The works included in this spring semester 2023 edition, Renaissance, are published with permission from their respective creators. All rights are reserved by this publication and the creators whose works are published in Renaissance.
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Special Thanks To:
Folio Advisory Board: Ron Christiansen, Jeshua Enriquez, Kerry Gonzales, Kati Lewis, Cristin Longhurst, Andrea Malouf, Carol Sieverts, and Virag White.
Professor Jerri A. Harwell, Chair of Department of English, Linguistics, and Writing Studies.
Dr. Roderic Land, Dean of School of Humanities and Social Sciences.
Theresa Adair and staff at SLCC Printing Services.
All of the SLCC students, faculty, and staff who shared their voices and creations with Folio!
Don’t forget to explore more amazing works published online at SLCCfolio.org
Renaissance
The Renaissance refers to the “rebirth” or “revival” of past inspirations, including art, technology, stories, and music. It involves drawing from the past to create something new. In honor of Salt Lake Community College’s 75th Anniversary, we are reviving memories, music, and art and using them as inspiration to celebrate this milestone.
Folio Staff students
Dakota Alexander
Maddi Flynn
Ashley Marlin
Joel Moore
literary student editor
Miriam Nicholson
design student editor
Olga Gao
faculty advisor
Daniel D. Baird
Table of Contents
Poetry
Staff Pick: Vaudeville by Maggie Hawkins - 27
Renaissance by Collaborative piece by Folio staff - 1
Summer Love by Gabriel Zavala - 11
Stuffed by Miriam Nicholson - 21
The Coldest Colors by Anna Belle Holley - 30
A Letter From the Earth to Humans by Kassidy Martin - 40
Dear Classmate in my Engineering Class by Irlanda Aispuro - 42
Renewed by Sydney Snarr - 43
A Tolerable Vessel for Blame by David Hocket - 45
In the Red Chair by Heather Graham - 49
Betrayal by Miriam Nicholson - 88
Letters by Anonymous - 89
i’m fine by Miriam Nicholson - 90
Psycho (1960) Dir. By Alfred Hitchcock by Dakota Alexander - 94
Feste by Heather Graham - 95
Closure by Ashley Marlin - 98
A Good Game Of Gin Rummy by Heather Graham - 99
Creative Nonfiction
Staff Pick: Community, A Question by Meghan Harding - 3
Just Breathe by Spencer Page - 8
An Open Letter to My Depression by Grace Lang - 23
Perfect by Kellie Erickson - 29
Dear Closet by Kellie Erickson - 38
Dear Friend, Can I tell you about Harm Reduction? by Samantha Lindsay - 46
Red Devil by Kellie Erickson - 50
How Not to Start The New Year by Camden McNealy - 65
Navajo City Girl getting back to her roots by Tawiyela Hanson - 68
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay by Daniel D. Baird - 73
Finding Out by Dominique Balch - 77
Night is Coming by Christopher Hae - 91
Home Is Where the Mold Is by Reilly Collins - 102-103
Fiction
Staff Pick: Trigger Words by Anna Belle Holley - 81
The Atticola Death-Defyin’ Bungee Swing by Russ Lee - 14
Happiness in Family Life by KC Fralick - 34
There Is Red In The Water by Lacey Niko - 52
Bear-Hugging Marilyn by Pace Gardner - 58
Visual Art
Staff Pick: Natural Curiosity by Monica Phim - 54-55
Rebirth by Olga Gao - 2
Bi To The Bone by Brittany Nadauld - 7
I’m Gonna Soak Up The Sun by April Ellison -10
Candlelight by Aubrey Nadauld - 20
Blue Canary by Aubrey Nadauld - 26
Who You Surround Yourself With by Madeline Montgomery - 28
Obi by Brittany Nadauld - 33
Recyclrings by Joel Moore - 37
Type Figure by Brittany Nadauld - 44
Carpe Diem by Olga Gao - 57
Love Is All You Need by Shelby Pence - 71
New Discoveries by Kira Lawes - 79
No Death In Transformation by Helias - 80
Sunlight by Anna Belle Holley - 87
Memories by Olga Gao - 93
Type Figure by Olga Gao - 96
Temptation by Heather Grahan - 100
Cat MagicAubrey by Nadauld - 101
Photography
Staff Pick: Ride’em Cowboy by Daniel D. Baird - 72
Golden Goodbye by Larrisa Helena Silveira - 22
Sneaky Snails by Brittany Nadauld - 25
The Curator by Heather Graham - 39
Danny Dino by Brittany Nadauld - 56
Flowers by Jeremiah Palomo-Medina - 67
Old Fashioned by Aubrey Nadauld - 76
Multimedia
Revival by Jeremiah Palomo-Medina - 12-13
Growing Pains by Anna Belle Holley - 97
Staff Pick
Author’s bio - 104-106
Renaissance
maddie flynn, dakota alexander, joel moore, ashley marlin, miriam nicholson, daniel d. baird (collaborative piece by staff)
Revival of something old to something new
E specially in celebration of an age-old tradition
Never before seen scene with which to be shown
Answers the questions that you hadn’t known needed solutions
Incandescent, burning call to the eye demanding remembrance and sparking the flame of rebirth
Soul, the undying traveler bringing itself to paint each new piece with the color of memory
School memories aging like fine wine
A cheer to us for 75!
Never forgetting where we came from
Creating new memories from past pain
Ever going forward carried on the shoulders of those who came before.
Rebirth
olga gao (photo collage)
Community, A Question
meghan harding
(staff pick: creative nonfiction)
Acquaintances
In the summer before I went into third grade, my family moved from Kearns to Sandy. Where I hadn’t been able to understand my lack of social success in Kearns, in Sandy it was clear. I had a hard time making friends because I wasn’t Mormon. That was fine, though, because now I also had common ground. There was another girl in my class who wasn’t Mormon, and we both had liberal parents, too—a groundbreaking similarity for two impressionable eight-year-olds. We spent an entire day’s worth of recesses together. I was smitten, enamored, obsessed, had never been able to talk to someone like I talked to her. As class got out, we walked to our parent’s cars in the pickup lane together. I worked up my courage and asked her, “Are we friends now?” and she stopped midstride. Standing still, contemplating, rubbing her tiny chin thoughtfully. “No.” I was crushed. “No?! Did I do something bad?” She smiled wide, sagely, saying “Oh no, nothing bad. I like you just fine! We just met today, though. We don’t know anything about each other. Until that point, we aren’t friends. We are acquaintances.”
Moving Out
Seventeen. Graduated the first semester of high school—my parents had said I could leave before I was 18, so long as I had graduated. All that was left was to find another place to live. Sitting at the Savers breakroom lunch table with my coworker Salinas, discussing plans. “I think we need one more person—I’m just not sure who.” Salinas’s brow furled down, creasing her forehead in thought, “You’re right, I don’t think we’d be able to swing it otherwise. . . .” Preston walking through the breakroom door, “Were you guys talking about getting a place? I need to move out, too, if you’re open to it.” We all smile at each other, a bond forming.
A Father’s Advice
Things with the new best friend had been tough. As well as we were at getting along, we were equally as skillful in fighting. I think the latest row had been over who had been the brains behind the creation of our new favorite word—flabbergasted. I had been following my mother around all evening, begging for her advice and getting frustrated when I didn’t like what she provided. Finally, exhausted, my mom recommended I talk with my father about it. “Your dad really is great with advice, sweetie. Go see what he has to say.” I was entirely uncomfortable with the prospect. My father intimidated me. We didn’t talk about stuff like this. Our common ground was the world of music—Led Zeppelin and Oingo Boingo. My need for comfort ended up outweighing my apprehension. I trudged up the stairs to my parents’ room, where my father would sit in the big leather easy chair and read books. He listened to me carefully, nodding slowly and saving space for my bouts of uncontrollable child’s sobs. Afterwards, He pulled me into his lap, and told me how tough my situation sounds. He shocked me with his simplicity, tact, and kindness. He held me in his arms as the last of my tears rolled out.
Hairy Legs
I stopped shaving my legs and armpits earlier this year. It was uncomfortable looking at the thin, dark hairs at first, but now I love the feeling of the breeze passing through the ones on my legs on a hot day. I asked Craig the other day, “Do you resent me for letting it grow out? Does it embarrass you?” and he answers, looking at me with an expression of concern while we sit at the stoplight, “Of course not.”
Telling my Dad That I Hated Him
I had waited for the perfect moment. I had been holding this in for a while. I think it was something small—it was always something small. We were in my parent’s bedroom, he was sitting on his leather easy chair. I gave him time to let it all out, following proper procedure for one of his explosions. Just let him yell. Nod your head slowly when he pauses. Keep your face blank—or regretful. Say yes or no or I’m sorry where expected or appropriate. And then, finally, he had finished. I took a deep, shaky breath, and locked my eyes into his. “I think you should know. I fucking hate you.” I see him inflate and crumple simultaneously. I walk out of the room, already grounded, but feeling so powerful. Not like he can punish me more for that.
Eating Crickets, Getting Ditched
My new friend wanted me to go to “Youth Group” with her. My family had some baggage with religion, but I insisted that “this is what I want!” I went at least three or four times, astounded and amazed by the large group of smiling faces that seemed to care so much for you. The magic of being in a room filled with people all sharing strong emotion. We ate crickets once, dipped in honey, outside the front entry of the church. I think it was supposed to exemplify how the characters in the bible ate locusts during the swarms, but I’m not sure. I only remember its legs wiggling as it slid down my throat. We went to the bathrooms afterwards, my new friend and one of her “church friends.” We all went into stalls at the same time, doors thump, thump, thumping, shut one after another. And then, two stalls opened back up, quickly followed by giggles, fast pattering footsteps, and the slam of the bathroom door. I pulled up my pants, stepped out of my stall. Hadn’t even started to pee yet. I circled the main hall, looking for her familiar face, finding none. Walked back outside and called my mom to pick me up, feeling empty inside.
Telling my Dad I Love Him
It’s been years since I last said those words to him. Something my therapist said when I was a teenager has not ceased its rattling in my brain over those years, “You’ll have to forgive him eventually. For your sake.” Those words brought acidity to my throat for the first few years. Now, they bring a guilty, melancholic weight to my stomach. I think it must be time. It’s Father’s Day, or Mother’s Day, or maybe a birthday. One of those events where we all meet at my parents’ house—me, my sister, my mother and father. On my way out the front door, I hug my dad. As we part, I look him in the eye, just like all those years ago. “I love you.” I don’t remember his expression, his reply. He must have said it back. But I do remember a warmth, a happiness, that we shared.
Peyton’s Party
I’ve always flitted about at parties. Almost . . . compulsively. Staying moving, staying a part of the best —the most interesting and vibrant part of the party or conversation. This is one of the nicest crowds I’ve been in, in a long time. (Ever?) I’m buzzing around. Talking with a girl, a tattoo artist, she came with her boyfriend, they live up north. Watching beer pong, cheering on the contenders. Smoking a cigarette outside, watching my friend make out with a friendly stranger on the patio. Helping the owner locate his spastic dog that tore out the back door and wiggled between a couple bushes up front. And then I’m back, facing the tattoo artist again. She looks so genuinely happy to see me. We exchange some light conversation and jokes, and the whole while, I’m hit. I could have had such an amazing time, just sitting here chatting with her. We may never talk again, and that’s alright.
Spin the Bottle
The last year of middle school. I had fallen in with the stoners and juvie kids. Our group had a routine, of sorts. Jayna’s house, every Friday after school. Manipulate someone into buying us as much cheap liquor as five or ten dollars could purchase. Party. Lots of crushes, lots of cringeworthy, inept flirting. Spin the bottle was a natural progression. When it was my turn, bubbles formed and popped in my stomach like carbonated soda. I flexed my arm muscles to keep them still, and gave the sprite bottle a whorl. It landed on Kaitlyn—so stylish, cool and cute. Disappointment flicked through her face, but then she saw Christian’s excited grin, and smiled wide. She leaned forward, as sensuously as a fourteen-year-old can, and gave me a smooch on the lips. I wasn’t ready, my brace laced teeth clanked against hers. She pulled back, disgusted, as I pulled back, embarrassed. “I wasn’t ready, should we try again?” Her eyebrow raises at me, pursed lips attempting to hide an amused grin. “Definitely not.”
A Birthday Party
It was the second grade, and I had been invited to “the cool girl’s” birthday party. A shindig at some indoor amusement park in Kearns. The only time I got to hang out with other kids was for birthday parties, and I had spent all afternoon picking the perfect present with my mom. She dropped me off at the front, into the company of a huge gaggle of girls from my class and our chaperone, cool-girlMcKenzie’s mom. As we all walked in together, I marveled at the novelty of a rollercoaster, the first thing you see behind the ticket counters, trapped within the confines of a massive warehouse ceiling. I heard whispers around me, and assumed everyone else was as awe struck as me. As I looked down, I noticed that all the familiar faces of my group were gone. I asked the woman at the ticket counter to use the phone, calling my mom to come and pick me up.
Volunteering
Coming out as bi took a lot for me. But once I let that out, it was like taking the thumb out of the hole in the dam. Of course, it happened mid-safe-and-longevitous-committed-relationship. I wanted to honor that newfound part of me, so here I sit, volunteering at the local queer bookstore. I feel so uncomfortable. Vulnerable. Like I’m back in Cedar City, or junior high. Community is nothing more than occupying a space with other people, together. With or without confidence. I’ve been in warm,
welcoming communities. I’ve been in communities where I wasn’t welcome. I’ve made others feel unwelcome at times. But what matters to me now, is that I want to be here. I chose to be here. I’m taking up the damn space.
Family
Waking up one morning—I had forgotten to shut the door all the way the night before. Everyone— everyone—is in bed. Craig, my boyfriend of five years now. Gigi, our fluffy and slightly overweight tortie cat, splayed out across both Craig’s and my laps. Roxy, a shelter rescue with brown, thick fur and a white tipped tail curled up into a cinnamon roll between and on top of our legs. Yuki, a Great Pyrenees we raised from the size of a bowl of mashed potatoes, massive, white, and fluffy, stretched against my left side. Stealing most of my pillow, nuzzled into my shoulder in what could be called “little spoon” formation. I close my eyes and try to scratch all of them softly at once, using both hands.
Finding family, remembering the one I left.
Finding my sense of self, honoring the person who got me here.
They seem to happen simultaneously.
I hope I’ll always have someone to call and pick me up.
Maybe that’s community.
Bi To The Bone
Brittany nadauld (chalk pastel)
Just Breathe
spencer page
I tie my left shoe, then my right. I take my car keys and phone out of my pocket and put them into my backpack. I take out my wallet to double check that my drivers license was there in case my body needed to be identified later. I hope the wind has died down above the tree line I think to myself as I adjust the chest strap. I open my chalk bag so that I don’t have to fumble with it on the wall. My heart is pounding in my chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. I hear the wind rustling in the leaves and feel the cold air on my face. I open my eyes and take in all the radiant fall colors around me. Orange, yellow, and red leaves cover the ground. Green pine needles accentuate the towering orange cliff in front of me. Not a person is in sight. I step towards the wall, wipe the soles of my shoes on my pants, and place my hands on the first holds. The sharp, cold rock digs into my fingers. With one deep breath, I begin.
The first 60 feet goes by fast. I focus on each hand and foothold, making sure to keep three points of contact if possible. My own words echo in my head, focus on each individual move, breathe, there is no turning back. As I climb over the first roof on the wall, the rocky ground below me leaves my sight. I am now in the “death zone” as the arborists, or our tree cutting friends say. I should be scared, but I’m calm and collected. I scramble up the next 40 feet before I realize that I am off route. I’m lost. I had promised myself that I would avoid climbing cracks and would stick to the in-cut face holds, but I can only see crack systems ahead. I’m confused. I had climbed this route many times on ropes but had not seen this section before. The halfway point held a large ledge that I planned on resting at, but it is nowhere in sight, and I start to panic.
I take a moment to calm myself down. I know that rescue is not an option. You don’t have a choice, just breathe, I remind myself under my breath. The cool breeze on my face dries the sweat that is accumulating from the fear. After a slow deep breath, I stuff my chalked hand into the first crack, and start moving again. I feel the abrasive rock on my palm, and fingertips. Switching between hand-size and fist cracks, I follow the cracks upwards the best I can. Once I get to what I can assume is 200 feet, I look down to find the ledge I had missed. With nothing in sight, I figure that I accidentally traversed to a climb left of my intended route. I remember reading the description of this route once in a guidebook, and the most dangerous move was still a long way up.
I find a small dirty ledge, maybe 8 inches deep, and decide to take a rest. My hands are stiff and raw. As I balance, I look down to the tops of the trees hundreds of feet below me. The forest looks like the ocean at sunset with waves of orange hues broken only by the trails that snake through the trees. After admiring the serene beauty below, I shake out my hands one last time and start up the final stretch. Breathe echoes in my head as I climb.
Three hundred and fifty feet up, I reach the most exposed and deadliest move. A leftwards slanting corner with a hefty roof above awaits me. I work the corner and balance on thin footholds, reaching my hands across the top of the roof, away from my position. I feel along the edge for something to hold. I feel a small bulge that will hold me and commit to the move. I swing out. For a fleeting second,
only my fingers protect me from a gruesome fall. My right foot swings across to lock onto a small lip in the rock, and I step off it to propel my body up over the roof to the top. I am alive, and better yet, I
I’m Gonna Soak Up the Sun
april ellison (mix media)
Summer Love
gabriel zavala
pink skies, and cherry pies girl splashing in his hair.
stealing glances, in rose-colored glasses their secret love affair
knife with blood, and his body in mud she grins in malice stare.
Maybe It Already Is? The Light Shines From The Heavens
The Dark Is Where I Am Rooted At
The Atticola Death-Defyin’ Bungee Swing
russ lee
You ever wish you could turn back the clock for just a day or two? Well, I sure have.
In Taculah (where I grew up) summers are hot—dog dirty hot. And, being a small country town, there wasn’t hardly anything worth doing for a 13-year-old boy, except to find a way to cool off, which we boys did in the nearest lake or pond, or best yet, the river, because it was much cooler. But outside of that, like I said, there just wasn’t anything to do.
And then, one day, Jimmy Loman found that old three-wheeler.
Jimmy was my best friend. He lived next door in a single wide with a custom-built porch on the back. It was plunked down on a one-acre lot that nestled right up to the woods. Jimmy was famous among us kids because he got his front teeth knocked out when he walked full into one of Ol’ Jess’ fits and caught a hind foot in the face (Ol’ Jess is Jimmy’s daddy’s mule, and he is pretty ornery sometimes).
They took Jimmy to the hospital where the doctor looked him over and said, kind of matter-of-fact-like, “He’ll live,” and sent him home to recover. A couple of weeks later Jimmy showed up to school with a really fine set of falsies. “It’s so my teeth don’ grow all crooked and close together,” he explained. “I’m s’posed to wear ‘em all the time.”
Which he did, mostly. Except when he pulled them out to chase the girls with that gawd-awful black hole of his and threatened to suck their blood until they’d die. Or sometimes when he was bored—or thinking—he’d slip off that retainer and wiggle a tooth or two ever so slightly in the corner of his mouth.
Thurl and I came upon Jimmy sitting on the low side of a hill contemplating a twisted hunk of metal that fairly resembled some kid’s castoff trike. Thurl Bearden lived a few doors down from me and Jimmy. We were pretty tight. Folks always called us the Three Musketeers. They said that where any one of us was, the other two were sure to be lurking somewhere nearby.
Anyway, we could see Jimmy was thinking hard because those falsies were dancing pretty lively in the corner of his mouth.
“Whatcha got there?” I asked.
“Sumthin’.”
Thurl was not impressed. “We can see that,” he said impatiently. “What is it?”
“Sumthin’.” That retainer was really going to town.
“WE. SEE!!” Thurl had a pretty short fuse when it came to standing in the hot sun. “Whatcha GOT?!”
By now the sun was getting warm. I felt my shirt all wet and sticky on my back. Thurl’s face was red
and streaming sweat. Jimmy looked up at us, his face all screwed up with thought and those false teeth of his beating time like there was no tomorrow.
“Guess!” he said.
I thought Thurl was going to bust. He just stood there clenching and unclenching his fists and panting like a dog. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something then closed it again. One thing about Thurl, he was a big kid, and he was strong. I think he knew that and it scared him that he might really lose it one day and hurt someone bad. So, he tried to hold it all in. But it wasn’t any too easy.
Finally, in exasperation he spat out, “I’m goin’ to the Elbow. C’mon, Donny Ray.”
That’s me, Donny Ray Aiken, trusty sidekick. And the Elbow is the Devil’s Elbow, named for a sweeping bend in the Atticola River. It’s just about the best swimming hole known to man or boy within 50 miles.
Thurl raced down the hill. I took off after him, trying hard to catch up.
At the edge of the river I stopped long enough to strip off my clothes and then dove headfirst into the icy water. It didn’t matter how hot the day, the Atticola River was cold, and those deep pools at the Elbow seemed to store up all that coldness like a black, shimmering freezer.
My arms and legs were just getting numb when Jimmy showed up at the water’s edge and shucked his clothes. After checking out the lay of the land he cannon-balled into the river, and popped right back up, sputtering for air. We knew the only way to enter the Atticola was like a Baptist—in full immersion. Any other way was the same as death by inches.
By this time Thurl had cooled off some, which had a calming effect on his mood as well. We spent the next hour and a half ducking, splashing and chasing each other in and out of the water, until we dragged ourselves onto the bank, shivering from the cold. The afternoon sun then did its work and within half an hour we started to come around.
After a while, Jimmy said, “OK, here’s the deal . . .”
Thurl, who was skipping rocks over the surface of the water, didn’t even turn around. After a moment he said in his gruff way, “Yeah, what’s the big deal?”
That didn’t fool me. I knew Jimmy had a rip-roaring plan and that Thurl was going to be in on it faster than a duck on a June bug. He was still just a bit sore from earlier but was coming around slowly.
I also knew that in whatever plan Jimmy had cooking, my part would be the lackey.
You see Thurl and Jimmy were the movers and shakers of Taculah. Jimmy was a real, honest-togoodness thinker. He came up with these incredible ideas that no living boy in Hale County could have ever dreamt of. And Thurl, he was the engineer. Whatever Jimmy could think up, Thurl found a way to make it happen.
My job was to test whatever Jimmy could think up and Thurl could figure out. They laid the groundwork, and I laid my life on the line. All in all, it worked out pretty fine. They changed their little part of the
world, while I got to fill those long summer days with something more exciting than weeding the garden. But more than that, we were friends and we worked together.
“So, here IS the deal,” Jimmy repeated. Thurl turned around slowly. “Ya know how every kid in Taculah always complains there ain’t nothin’ ever good to do ‘round here?”
“Yeah, we know,” Thurl spat out.
“And you know how in Grindsville they have that bungee ride at the carnival where people shell out two dollars and a half to get scared out of their wits, even though it is perfectly safe?”
“Yeah?” Thurl was warming up.
“And you know how hardly nobody from Taculah gets the chance to jump the bungee, ‘cause it’s so fer to go. And it’s hardly worth it anyway ‘cause you have to pay to get into the carnival and there ain’t hardly no other really good rides?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Thurl was getting surly again.
“We have Devil’s Elbow. A real killer.”
“So what if Taculah had a bungee ride that was just as scary as Grindsville’s, but you didn’ have to go 30 miles to do it? How many people do ya think would pay to get the be-jeevies scared out of them without havin’ to drive half way ‘crosst the county to do it?”
The question just sort of hung there in the hot air.
I didn’t say anything. As lackey I knew my job was to listen and “to do” when the time came to act. Until then, thinking wasn’t anything Jimmy or Thurl wanted from me.
“OK,” Thurl said. “But nothin’ in Teculah is even remotely dangerous or excitin’.”
“We have Devil’s Elbow. A real killer. And we have the tallest tree in the county hangin’ right over the middle of it. How scary would it be to take your life into your hands by bungee jumpin’ over the deadliest, scariest part of the Atticola, and comin’ out alive again on t’other side? Why, I bet people would come for miles aroun’ just for the thrill of it.”
“And pay good money, too!” Thurl was getting excited. Money was always in short supply in our neighborhood.
“So, what does that old kid’s trike have to do with a bungee swing?” I chimed in, forgetting my place. Right away I realized my mistake.
There came a little pause. Jimmy and Thurl looked at me in that kindly way that says, “Donny Ray you are a great sidekick, but you really should oughta leave the thinkin’ to us.” I knew then I would find out about that broken down tricycle when the time was right, but not before.
“I’ll shinny up that tree to get a good measurement from the branch to the water,” Thurl said as he switched into engineering mode.
“And there’s an old hemp rope in the shed my daddy don’t do nothin’ with no more,” Jimmy said. “I’ll run fetch it now.”
I was beginning to feel left out. “What should I do?”
Thurl looked at me kind of blank-like then said, “Go get that ol’ trike of Jimmy’s and bring it here to the river.”
I was beginning to get an idea of what that good-for-nothing bike was going to be used for, and I wasn’t liking it the least little bit. Like I said, Jimmy and Thurl were the thinkers and I was the tester. I had a vision of me strapped to that old hunk of junk while swinging out over the water.
Turns out I had that part pretty well figured. No sooner had Jimmy returned with that old hemp rope than Thurl set to work cutting and fitting it to the trike’s handlebars. Then he climbed back up the tree and tied the rope to the branch, which left the tricycle hanging a couple of feet over the water, smack dab in the middle of the river.
Next, we had to build a launch pad somewhere on the side of the tree, with wooden steps leading up to the pad. That meant another run to Jimmy’s shed for wood, nails and a hammer. By the time we were finished, there was just enough light left to let fly the bungee swing over the water for a test run. We all whooped it up as we watched the contraption glide over the water and return to the launch pad.
Leastways, Jimmy’s and Thurl’s were honest-to-goodness whoops. Mine were kind of sickly. I knew I was going to be the tester of that bungee swing and, sitting on the launching pad, it looked a mighty long drop down to the river. I’m not ashamed to say I was getting a small case of the jitters.
We set the time for the first test of the Atticola Death-Defyin’ Bungee Swing (that’s the name Jimmy gave it) for first thing in the morning and made our way home in the quickly gathering darkness.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
Next morning at the water’s edge we three stood gazing at that bungee swing tied to the launching pad. Leastways that is how it looked to Thurl and Jimmy – the famed Atticalola Death-Defyin’ Bungee Swing. To me I saw an old piece of junk tricycle tied up in a tree.
Thurl and I climbed up to the launching pad with hardly any effort at all. You had to admit, we did a good job of building those steps with the needs of the public in mind. Why, even a toddler could have gotten up into that tree without a problem.
Once on the stand I looked down at the water. It seemed even further away in broad daylight than before. But I knew my job, and I took my place on the trike. Thurl pulled off his belt and proceeded to tie me to the three-wheeler.
“Whatcha doin’ with that belt?” I asked, not a little fearful.
“It’s for your own safety. All the major rides require their passengers to get tied in. It’s the regulation.”
“Oh,” I said. But somehow it didn’t make me feel all that safe.
Down on the riverbank Jimmy was getting pretty worked up with the delay. “Whatcha all doin’ up there, bakin’ a cake?” Jimmy always said that when he wanted to hurry someone along.
“Don’ get yer panties in a knot!” I yelled back. I always said that when Jimmy started talking about baking cakes.
Well, finally I was all cinched up and it was time to let go. I took a deep breath and kind of just stepped off the launching pad.
Folks always joke that the fall isn’t so bad, it’s the landing that hurts. I can tell you that is right as rain. When I stepped off that platform all the blood in my feet rushed to my head and I just hung there in space. It was like I was free, in a scared crazy kind of way. Then all of a sudden the water came rushing at me like there was no tomorrow.
About that time I kenned our mistake. Though Thurl had measured it so that the old trike rode a couple of feet above the water, he hadn’t figured how much a 105-pound boy might stretch an old worn-out hemp rope. I’m no whiz, but even I could see that old trike and me would never clear the water.
When we hit the water all hell broke loose. Right off I did a perfect face plant, while that old rope ripped the handlebars right off the trike, which struck me square on the jaw as they jerked up into the air.
The blow kind of stunned me, and it was some seconds before I had wits enough to realize I was sinking fast into the dark, icy water.
Legend has it that Devil’s Elbow is so deep no one has ever found the bottom. I recall at least three cars that had been pushed into the river without leaving so much as a trace. There wasn’t any doubt about it, the Elbow was deep – which is one of the things that made it so deadly.
As I went sinking toward whatever the bottom of the Elbow might be, my sluggish mind kind of whispered to my hands to unbuckle the belt that held me to the trike. But for whatever reason, my hands weren’t paying any attention just then. I knew I was going to drown, but it really didn’t seem to matter.
Then, all at once, I felt myself grabbed by a strong pair of hands. They quickly undid the belt buckle and pushed me hard toward the light. It seemed like forever, but I finally popped through the surface of the water and then just lay there not even moving my arms or legs. I was done. Luckily, Jimmy was standing by and pulled me into shore.
I didn’t feel much, except my jaw was starting to hurt. I could tell Jimmy was scared – real scared –by the way he couldn’t stop petting me and asking how I was. I have to admit, it felt pretty good for Jimmy to be making such a fuss over me.
After a while I gained enough strength to sit up. “Where’s Thurl?” I asked.
“Thurl?”
“Thurl,” I said. My jaw was really smarting now.
I understood then that Jimmy was so worried about me going headlong into the river he hadn’t thought a lick about Thurl.
“Thurl!” Jimmy screamed as he jumped to his feet and turned his head this way and that looking for our friend.
“Thurl!”
There was no answer.
Jimmy turned and flung the question back at me. “Where’s Thurl!,” he screamed. His look was full of pain and accusation. I didn’t say anything, but we both knew the truth.
We’d seen the last of our good friend Thurl.
They never did find Thurl’s body. After what happened the city decided they’d had enough of Devil’s Elbow drowning folks and put up high fences on both sides of the river. Then they hung big red and white signs that said, “No Trespassing!”, “No Swimming!” and “Violators Will Be Prosecuted!”
The rest of that summer was just a blur. Somehow we got through it, but I don’t remember how. Jimmy turned mad and stayed that way for the longest time. Sometimes I thought he hated me for the fact it was me Thurl was trying to save. Other times he was mad at the whole damn world. But I think mostly he hated himself, and he just couldn’t let it go.
The years went by and somehow me and Jimmy managed to get mostly grown and we both went away to school. I went to State University and Jimmy’s big brain got him into dental college. Maybe those falsies he was always playing with inspired him or something.
One Spring Break morning Jimmy and I met outside the fence at Devil’s Elbow. Each of us carried an ax. Neither said a word as we shouldered our tools and climbed the fence. On the other side we set to work hacking away at that big old oak tree. It took us most of the day to bring it down, but we did it.
Looking back, it was stupid to cut down that tree. It never did us any harm. No one was to blame for what had happened. And like I said, it was a dumb thing to do. But, somehow, it felt real good.
For the longest time we just stood there thinking our own thoughts. After a spell Jimmy’s voice cracked as he whispered to the river, “I miss ya, Thurl.”
“Me too,” I blubbered.
Without a word, Jimmy, his face streaked with tears, picked up his ax and threw it into the river. Then he climbed the fence and disappeared into the woods.
I waited a bit and did the same.
CandleLight
aubrey nadauld (graphite)
Stuffed
miriam nicholson
I watched you grow
Every night we cuddled My plastic eyes
Finding you when we’d play
Tea parties, sword fights
Stories of great intrigue
Me being the damsel
And you being the knight
The games changed
As the years progressed No longer was I a damsel I dried your tears at night
Matted fur
Silent room
Up on a self I ended up
You hold me again
But it feels like goodbye
As I go into a box I wonder at your tears
Our eyes meet
As you set me down
Next to other
Abandoned furry friends
Now you are gone
And I wait alone
Next to others who No longer have companions
Maybe one day I’ll find someone
To make as happy as I did you
But for now we wait Alone
In the toy graveyard
Golden Goodbye
larissa helena silveira (photography)
An Open Letter to My Depression
grace lang
Dear Depression,
Hi dark stranger. I know we have a complicated history. We constantly argue, criticize each other, and we have tried to kill each other in the most desperate situations. I’m tired of hating each other. I want to end this war.
Before I can get to that place with you, I have a few grievances to address:
I want to start with the first time I knew you were there. I’m sure you remember that day too. It was the first time I lost control over you and you struck me down. I could no longer handle the overwhelming lies you whispered into my ear, convincing me they were true. I succumbed to you and lashed out at myself. This was the first time you left a physical mark on me. You called me a freak and told me something was wrong with me. You told me it was my fault. I believed every word. I was eleven years old.
Let’s talk about January 13th, 2019. Does this day mean anything to you? It means something to me. We both know how hard you worked to get to this day. It was gradual, calculated, and disgusting work. You started by stealing my joy. You made me hate everything I once loved. You hijacked my soul and drained me of everything. You made me believe I was nothing. You told me I didn’t deserve to live anymore, and I believed you. You attempted to kill me with my own hands.
I know you to be a bag of tricks. You’re full of innovative ways to gain power over me. Your personal favorite appears to be twisting and distorting my sense of reality. You allow your two henchmen to take care of this for you; dissociation and derealization. Both are equally monstrous and cruel.
Dissociation is a parasite that you plant in my mind. It makes me feel like I am not a person anymore. I become detached from my consciousness causing me to feel like a passenger in my own life. I am not real and I lose myself. Derealization is like an abduction. It comes into my world, steals me from everything familiar, and deserts me in a foreign place. My friends and family become strangers to me. The world around me appears distorted. Everything just seems to be off. Nothing is real anymore. I become an alien in my own world.
The thing I hate about you the most is the way you can control me. You turn me into a monster. I will open my mouth and your words will come out. You turn me into this awful nasty version of myself. Is it not enough for you to tear me down inside? You have to attack my relationships too?
I don’t put all the blame on you for these things. In fact, I take accountability that they are a joint effort. If I don’t care for myself, I let you win. That is something I have realized about you, you are the damaged, scarred, fearful, anguished, desperate, and bleeding piece within me. I try to heal you with everything I have and more.
I am prescribed a cocktail of meds to soothe you. I go to therapy every week to try and understand you.
My whole routine is fixed around keeping you at bay. I do all of this because I know you aren’t going anywhere. I cannot outrun you because I cannot outrun myself. We are in this together for the long run,
brittany nadauld (photography)
Sneaky Snails
(digital drawing)
Blue Canary
aubrey nadauld
Vaudeville
maggie hawkins (staff pick: poetry)
Vaudeville
I am imperfect. There, I said it. Now we’re done. Though I don’t believe in perfection, I’m satisfied with the illusion. But you spotted the hoax, The fine print, Like fresh ink on counterfeit bills, Smelled the smoke and saw the mirrors, Before the alarm went off.
I am a liar. Yes, a tease.
A small show behind a big curtain, A wide-mouthed mute with a microphone, Who struts and skips above a trap door. But you saw me somehow, The dark figure behind the confetti, Switched on the light in a naked moment, And witnessed the flawed human skin.
I am impenitent, Forget me, For I know exactly what I do. I am the garnish on a four-course meal, That offends the palette yet delights the eye But you consumed me, easily, Let the bitterness slide down your throat, Giving me the sweet reception, That was just too kind to bear. So I am leaving—
Yes, leaving, While my makeup is still on.
A new stage awaits, And somewhere, someone wants to see the show.
Who You Surround Yourself with
madeline montgomery
(acrylic on canvas, b&w done on photo editing)
Perfect
kellie erickson
Definition: being entirely without fault or defect, satisfying all requirements, corresponding to an ideal standard or abstract concept, faithfully reproducing the original, legally valid.1
Perfect originates from the Latin word perficer, which breaks down into per- (“completely”) and facere (“do”).2
Prefect, I dislike th word because it is used excessively and stressed too much in society today. The pressure that comes along with it is simply too much. Since I was young, I was indirectly taught that perfection was the only standard. Starting in elementary school, straight A’s. As a teenager, body image. As an adult, constant pressure to have the perfect job, house, and family. Now, this spills over into social media. People will post their vacations or new purchases portraying their perfect life, but how often do they post their debt or kids failing report card. Hence, another reason why we are constantly trying to compete when it shouldn’t be a competition.
The word perfect is also so powerful because failure is seen as a sign of weakness. My son has a constant need for perfection in sports, causing meltdowns and frustration. I believe some of his need for this comes from the media and how professional sports are portrayed. His need to compete at a high level and someday be like Steph Curry or Patrick Mahomes keeps him ruthlessly pushing himself to unattainable goals. I try to instill that his best is good enough and we all have strengths and weaknesses.
Think of all the phrases using this impossible standard; picture perfect, practice makes perfect, perfect sense, perfect example. We get to decide what is our perfect, our standard, and our goals to get there. When you get stuck in the feeling of never being good enough or perfect, you will fear new things and stop trying. As a society, we need to let go of the need to perform or behave in a specific way to obtain someone else’s approval. Going back to the origin of the word, I think to completely do something is possible but attempting to do something without fault or flaw shouldn’t deter anyone from trying new things.
Perfectly imperfect is one of my favorite phrases. We all have flaws and embracing them is the difference between happiness or feeling inadequate. Leaving the idea of perfection in your rear-view mirror will help you push through obstacles that life throws at you. Without a challenge, there would be no room for growth. If everyone was perfect, then nobody would be able to relate to or help each other. Nobody will ever be flawless and that is what makes us unique.
1. Merriam-Webster.com 2. Vocabulary.com
The Coldest Colors
anna belle holley
she kept a piece of herself in the back of her throat like a song that wasn’t quite finished and prayed to a God who wasn’t on her side the God whose voice scratched her skull from the inside not a gentle voice a loud voice an outspoken voice her God was not in the silver stars or in the pages of long-forgotten history but rather he was in electromagnetic waves perfectly arranged on a box or a sheet or a cell phone her God was the God of film of television of truth of choreographed lines and life lessons that she lived by and her God was whispering in her ear in her dreams night after black night the very message she feared the very message he’d spent years carving into the walls of her mind her heart the very message that made the piece of herself in the back of her throat draw blood and paint her lungs red the message the truth the revelation
that you do not exist it began with the absence of a certain kind of love happily ever afters for boys and girls but never boys and boys or girls and girls and brokeback mountain endings for the demigod-directors who dared to defy their master and she wondered if this kind of loving her kind of loving would always be forbidden always ending in orange flames or yellow flowers on graves as she gazed into a crackling fire with tear-stained cheeks she wondered for a moment what it must be like to call someone by your name and to answer to theirs at a green grass picnic would it be lovely or would grief claim its ending blue is the coldest colour when all that it represents is an unattainable ending and star-crossed lovers doomed to dream of each other and die in another’s arms her god seemed to say that happy endings only come in one color and the ultraviolet spectrum of love is simply too bright for a tiny television screen to hold her kind of love only comes in cold colors dark shades of moonlight and sorrow and tears her kind of love
is either too much or not quite enough so the demigod-directors paint black-and-white pictures of self-declared unholiness and built-in guilt connotative homosexuality in the form of weakness and pink pansy stereotypes erasing an entire community’s identity with cookie-cutter characters and tearjerker endings justifying alienation to the point of discrimination every act of estrangement blanketed under the gray pretense of “phobia” fear is not hatred and hatred is always a choice she hung the flag from her window and the golden sunlight cast technicolor stripes on her blank bedspread as she pulled the covers to her chin she wondered if colors had always been so cold
brittany nadauld (acrylic paint)
Happiness in Family Life
kc fralick
(content warning: sexual references)
I didn’t do my math homework again. Mom says that stuff doesn’t matter in real life anyway. She says I’m an artist. That I have something to say to the world. So she takes me to school after first period is over so I don’t have to be embarrassed about having nothing to turn in. When I come back in January it will be a new semester, and I can turn my grades around starting then. I don’t think anyone is good at remembering to get their homework done. My friends all seem to have something to turn in, but maybe their parents want them to be robot consumer citizens, so they force them to do their homework. Freakin’ fascists. Or maybe my friends aren’t special like me. I’m an artist. I have something to say to the world.
“I can’t believe they are allowed to put that in a movie!” one girl says.
“I’m pretty sure that makes it a porno,” another chimes in.
Erin, who’s just told us that she watched a movie where a character gives a bj, turns to me. I guess I’ve been too quiet.
“Do you even know what a bj is?”
I’m getting hot and she’s staring at me. I’m special. I have a unique point of view. I can even talk well to adults. There’s nothing this girl could tell me that I don’t already know, because I’m smarter than her.
“Yeah,” I say, simply.
“A blow job?” she challenges back.
“Yeah. I know.”
She probably believes me. Who doesn’t know about blow jobs? It’s gotta be sex. They said it was like a porno, so it’s gotta be a sex thing. I know what that is. I mean I know it makes a baby. So it’s not even a lie. I know what a bj is.
“Stacy, Matt, Chung, Liz, Annie, Kayla, Alex. Out in the hallway.”
I push out my chair and my two best friends sitting next to me scooch in so I can get around them. I like language arts, but Ms. P doesn’t seem happy.
Out in the hall she waits for a class of kindergarteners holding hands to get out of the way. Then she turns on the seven of us.
“I allow self-grading for my spelling tests because I trust my students. You have all broken my trust. I brought you out here because I want you to know that I know you’ve been cheating. When we come
home from winter break, we won’t be self-grading spelling tests again, and you can all tell your friends in there why.”
Doesn’t she know I’m writing an entire novel? It has like 12 chapters so far, and I had to get a second composition notebook because I filled the first one up. I’m an excellent writer, and anyway, who cares about spelling. I have good ideas. I create new worlds out of thin air.
Mom only pulls out the old record player during Christmas time. Dinner’s put away, but we have the card table out in the living room, half-filled with a puzzle Mom and my brother are piecing together. I helped find the corners and edge pieces, but I don’t like doing the middles. The rest of the table is filled with treats neighbors have left at our door. Our congregation goes all out for Christmas, and everyone shares the bounty of chocolate dipped pretzels with sprinkles and Hershey’s kisses.
I am cocooned in my favorite fuzzy blanket that I stole from Mom and Dad’s bed. A fireplace was my mother’s one non-negotiable when we bought this house, and this one is electric and the hearth is level with the rest of the floor. So I can make a nest with couch pillows and my blanket, listen to Nat King Cole croon “A Cradle in Bethlehem,” and savor a craggily chunk of toffee.
I pick at the bandaid on my wrist covering the scab from when I burned myself making this toffee. The hot sugar carved a half-moon a millimeter deep. It’s itchy now. Maybe I should find the antibiotic ointment, but I think it’s above the microwave and I can’t reach it by myself.
“Let’s go around,” Mom starts the ritual, “and everyone say one good thing you did for someone else today, and one good thing that was done for you.”
Dad starts. “My good thing is that I let my team leave the office early. And the good thing done for me is that Brother Mecham gave me a ride home.”
My brother can’t remember anything good that happened today. Mom coaxes him into thinking of something.
“I guess my nice thing is participating in this. And the nice thing someone did for me was Mom made dinner.”
Mom graciously accepts his good things, making sure to note that she does appreciate his participation in the ritual.
She helps the littles think of their things, too. My older brother, a teenager now, and the babies seem to be held to the same standard. Not me though, I’m special like my momma, and I can always think of something good.
“Today I comforted a girl who was crying,” I say, proud of myself. Mourning with those who mourn is a serious good deed. “She was sad because she got in trouble during English class, and I put my arm around her and told her it was going to be okay.”
Dad wants to know why she was in trouble.
“Cheating on her spelling test. But I told her that she can always try again and make a better choice,” the whole story is true, and I don’t see any reason to spoil it with unnecessary details.
“And the good thing that was done for you?” Mom prompts.
“Oh, right. Um, Erin gave me a candy cane and a card during lunch.”
Mom wants to make everyone cocoa, but I remind her that she hasn’t gone yet.
“Of course,” she says. “The good thing I did for another today, was taking a meal over to the Jorgensen’s. We know they’re struggling, and it’s always good to have a little extra around the holidays. And you all have been so good to me today by helping to keep a spirit of peace in our family. This home is like a temple, and I am so grateful to have a haven to retreat from the sticks and arrows of the world.”
When it’s time to go to bed I lay awake thinking about what it would be like to have hundreds of tiny estheticians who live in my walls. I imagine they are so tiny that they can climb all over my body with little buckets and mops, spades, and archeology paint brushes like from the interactive exhibit at the dinosaur museum. They could pick all of the dirt and oil out of my pores individually and fill them in with serums and creams. They could pull all of the unruly hairs out of my eyebrows. I’m too nervous to pluck them myself, and besides, who would spend time on painful vanity like that.
I wish my friends could sleep over. We don’t do sleepovers in my family, but I imagine what it would be like to have my friends in my bed. Once I took a nap with two other girls in between school and play practice. We were just on the floor of the music room, and the lights were on, and people were coming in and out, and our heads were on our backpacks, and we’d pulled our jackets over us like blankets. I think it would be cozy to be in a bed with my friends. Unless it was Erin, then she’d never let me sleep. She always wants to talk about something, even when there is nothing to talk about. And plus she has seen so many TV shows I’m not allowed to watch. Her sister is 19 so she knows about lots of adult things.
Tomorrow I think I’ll ask to go to the library for a few books to read during the break. I have some things to return, but I don’t know where they all are. I didn’t finish the book about the boy who had cancer. I wonder if I could check out something from the Y.A. section. Last time mom said no, but that was in the summer and I’ve grown almost 2 inches since then. Plus grandma said I’m a young woman in training, so maybe I’m old enough now.
In January when school starts again I’ll never miss a math class. I’ll get all of my homework done at school so that I can come home and just enjoy my evenings. It will really take a weight off of my shoulders to have that done, so I grab my journal and make a plan by the blue glow of my nightlight. I’ll do my math homework during lunch, and make spelling flash cards during free reading time. I’ve finally cracked the code- this is the key to getting all of my work done and making my teachers proud, and still having all of my nights at home free to spend with my family. I almost can’t wait for Christmas to be over so that I can start my new routine. On the other hand, I’m glad that I don’t have math tomorrow. Since I sluffed class today I wouldn’t have anything to turn in again.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll just sit by the fireplace all day long and read. Then come up to bed and write in my journal. I have such a stack of journals. One for day-to-day, one for my novel, one for scripture study, one for future plans. Maybe tomorrow I’ll stay in here all day and write in them all, one by one. No one else has thoughts like mine, so it’s important to get them all down.
Recyclrings
joel moore (photography)
Dear Closet
kellie erickson
Dear Closet,
Thank you for hiding me. You had an immense responsibility and you never let me down. Your folding doors were always open when I needed you. My fear of rejection caused me to stay longer than I should have. I didn’t want to be judged based on my sexuality. I used you when I didn’t have the courage to tell my family and friends that I was gay.
I stayed inside you for years after first realizing I had feelings for a girl. You sheltered me when I found my first girlfriend in high school to avoid being bullied or made fun of. I got the courage to leave, but you let me back in when my dad found out and said it was just a phase. I still remember the sound of his diesel truck pulling into the driveway as I hid in my dark bedroom with the door locked after my mom called and told him. You protected me when I thought a “roommate” was more acceptable than living with someone of the same sex that I loved. You kept me safe from discrimination when I feared losing my job. You protected me from harassment, prejudice, and ignorance.
You’re meant for shirts, pants, and shoes. Instead, you held my dark secrets, shame, and hidden identity. I feared my family would disown me. They would think it was gross. They would judge me on who I was dating instead of the person I was on the inside. I was busy trying to conform and be the person society told me I should be. I wore feminine clothes, make up, and had long hair so nobody was suspicious of my sexuality. It wasn’t me and I didn’t feel comfortable.
Closet, I’m sorry. You housed a heavy burden for far too long. I should never have needed you. It isn’t what you should be used for. It was unfair to us both.
I don’t need you like I used to. I’m not scared anymore. I now feel safe, supported, and protected. I can be my authentic self. I don’t have to live a lie anymore. I’ve been accepted by family and friends that matter.
To all the other terrified gays you’re closeting, please encourage them to come out and be who they are. Tell them not to suffer in silence. There are support groups, mental health services, and community events that provide a safe space for their journey.
Sincerely,
A Thankful Gay
A Letter From the Earth to Humans
kassidy martin
Dear humans,
I remember the moment when I grew my first tree. It was special to me. The tree grew tall, taller than you.
The trunk was barbed with thick brown spikes. The leaves were small green needles that formed into a ball.
I remember when you invented the first synthetic plastic. It was special to you. It was cold, shiny, and hard. It could be the color of a bluebird. It could be the color of a red flower. It could be made into whatever you desired.
I remember when you visited my ocean. It was special to you. The sun made your face hot and red. You opened your cooler which was filled to the top with ice. You grabbed a plastic water bottle and drank to the last drop.
I remember when you left my ocean. It was special to you. You had a great time. As you left you, you left something for me. Something I did not need.
I remember when you left your plastic water bottle. It was not special to me. It was clear with a blue label wrapped around it.
I remember when your plastic water bottle rolled into my ocean. It was not special to me. Your plastic water bottle bobbed in my ocean.
I remember when a school of fish swam along. It was not special to me.
One of the fish wedged its way into the opening of your plastic water bottle. The fish could not be freed.
I remember when a whale was looking for food. It was not special to me.
The whale saw a school of fish. The whale opened its mouth wide as it headed toward the fish.
The whale swallowed the fish.
The whale also swallowed your plastic water bottle with the fish stuck inside.
I remember when the whale could not digest your plastic water bottle. It was not special to me.
The whale continued to eat fish along with other plastic waste.
I remember when the whale had an abundance of plastic in its stomach. It was not special to me.
The whale felt full as it could not digest the plastic waste.
The whale started to eat less and less.
I remember when the whale felt weak. It was not special to me.
As the whale felt weak, he eventually died.
I remember when the tide came in. It was not special to me.
The tide pushed along the whale. The whale was then beached.
I remember when the whale was beached. It was not special to me.
As the whale started to decompose, its mouth dropped open. Out spilled a mountain of plastic waste from the whale’s mouth.
I remember the time before you invented the first synthetic plastic. It was special to me.
I was happy.
Now I am not.
I remember you, will you remember me?
Sincerely, The Earth.
Dear Classmate in My Engineering Class
irlanda aispuro
Dear classmate in my engineering class,
As a woman in the engineering field I also want to be part of the discussion in class and be part of your group in the labs without being the last option or ending up working alone.
I also want to be able to be part of clubs outside of the class; I think you can keep your comments that have nothing to do with the class outside of these places so we can all feel safe and included.
You can share with me the topic that we talk about in class I also know about it.
I promise it is not hard to be friends, I have been camping too and I know about trucks, and just because I took time before class to get ready it does not mean it is the only thing that matters to me.
You may think that you know more about a topic than me and want to teach me in a way that made you feel superior to me, but I also stay up at night studying.
If I ask a stupid question, or do badly in my exams, it is not because of my gender. I am simply not prepared enough, but I can learn and improve in the same way that you do.
This is also my dream, and I have invested time and money in this, so I hope that you and I can reach the same places together as classmates and not see more people like me give up halfway.
If you would take the time to listen to my opinions and my voice, you would see that it is easier to reach a solution in a way that you and I can learn together.
I have been studying the same as you and everyone else in this class, so I hope you can see me the same way you see your other classmates.
Sincerely,
The girl in your engineering class.
Renewed
sydney snarr
My whole life I’ve lived in romantic imaginings of love. Disney princesses, true love at first sight—this was my chosen reality. Little me lost in her whimsical optimism. Then, Experience came. She told me, “You have to let go.” How I kicked and screamed at the thought. Often against my will, she pulled me away from my imagination to show me pain and grief. Worst of all, the heartache of losing someone who was alive and well, but chose to be so without me.
“How can I love again if this is what is waiting for me?” I asked. Little me was lost, longing for simplicity and ease. She smiled with tears in her eyes. “You can always love again. I’m here to show you the depths of your heart, not to cause purposeless pain.”
For months, I was confused by what she meant. And somewhere in my confusion, my suffering, my ultimate struggle
I met you.
Meeting you, little me was found again. But this time was introduced to Wisdom in all her elegance. Being with you, it does feel like magic. But Experience has shown me that love is a flame carefully tended to. Love hungers for emotional effort.
Loving you might take all of me. It might take every laugh, every tear, every frustration, and every ounce of energy in my soul.
But my darling, You are my flame. You are worth burning with and for. Experience may lead us through the darkest nights, Wisdom may come later rather than sooner, But if we remain keepers of our flame, our love will never burn out.
Type Figure
brittany nadauld (digital drawing)
A Tolerable Vessel For Blame
david hockett
Screwing off my head she allows the contents of my brain to scatter, bad ideas across the counter, easier done than said.
It’s not a public matter yet, private popp’n is still over-the-counter; I, the shame she takes to bed, months without laughter.
Capsules like a downpour into cursory consumption till her last breath, clutching my orange plastic body, her ghost pains surround her.
Killer cylinders widely spread by doctors’ prescriptions, these fatal encounters; loaded dice beget snakes, not ladders. she’s now empty—like me—without a single drop bled.
Dear Friend, Can I tell you about Harm Reduction?
samantha lindsay
Dear Friend,
I want to start off by explaining the day I learned what harm reduction is, because even living on the streets and sticking a needle in my arm I had no idea what it was. The day that I learned about harm reduction was when another addict, like myself, but in recovery, came up to me and asked if I had clean needles. At first, I thought it was a set up because as you know syringes are paraphernalia and a felony charge. I think this lady saw my skepticism and began to explain more.
What she taught me is that harm reduction is a way to save lives.
She taught me the importance of using clean needles, for the safety of myself and others.
Using clean syringes will help protect my body and my veins.
That using clean needles will prevent me from contracting HIV, Hepatitis C, and God knows what else.
She also said that if I am ever worried and think that I have contracted something, even an STD, she can connect me with resources to get tested. This angel in disguise also had a bin that I could throw my old and used needles away safely so I didn’t have to throw them in random places in the fear of getting that felony charge.
She asked me if I had any Naloxone/Narcan and in return I asked her
“What the hell is that?”
She explained that it reverses opioid overdoses. Even though I know all of the signs of an overdose she still explained it to me. Then taught me how to administer it in case of an overdose. It’s not like we mean to overdose, but fentanyl is in everything! I told my wingless angel about my friend who had just died from an overdose because there was fentanyl in her meth, everyone on the streets only thought it was in opiates. That’s when my angel pulled out 2 inch by 3 inch bright green packages and told me there were tests for that. Fentanyl test strips, where I can test my ‘product’ to see if it is positive for fentanyl.
If only I had met this angel a week ago my friend would still be here. I wouldn’t have had that phone call to tell her mother that her only daughter had died.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude.
This woman couldn’t be human, she had to be an angel.
She took the time to teach me all of these new things to make sure I am as healthy as I can be in the lifestyle I’m in.
She couldn’t be human because she actually cared about ME a nd was asking questions to get to know me.
She can’t be human because all of the other humans look down at me.
They call me a junkie when they don’t even know how many times, I’ve tried to get sober. Most humans avoid eye contact and some humans have even said I’m worthless when I stand out in the cold holding a sign for money so I can live, because no job is willing to hire a homeless person that can’t even find somewhere to shower.
They call me a whore when I make money other ways because at this point, I don’t have a choice, I have to do what I’m told or someone will hurt me.
I asked my angel if she had a name and she said her name was Michelle. My mother’s name is Michelle. Weird.
At this point I began to cry and spill my guts to her. I told her I have thought about getting sober, but I just don’t know if I can do it or if I’m ready. Michelle leaned over and gave me a big hug, she pulled back and looked me in the eyes and said, “Well, if and or when you are ready, I can help give you resources for things like detox, counseling, and treatment.”
She left that day giving me Narcan in case of overdose. She gave me fentanyl test strips so I can know what it is that I’m using. She exchanged my syringes for clean ones so that I didn’t have to share anymore. She even gave me condoms so that I can be safe.
Now let me tell you about today.
Today I am a person in long term recovery.
After I had enough of the drug use and the street life, I called that angel.
She kept her word.
She helped me find a detox that took my Medicaid, which was a pain because only certain places accept it. She sat with me while I called treatment centers to get put on the waiting list. She referred me to places where I could get medication to help manage my withdrawals and cravings.
Getting on Suboxone saved my life.
In case you don’t know what Suboxone is, it is used to treat opioid disorder. I was on that until I was able to learn how to live a normal life again. I worked with my doctor and they even helped me taper off of that.
Today I am a productive member of society.
I am almost finished with school in the dream of being a social worker.
I have two beautiful kids and an amazing husband. I even have a damn dog.
The thing that made this all possible is that I am healthy to have all these things.
Harm reduction saved my life. Harm reduction saved me from contracting HIV, either through clean needles or the condoms, who knows.
I was able to have kids and safely have kids because somehow I got out of my lifestyle without anything permanent. I was able to learn how to be a ‘normal’ person again because of getting into treatment, then sober living, and creating a social support system of other people like me.
I can’t tell you how many lives I’ve saved with the Narcan and Naloxone that I was given by Utah Naloxone.
So not only did I survive but others did as well.
Also, one of the best things that harm reduction gave me was my life back.
Harm reduction kept me safe until I found the want to save myself.
Today I am a certified peer support specialist. I work with my wingless angel and now best friend, Michelle.
I get to help others just like me.
So, when you see memes on Facebook stating that harm reduction is giving away free crack pipes, please don’t feed into it. Harm reduction does not enable, harm reduction saves.
Harm reduction will save your son, or your daughter, or your mom, even your neighbor.
Addiction is not prejudice; it affects everyone.
One size fit all.
So, before you pass judgment, do your homework and research on all of the benefits if you can’t take my word for it. Then you’ll see how much harm reduction saves lives during this opioid epidemic.
Then use your right to vote.
Vote for the bills that make harm reduction easier to access, because people like me, sober and in recovery are at risk for charges too. Even though I don’t stick a needle in my arm anymore and I am out on the streets meeting with people to make sure they survive their addiction I am at risk for getting charges. Syringes are illegal to have. Fentanyl Test Strips have just been passed as legal through this last legislative session. All because people like me and hopefully people like you voted for that to happen.
Ain’t that a trip, something that can save someone’s life was illegal.
Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do or how to do it. The only message that I am trying to get across is there are good people out there that are trapped in their addiction. We need to have love and hope in those people so when they decide enough is enough, they are healthy enough to actually live a sober and happy life. You can’t get sober if you’re dead.
Love, Dope-Less Hope-Fiend
In the Red Chair
heather graham
Grandma and I
Sat together in the too-big too-plush scarlet chair beside the Christmas tree waiting for Santa to come.
She unfolded each color-filled page while I pointed my tiny fingers at glossy snowflakes and train tracks. My hot-chocolate eyes danced through polar wonderlands with North Pole characters. My squishy little cheek pressed against Grandma’s woolly sweater, breathing in the scents of paper pages, rose perfume and Christmas Eve.
Grandma and I Dreamed together in the fat, raspberry chair beside the star-freckled tree. Waiting for the train to come.
Red Devil
kellie erickson
“Turn left here,” she said. We approach a stunning, six floor building, with an attached horseshoe shaped loop, holding several cars.
I roll down my window. A young man wearing a black jacket approaches the car and asks, “Valet?” I reply, “Yes.” We exchange my keys for a paper ticket.
We reluctantly enter a set of automatic glass doors. My eyes anxiously scan the lobby. It was filled with picturesque windows, a curved staircase, multiple nurses, doctors, patients, and a security guard. I hear a beautiful tune coming from a black grand piano. This was a sound I wouldn’t soon forget.
“Second floor,” I tell her, as we head to the polished elevators. We exit the elevator and approach a curly-haired, middle-aged, blonde woman sitting at the desk.
“Hello. Your name please?”
I respond, “Kellie Erickson. I have a 2 o’clock appointment.”
She checked me in and replied, “Take a seat and someone will be right with you.”
As I wait, I notice several tables with unfinished puzzles and a wicker basket full of donated knit beanies. I silently sit in disbelief, shock, and denial as my eyes well up with tears. Is this really happening? I’m a young healthy mother with a son at home that needs me.
A slender young woman dressed in green scrubs opens a large set of heavy wooden doors and loudly calls, “Erickson?” I grab my tote bag that I had prepared the night before containing starlight mints, a word search book, water bottle, green velour blanket, and a sealed orange envelope my twin sister had given me.
I follow the nurse down a long, cold, white tiled walkway that smelled of disinfectant, defeat, and despair. I observe a frail bald woman forcing a smile. Will I look like that soon? I asked myself.
As we approach my assigned station, I notice a small television, a grey leather recliner, a black guest chair, and an oak accented tray table. I made myself comfortable not knowing what I was in for. A nurse wearing an apologetic smile approaches my station with a metal IV tower holding two plastic bags. She explained the clear liquid was Heparin to flush my port and the vibrant red liquid was the chemotherapy.
“Red, huh?” I asked.
“Yes.” she replied. “Some patients refer to it as the “Red Devil” because of the dreadful side effects.”
She asked, “Are you ready?” I thought, hell no, but I timidly mutter, “Yes.”
Two nurses and four painful pokes later the daunting process was underway. I watch anxiously as the
red, potentially poisonous agent drips sluggishly but steadily out of the bag, through the translucent tube, and into my bloodstream. I was thankful for my mints because of the metallic taste it immediately formed in my mouth.
After what seemed like an eternity, but only four overwhelming and torturous hours later, my first chemotherapy procedure was complete.
I gathered my belongings including; pictures of my son, letters of encouragement, and my dignity. I made my way to the bright green exit sign at the Huntsman Cancer Institute. See you in two weeks, Red Devil. I had no idea how my life was about to change.
There is Red In The Water
lacey niko
There is red in the water and it feels like I’m the only one that sees it. There is red in the water and it’s only getting darker
There is red in the water I want to scream but I am unsure how they will respond.
There is red in the water and I wonder who it is. Is it mother’s? Is it mine?
Is it sister’s? Is it hers?
There is red in the water and I know it is someone’s.
No one stops
No one stares
No one questions the red in the water.
I am told it is normal. That the red in the water will appear and we must ignore it or we will become the red in the water. How do we mourn if we do not know who is the red floating in the water. I put flowers near the edge of the stream they must know they will be missed. They must know someone will miss them.
The red has not gone away and the sun has risen many times. My sister told me not to set flowers on the water’s edge, said that I will turn into the red of the water. Instead, I muddy my knees and whisper blessings to the red of the water.
If no one mourns the dead they will lose their way. That is what we are taught to bury them in the brown dirt and under the stone.
The red in the water are washed away.
My auntie pulls me away saying harsh words and promises of punishment. She says to stop but I cannot. Women are dying, of that I know. It is our blood that makes the water red. It is not the red of growing, we are much too careful. We hide that blood.
It is the red of sisters we never met of girls and mothers and women we will never see. They are killing them. They are staining our rivers red. We are scared. Too scared to speak. Is silence our safety or is it the reason so many of us are missing.
I am unsure. But there is red in the water and it feels like I’m the only one that sees it.
Natural Curiosity
- monica phim (digital collage)
(staff pick: visual art)
Dino
brittany nadauld (photography)
Danny
Carpe Diem
olga gao
(graphic design)
Bear-Hugging Marilyn
pace gardner
(content warning: language)
If I keep my eyes closed and pretend I’m asleep, she won’t accuse me of anything.
“Where are you taking me?” asks my grandma.
To my left, she readjusts in her seat and elbows me in the ribs. I take a deep breath and try to focus on the snow hitting the windshield.
“You know where we’re headed Ma,” my dad replies from the front seat. He taps the brakes. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell he’s tailgating someone. “Remember?”
The car slows again. I crack an eyelid and peek, just for a second. The Volvo ahead of us is signaling. Its taillights are barely visible through the snowstorm. I close my eyes again.
“Asshole!” Dad punches the brakes. Our car fishtails for a moment before catching on a plowed patch of asphalt. The car jerks, popping my shoulders forward.
“Seriously, Dad?” asks my brother Chris. He’s my bookend on the right. “Take it easy or I’m gonna up-chuck into Mom’s hair.”
He outgrew his carsickness a decade ago, but he still panders to my mom to guarantee a window seat in all circumstances.
“You taking me to Mass?” Grandma squawks.
Dad punches the gas and the four cylinders hum. The Volvo must have made its turn. I hear Mom turn around in her seat. Her overstuffed parka is loud.
“Joseph, slow down! Chris is turning green back there,” says Mom.
No peeking necessary to assess my brother. He’s grandstanding.
“Crack your window a little bit sweetie and get some air,” she says.
My brother lowers his window partway. I hear wind and feel snowflakes.
“It had better not be that smug Father Michael,” Grandma says. “He’s an idiot.”
Father Michael hasn’t been at our parish since I was a kid.
“Ma, we’re going to see Uncle Earl. Remember? I told you that when we picked you up.”
Dad’s found someone new to tailgate. I peek again. This time it’s a truck; a big dualie without mud flaps. It covers the windshield in kicked-up snow.
“Of course I remember,” says Grandma. “I’m not an idiot!”
Without the click of a signal, Dad swerves around the truck. The move bends us back-seaters sideways and rolls my head off the headrest; so much for fake sleep. As I’m forced to lean into her, I feel the full bloated-ness of my grandma’s frame. Beneath the course wool of her coat, Grandma’s puffy arms are marshmallows resting on her midsection, which is an inner tube. She began to balloon when Grandpa went downhill as though she took his weight and added it to her frame.
On my other side, Chris’s elbow digs hard into my ribcage.
“Corners, bitch!” he whispers in my ear.
He’s eighteen and still playing backseat car games. Mid-swerve, snowflakes cross from my brother’s window and flurry in the cab.
“Mature,” I whisper back.
The swerve complete, we straighten back up in our seats.
The invasion of snow hazes my glasses while flakes land on Grandma’s face and hands. She swivels her head in all directions wide-eyed. She finally notices the open window.
“Is that window open?”
In the rearview mirror, my father rolls his eyes. He knows what’s coming. “Close the god-damn window, it’s freezing! You some kind of idiot? I’ll catch cold!” Grandma removes a pink, lace handkerchief from the depths of her coat and wipes her face.
“Marilyn,” my mom speaks without turning. “Chris is feeling a little car sick, so he needs to have the window cracked. But don’t worry; I’ll turn up the heat for you.”
Leaning forward, she fiddles with the knob. The vents bellow hot air directly into my face.
“How’s that?” Mom says over her shoulder.
Fat snowflakes still enter the window, but I’m sitting in a Saharan wind tunnel.
“No, I don’t feel any-thing. It’s like a meat-locker in here. Do something,” Grandma grumbles. She pops the lapels of her overcoat and slinks further down into her haunches. She elbows me again.
Mom turns the knob further. “How about now?”
I scrunch my face and turn from the heat. Beneath my overcoat, suit coat, dress shirt and undershirt, I can feel beads of sweat beginning to form.
“That’s better. It ain’t great, but it’s better,” she folds her arms across her chest. “Russell, stop making that ugly face.”
Russell was my grandpa.
“I’m Steven, Grandma. Steven.”
“Don’t get wise with me or, so help me God, I’ll wear you out,” she says. She grabs my forearm, “Now, where are they taking me?”
One shuffled step at a time, the line moves closer. I glance at my watch; it has taken twenty-four minutes to get from the funeral parlor’s waiting room to the relative expanse of the viewing room. The line snakes from the back of the room, along a wood-paneled wall and to a small, elevated stage.
Soft music mingles with the muted drone of the crowd.
My brother taps my arm.
“How long?” he whispers.
I gently clear my throat before I whisper back. “Twenty four, an-n-n-n-n-n-n-d thirty seconds.”
“Five and half,” he shakes his head. “I’ve still got five and a half.”
The line shuffles another step closer.
“It’s still possible.”
“No shot little man,” I say.
Upon arriving at the funeral home and seeing the wait, we placed over-under bets.
“Remember, it was to get through the line in thirty minutes, not just make it up to the casket,” I say.
He stands on his tippy toes, trying to get a better view of the line.
“I’ve still got a shot.”
“Twenty five even,” I reply.
We shuffle forward another step. At the front of the line, Great Aunt Sue stands next to her husband’s casket. Her daughter, Christine, stands next to her mother. They’re both hugging each family member as they pass. Great Aunt Sue is red-eyed and crying; Christine just looks haggard. At Grandpa’s viewing, Grandma hadn’t even sniffled. She didn’t even cry at the grave. Most of her marbles were gone by then, but still, it hadn’t affected her at all.
As we draw closer to the casket, the background music grows louder. The speaker is over the casket.
We shuffle forward another step. Chris is back on his toes. We’re close enough now that I can clearly make out the music and notes. They’re playing some brassy standard, also like Grandpa’s. I don’t recognize the song, but from the bass in the singer’s voice, I think it’s Nat King Cole.
Pear-shaped cousin Mitzy and her two pear-shaped children leave the line altogether. We shuffle several steps at once.
“Boo-ya!” whispers Chris. “Time check.”
“Twenty-seven and a quarter,” I say.
By now, we’re only a few feet from the casket. It’s fancier than I would have expected for Great Uncle Earl. The exterior is a rich, lacquered auburn with four brass handles per side. Grandpa’s casket was simpler, more subdued. As we near the casket, my mom, standing in front of my brother and me, waves over at Dad. He helps Grandma up from a chair. As she stands, I notice she was actually sitting on two chairs. She and Dad have been waiting for us to get to the front of the line. They walk over to join us. The line shuffles again.
“Crunch time. Time check,” says Chris.
“Twenty-eight and a half,” I say.
We shuffle forward another step as Dad and Grandma are worked into the line in front of me and Chris. Dad whispers to Grandma.
“Remember Ma, it’s Earl, your brother-in-law. Pop’s younger brother. Okay?” my dad eyes his mother, waiting for a response. Nothing. She’s humming to Nat King Cole.
“Ma?” Dad leans closer to Grandma’s ear. He lowers and strengthens his voice. “Ma? Did you hear me?” he asks.
Grandma stops humming.
“What? I was listening to the music.”
At Grandpa’s funeral she was out of it, humming and swaying next to the casket as my father and mother greeted the mourners.
Nat finishes the standard.
Before the next song can begin, Dad speaks again. “It’s Earl, Dad’s brother. Okay?”
Grandma nods and smiles. Another song begins to play.
The last two people ahead of us leave the line. We’re up. My mother walks to the casket first by herself. She kneels, pauses a moment, and makes the sign of the cross.
“Hit me,” Chris whispers in my ear. I check my watch. Bobby Darin is next from the speaker.
She’s humming as Dad directs her in front of the open casket.
After she’s reached it, Grandma finally looks down, only then, for the first time. As I stand off to her side, in profile, I see the expression on her face begin to change.
“My lover sta-nds on golden sa-a-nds. . . .”
Her smile disappears and is replaced with a squinty-eyed grimace. The pink bulge of her double chin wiggles in response as she tilts her head sideways, trying to understand the scene in front of her.
“And wa-tches the ships that go sai-i-ling. . . .”
Slowly, as if by a tiny growing vibration, Grandma begins to shake. First through her arms, then quickly passing into her torso, her huge form begins to quiver.
She doubles over, and with one hand grabs the casket. With the other, she covers her eyes. She is crying. Dad doesn’t move. Grandma is always emotional, but usually the emotion is spite.
Dad steps forward, “Ma, Ma, it’s okay,” he says. He places a tender hand on her forearm. She swats it away.
“Leave us alone!” she moans, in between sobs. She wails loudly enough to drown out the music.
Dad looks over at me with his mouth open. I turn to Chris. He’s confused. I’m mortified. Great Aunt Sue and Christine are aghast.
Grandma puts both hands on the edge of the casket and leans in. I can hear lips smacking; she’s kissing Great Uncle Earl.
Like an amphitheater, the open casket amplifies the alternating sounds of her smooching and crying.
Dad’s had enough; he goes for damage control. He reaches forward, trying to wedge his hands under her armpits and pry her up. It works, kind of, for a moment; her torso begins to lift free from the lacquered box. But Grandma’s heavy and strong. She won’t go easily, and she is able to shrug him off. He turns to me and Chris.
“Get over here, and help me out,” he says.
We rush over. Dad and Chris flank Grandma, each grabbing a puffy shoulder. I stand behind, trying to get my hands around her waist.
“On three,” Dad says. Chris and I nod.
“One . . .”
I lock my fingers around her belt.
“Go away!” she yells from inside the casket.
“Two . . .” I set my feet.
“Three!”
In unison, our trio pulls. As we do, Grandma’s torso rocks back, away from the casket. As she does, Great Uncle Earl begins to rise. With one hand she’s clutching the upholstery of the casket; with the
“Great Uncle Earl begins to rise. With one hand she’s clutching the upholstery of the casket; with the other, she’s got Great Uncle Earl by the lapels of his suit.”
other, she’s got Great Uncle Earl by the lapels of his suit. Mom hops in, grabbing Grandma’s hands and trying to pry her fingers free.
“Marilyn, enough! You’ve got to let go!” Mom says.
And, as my father, brother and I struggle against her girth, Grandma finally does, suddenly.
From their positions at her sides, Dad and Chris lose their balance, falling backwards into the rows of plastic chairs. As they slide off, Grandma’s enormous body pivots. I am unable to free my hands from her belt, and with that grip, she is pulled directly into my body. I catch her, bear-hugging her immense carriage in my outstretched arms. In the blink of an eye, I have her, and the room, although filled with shocked family, is quiet. Grandma looks up into my face.
“Russell?” she says. Her lips and cheeks are smeared with tangerine cake make-up. “Russell! It’s you!” She smiles and lays her head on my chest. She’s stopped crying. “I saw you in that coffin, and I thought you were dead.”
She hugs me.
I look to my right as Great Aunt Sue and Christine help untangle Dad from a folding chair; Mom is helping Chris to his feet. The rest of the crowd hasn’t moved. I’m frozen in my stance.
With her silence and the stillness of the room, I can hear Bobby Darin again.
“It’s far, be-yond the stars. . . .”
“Oh, I love this song,” Grandma says. She tucks deeper into my arms. I’m winded from the tug-of-war, and her head rises and falls on my chest.
“It’s near, be-yond the moon. . . .”
She begins to sway in time to the music, her heavy body moving me as well. Grandma and I are slow dancing.
“Happy we’ll be, be-yond the sea. . . .”
How Not to Start the New Year
camden mcnealy
We started our first ski run on High Meadow, the snow underneath my skis felt like butter. I’d skied the bunny hill a lot, but grandma and grandpa had decided to take us to High Meadow. We practiced our turns about halfway down the hill and then they stopped. Grandpa told us that we were ready to try skiing our first blue run!
I was almost jumping in my boots, every single possibility of what it would be like flew through my head. I couldn’t stand still, I almost started to sing! We went and took a lift I’d never been on before; it was called Snow Dancer. It was so fast and giant!
The seat was cold, still a little frosty from the morning air. We rode up on the lift, flying over the tree tops with other skiers racing down the mountain and disappearing behind us. The sun broke through the tops of the trees, and the snow glittered. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t wait to get to the very top! I was bouncing in my seat, swinging my skis back and forth. I kept rambling on about how excited I was; I almost couldn’t put together a coherent sentence.
When we reached the top, we hopped off the lift and skied to the right. The trail was wide, trees blocking you in on both sides. They were so tall I could barely see their tops. The run was really shaded, almost no sun could reach it. I could feel a little ice scraping at the bottom of my skis. There was a ball of nerves in my stomach.
Grandpa stopped above a blue sign reading Kokopelli. He explained that we should take it slow and make wide turns. I went first, and he followed behind. He yelled out when I should turn! The further I went the more ice scraped underneath my skis. The pit in my stomach got I little bit bigger when I almost slipped out on the ice. I stayed on the right side of the trail. it felt like I was flying down the hill, almost faster than I should have.
It was almost fun, but something hit me from behind, sending me sliding down the hill. Snow scraped into my mittens. A loud scream came out of my mouth. One of my skis had come off. When I stopped sliding, I looked up the hill. My older sister had fallen. I was frozen with shock, my body felt numb. I couldn’t feel anything. I heard my heart pounding in my head.
My grandparents skied down and helped us up. My sister was fine, but when I tried to stand there was excruciating pain in my left right ankle. I did everything I could to hold back the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
My grandpa said, “Sit down, we’re going to wait a minute to see if it still hurts.”
I sat down and waited. The phrase ‘I’m fine kept repeating in my head,.’ When I tried to stand up again there was still a shooting pain up my ankle. I wasn’t fine.
My grandparents stuck our skis in the snow forming an x to signal that someone was injured. I don’t know who called ski patrol, but a lady came with a sled. I was loaded up into it. I could feel every
single bump that we went over. It was cold and loud; all I could do was focus on the sound of snow crunching under the sled. There was too much noise. It was too much. The sounds of the mountain
I went to the urgent care near my house, and they almost didn’t want to give me an x-ray because I wasn’t in pain until I put weight on my ankle. The x-ray showed that my tibia had been broken in two.
Flowers
jeremiah Palomo-medina (poem and
photography)
As We Aim For The Stars The Flowers Bloom The Angels View Maybe I Can Fly Too?
Navajo City Girl: Getting back to her roots
by tawiyela hanson
Being woken up by familiar boasting laughter and clanking of utensil on plates, I lay in bed rubbing the tired out of my eyes, rapidly opening and closing them looking around, temporarily forgetting where I am. I realize, “oh yeah, I’m in my grandma’s room sleeping in her room,” as I get out of bed the laughs I heard before seem to be multiplying. I look towards the slightly open bedroom door; I get up and follow the strong smell of bacon, I can taste it in the air. Opening the door and walking into the kitchen, I’m greeted by a small family reunion of my aunts, cousins, and grandma all gathered around the table eating breakfast and sipping piping hot black coffee. I find an open chair and gaze upon the impressive display of delicious food, my mouth is watering as I take a big bite of warm fried bread.
After inhaling my food I’m being told by my mom to hurry up and get ready since I am the last to wake up and everyone else is ready to go. Rushing back into my grandma’s room I unzip my duffle bag; I then hear in the distance all the ladies cleaning up the kitchen and heading out the door leaving me behind. Not wanting to be the last one again, I dumped all my clothes out on the bed scrambling for my hoodie and sweatpants wanting to dress warm since it was early in the morning and chilly outside. Hopping on one leg while trying to put my other shoe on, I begin to get nervous and feel my food turn in my stomach thinking about how in a few minutes I will be learning how to shear my grandma’s sheep.
Every year nearing the end of spring and the beginning of summer the sheep need their thick woolen fleece cut off so they aren’t so hot during the summer as well as grow back a new soft beautiful fleece
I’m greeted by the smell of livestock, hay and manure, a scent that reminds me of home.
for the winter. Heading out the door I see my aunts and cousins getting into their cars and trucks driving over to the sheep corrals located 100 yards from my grandma’s faded blue house. I jump into the back of a rusty old pickup and sit next to my cousin in the truck bed thrilled there are no seatbelts or cops around to pull us over for lack of safety. That was one of my favorite things about where my grandma lived, Monument Valley, Oljato. It’s a Navajo reservation located at the bottom of Utah near the four corners, so secluded it’s like you’re in another world full of sandstone mesas, red sand, withered pavement and no city lights to be seen, just a horizon as far as the eye can see.
Reaching the crumbling corrals, I’m greeted by the smell of livestock, hay and manure, a scent that reminds me of home. Everyone jumping into action, unloading their supplies of blankets, shearing
scissors, rope, bags, and other tools for the job. All the women enter the corral causing the sheep to run away from us to the opposite side, I follow in as well and shut the gate behind me as I turned around my eyes are met by all the beady little sheep eyes staring back at me, like I am here to murder them. I walk over to my mom avoiding stepping on all the sheep poo, I stand there in the shade waiting on what to be told since it was, she who was in charge of my on-the-job training. Although being super nervous my heart was also filled with joy of being a part of this cultural tradition that my mother and grandmother did and now was passed down to me.
“So, first things first” my mom said, “pick a sheep, grab it and bring it over to me.”
I asked her,” Uhhh how am I supposed to do that?” she replied,” Be quick and grip tight onto their wool and don’t let go, it’s okay it won’t hurt them, also pick a small one, I don’t want to be here all day!”
Rolling my eyes, I turn towards my cousin and gestured for her to come over and help me corner the sheep. With our arms extending out to the side and legs taking a strong stance trying our best to look big and intimidating, we slowly inch forward being careful not to make any sudden movements. I thought to myself, “it’s working!”, then suddenly one breaks away from the group and soon after all of them are following the leader, I waste no time and grab onto the butt of the nearest sheep and begin wrangling it to the floor. My cousin came running over to hog tie the legs together and we carried the guinea pig to my station which was a blanket on the floor right in the sun.
I sat down and my mom skimmed over the safety rules:
“Stay clear of the legs because they will kick you,”
“Handle the sharp shears with caution considering this is a live animal that makes sudden movements.”
Next, she handed me a pair of massive shearing scissors, my eyes wide open I stare at it thinking how it looks like weapon but being fifteen the adults trusted me. My mom tells me to
“Begin by the knees, push back the wool with your left hand using slight pressure to avoid raising the skin.”
Slowly cutting into the wool right to left in rows listening to the sound it makes is very satisfying. The best I can explain it is by using a Disney movie reference from Hercules, where the three fates hold up Megs thread of Life, they open and close the big scissors before they attempt to cut the string, that is almost the exact same sound. Shearing sheep is not as easy as it seems, the dense wool has red dirt, dried plants, poop, and grease embedded deep into the coat. Sheep are dirty little things that wedge themselves into nooks and crannies trying to get to food on top of mesas or areas populated with sticker bushes.
My grandma, being a seasoned pro, had sheared five out of twelve sheep. She comes over as I finish and says,
“You did a good job for your first time; I want you to come back next spring to help again.”
“Thank you, grandma, I love doing this, I’ll be faster next time so I can shear more than one sheep ha-ha.”
I hear a giggle and give a side eye to my cousin whose mocking me, “tHaNk YoU, gRaNdmA!”
I gave her a stank face, which my mom saw and said, “your face is going to get stuck like that!”
Making a big whatever sigh, I dropped my shoulder because I’ve been assigned to the clean-up crew. As I’m cleaning up, I look over at my grandma and see how happy this moment made her, she has so much love for her family and sheep, I can see why this was important for me to learn. Fifteen years later I cherish this memory, and say,
“Thank you, Grandma, I love you Rest in Paradise.”
daniel d. baird
Ride ‘em Cowboy
(staff pick: photography)
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
by daniel d. baird
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
I used to enjoy skipping around the house singing those nonsense words as a child. They come from a 1936 song written by Jonny Mercer. But I wouldn’t learn that until some 40 years later. I just enjoyed the tune and the silly words.
I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
I grew up in Idaho and Wyoming and this had a significant impact on my childhood as all things cowboy were omnipresent. I had cowboy boots, hat, chaps, toy six shooter guns and rifle, and a sheriff’s badge. My big moment in the grade school play was showing off my lasso skills (which weren’t much but I am sure my mother thought I was the best that day).
I remember watching cattle being branded and milked, and helping my grandparents feed the cows and chickens. Especially fascinating (and a little frightening) was watching the chickens’ heads being chopped off. I don’t remember plucking the chickens but I did enjoy eating them later.
My grandparents had horses and all the boys yearly went riding in the Grand Teton National Forest. Grandpa Baird, dad, my two older brothers and I would each ride a horse and then there was the pack horse carrying food and other supplies.
The first year everyone was cowboy tough, well except me I was only eight or so (and wore a baseball cap—how could I be so thoughtless as to not wear a cowboy hat?).
Why were they tough? They slept out under the stars and me? I had a newfangled invention called a pop-up camping tent with flexible poles that set up in a matter of minutes unlike those old canvas tents with their metal tube poles. My brothers laughed at me for bringing such a lightweight ridiculous tent.
“Sleeping out under the stars is the best,” they said.
Then it rained. I was nice and dry and they were not. The next trip there were more tents.
And I sing the songs in the cowboy band
I started singing when I was 12 with Dad in the church choir. I remember a couple of years later when my voice changed with a little bit of embarrassment and some pride I told him I couldn’t sing tenor anymore and had to sing bass.
“Well, go over and sit with them,” was all he said.
We have sung together a lot over the years, sometimes in choirs and sometimes in duets, but I don’t think we ever sang any cowboy songs together.
I know all the songs that the cowboys know About the big corral where the dogies go ‘Cause I learned ‘em all on the radio.
Most of my singing has been in the car, listening to the radio, 8-track cartridge, cassette tapes, CDs, and now-a-days my phone via Bluetooth. But I learned the old cowboy songs mostly on those old 8-track cartridges that my grandparents used to have. Every time I hear one of those old songs I am once again bouncing along the dusty roads in the old pick-up truck and listening to either Gene Autry or Roy Rodgers and The Sons of the Pioneers.
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
He’s an old cowhand from the Rio Grande And he plays the fiddle in the cowboy band.
I learned to play the violin when I started teaching elementary school orchestra for the Granite and Jordan School Districts. I had a lot of fun doing that and if I could have a do over for my life I that would be my happy place, teaching music to kids.
For one concert I had them fiddle “Boil ‘Em Cabbage Down” with slides, shuffles, and all. Every time they repeated the song they kept getting faster and faster and boy did those kids wow their parents!
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
He’s an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
And he calls the dance in the cowboy band:
Dosie-do all around your pard
Swing that gal ‘til she gits tired Allemande left in your own backyard.
When I was in jr. high we spent a month learning how to square dance. It was OK, but then came the disaster. For the grand finale they held a stomp. That’s right, club dancing. Wait, we spent a month learning to square dance and then we are supposed to get out and do club dancing?
UGH!
Either let us have a square dance or spend a month teaching us how to club dance. What a catastrophe; well at least for those like me that hid near the wall.
UGH!
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
He’s an old cowhand from the Rio Grande And he plays guitar in the cowboy band.
I really wanted to learn to play the guitar when I was younger. I was already taking lessons for other instruments for band and later orchestra, so it always was on the backburner. But I learned a few chords and a few songs with my sister’s old guitar and songbooks. Then I got brave and bought a nice
classical guitar. Today it sits in my room looking lonely waiting for that day when I remember that yes, I really do want to learn to play the guitar.
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
He’s an old cowhand from the Rio Grande And he plays the bass in the cowboy band.
Bass. All things bass. That is my thing. I played tuba from 5th grade to college. Marching band, pep band, concert band. I was there in the back with my tuba.
When I was in jr. high the high school jazz band teacher told me if I learned to play bass guitar and upright bass then I was in. I didn’t know what jazz was but learned (both the instruments and jazz). I played in jazz bands and combos, backed singers and such for the next thirty years.
I once heard a quote that musicians are people who put $5000 worth of gear in a car worth $500 and drive 100 miles to a $50 gig. That is how my jazz gigging life felt. It was a lot of fun but I never made any money.
As an adult I learned to play the ‘cello and have played in multiple community orchestras over the years. I also played the double bass in chamber orchestra and now am learning the bass viola da gamba for the early music orchestra at the University of Utah.
Like I said, all things bass. Did I mention I sing bass?
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
Oooeeeeoooooeeeeoooooaaaaaeeeeoooooo.
Oooeeeeoooooeeeeoooooaaaaaeeeeooooo.
Whoa. Wait. What? What is all that ooeeoo stuff? That is cowboy yodeling for you. Something all the great cowboy singers could do.
I tried to learn to yodel once, but lost interest as I never really had an outlet; if I was singin’ in a cowboy band or something maybe I would have gone on to learn it.
I went to Arkansas once and there was a folk and bluegrass music jam where anyone in the audience could go up on stage and sing or play. I wasn’t brave enough to go—after all they didn’t want a jazz musician, but I do remember thinking to myself, “If only I had learned cowboy yodeling like I always wanted to, then I could go up on stage.”
Yipee-yi-o-kie-yay, yipee-yi-o-kie-yay
I have never been back to where I grew up in Casper, Wy, but I still have cowboy boots and a duster coat (has split in back for riding a horse) in my closet and cowboy hats hanging by my front door.
Who knows, maybe today is the day I grab my boots, hat, and guitar and play some of that ole time Western music.
Old Fashioned
aubrey nadauld (photography)
Finding out
dominique balch
As I was sitting in the cold, poorly lit, and silent waiting room of the hosptial, at 7am on a May chili morning, all I could think about was you. I saw other people in there waiting for their childern too. None of us were really talking, including my husband and me. I’ve never been a great communicater and I wanted to know that you were okay and that what happened wasn’t my fault. I was waiting patiently for the doctor to come out and tell me you were done. All of the sudden, I hear the audiologist call my name. I look towards her, look at my husband, and we proceed to follow her. She brought us into a small room and we sat down on 2 chairs infront of her desk.
She was behind the desk and said, “Jaxson’s sedated ABR (Auditory Brainstem Response) hearing test is done. We are going to go over the results now.”
Tears had already started to well in my eyes before she started talking. I was sitting in an ugly-stiff green and brown chair that was so uncomfortable it was making my back hurt just looking at it. My fingers were looped in between his, both our palms were sweating and shakey.
The audiologist then said, “Jaxson has a profound hearing loss in his left ear severe hearing loss in his right.”
I found this article from “Healthline” and it states, “Severe hearing loss: A loss of hearing more than 71 decibels. For profound hearing loss: A loss of more than 91 decibels.” I didn’t understand anything she was saying to me. My ears weren’t working like they should have been. I started getting lightheaded, my ears started ringing and feeling somewhat plugged. I looked at her with a blank face and felt as if I was going to pass out. I knew nothing about how to raise a child- let alone a deaf child, who know what is considered special needs. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All that was going through my mind was, how can this be? What could I have done to prevent this? Am I a bad mother? How did we not find this out until the day before his 2nd birthday? I felt sadness, relief, anger, guilt . . . every emotion. I was angry that I didn’t know sooner, I was sad for my baby, for being different and not even knowing. I was sad because I thought he would be able to live a “normal” life. I was relefied to finally know what was going on after 1.5 years of stressng and thinking something else was going on. I felt guilty, because there wasn’t a damn thing that I could change about it. I just want to see him, snuggle him, and show him how much I love him. My heart was racing, tears flowing down my face, and my body was shaking. I was at a loss for words. I had so many questions; Where do I go from here. . . . Do I need to learn sign language? My life is going to change forever.
Luckily, I did take one sign language class in high school and learned the basics. Although, I did mess around the entire time in that class. Little did I know, I would be using sign language every day, for the rest of my life. The first sign the audiologist showed me, was “tree.” To sign tree, you use your dominant hand and put your arm out, like your flexing your tricepts, bring it forward so it is right in front of your shoulder. Then, with your other hand, you place it below the elbow, with your palm facing down; With your dominant hand, your hands are spread out and you twist your hand back and forth. Each time I sign “tree,” I think about the day my life changed forever.
Finally, my baby was done and out of recovery. He was very sleepy and trying to come out of the anastesia. As we were driving home, I sat in the back seat of the car so I could be next to him. First, I called my sister and filled her in on what we just found out about Jaxson. Both my family, and my husbands’ are very supportive. My parents, in-laws, and siblings told us “everything is going to be okay.” My husbands grandmother told me, “god hand picked Jaxson out for you and he wouldn’t have given him to you, if you couldn’t handle it.”
As we got back to our small apartment and got settled in, it was around 9 at night and time for bed. Jaxson was asleep, my husband was busy working and I lay in my bed with Jaxson cuddled up next to me. I tried to sleep but the room was dark, cold, and my mind kept racing. I kept starting at the fan above my bed and listening to it squeak. I could feel my heart beating through my chest. My anxiety started creeping back in and got me thinking once again. As I was laying there, I made a mental list of things I needed to do, in order for me to be a successful mother and for Jax to be successful in his life. I needed to figure how I would be able to teach my child a language that I don’t know how to speak. The first thing I needed to do for the next day was, call the Utah School for the Deaf and Blind. I needed some instruction on where to go. Second, I needed to start watching YouTube videos on sign language, even just the basics. Third and lastly, I wanted to do some reasearch on “how to become a better mom.” I just wanted to be able to get some sleep and start a new day.
Finally I fell asleep. Jaxson was exhaused from the long day we had and slept really great. So did it. I was rested, motivated, and ready to change my life and start learning and teaching sign language to my son.
No Death In Transformation
helias
(digital art)
Trigger Words
anna belle holley
(staff pick: fiction)
It’s Christmas, 2010. I’m hiding in the bathroom, a towel clamped between my teeth to soften the echo of my heavy breathing. I can hear my sisters crying in the other room, Phoebe trying to calm the rest down with a song. I hope she remembered to lock the door, I think to myself. Not that it matters. Mom never goes after them.
The door handle shakes, its chipped golden surface scattering the snow-white glow from the window in little pieces across the cold tile walls. “I just want to talk,” I hear her say. Her voice is soft and plastic, the way it sounds at parent teacher conferences and church. I almost believe her. Almost. “Come on, Anna.” I hold my breath, knowing she knows I’m there, and still wishing I could somehow hold my breath long enough to disappear. Like maybe if I don’t move, the universe will forget I exist. “I don’t want to be the bad guy.” That’s one of her favorite lines. Her voice is ice cold now–no pretense, no facade. This is the voice I know best.
I exhale, and the towel falls to the floor with a dull thump. I imagine I’m a character in one of my favorite stories, boldly leaving the castle to face the dragon. Even if the dragon is bigger than me, smarter than me, braver than me. Even if I stand no chance at all.
Stepping forward, I reach for the door handle with trembling hands, and open it.
“I just want to talk,” he says when I hop into his car and drop my backpack at my feet, clasping my hands between my knees. He just wants to talk, I tell myself, but I can feel my breathing growing shallow, like the car doesn’t have enough air in it.
I press my nails into the undersides of my legs and look up at him, plastering on the most genuine smile I can manage. “Okay,” I say smoothly. “What about?”
“You’re so–” he begins, his expression twisting in thought, “distant, lately.” He stares at me for a moment, blue eyes glistening with the expectation of an answer. I rack my brain, but I can’t find one to give. Something other than, I know, Liam. But I don’t know how not to be. It sounds even more pathetic now that I’m letting the words roll in my mind like film credits. “Sometimes it’s like I’m talking to a wall.”He shakes his head and runs a hand through his watery brown hair in exasperation, staring daggers at the dashboard as if it’s more likely to have answers than I am. “I don’t wanna be the bad guy here,” he says, a half-sane laugh escaping his lips, “but I can’t be in a relationship like this!”
My breath catches in my throat and I can feel it burning, searing the edges of my tongue and welling up behind my eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry, I whisper in my head, and for a moment I can almost see Phoebe’s face, her tiny hands dabbing my forehead with a warm cloth and tucking me in, whispering those same words. That was the first time Mom had “run away,” and the first day I really started
believing the others would be better off without me. Images from back then seem to pop into my mind a lot, lately, like pop-up advertisements. Despite extensive research, I haven’t figured out how to get rid of them. Therapy is the Internet’s number-one solution, but that isn’t an option for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid looking at him, knowing it’ll only make it worse, knowing I’m losing him and there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say, nothing he can do or say that’ll make me any less distant, though I’d give anything to be.
“Anna,” he says, his voice breaking. “Say something. Anything.” He’s almost whispering now, and even though I can’t see him, I can picture him–his messy curls that I’ve grown to love, the dimple on his left cheek, the red splotches he gets under his eyes when he cries, although it’s usually over simpler things like Marley & Me or a missing dog poster. I can picture him, this person that I love, this person I can’t seem to love right, this person who deserves so much more than a secret garden he’ll never have the key to.
The tears fall without my consent, and I hear my voice break into sobs as if listening from another room, seeing myself through a dark glass and pitying my inability to express myself. “I’m sorry,” I manage to get out between sobs, head bowed toward the shaking hands in my lap, tears falling in sync with the rain on the window pane.
“Anna,” he says softly, and his hand moves swiftly toward me, and before I can acknowledge what he’s doing or respond to the gentleness in his voice, I’m flinching away, the entire right side of my body crushed up against the passenger door. Liam jerks his hand backward, shock flickering across his expression, then confusion, and then hurt.
His jaw goes rigid in that way I’ve come to know over the past few months, the way it does before lacrosse games and history tests and conversations with his parents, and I know, I know, I’ve lost him.
It’s the first day of summer, 2013. Mom and Dad are fighting again. I’m hanging upside down from the edge of my bed, hoping the rush of blood to my ears will drown out their voices, because the bedroom door is broken and won’t shut all the way, and I don’t know if it would be enough to shut them out anyway.
“Anna!” Mom’s shrill voice seeps through the crack in the door, and I start, jerking myself upright so quickly that black spots flash in front of my eyes. “Get down here!” I bolt down the stairs, knowing that the longer I take, the angrier she’ll get. “What the hell is all this?” she asks when I arrive, gesturing to the haphazard stack of papers on the kitchen counter. My homework. I’d forgotten to put it away.
“Oh, sorry,” I say quietly, ducking my head and gathering the papers before she can say anything else. “Just homework,” I explain. The vein in her neck is showing, so I know she’s angry, but I don’t think she’ll hit me with Dad around; at that thought, I let out a small, inaudible sigh of relief.
“Did you finish?” she asks, crossing her arms. Her tone of voice tells me she’s looking for something else to be angry about, something besides Dad or my little mess on the counter; I know because it’s so familiar to me.
I nod, fixing my gaze on the wall behind her, the one with the dry-erase calendar that hasn’t been erased for months. Maybe years. Another summer’s memories stick to its glossy white surface–“Aquarium,” “Beach Day,” “Movie Monday.” Those memories are dim now, like looking at a face through a glass, its features all distorted and wrong.
I guess Mom says something else while I’m not looking, because suddenly she’s snapping her fingers in front of my eyes, an impatient line creasing her forehead. “What the hell are you looking at?” she bites. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
I tilt my chin up, my own wide eyes fixed on the space between hers. “Sorry,” I say pathetically, hoping futilely that the weak sentiment won’t set her off. Key word: futilely.
“You’re sorry for what?” she says, louder this time.
“I’m sorry for—”
“Look at me!” My gaze has fallen back to the wall again, drawn away from her like we’re two equally polarized magnets, and she’s grabbing my chin with bony fingers before I have the chance to correct my mistake. She shoves my face close to hers, so that our noses almost touch, and her breath blows hot in my face as she continues. “What is wrong with you!”
Not a question, really. A statement. There’s something wrong with you.
At nine years old, you can’t stop yourself from crying about these things. Tears well in my eyes, and a weak sob escapes my throat. I can’t tell if my head is sore from lying upside down for so long or Mom’s grip or the way she shook it, as if she could shake everything she hated out of me. I don’t know if there would be anything left.
I brace for the slap I know is coming (“you cry too much”), but it hurts less than I expect it to, the finger-striped pain on my cheek dull in comparison to heart-shaped pain in my chest, like something’s been carved out of me.
What’s wrong with you, she said.
So many things.
* * *
“What’s all this?” the high school counselor asks, gesturing to the spread of homework assignments and scratch paper on her desk with stiff, manicured fingers. The room reeks of stale candy and an unqualified overeagerness to help.
“I . . .” I begin slowly, only just now noticing the recurring pattern on the papers before me.
They’re all mine. And they’re all ornamented with dark, pencil sketches in the margins–unpleasant faces and eyes that I can’t recall drawing, each figure marked with pencil-smudge bruises or stitchlines.
“I like to draw,” I say quietly, hoping it will be enough to get her to drop this, enough to get her to stop looking at me with those sugary brown eyes, her eyebrows knit in concern as if concern will make any difference at all.
“I can see that,” she says in monotone, the faintest trace of pity leaking through her expression. “Can you tell me more about these drawings?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, but my voice sounds unconvincing even to me, and I can feel my eyes burning with the weight of tears begging to be let out.4 Like I’ve been waiting a hundred years for some excuse to talk about it. Someone to talk to about it. I shift my gaze from the stack of papers to my hands, drawing in a deep breath to still the shaking that seems to be spreading throughout my entire body.
“Anna, honey,” she says warmly, the syrupy sweetness of her voice sending a wave of nausea to my stomach. “Look at me.”
I dig my teeth into the insides of my cheeks, press my fingernails into my palms, focusing on the two sensations, the way the pain is sharp at first, growing and growing and growing and then stopping completely, only the ghost of an ache lingering in my mouth, on my hands. It’s almost comforting, the predictability of pain. The control. The way I can stop it and start it like a movie, drag myself away from reality at any given moment and bask in its all-encompassing warmth.
Giving up any hope of sentimental eye contact, Mrs. Clark shifts in her seat, crossing her legs and resting her clasped hands on one knee. “We’re worried about you,” she says. I seem to be hearing a lot of that mysterious “we” lately. Who is “we”? And don’t they have anything better to do than decipher a 17-year-old’s homework doodles? “We think you might need some help, love.” First honey, now love. The words flutter in my stomach like bats in a cage.
We think you might need some help. That’s what they say. What they’re thinking? There’s something wrong with you.
I know, I know.
“Have you talked to your parents about going to therapy?”
“Yeah,” I say, though that’s not entirely true. I talked to Dad about it. Before he moved out.
“I just got off the phone with the insurance,” he had said, a tired sigh slowing his words. “They said they’ll cover us at Grandview, but they’ve got a waiting list a mile long.”³ He shook his head, sat on the chair across from me, and sighed again. “They said unless you’re…you know, ‘a threat to yourself or others,’ as they put it,” he began, making quotations in the air with his fingers, “they can’t do anything.”9
Drawn back to reality by Mrs. Clark’s expectant stare, I say, “I don’t think it’s for me.” But I guess I wouldn’t know. I guess I’ll never get to find out.
“We’ve got to do something, Anna.” But what is there to do? If I’m not a threat to myself, if I’m not suicidal, is help even an option? She leans forward in her seat, scanning the display of homework and
demons with what appears to be a combination of worry and intrigue. “Your grades are dropping, your teachers are all either worried sick about you or fed up with your missing assignments–” Her intrigue has boiled over to impatience, and the sugar in her voice hardens. “What’s going on with you?” What’s wrong with you?
So many things. * * *
It’s the first day of school, 2017. Mom is driving me to my first day of eighth grade, the windows rolled down and letting in the late summer scent of apple blossoms and fresh air. It almost feels normal, sitting beside her like this, no pit in my stomach or heartbeat in my ears.
We still don’t talk about it.
Are you supposed to talk about things like this?
“Have a good first day, honey,” Mom says as I open the door and swing my backpack over my shoulder, shutting the door behind me. “I love you,” she says.
Wrinkles crease the corners of her eyes, shadow her brow with age, but otherwise, she looks the same as she did back then. Guilt doesn’t seem to tug at the corners of her smile or darken her blue eyes, and I want to be happy about that. Happy that she’s moved on, happy that our relationship is some echo of normal now, happy that I’m not afraid of her, happy that she doesn’t think about it every day like I do.
I want to be happy.
Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers. Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t just imagine it all.
“You too,” I say. I don’t know if I mean it.
I don’t know if she does either. * * *
“How was your first day?” Dr. Petrova asks, her posture relaxing to match her easy smile as I settle into the sofa across from her, pillows squishing me on either side.
After being admitted to a mental health facility, now officially considered “a threat to myself,” my insurance has agreed to cover therapy, along with six weeks of an in-patient PTSD recovery program.
“It was good,” I say. The staff here is nice, and all of the patients follow a tight but enjoyable schedule, which I appreciate. Staying busy helps.
“Well then, let’s dive right into it,” she says, sliding a clipboard off of her desk and scanning it with almond eyes through large, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Tell me about your mom.”
“I–I wouldn’t know where to start, I–” I stutter, a rapid-fire slideshow of moments and images flashing through my mind like bullets.
“The first memory you have of it happening,” she says, her voice warm and smooth like butter, her calmness softening the tension in the room, in my body.
I nod, waiting for my thoughts to dissipate and clinging to one in black and white, faded with time, Mom’s young face almost unrecognizable. “I was six or seven, I think.” My hands are shaking now, and I inhale through my nose, hold it, and exhale through my lips, the way they taught me during meditation this morning. “I wouldn’t eat dinner, and she was angry about it. I don’t remember why I wouldn’t eat it.” My words are coming out in fragments now, like mixed-up pieces of a puzzle being dumped onto a table. “She lost it. Grabbed my plate and smashed it over my head.” I flinch at my own words, recalling too vividly how the shards stuck to my hair, filled the bathtub that night. How she’d yelled at me for crying, called me dramatic, told Phoebe to stop trying to comfort me.
“It’s alright, Anna,” Dr. Petrova says, a sad smile curving her lips. “You can cry.”
To think that the answer was right here all along. To think that all I needed was for someone to tell me, You can cry. Someone to sit me down, look me in the eyes, and listen.
To think that I couldn’t have it until I tried to kill myself.
Until it was almost too late.
Tears burn my cheeks like rays of sunlight, and I feel as though I’ve come to the end of a long, dark tunnel, and I can finally see the sun.
Betrayal
miriam nicholson
Betrayal
Cold, pain
Hurting, tearing, shredding
Broken dreams, rising hope
Building, healing, feeling Warm, fuzzy Love
Letters
anonymous
blue light reveals a face concealed a secret not so secret
they may ignore what is there to see looking away
can’t hide your darkness that shrieks
weak is not a tiger prowling tall grass whispering to mistake quietness for weakness
i see through you you do not see me.
i’m fine
miriam nicholson
We say
As if we’re okay
As our souls are torn to shreds
i’m fine
We say In our own little way As our hearts break inside
i’m fine
We say As we blow away Any further questions
But inside we know Like burning coal That we are drowning In fear
We want to call out Or give out a shout
To get the help We need
Maybe one day we’ll say The words in our soul Before they tear us apart
Night Is Coming
christopher hae
The first night of homelessness
Night is coming. Something that seemed so welcome in the past with lazy afternoons beneath the mango trees now brings dread. What has changed? I am no longer surrounded by the familiar. My body is beaten and broken from the journey, my companion squeaks along next to me. Her metal legs bruised and lifeless. “Come on,” I whisper, “we can do it, it’s not that far now.” I look up and feel the sun fading. This Omnipresent master that has whipped me with his lashes now seems to take pity on me. His lashes replaced with a warm embrace. As if to warn me about the approaching night.
Darkness. Flashes of my family whispering good night flutter through my mind. “I love you.” Where is she? Why does she not look familiar to me? Why do I dread her coming.
The forest comes alive. This sense of dread digging a hole in my stomach is getting worse. My heart, which has been struggling all day is picking up pace. Creatures stir in their place. Their cries quickening with each footstep as if anticipating a spectacle. The road which had seemed so scary, offering the only hope of salvation.
Why am I doing this? I left everything to die alone out here in the middle of nowhere. Darkness is approaching and this time I cannot run. I cannot hide. I have no light to keep the darkness at bay.
My body strains against my companion. Her heavy breathing creaking and straining beneath the heavy load. With my arms around her I help her along. “You’ve got this,” I tell her, hoping that she didn’t catch the panic setting in my voice. Desperately I tell her of all the good things just over the next hill. “I give men hope, I keep nothing for myself” the scene between lord Elrond and Aragorn before the battle for middle earth plays in my mind.
Entombment. The cold wisp of night sets in. She is here. Her cold embrace stings against the sun kissed scars. My body defeated by the heat of the sun recoils from her. No. You have taken the light. You won’t take my heat.
The deafening cry of the hillside as all the creatures of the forest seem to ring out their voices in unison. An unholy song of praise for this mother all encompassing. Even the moon dares not show his face. I am alone. I am defeated.
A sound stirs from behind me. A low grumbling noise across a chasm from another world. I recognize it. Hope however faint is hanging by a thread. My heart leaps. My companion whimpers a questioning squeak. The sound gets louder. Now thundering like the scream of a thousand chariots. It gets closer. I can feel the vibrations in the earth below me. My heart leaps with excitement. Will this passing army save me from her.
I am blinded. The light feels warm against my skin. The embrace of darkness fading. Please help me. I plead in silence. My companion resting at my side. The rumbling stops. I open my eyes. A strange woman is looking at me.
“Are you lost?” She asks.
“Yes” I answer weakly.
“Do you need help?” she asks, her gaze shifts to my companion.
“Yes please” I answer. Desperately trying to remember my manners.
“You aren’t going to rape me, are you?” she asks with a nervous smile.
“No” I reply. Caught off guard by the question. My eyes strain against the light. Don’t blink if you blink she’ll think you’re lying, my mind whispers.
“Get in” she says. Satisfied by my answer.
The van opens as a woman with short pink hair steps out. She helps me load my companion in the back.
“Jesus!” she says. “This thing weighs a ton! How long have you been pushing it for?” she asks.
“We broke down about 6 hours ago” I say. She seemed surprised and intrigued. She questioned me about why I was all the way out in the middle of nowhere.
My voice seemed to have returned and started answering her automatically as if glad to finally have someone to speak to. But my mind was elsewhere. I had met darkness alone and without a home and I was saved at the last minute. In a little while I’ll be inside a house with food in my belly, a warm bath, and a hot bed. Something about this woman promised all that. I did in fact get that. How many people can say the same? How many people dread the approach of night without a home to guard and protect them from her?
Memories
- olga gao (photo collage)
Psycho (1960) dir. by Alfred Hitchcock
dakota alexander
Sticky, soda covered floors and peeling faux leather recliners live In my place of worship.
Shared dreams, collective nightmares, and funny recollections paint the impossibly big screen in a whisper-shared dark
Feste
heather graham
Grape Apes
And spaghetti tuxedos
Sneakers at prom
And tangerine speedos
Moon Monsters
And sticky Teflon men
Dancing with the upbeat
The clumsy comedian
Type Figure
(type figure)
olga gao
Growing Pains
anna belle holley (multimedia)
Closure
ashley marlin
Closure isn’t something to be given, It never has been.
As much as we cry and beg for someone to take fault, That’s not how it works. Closure is learned with time. Created by you, for you. Eventually your thoughts will inevitably embody every ending. Scrounging up an explanation for your failure. Only hoping it satisfies your sorrows. As the days move forward you begin to realize, They will never say sorry. Never give you a reason. Never come clean. Never own up to their own choices. In the end it’s only you. You and the lessons learned because of it, Because of them.
That’s the beauty of growth. Understanding mistakes were made on both ends, No one is to blame.
There’s no room for wimpy apologies or false explanations, Only space to change and grow. Closure is learned through growth. Blooming into a person who respects them, their choices, and your own as well. Your growth is the only closure you need.
A good game of gin rummy
Heather Graham
Sticky, soda covered floors and peeling faux leather recliners live In my place of worship.
Shared dreams, collective nightmares, and funny recollections paint the impossibly big screen in a whisper-shared dark I was never very good at gin rummy
But we played and played for hours
Behind the cards, His Cheshire smile filled the room with stories and songs and art
Some of them real and some of them made up
Every turn of card or strategic discard,
Painting the walls with (broken) hearts and diamond shine.
Holding on to melds and runs to build tension
Stoic composure masking risk and gamble.
With every hand and deal, He taught me about
A world of shuffling and bluffing and passion
Spades and clubs decorating melody and brush stroke.
Temptation
Heather Grahan
Photograohy
Cat Magic
Aubrey Nadauld
Charcoal
Home Is Where the Mold Is
Reilly Collins
As we pulled up to the small apartment in Midvale my heart sank. I was no longer next to the towering trees and peaceful hillsides of our old home in South Ogden. Instead, we were forced into a cramped and run-down apartment far from the home I was accustomed to, and even worse; I was no longer going to be living with all my brothers. I was just going to be living with just one. Though I was still a little excited about living in a new place with my own room.
As we walked inside the apartment all my excitement was gone in an instant. The apartment was nothing like the pictures I had seen online. It was old, dirty and there was mold in the cabinets and over the walls which caused a foul odor that filled the air. It smelled like whoever had lived there before hid some rotten cheese, and milk that had been spreading through the air like some sort of virus. The walls were thin, and the windows were small, making the place feel more claustrophobic than I thought was possible. The air felt heavy and damp, like the humidity of Florida on a summer day, but with the same terrible smell that lingered in every corner of the apartment. The bathrooms were tiny and looked like every piece of tile was about to fall off the wall. I couldn’t help but think “This is where we are going to be living?”
Two of my older brothers, as well as aunts, uncles, and family friends, were helping us move in. By looking around the room and seeing everyone’s expressions, I could tell that no one thought that this place was nice. Everyone looked grossed out and I could sense that no one wanted to stay there for very long.
“At least I had my own room though,” I thought trying to find some silver lining in the situation. Though immediately after that, I became even more worried that my room was going to look the same as the rest of the place. I went to my room right after that. Turned out, there wasn’t much mold in the room. My chest felt heavy thinking that no mold was a big win.
I walked back into the living room and looked over at my mom to see an odd look on her face. I asked her “Do you like the apartment” she looked back and said, “it’s different; I’ll
tell you that.” I leaned in a little closer and whispered to her “Are you all right?” so I wouldn’t gain her any unwanted attention from the others helping us move. She looked back at me with a half-forced smile and nodded, but it was obvious that even she seemed uneasy about our new living situation.
It didn’t help that at that moment my oldest brother said out loud in a sarcastic tone “This place is great. Looks like you have already made some friends.”
Out of the corner of my eye was what looked to be a family of rats the size of footballs running across the living room floor as if their life depended on it. This of course made my mom scream, my brothers laugh, and made me just squirm.
“At this point, I don’t think anything will surprise me” I said out loud with a saddened tone.
It was at that moment when it felt like all our family and friends said in unison “looks like we better get going.”
Everyone had left and now it was just me, my brother Derrick, and my parents left to drown in this swamp of an apartment. We began to unpack our belongings and set up our new place. All of us deep into our own thoughts. My only thought was “this is my life now”.
Staff Pick Author’s Bio
Anna Belle Holley Trigger Words (Fiction)
Anna Belle is a queer, autistic, narcoleptic high school dropout. She is known for failing classes and acing exams, being nocturnal, singing in public restrooms, getting banned from sharing her “unnecessarily dark” writing in class, starting projects she never finishes, picking up a hundred hobbies at once, and offending people with her enthusiastic opinions. She is an avid Android user, Twilight reader, music listener, food eater, and–as you now know–story writer.
Some of her most recent accomplishments include driving on the freeway, texting people back, graduating from an OCD and anxiety treatment center, getting CPR and first aid certified, and learning how to tie a tie. Someday she aspires to write a musical, figure out her style, learn Khmer (and about ten other languages), decorate a grocery store for Christmas like that scene in Elf, adopt children, be rich, stop caring what other people think, visit every country, and break a bone (she never has).
She is excited to be publishing her debut novel in the coming year, “Green,” a literary coming-of-age novel about love, loss, and hope. Her short story, “Trigger Words,” was inspired by the frustration she felt as an adult dealing with leftover trauma she never had the money to confront in her younger years.
Staff Pick Author’s Bio
Born and raised in Utica, NY, Maggie Hawkins has been an English instructor since 2006. She earned an undergraduate degree in Political Science from The College of New Rochelle, a Masters in English from Long Island University, and an MFA in Screenwriting from National University.
She has been writing poetry and short stories since elementary school and published her first novella, a paranormal thriller titled Hallowed Ground, in March 2022.
In September 2023, she also published a collection of poetry titled Moody Black Chick. She considers herself a spiritual person and loves studying the interconnectedness of all life and the mysteries of the past. She practices tarot reading, meditation, and other forms of soul-searching and divination. She has been teaching at SLCC since 2014.
Maggie Hawkins Vaudeville (Poetry)
Staff Pick
Author’s Bio
Portrait drawing is an integral part of my art journey that I will always cherish. Drawing a person means observing the details that make each individual unique, creating a deep admiration and appreciation for life and all our differences. My digital collage, “Natural Curiosity,” represents that belief. However, in a world where life gets busy and everyone is isolated in their own bubble, the raw connection and beauty of human interaction can become lost. We forget that every person has a story, and we pass each other by without acknowledging their presence in our surroundings. My collage is a reminder to revive the natural curiosity we had as children, starting with something as simple as looking up and seeing the world around us.
Monica Phim
Natural Curiosity (Visual Art)
Daniel D. Baird
Ride’em Cowboy (Photography)
Work in the SWRC!
Writing something? As a student, you can work with consultants in the Student Writing & Reading Center for any writing (or reading) assignment for any class here at SLCC. Stop by any of our locations (RWD: AAB129; SCC: 1-137; JRD: JSTC206) or visit our website at www.slccswc.org to find out more.
Need a job? We also have employment opportunities for SLCC students to work as SWRC Consultants. Contact Clint.Gardner@slcc.edu for more information.
Play an instrument?
Join the Salt Lake Community College
Taylorsville Community Symphony Orchestra
Rehearsals are Thursday evenings from 7-9 pm at Bennion Jr. High School, 6055 South 2700 West Taylorsville, UT 84129
All students of SLCC as well as members of the community welcome to join.
Students can register for credit by signing up for MUSC 1460 Symphony Orchestra.
Accepting string, woodwind, brass, and percussion players.
For more information contact: Lauren Tian Machado, Music Director taylorsvillesymphony@gmail.com
Follow us on Facebook: Taylorsville-SLCC Symphony Orchestra
Thank you to all past and current Folio artists, writers, musicians, dancers, photographers, activists, and more for trusting Folio with your creations!
