41

“Relationships” by Aswati Subramanian.................................................................42

“In Equilibrium” by Aswati Subramanian...............................................................43

“Mountain” by Daniel Garcia.....................................................................................44

“Raudsand” by Daniel Garcia.....................................................................................45

“Eye Candy” by Aswati Submramanian...................................................................46

“Strands of the Ocean’s Sting” by August Albertson.............................................47

“A Silent Voice Book Club” by Rachel Terlop.........................................................48

“Bloom” by Abby Hintz...............................................................................................49

“Women in S.T.E.M.” by Abby Hintz........................................................................50

A Conundrum

by Dennis Moore

Today

I am here physically but tomorrow

I am here in spirit. Come, walk the grounds where I walked so many, many years ago. Appreciate the beauty of the Simpson campus, the ringing of the Smith Chapel carillon, the soft breeze blowing through the sugar maple trees, and the constant chatter of students in the distance just one step closer to their future. Realize some days may pass slowly, but the years pass too quickly.

When by Lily Garlich

When did the sky, in all its inspiring glory, lose its luster?

When did five-year-old eyes beaming with as much brilliance as the great blue above

Turn to older eyes dulled with greedy, inward gazing instead of looking beyond to find hope?

When did the grass, in all its flowing picture of growth, lose its power?

When did six-year-old feet tickled by the ground’s prickle and pleasure

Turn to older feet stuck in leather prisons, looking to the ground as a means to get here and there. To get where?

When did the wind, in all its exhilarating rush, lose its romance?

When did eight-year-old hair sprouting wings and flying, the very feeling of freedom

Become older hair bound back to avoid the nuisance of something getting in our way; Without ever thinking that we might be in the way of what was there before?

When did birdsong, in all its inviting beauty, lose its promise?

When did ten-year-old ears listening to their life’s song, hearing nothing but the notes of the world’s sweetness

Become older ears falling deaf to its melody, hearing past it to wailing sirens and complaining engines and the chatter of our own voice?

When did we lose our hope and our peace?

When did we stop clinging to the seemingly insignificant and the small? When did we start to ignore life’s simple call?

Tell me, when did we lose that child-like wonder, and when can we get it back?

Rebuke of Time

by Marlon Jackson

Yesterday, hear me out and let me say my peace to you, You had so much promise yet it was not to be, I know that life is not easy for me but yet I hoped it was, Yesterday, you were not good to me at all.

Tomorrow I am mad at you as well! How could you have followed Yesterday, and been as bad? Tomorrow you promised me happiness but that was not so. I looked forward to you, but once again I found disappointment.

If Yesterday, and Tomorrow are false illusions, then what’s Today? I was in a pit with Yesterday, and in depression with Tomorrow. Today, you may be the worst, for you are the promise of Tomorrow’s Yesterday. I might as well be the clown that can’t take off his makeup for trusting in nonsense concepts.

Peace, Happiness, and Laughter are you three agents of Mischief? All three create a tone of welcomeness but they are a trap for the heart. Funny how all three work with Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow to deceive man. So maybe my anger should be with me for dreaming of a better time in the sun.

The Home I Lost

by Maddy Gunzenhauser

Welcome to the land I roamed, the trees I climbed, the air I breathed, and the home I lost.

Welcome to the place I thought I would never want to leave.

I’m sitting, in my childhood bedroom, in the house I’ve known for my whole life, wishing to go home.

I don’t know where home is anymore. It’s not here, but it’s surely not somewhere else.

I look at the walls around me, memories covered in layers of paint, never to resurface.

Walls that were once green, then purple, then blue.

Walls that have listened to my cries when my parents wouldn’t.

These walls may never listen again.

I walk through the door frame, beaten and broken from childhood temper tantrums.

I turn towards the hall, where I used to climb between the narrow walls.

The hall where I would sleep outside my parents’ door when a thunderstorm scared me.

I’m not scared anymore.

I pass through the piano room that has been rearranged too many times to count.

I run my hand over the piano’s keys, with faded letters written in pen by a six-year-old me.

It’s the piano I learned to play on, my old books still sit inside the bench.

From time to time I would fill the house with music, annoying my siblings.

I haven’t played in a long time.

After the piano room is the kitchen, filled with the hearty smell of dinner

I look into the oven, and there’s bread baking there.

I am reminded of the times I would steal bits of dough to make bread for my dolls.

So many of my favorite foods have come out of this kitchen.

But I rarely get to taste them anymore.

Connected to the kitchen is the dining room, where I have spent countless nights working on homework at the table. It’s where we had family game night, I can still see Grandma’s face when she won her first round of Apples to Apples.

It’s where we shared family meals, and holidays with people I’ll never see again.

I should have appreciated it more.

To the right is the living room, filled with memories of childhood Christmases.

I’ve discovered my favorite TV shows in this room, And shared laughs with my siblings. In the corner there used to be a computer where we would watch old episodes of Batman. The room has changed, but the memories remain.

But memories don’t make this place feel like home.

I walk through the main door, with its broken handle, and out into the driveway.

I look at this house, the one I’ve known my whole life, I see the changes that have been made over the years: The chicken coops, the trees I helped plant in the front yard, the barn...

I remember so much.

I want to know a home like I know this house. But I know that I’m aging, and this place may never be my home again.

Where do I go if this isn’t home?

I never thought this far ahead, Never considered that I might outgrow

The home I grew up in

The home I used to love

The land I roamed

The trees I climbed

The air I breathed—

I turn and I leave the home I lost.

Tonight’s To-Do List

by Jo Brockman

{ Take out the trash. It’s been overflowing for a couple of days now.

{Text your mom back, and then throw in a couple loads of laundry.

{ Don’t look through your Snapchat memories.

{ Don’t turn on that one Phoebe Bridgers song.

{ Get your homework done.

{ Pace around the living room a couple of times.

{ Forgive yourself.

{ Go back to your homework.

{ Sob on the couch.

{ Forgive yourself again.

{ Use your sorrow as an excuse to watch Netflix so that you may cheer yourself up enough in order to finish your homework.

{ Shame yourself, and then go back to your homework.

{ Lay down in bed. Open the TikTok app.

{ Briefly, realize that someone may be watching you through your phone camera.

{ Shrug it off.

{ Stare at the ceiling.

{ Recognize that the world is shifting beneath you.

{ Recognize you are falling behind.

{ Breathe.

{ Forgive yourself; this is your first life. You’re new at this.

{ Go to sleep.

Priorities

by Dennis Moore

Why are so many people more concerned about their priorities on finite Earth rather than where they will spend an e t e r n i t y . . . ?

I must’ve died in an alternate universe by Jo Brockman

I don’t tell a lot of people this but I am terrified of the ocean It’s big and wide and compared to me, it feels infinite. I’ll never say it out loud but sometimes late at night when the world goes quiet and I hear the sound of my heartbeat in my ears I dream of a simpler world. One where I have done nothing wrong. One where I am not afraid to close my eyes anymore. And in this world they won’t pray for me instead they’ll weep over my gravestone blowing their snot into overpriced Kleenex And there will be no consequences because the ocean is immortal and I am on numbered days.

An Open Letter to My Masculinity

by Kalen Stefanick

You don’t have to be as destructive as the ones who came before. You don’t have to be a left hook to the jaw, A crunched beer can under foot at the local park. You don’t have to be the deep-seated anger, Raging like a whirlwind with no regard for the earth below. You don’t have to be dangerous, The kind of troubled aura that makes women look behind them, Walk faster, cross the street. Your masculinity does not have to be a bombshell, a detonation: You can ‘trans’ gender in so many other ways that aren’t violent, That don’t claw the flowers from the earth.

You can grow so much more vibrant with roots deep in this kindred soil.

It’s your soft edges that are your deepest virtue.

You don’t have to sacrifice your truth, your empathy, your femininity. You can be a man in a dress, a defiant one; You, the dress of a man, Paint your nails, grow out your hair, Make yourself yours. Who cares what the dudebro frat boy says with his staresYou shouldn’t have to play a part that makes you fear yourself. You can get a boyfriend and be unapologetically queer, You can use the 10lb dumbbell at the gym and not feel embarrassed, You can cry at the sad part of the movie, You can hug your father without it being awkward.

You are still learning that your soul, like your body, is made of clay; Still learning that You are the embodiment of a hundred generations. You are the expression a thousand men before were too scared to live. You are the antithesis of tradition, The tears down the cheek, the grief that isn’t buried, The emotions that bubble outwards and crackle and pop Like fireworks of sadness and pain, Empathy and euphoria.

You are the tapestry of a million beautiful, powerful voices. Your masculinity is, and will always be, What you wish tomorrow’s boys would become.

Shapeshifter

by Maddy Gunzenhauser

That’s not what I look like!

The words echo… as I stare into the mirror That doesn’t look like me, And that’s not my voice I hear

I don’t see me in my reflection I don’t hear me in my words If I don’t know who I am to me, Then who am I to the world?

I could stare at a mirror for hours Knowing but not seeing It is not in fact a stranger But my human being.

That can’t be, I tell myself My nose isn’t right. My smile isn’t like that And my eyes aren’t that bright My hair is shorter… I think My teeth aren’t that white My hands grip the sink

That’s not what I look like That’s not what I look like THAT’S NOT WHAT I LOOK LIKE!

I turn to photos to tell me what is true But they mock me saying “ Hey look, that’s you” It’s a horrible photo, but surely just the one I look at the next, and the next, then I’m done.

I guess I’m just ugly, the pictures don’t lie So I go back to the mirror to find some peace of mind It’s a never ending cycle, me and how I look I get mad at my eyes for the happiness they took

Tears well up as I cry

That’s not what I look like That’s not what I look like THAT’S NOT WHAT I LOOK LIKE!

I’m a shifter of sorts

Or the mirror’s playing games Somewhere in the shadow realm Because I never look the same

I’m pretty one moment

The next a hag One moment upright Then all I do is sag

I don’t recognise my mind sometimes It seems to disappear Then comes back with words No one wants to hear

It tells me I’m perfect

Then rips down its lies Till I’m left

Hurt and broken and bleeding inside

Who am I because

That’s not what I’m like That’s not what I’m like THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M LIKE!

I guess I’ll never truly know With my tainted point of view Which sides of me really show Cause there’s more than just a few.

Who am I?

Not knowing hurts me deep I want to know but I don’t know So it’s a secret I have to keep Everyone’s got themselves figured out But not me Not. Me.

It’s a crisis I’m in all of the time Constantly tricked by my mind

Believing one thing But learning it’s a lie And so the cycle repeats

THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M LIKE

That’s not what I’m like

That’s not what I’m like

An Ode to My Leg Hair

By Kalen Stefanick

Beautiful are you,

Truth-reflecting mirror;

Flesh vessel imperfect,

Gleaming and nascent,

But naked and blossoming,

Growing up skipping shoe size

Old you would never compare to now.

Then stops innocence, ignorance of childhood

Reverse christening—blood in white underwear

Dirty and broken and prickling cactus skin

Darkening shadow of shame and ridicule; too visible

Cheap razor gathering dust despite pleas to use

Conforming never hurt nobody

Mirror blurring through tearing eyes

I am ugly.

Ugly. Am I?

Eyes tearing through blurring mirror

Nobody hurt, never conforming use to pleas

Despite dust gathering, razor cheap,

Visible, too; ridicule and shame of shadow

Darkening skin, cactus prickling and broken

And dirty underwear, white

In blood-christening reverse;

Childhood of ignorance, innocence. Stops then.

Now to compare: never, would you?

Old size shoe skipping up.

Growing: blossoming and naked,

But nascent and gleaming imperfect vessel.

Flesh mirror, reflecting truth:

You are beautiful.

Cedar Lake

by Lily Garlich

The bobbing water glistens in the sunlight. She has glitter to be seen for miles and miles. The melody from her leaping waves pleases my yearning ears.

A man in a white and brown boat rows his way to the shoreline. He concentrates on nothing but his strokes as he drifts past me. The consistent, soft paddles glide with the water’s rhythm.

Three eagles soar in the great above. Their silhouettes are dark and mysterious against the pale blue sky. They dip and circle the magnetic expanse with opportunity in their wings.

A yellow airplane breaks the lovely silence as it hums all along the way. There is someone inside looking down as I am looking up. The floating craft cuts the sky with its sound and presence.

Laughter floats along the air as a little girl and her father fish and skip rocks along the bank.

“I’m going to catch a big fish, Daddy,” she says triumphantly. He watches her carefully, guiding her hands on the fishing pole. The two figures become one temporarily as the apparition of learning and growth fuses the two together.

How can I sit and quietly read my book when these glories are all around me?

How can I not watch the lake’s unforgiving mysteries, which I try to uncover? The water is unclear, so I watch its shapes and patterns, which are so sheen and darkened. It looks like something you could sink your teeth into.

How can I observe the man and his boat and not long to be retired already? To see his pleasant expression and a glimmer of contentment in his eyes and not be completely moved?

How can I spot that yellow plane and not immediately want to fly? To wish to be up in the cockpit with the pilot looking down at the waters below and seeing some other version of myself staring upwards?

How can I hear that golden laughter and the girl’s joyful voice and not fall in love with childhood again? To be reminded of the simple pleasures of catching fish, being enamored by ripples, and looking up to see your father’s beaming face, and not want to cry just a bit?

The world sits still and moves at once, demanding to be written. The colors and the sights and smells must be painted with touching words. It is impossible to sit in this moment and not wish to be there forever. Right now, I am not an observable article but part of the invisible. My life has stopped, and I can sink into the earth below me.

Buried below, I will fall asleep, and oh, may I awake as one of these.

Sensitivity

by Ellie Gray

I truly wonder what it’s like not to feel everything. To not walk into a room and immediately take everyone else’s emotions on as your own. To see someone suffering as a problem that doesn’t belong to you. To not feel your heart break when a loved one is hurt or a stranger on the street needs food. To not think about the sideways glance your friend gave you for a week or question every word they say. To not want to cry when the teacher is talking and no one is listening or when someone is interrupted, and no one lets them continue. How does it not hurt you when you walk outside, and the autumn breeze feels just like it did when you were 10? How do you not feel overwhelming love for your friends when they say something to affirm your friendship (“Of course, silly, why would we not want you there?”) What about when you wake up, and the light is warm and casts a perfect glow on your wall- don’t you finally feel a desire to be alive again? What would it be like not to feel a song in your bones? To not feel like everything is personal (“You can’t take everything so personally!”) How do you think a child suffering across the world doesn’t affect you (they are a human too)? This room is so crowded and loud- that doesn’t bother you? What about the fact that everyone in your family is growing up and getting older-that doesn’t make you want to hug them and never let go? Every day, I wonder, “What must it be like not to have your heart broken and put back together a million times a day?” Asking for a friend.

Recess

by Ellie Gray

My college is right next to an elementary school. Every day, I walk back and forth from my apartment and pass the children outside at recess, their screams and shrieks echoing. I smile at them, with their puffy winter gear and red, rosy cheeks, so young and carefree. Since freshman year, I have thought about how beautiful to have an elementary so close to the college. The perfect dichotomy. The representation of the start and end of your education and your childhood. The kids who run up to their parents at pickup time right after I get done thinking about how much I miss my mom. I walk past and think about myself at that age, how I may be on my own now, but I’m not that different from that little girl. I still worry about everything, try to care for everyone, and love the people around me deeply. It brings me back to myself and reminds me to take care of that little girl who is all grown up now. It forces me to ask myself if I would treat that child the way I treated myself that day.

The Old Dodge

by Keelin Curley

Old. Shitbox. Death trap. Rust bucket. Untrustworthy. Money pit. Unreliable. I’ve heard it all. That still doesn’t change my feelings about it. My heirloom truck has been serving me well for the past five years, aside from all its flaws and, if I’m honest, it’s scared me more times than I’d like. Maybe they were right about it, but it’s been one thing I’ve always had some faith in, even if it’s been rockier than sailboat in the deep pacific. It holds a value to me that most wouldn’t even think to see. I’ll be honest, this wasn’t even the original vehicle I’d wanted.

The first time I’d seen it was in my grandparents’ driveway, I was probably only eight, maybe nine. The old, evergreen dodge was parked right next to the brick wall of the house, in the little jut-out the drive took before it headed towards the garage, the front end facing away from the main street. It was my grandpa’s truck. I couldn’t help but stare at the dark green shine as we would walk up to the back door. Well, I lied. I’d seen it before, but not like this. Most of the time I would have thought how weird the body looked, or how weird of a colour it was, and how much I was not going to want a truck, ever. Something changed; however, I was truly seeing the truck for the first time. I think that’s what really made it stand out to me, at least in the beginning.

The sunlight glinted off it in a way that would always catch my eye. It was a cluster of emeralds if the sunlight hit the paint just right. The front end of the truck had this blocky look that almost reminded me of a semi-truck with the way the hood rested taller than where the headlights sat. There wasn’t as dramatic of a change between the height of the headlights and the hood, but it was certainly a more drastic change than more modern trucks, or at least, modern for the time. I hadn’t seen something on the road that was quite like this, and maybe that’s why I was so drawn to it. The tail of the truck had a silvery bumper that stuck out from behind the tailgate which somewhat resembled an underbite if you considered the taillights as eyes. A big dark blue bumper sticker placed crookedly on the right side of the silver bar. I used to laugh to myself when I would look at the truck’s tail end. It looked so funny to me, but there wasn’t

another truck that looked like that one that I could remember seeing. Distinctive is what I later came to see it as.

Soon enough, I lost sight of the truck as I walked into the house. One thing remained in my child-mind: I wanted a truck. Just like I always had. Or, at least, that’s what I told myself at the time. I’d loved so many other cars in my life that would’ve ended up having horrific body paint choices compared to what I look for now, but this one seemed like the one that I for-sure wanted and had some internal knowledge that I wouldn’t regret it. Part of me wanted to ask my grandfather for the truck, but I knew it would never happen. He’s always been sweet to me. I never knew why, but I definitely knew that I was never getting that truck. That’s why it was one of the more exciting parts for me whenever we would go to my grandparents’, just being able to see the dark green beast sleeping in the driveway.

My grandfather was a hardened veteran and a huge history nerd. He’d spend his days reading war stories, going through and telling his own stories, or woodworking to make things for me and my siblings. He reminded me of a veteran Santa in a way. He had a jolly face, and he was heavier set and happily spent his days making little wooden things or painting another piece for his massive trainset he kept behind a closed-door upstairs. But as sweet as he was, I don’t know if he would let me have the truck if I asked.

For years, we would drive to my grandparents and his truck would always be in the same spot in the driveway, tucked right up against the house. The stark contrast of the shimmering green paint and the reddish hue of the brick and the tannish gray of the driveway it sat within. I couldn’t tear my eyes from it whenever we pulled into the driveway. Unlike a sore thumb, it was a pleasant sight.

Until those years passed. The truck was always in its same spot, unmoving. But slowly, it could be seen that it was starting to lose its shine. The most unfortunate part was my interest in it seemed to fade as much as the shine in the paint did until the truck became nothing more to me than a driveway ornament. A fun decoration to just be looked upon, no real thought expended. The rare attention I would give it, I noticed little creatures were taking it as a shelter, hiding in the growing moss and rust spots

within the body. It’s almost as if it began to melt into the driveway, unable to stand on its own legs anymore. Whatever burning passion I’d originally had about the truck seemed to fade into the background or almost entirely.

Big news: my grandfather was going to buy a ’77 stingray Corvette! We weren’t sure why, but he’d given up driving the truck according to my father. Which seemed almost too obvious with the state of it. I had a newfound spark towards the truck again. I couldn’t help letting my mind wander to the possibility of my grandfather letting me have it. I wasn’t sure if he would. I hadn’t seen a time where he’d given something of his so willingly before. At least in my lifetime. Perhaps, since he seemed to favour me, he might let me have it. My heart was racing.

My grandfather has always been a stickler about giving things away. Either he wanted to make sure that the gift was big enough, or he wouldn’t give it away at all. He especially wasn’t known for giving things away that were his, but I couldn’t help but ask.

We were sitting at the dining room table. A perfect view of the street and the front lawn stared back at me from the window as I peeked around my dad, who sat at the opposite side of the table. Grandma sat on my left, on the end of the table that bordered the antique wooden cabinet that held all her fine China. Grandpa sat directly across from her, against the half wall that opened up to the living room just off to the right. Aidan sat across from Kade and Mom sat next to me. I could feel her stare as she silently urged me to ask. Grandpa looked at me with a smile stretched across his face, curiosity brimming in his weathered gaze.

“Hey Grandpa, since you have the Corvette now, could I have your truck?”

He looked almost shocked, the smile on his face still there, but no longer joyful. Starstruck, perhaps was a better description, “No.”

“Please?”

“No, I was planning on selling the truck,” he stated, a stern glare reflecting back at me from across the table, the grayed caterpillar on his top lip now curling downward.

I’d just been told ‘no’ in front of everyone. I don’t think my grandfather meant to be as harsh as he was with his tone, but it was hard to tell. I felt all eyes on me. I

shouldn’t have asked. I knew I was going to be told ‘no’, but I asked anyway, prodded on by my parents. Even though it was slowly disintegrating on the driveway, there was this spark it still had as we walked back to the family car to leave. My dad consoled me about it as he shut my door, having climbed back into my mom’s white Ford Expedition to head home. It’s not like I hadn’t been told ‘no’ before, this just felt a little bit different. And even after that embarrassing event, the truck seemed to taunt me in the driveway. Something about it was reeling me in and I just wanted it to stop. I wouldn’t be able to have it. I felt bad for even looking at it now, knowing that I was told ‘no’. Maybe I could find another truck like it.

The next trip back to my grandparents was different. The truck wasn’t against the house, it was underneath the small tree in between their driveway and their neighbour’s. It seemed to be standing more upright. The original glint had returned, the one that reeled me in, shining as if it had never stopped. The most noticeable thing was the bumper sticker. It wasn’t there. The truck almost looked... new? I had to stop and stare at it for a moment. Why was it different, why had it moved? Was my grandfather planning on driving it again because I had asked for it?

They stood at the hood of the truck, my grandparents did, my grandfather holding a black metallic object in his hand, a giant smiled spread across his face. I shut the door to my mom’s Ford and stared back at him. He still looked like Santa Claus, if Santa had gotten his beard trimmed and decided this Christmas theme would be causal, veteran style.

“What’s this for? Did you fix the truck?”

“I fixed it for you,” he said. The disbelief on my face must’ve been clear as day since he took my hand and showed me around the truck at what he’d fixed.

“The body has been redone, it had multiple wears and scratches on it just from overuse. The bedliner is fixed as well in case you’re hauling anything. And these,” he held the shiny metal keys in front of me again with his shaky, woodworking hands, as we looped around back to the driver’s side door, “are for you.”

I looked between the keys my grandfather held out to me and the dark green beauty standing in the driveway. I couldn’t believe it. My grandpa was giving me the

truck! My grandfather, a man who didn’t really give gifts to my knowledge, who had told me that he wouldn’t give it up, was giving me the truck that was once his. My breath was caught in my throat. The keys that were given to me didn’t feel real as I took them in my hands. I turned them over, the clinking they made was a beautiful sound as I felt the cool metal melt into my palm. I turned back to the truck, and slowly walked over.

I don’t remember breathing as I gently lifted the handle of the door. It was standing there, waiting for me. The door opened and the tan, carpeted seating looked so inviting as I stepped into the cab. I didn’t care that the inside of the truck was slowly becoming a heater as the Texas sun beamed down on it; the truck was mine. Sitting in the driver’s seat was the happiest moment of my life. I still remember how happy my grandfather looked as my dad backed it out of the driveway with me, in utter ecstasy, sitting in the passenger seat as we headed home with the most valuable gift I’d ever received.

That ecstasy was short lived though. While I love the truck, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have flaws. One of the biggest flaws that was immediately made known was that all four tires had dry rot. Dry rot so bad, that if I didn’t have both hands on the steering wheel, the truck would veer off to the right, as if I was trying to make a right turn. My heart sank. The more I drove it, the harder it was to keep it straight on the roads. There was this sick feeling every time I sat in the truck, knowing that I had to fight the steering wheel just to keep the truck from veering off the asphalt. I thought I had already damaged the truck. I wasn’t exactly sure what dry rot meant at the time, but I was worried that it was my fault it was happening. And this was just one of the many problems I encountered with this vehicle. My grandfather did his best to replace the damage the truck had endured in its decade of sitting on the driveway, but some things couldn’t be fixed without driving it. Little did I know the worst was yet to come.

I’d graduated high school at this point and was in my second year of college. It was Christmas time, and I was back home in the wonderful brown scenery that was Texas winters. The crisp smell of firewood floated about the air as I walked out to my

truck, the sun barely peeking through the overcast skies. There was no snow, thankfully, and the only thing I had to worry about was how long it would take my truck to warm up before we would have to stop at our destination. My breath fogged up my glasses as I walked across my driveway to the dark green beast. As my footsteps sounded against the cold concrete, I listened to the sound of my keys clinking together in my hands. My mother must’ve sent me out for something, all I remember was that it wasn’t a far drive, fifteen miles maybe.

The wonderful silence was so ever interrupted by the dead weight slowly lingering his way over behind me. My littlest brother, Kade, who protested with each step he took, seemed to think that we were about to be on the highway to hell. I took no offense to this comment as I backed the truck down the driveway and off to the store. We could see our breaths in the cab as the truck fought to warm up. We were talking as we drove down the winding streets towards the neighborhood entrance, about how much worse Iowa winters were compared to Texas winters and how he thought I was just a wimp. I’ll be honest, when it comes to winter, I also consider myself a wimp, but I wanted to argue. That’s the contract you immediately sign when you have siblings. Fighting is in the blood.

All the houses looked cold and still; the trees stripped down to their bare skeletons as we tore each other to pieces. I love my brother, but sometimes he can be devilish and absolutely ruthless. This was one of those times, so I mainly stared out the windshield as he rambled on next to me, finally just giving up trying to argue with him. I vaguely remember thinking how gray everything looked, aside from how much Kade was annoying me with his constant blathering. It was almost as if someone had painted a partially transparent layer of fog over my eyes. It was still outside, the only breeze from the wake of my truck as I drove by the taller, dead grass next to the street. We pulled up to the main road, the truck rolling to a stop as I waited for a clear opening to jump out onto the road.

Kade was unrelenting in his taunts this entire time, so I did as I always do when an opening appeared, and I felt slightly inconvenienced: step on it. I don’t know why I was born with a lead foot, but I’ve learned to not question it. Unlike most times where

the truck would protest, the engine cranking into the red as it revved up past 5000 rpm before it settled to the correct speed, it decided to play a dirty trick on me, starting to rev before it faltered, completely failing to shift into second gear. The engine let out a horrific shriek as it desperately tried to shift. My heart was in my throat as the dreaded yellow death-light flashed to life on my dashboard. I felt my body freeze and my foot lifted off the accelerator as the engine struggled to keep up. Finally, it shifted, throwing the truck forward before returning to normal, as if it hadn’t choked. Even my check engine light died. Did I imagine it?

I could hear my brother saying something to me, but I can’t remember what it was. My face hurt and I quickly blinked as we came to a stop at the first light. I had to have been forcing my eyes wide, the muscles around my face ached. My body was on fire.

“What was that?” Kade asked, finally being able to understand his voice, his eyes slightly wide and blankly staring out the passenger window.

“What?”

“That clanking noise? Didn’t you hear it?”

“I-I didn’t hear a clank of any sort. I know my check engine light was on.” My hands were shaking horrifically as I turned down another street.

“Let’s turn around,” Kade suggested. “We should let Dad know.”

“I think it’ll be okay, just keep an ear out for anything else,” I stammered, hardly understanding what I was saying. All I knew was that I was lying through my teeth. I had no idea what happened, I didn’t know if it was okay. I pried my hands off the steering wheel and flexed them as we waited for the final light to turn green. I couldn’t get my heart rate to slow down. My mind danced through every possible answer that I’d ever heard. I know I’m good at overthinking, but I don’t think I was overthinking this. I couldn’t look at my brother. I could feel pressure behind my eyes. What if we got stuck on the road? What if I had just totaled my truck by accident? What would Grandpa say?

When we arrived home, I still wasn’t cold. The truck didn’t have another issue, only making it seem like I had imagined it. It didn’t matter that I was walking back inside in twenty-degree weather. I wasn’t cold. I was fueled by the fear that had its claws

on my heart. Stepping through the back door of my house didn’t help either. It almost felt as cold as the outside world did. I wanted to deny that even happened. I wanted to forget it. It wasn’t me who broke the truck, right? Did I actually break the truck? I even went to bed that night thinking that I had just imagined it. I had to have just imagined my brother talking to me about it too. It couldn’t have been real. What would Grandpa say?

It must’ve been fear that compelled me to keep that knowledge hidden for a few days. Conveniently, I had to face this fear those same couple of days as I was sent on small errands. I know that my other brother, Aidan, was able to drive at the time and often asked why he couldn’t go do it. Whatever the answer was, I was the one who had to drive. I’d never been more scared to drive in my life more than those few days. My heart rate was through the roof even if I walked near the truck. Eventually, it got to a point that whenever I even laid eyes on it, I felt fear. I’m not sure if any of my family members noticed that I was actively avoiding driving anywhere. I’ve never been one to fear driving or hate it. It had to have been weird for them that for a couple of days, just how desperate I was trying to avoid driving. What would Grandpa say?

Finally, I worked up the courage to explain what happened to the truck. I didn’t want to drive it anymore out of fear. Fear of what might happen to it, or what might happen to me while driving it. That only meant I had to tell the truth. I felt my legs go weak as my dad mentioned we needed to get it to the mechanic. I had a week left before I needed to drive back to college. Could the mechanic get it done in a week?

Short answer: no. Long answer: the damage was worse than I could’ve even thought. Turns out, something within the transmission had snapped and damaged over half of the mechanism as it rattled about when I drove. It would take a week just to get the parts alone. The weight of this knowledge sat with me like a stone in my gut. The times I cried over my injured truck grossly outweighed any other subject one could cry about. My grandfather graciously gave me this truck and I broke it.

My biggest fear would be how he reacted to the news. My grandfather was known for having quite a temper, even when my brothers and I were little kids. But this time was different, he seemed more upset with himself when we visited rather than getting frustrated with me. There was something about him, an aura of regret maybe, that floated in the air. His face had lost that cheerful glint. Worried eyes relaying a thousand ‘sorrys’ without even needing to open his mouth. He had this somber demeanor about him after the news, eyes glossy. Perhaps with tears? The entire stay, he kept talking about how he wished he had known the transmission was on its last legs. He would’ve fixed it. He told me he would.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks dragged on into months. The truck was still not fixed. That worried me, but I was at school now. Spring break wasn’t too far away, I’d have time to call home and inquire about it. My dad was the sole person in charge of dealing with that since I was away, so perhaps I could call him. I didn’t get the chance to call. My dad called me first one night, while I was studying with my friends deep in the belly of the main building on campus. My grandfather may not have much longer. He’d told me that my grandfather had been keeping just how sick he was from everyone. Perhaps that was why he gave me the truck. Maybe he knew it would be cared for through me.

I remember dropping my pens on the desk I was at, too stunned to speak. No. No no no this wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. My hands were violently shaking as I gripped the phone against my head. All I could hear was what Dad’s voice said on the other side of the phone. Tunnel vision, solely on his voice.

“H-He’s going to be okay, right?” I asked, my voice caught in my throat. My dad’s shaky breathing echoed a thousand words he didn’t need to say, “I’m not sure how long he has. Your spring break is around the corner, we’ll fly you home then.”

I felt glued to my chair, my world slowly falling apart. There’s no way Grandpa was dying. He couldn’t. I didn’t have time to come home. Even Dad knew that. Would I be able to see him again? Would he see me get the truck back? Could I see him again? All I vividly remember was desperately wishing for the truck to get fixed. Maybe in my

frantic mind, thinking that if the truck was fixed, it could heal my grandfather.

I didn’t have time to get my questions answered or even to call to see if the truck was fixed.

The night after, I was cramming for an exam. Back in that same room where Dad called me before, the weight of studying and my grandfather’s time slowly ticking away sitting like an elephant on my shoulders. His breathing was shaky again, and I could hear sniffing. My heart leapt to my throat, panic immediately grasping me in its cold fingers. No, don’t let it be. Don’t let him say it. God, please no.

“D-Dad?”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. He stammered out the words, then paused, exhaling a deep breath. “Grandpa didn’t make it. He died a few hours after I called last night.”

I remember clutching my phone against my head, gently standing from the desk, accidentally ignoring my friends’ questions. I could feel them staring at me as I left my stuff at the table. I dared not to breathe. I knew the moment I did the flood gates would open. I walked out the study room door, over towards the nearest wall. The moment I felt far enough away, I felt my body go limp and I sank down, head between my knees, tears streaming down my face, desperately clutching my phone against my ear.

“I know, I-I’m sorry. We’re still going to fly you home. I’m sorry,” my dad consoled, hearing my heaving sobs from the other end of the phone. I couldn’t stammer out any words, all that sounded was endless tears of regret and hurt. Grandpa didn’t get to see me come home. He didn’t get to see me in the truck again...

I never got the chance to say goodbye.

Now here I am. After having lost the truck for three months to a transmission failure, after replacing fan belts, disc brakes, the engine fan, drum brakes, headlights, dashboard, you name it, that old truck stands as a memory of my grandfather. I didn’t know that this past March I would never hear from Grandpa again. He will never know that the truck is fixed. He will never know that it’s driving fine now. The gift he left me has got its scratches and its scars, but every time I look at it, I can only ever see him

giving me the keys, seeing his face light up as I said how much I loved it, seeing the worried expressions he would give when I mentioned the gift he gave me having a problem. So, yes, it’s a shitbox, its old, it’s a problem vehicle, but its mine. I’ve been asked if I would ever trade it in. If I would ever sell it. If I’d ever replace it. The answer is no. A part of my grandfather is still in that truck, and so long as I can keep that truck running, he’s still alive to me.

In Shades of Brilliant Blue

by Hazel Morgan-Fine

It didn’t rain here often, but everyone knew that when it did, more was coming than just the rain. I remember my Mama telling stories of when she would play in the rain. I imagine her as a little girl kicking through puddles and curling her toes in the mud. She would say that she got so dirty that her Mama had to hose her down with the watering hose before she was allowed inside. However, my Mama was not like her Mama. My Mama didn’t let us play in the rain.

My Mama was what I would describe as a dignified woman. Despite her “white trash” upbringing, as she would call it, she made quite a name for herself in the real estate business. Soon enough, she went from selling trailer homes to big white mansions up on 43rd street. That is how she met my father. My father wasn’t “white trash” as Mama had been but rather was a “silver spoon-fed son of a dignified state senator,” as I once remember her saying as she tucked me into my bed. Soon enough, poor Nichole Alistair not only had a real estate empire but a gorgeous husband and two beautiful children. First was me, and then eight years later, my brother Winston.

Yet it never lasts long, does it? When I was fifteen, the news of their separation, which later led to divorce, was untimely announced at Thanksgiving dinner that year. Our state senator, my grandfather, in a state of regal maturity, spat his mashed potatoes across the room. Winston and I burst into fits of childish laughter that, looking back now, probably didn’t help the situation. However, my Mama, as the dignified woman she is, settled the divorce swiftly and divided the assets between my father and her. She got Winston and I and my father settled for our vacation villa in Italian countryside overlooking the Amalfi Coast.

Soon after that, any mention of my father was brief, tasteless, and fleeting. I once brought him up at dinner and she said:

“Ambrose, I will only address this issue once. Your father’s whereabouts are no concern of mine for I have more appropriate adult endeavors to invest my precious and scarce time in. If you wish to know about your father’s leisurely activities, then pick up

a copy of Time magazine when you go to town next.”

This severe hatred and detachment at the mention of my father continued for three years before I really understood why. It was at one of my Mama’s many fancy parties to raise billions of dollars for underprivileged people somewhere far away from the rich mansions of 43rd street. Her goal was to raise enough money to earn a feature in the town newspaper and thus dramatically increase her popularity in the town. This coincidentally caused a sudden spike of estate sales in the following weeks after. However, the point of this story was not to follow my Mama’s business, nor the charity that received the money on an embarrassingly large cardboard check. No, this story follows a different path.

Mama had made me wear a dress that night to show the guests what a proper young lady I was. It was a simple black one that we had picked out from the boutique on the square.

“Every girl needs a little black dress Ambrose,” Mama had explained as she swiped her platinum card through the scanner before tucking it back inside the pocket of her silver clutch. “And it will match so beautifully with your brother’s little suit and tie.”

The hem fell above my knee and had these long lace sleeves that went to my wrist. It was beautiful, and after all, it did match my brother’s suit like Mama had said. When it came to these parties, Mama had everything planned out to the tiniest detail. Our attire was just a small part in the inner workings of this huge affair. Mama had been planning for months what the tables would look like, what music would be performed, and even how the drapes would lay. She had at one point compiled a list of talking points and information about each guest so that she could properly circulate through the mass of people and talk about something special with each one. They thought she was just a great listener and had paid attention when they last encountered her at the other parties she had hosted. What they didn’t know was she had choreographed the whole cordial interaction from the moment they RSVPed.

One thing that Mama had always ‘forgotten’ to plan was what Winston and I were supposed to do at these parties. She never wanted us talking to guests but

wanted people to see us. We weren’t allowed to hide in our rooms during these events even though there was no one for us to talk to. All the kids had been strategically left at home so that they didn’t spoil the glamours night. So, Winston and I often found ourselves sitting on the staircase waiting for the event to end. I usually watched the guests float about with their fancy Rolex watches and Louis Vuitton heels while Winston played with a toy soldier I had snuck into his hands about five minutes into the party. That is where we were when the doorbell rang.

At first, I ignored it and assumed that Mama would round the living room corner with her welcoming smile and chipper greeting like she had for all the other guests. After the fourth ring, I sighed and told Winston to wait there. I trudged down the stairs and to the grand foyer to open the door. My fingers rounded the gold knob and I let out a breath through my forced courteous smile. I pulled open the door expecting a stranger rather than a familiar face that brought a real smile crawling across my lips.

“Father!” I exclaimed as I enveloped him in a hug.

“Hello my Love!” His soft voice laughed as he pulled back from the hug to crouch down and hug my little brother who had come running down the stairs when he saw father in the doorway.

“I brought you both a gift. A truck for my little man,” Father told us as he pulled a small red truck out of the pocket of his raincoat to hand to Winston. “And a novel for my biggest fan.”

He placed the small hardback into my waiting hands. My father was a best-selling author known under a nom de plume. All my copies of his work I had bought from the store, which made this one the first he ever gifted to me. It was not much bigger than the full expanse of my hand. Small fleur-de-lis were engraved in the cover on top of a blue fabric. The fabric looked worn at the edges and faded between shades of blue like a pair of old blue jeans.

“Morse?” Mama had finally appeared from the living room to see who was at the door. The confused look she displayed at my father’s sudden visit swiftly changed to disgust.

“Morse Ceering, you are dripping rain water onto the marble in my foyer.” At

her comment, my father looked down past his white dress shirt and faded blue shorts to the puddle accumulating under his sandaled feet.

“I apologize for the inconvenience it leaves the housekeep. It is raining quite heavily outside,” my father replied curtly, to which my mother glanced at us.

“It’s no matter. We might as well make the most of this visit. You have a stack of bills in the office that have been delivered here. I might as well give them to you for you to inform them of your address change.” Mama addressed him in such a stoic and leveled voice as if this was just a business arrangement instead of a visit from her ex-husband.

At this, my father raised a quizzical brow at the sudden change of topic as well as the fact that he had “bills” still being delivered to the wrong address three years after his divorce. However, deciding against arguing with Mama, he shrugged.

“Yes of course. Run along children. I’ll find you after,” he justified with a smile at Winston and I. Winston, who was still very young, thought nothing of it and ran off as he was told. I nodded quietly as Mama and Father went down the hall and into the study. Once they shut the door, I crept up to it to listen.

“Morse Ceering, I will not ask again. What the hell are you doing here?” I blinked in surprise at Mama’s snipped tone. I had never heard her cuss before.

“Well, Nichole, I am here to visit. I am entitled to that, am I not?” Father countered just as snippy as Mama’s tone had been.

“Don’t remind me of the contract. I know quite well what you are entitled to. If I remember right, article 5 section B outlined your visiting rights. According to those rights, you may only visit on holidays after planning the visit with me. Nothing spontaneous like the foolery you have done today.” Mama retorted.

“They are my kids too, Nichole. I just wanted to see them.” Father clipped back at her. Why was Mama being so horrid to father? His visit wasn’t ruining anything but a big dumb party anyway.

I heard a clang of a glass being forcefully set down on the table and Mama’s voice soon followed.

“YOUR kids? Isn’t that rich? When have they been YOUR kids instead of our

kids? When did you decide this little change? Tell me, Morse!” Mama was reaching hysterics now “TELL ME! Was it before or after you slept with your publicist? OR perhaps it was when she told you she was PREGNANT? OR, and I think this is the real winner here, MAYBE it was after you filed for divorced and moved her and YOUR child with you to ITALY?”

What? What was I hearing?

“What do you want me to say, Nichole? That I’m sorry?! That I’ll leave? FINE! I’ll leave, but you can explain to OUR children why their father is leaving after just arriving!” Father shouted back.

I backed up from the door until my back hit the wall. So, Mama and Father divorced because Father cheated? He cheated. And worst of all, he had another family that he lived with in Italy. A family with a kid. Weren’t Winston and I enough? Why else would he cheat if Winston and I weren’t enough?

The door swung open and now I faced my father. He jumped in surprise before he realized that I had heard everything.

“Ambrose. What are you doing here? Oh, never mind. It’s too late now. Would you, uh, walk your old man to the door? I am afraid I need to leave for my flight back to Italy. I have a meeting tomorrow I need to attend,” my father explained, but we both knew it was a lie.

“Of course,” I mumbled in response as I led him down the hall, leaving Mama in the study.

“You know that none of this is-” My father started before I interrupted him.

“You probably shouldn’t visit for a while. Winston and I start school again soon and we will be really busy.”

“Ambrose please. I didn’t-” my father started once we had stopped at the doorway.

“I know. But that doesn’t make it right,” I said as I looked into his eyes. He stared at me for a long minute before nodding and heading back out into the rain. I watched the raindrops consume him before shutting the door. I turned to find Mama, but she had already immersed herself in a conversation with the mayor about his re-election

campaign.

“Why did daddy leave?” Winston asked from below my chin. I smiled before dropping to my knees to meet his eyes.

“Daddy had a plane to catch. He will be back soon.” I lied and Winston smiled. He didn’t know any better. He didn’t know that father wasn’t going to visit ever again. He didn’t know, and there was a beauty in that.

“Let’s go play with your new truck. I am sure Mama won’t mind.” I encouraged as I lead him up the stairs to my room.

Once we reached my room, he sat on the floor and started playing without a care in the world. The party continued downstairs, but I, however, went to my bookshelf. I found my father’s other novels and slid the blue hardback next to his last book. I was never going to pull the novel back off the shelf and read it. Instead, it was going to stay there while I looked out the window to the rain. They always said that more was coming than just the rain, but I didn’t believe it until now.

Across

5. A woman who doesn’t trust men

9. A woman who was asking for it

10. A woman who is sweet but available

15. A woman not willing to risk her safety

17. A woman who is old but still hot

18. A woman who is fat

19. A woman who shoes any skin at all

21. A woman with standards

23. A woman who expresses too much

26. A woman who has had any sex at all

27. A woman who behaves un-favorably

29. A woman who says no

30. A woman who isn’t as smart as a man

32. A woman who is oppressed by the church

33. A woman who is not pretty enough for sex

34. A woman who might fight back but can be overpowered

35. An assertive woman

Down

1. A woman who isn’t sexual

2. A woman who is smarter than a man

3. A woman who is seen online by men

4. A woman too young to know the truth

6. A woman as a commodity

7. An unmarried woman

8. A woman’s only job

11. A woman too stupid to know better

12. A woman who isn’t easy to figure out

13. A woman that shows emotion

14. A woman who doesn’t put out

16. A woman who isn’t sexually appealing anymore

20. A woman who speaks directly

22. A woman who makes her own choices and moves in her own way

24. A woman who holds others accountable for their mistakes

25. An old outspoken woman

28. A woman who is brutally honest

31. A woman’s government name

“Herald of Change” by August Albertson

“Green” by Daniel Garcia

“The Former President” by Abby Hintz

“Big

Sky” by Macy Emgarten

“UDL” by Rachel Terlop

“Relationships” by Aswati Subramanian

“In Equilibrium” by Aswati Subramanian

“Mountain” by Daniel Garcia

“Raudsand” by Daniel Garcia

“Eye Candy” by Aswati Subramanian

“Strands of the Ocean’s Sting” by August Albertson

“A Silent Voice Book Club” by Rachel Terlop

“Bloom” by Abby Hintz

“Women in S.T.E.M.” by Abby Hintz