Sisyphus by SLUH

Sisyphus Winter ’17 Outside cover: collograph by Joe Fentress Front inside cover: photograph by Brendan Voigt Back inside cover art, clockwise from top right: Recollection by Lancer Li, print by Will Slama, photograph by Brendan Voigt, Starry Night by William Kelly, Bold and Brash by Blaise Lanter, photograph by Brendan Voigt 3 My Savior, poem by James Pollard 4 solar print by Eric Heard 5 Es Phoenix, prose by Carter O’Donahue 6 photograph by Brendan Voigt 7 Blue Sclerae, poem by Matthew Loranger Perfectly Flawed, poetry by Nick Sondermann watercolor by Craig Grzechowiak 8 Summer Echoes, charcoal drawing by Lancer Li 9 Aodhamair in the Land of Youth, fiction by Mitchell Shorey 11 photograph by Brendan Voigt 12 Ode to the Fireflies, poem by Ed Gartner 13 QuickVisit, photograph by William Kelly 14 A Commentary on Whims, prose by J. Burke, watercolor by Joe Fentress 15 Bubble Blowing, prose by Andrew Gammon 16 Winter Light, charcoal drawing by Lancer Li 17 Madness, poem by Matthew Loranger 18 An Attempt to Lose My Temper, poem by Mitchell Shorey watercolor by Joe Fentress 19 Feelings on repeat, poem by Nick Sondermann 20 America’s Dodecahedron, drawing by Lancer Li 21 yes you said yes I will Yes., poem by William George photograph by Liam John 23 Sleepless Nights, prose by Will Lymberopolous 24 print by Matthew Thomas 27 print by Matthew Ceriotti 29 print by Joe Fentress 30 Reeds, print by Sean Anderson 31 Parthenope, poem by Matthew Loranger

31 charcoal drawing by Lancer Li 32 All Fears of the Forest by Matt Dorsey 33 photograph by Brendan Voigt 34 An Opera Singer in Middle School, prose by Trevor Scott 35 Another Day in the Office, photograph by William Kelly 36 Headphones, Part II, poem by Ed Gartner 37 Monday Night Club, prose by Rich Moran 38 Men in the Moon, poem by Ben Krummenacher 39 collograph by Matthew Ceriotti 40 Grow Up, prose by James Pollard 41 Afternoon Stroll, photograph by William Kelly 42 Gallant Crossing, photograph by William Kelly 43 Devotion, poem by Ed Gartner 45 Minute Man, poem by Frank Kovarik 47 To the Bricklayers of the Raphael Hotel, 1926, poem by Suzanne Renard 48 A Spider on the Wall, poetry by Gabe Lepak 49 print by Joseph Fentress 50 Phosphene, poetry by Brad Gale Ice Mosaics, photograph by William Kelly 51 The Mulch Pile, prose by Joe Feder 53 But for the Grace of God, poem by Matthew Quinlivan 54 Congratulations, Department Chair, poem by William George 55 photograph by Tate Portell 55 (Unnamed), poetry by Seamus McFarland 56 Hands, poem by Rory Butler 57 Abandoned Metal City, photograph by William Kelly 58 3643 Junction Blvd, poem by Brad Gale 59 print by Joe Fentress 60 Sunday Best, poem by Matthew Loranger Mischievous Forest Friend, photograph by William Kelly 61 Paris, poem by Jack Buehring The Kraken Flower, photograph by W. Kelly 62 The Clashing Dance, prose by Carter O’Donahue 63 design by Joe Fentress 64 Crumple, poetry by Jonathan Shaver

My Savior James Pollard A sorry sack of wrinkled skin wastes away as wind whisks its wiry hair, eroding like stone sediment, fumbling with something in its fingers Fingers calloused, cracked; flesh frayedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;fumbling with clay It kneads and kneads and kneads. It needs. Flecks gather underneath the nailsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it wails. Wincing as russet fingers caked with mud drip blood. Its wrinkled skin dried by the arid wind. Pools of its own piss make peninsulas of its toes. Nobody knows. Nobody knows. Nobody Knows this unknown mesh of flesh and bone this unknown pile of bile not shown was once a man with a house and a wife was once a human Till fortune spun her blithe wheel. I kneel. To pray. To pray to it, to him that sorry sack of wrinkled skin.

solar print by Eric Heard

Es Phoenix Carter O’Donoghue

smael was cold. His jaw ached from the uncontrollable chattering of his teeth. The cold seemed as foreign as the new land he dreamt of, the United States. My grandmother always preached to him to wear a jacket, even though Mexico City’s climate never required one. She’d drilled into him the necessity to be prepared, but the sole moment he truly needed one, it was ripped away from him by a branch. Now the jacket belonged to the desert. Could my grandma be the origin of my father’s persistent nagging of me? “Do you have all of your books?” or, “Did you remember to pack an extra pair of shorts or a warm jacket?” Throughout my childhood, the emphasis on always being prepared was hammered into my mind, derived simply from his not possessing a jacket when he needed it most. The jacket was only a sliver of his problems. His feet hurt. The once-pure white sneakers now barely clung to his aching feet. The shoes were now nothing more than shredded pieces of leather, just as obliterated and unprepared for the journey as their owner. The shoes served as a frail shield, poorly defending his feet from the jutting rocks scattered on the desert floor. The darkness of the night engulfed the world around him, hindering his vision, and giving no reassurance against the numerous predators littered throughout the desert. Each step was further into the unknown. The only source of security originated from the moon and the stars, lighting up the sky. Although he felt like prey anticipating the worst, this fear served as a constant reminder of his motives for his journey.

Growing up in a society entrenched with extreme poverty and little opportunity, his future always seemed bleak. Violence and gangs ravaged the crumbling concrete slums he lived in. With an alcoholic father providing no consistent income, he’d had to work since he was twelve. By sixteen, supporting his family hauled him away from the already destitute education he was barely receiving. His future promised little success. He resided in a dark world, seeming to have no escape. Just as the moon and stars lit up the night sky, providing escape from the dark, his escape from this dark world of poverty, struggles, and violence, was the United States. Her warm breath crept up his frosty neck. Although they weren’t nearly close to the top of the hill, they’d been trudging up it for a period feeling like hours, and her exaggerated gasps for breath had already set in. “Tenemos que parar, no puedo caminar mas,” uttered the soft, broken voice fuming against his neck. “Espere hasta a llegar a la clima,” advised another unidentifiable voice, but Ismael didn’t check behind him. He focused his sight forward on the bumpy terrain ahead of him, thinking only of the future. “Este pinche puta ya esta cansado,” he silently muttered under his breath. He possessed no pity for the thin exhausted woman, whose round belly protruded out of her filthy purple T-shirt. Although she rarely complained, her need for frequent stops caused him to regard her as an obstacle. While he secretly felt relief from the stops, as he and the misfits he was with shared her exhaustion, his only worry was success. His mouth felt as dry as

the desert, lacking the usual moist feeling. He was desperate enough to kill for a Coke. The same layers of filth piled up on his teeth, same greasy fluid developed in the wild locks of his curly black hair, and same terrible onion odor clung to his body, but he silently appreciated the woman. Her strength motivated him to draw his from an inner part of himself. If a woman wasn’t complaining, he wouldn’t either. She was trudging up the same hill, holding the same hope for another life. Ismael’s emotions were a delicate bomb full of fear, uncertainty, and anxiousness ready to explode, but her composure gave him the strength to suppress it. Dragging their seemingly lifeless bodies to the top of

the hill, they finally encountered the leader of the group. The “Coyote,” a name based on his ability to disappear into the darkness and reappear ahead of them, greeted them. “Estamos parando aqui,” he instructed Ismael and the others. The Coyote rarely spoke, so each word possessed extra significance. They halted on top of the hill and squatted on the dry desert floor—except Ismael. “¿Que ciudad esta alli Wey?” he gasped in amazement towards the illuminating glow of the city below. The lights shining from the distant city captivated him, filling him with awe and wonder, his exhaustion fading away. Coyote turned, “Es Phoenix.”

photograph by Brendan Voigt

Blue Sclerae Matthew Loranger Each step is a nail Driven through weak bone on a Base of dust and air

Perfectly Flawed Nick Sondermann Like vines on a fence There is something about you I hate and I love

watercolor by Craig Grzechowiak

Summer Echoes, charcoal drawing by Lancer Li

Aodhamair in the Land of Youth Mitchell Shorey

odhamair woke to a scraping sound, like a car bottoming out on a speed bump. His room was freezing, the bed sheets laced with crystallized dew. He shivered, sitting up with an indignant grunt. The window was open. In the dead of February. He dropped to the floor, wincing as his feet met a thin layer of powdery snow, and stepped gingerly to the window, peering out. The clouds were strange tonight, dark but with a tinge of green, and roiling like mad. He chalked the coloring up to crappy streetlamp light and exhaustion. And storms were hardly unusual this time of year. The city below, narrow streets and houses packed right up against each other, was empty except for the drunks stumbling home after a good number too many. It was unsettling to see such a crowded area of Dublin so quiet. Aodhamair slammed the window shut and flipped the latch into place. He yawned, rubbing his arms to bring back some of the warmth, and went back to the bed. He pulled a second blanket from off the rocking chair by his nightstand, shook out his sheets, and lay down again, closing his eyes. Even with the cold of the room, sleep came quickly. He’d spent the morning running papers to scrape some extra cash together, the day in school, and the evening scrambling to grasp an understanding of the elusive creature his teachers called algebra. And grey skies sapped his energy like nothing else. For the first time, Aodhamair had begun to understand why adults were so tired all the time. When you had no other opportunity for rest, sleep stopped being an inconvenience and became a commodity. His dream took place on one of those television beaches, where the sun was set

just low enough in the sky to spread warm colors across the horizon, and the sand between his toes was white and clean. Somebody had started a bonfire, close enough that the heat was brushing his arms and the smell of smoke was near overwhelming. Children several years younger than him were sitting around, their mouths crafting high-pitched sounds and indistinguishable words, as people often did in his dreams. He looked out at the ocean, drawn in by the endlessness of where it met the sun and clouds. After a minute, he noticed that the non-words and noise had stopped. Aodhamair turned to face inland. The bonfire had become a pillar of light, stretching up into the indigo and out of sight. The children were golden, their faces fixed in horrified understanding. He looked down to where the sand had been and saw a flat sheet of grey metal. There were words on his lips now, distinct and alive. Tìr na nÓg. A scraping sound woke Aodhamair again. He sat up in bed with a gasp. The sudden silent safety of his bedroom was as shocking as the nightmare had been. Catching his breath, he looked around, searching for the source of the noise. The window was open again. Disgusted, he pulled himself from bed and ran to it, slamming it shut and flipping the latch into place. The clouds outside had dropped lower. The storm was near. The street lamp below flickered wildly, as if it hadn’t the strength to fend off the night and the winter. “If you keep closing it, I’m going to keep opening it.” Aodhamair jumped, knocking his head against the top edge of the plaster alcove for his window. The pain brought up tears,

so when he whipped around to face the intruder, his vision was distorted. A girl several centimeters taller than him, with blonde hair and an antiquated silver dress, stood in the shadow where his walls met in a corner, near the closet. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, rubbing the sore spot on his head. “Long ago, when I first journeyed from the storm that anchors me in this world, man called me Niamh.” She strode towards him. He dodged out of the way, but she was just moving to sit in the rocking chair by his nightstand. “What do you want? Why are you here?” Her head snapped up. She met his eyes. Hers were the color of the amber he’d seen in museums and pictures, with animals from thousands of years ago preserved within. “‘Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame.’” Aodhamair didn’t know what to say. He was not convinced that he was awake. Reality had never included beautiful girls to occupy his room in the middle of the night, quoting a dead man’s poetry at him. The girl, Niamh, looked him up and down, as if she were weighing the merits of purchasing a particularly awkward-looking race horse. “Your people used to fall at my feet when I came for them, you know. I’ve had warriors begging for the pleasure of my company for centuries. They knew what I stood for. Strength. Beauty. Eternity.” She traced the wooden rings of the rocking chair’s arms with her fingertips. Aodhamair’s own arms broke out in goosebumps. He crossed them over his chest. “What I never had to tell them was that we needed them far more than they wanted us.” A knot of heat leapt up into Aodhamair’s belly, and a strange fuzziness fell over his thoughts. He stepped closer to the strange

girl and seated himself against his bedframe, suddenly unable to feel the sharp cold of the floor. “What for?” Niamh smiled and beckoned him closer. He crouched and shifted over to sit at her feet, leaning back against the rocking chair. She tangled her fingers in his hair, drawing her hands slowly over his scalp. He let out an involuntary sigh, and the stark room took on a warm golden tint. She giggled. “Heat. Eternity is as cold as it is marvelous. Mortality is, by definition, fleeting, but it burns with incredible ferocity. I’m afraid we’re quite addicted to it.” She slid a hand under his pajama shirt collar, brushing his shoulder with her fingernails. Aodhamair felt himself flicker like the street lamp outside his window. He squirmed. “We?” “The faeries. The Tuatha Dé Danann. The Good Neighbors. The Forever People.” She paused for a moment, sucking in a breath. Aodhamair knew this to be a performance. He had little reason to believe she needed breath as he did. “Will you come with me, Aodhamair?” “Where?” “The Land of Youth. I can make you strong like nobody you’ve ever known. I can make you so handsome that those who look at you will cover their faces in shame. I can make you golden. Come with me to Tìr na nÓg.” Aodhamair remembered his dream: a blanket of grey metal at his feet, a pillar of fire piercing the sky, children frozen into gilded statues with agony played out across their faces.... The chill of his bedroom swept back into his awareness, the golden tint fading into shadow. Niamh’s fingertips, he realized, were like ice. And the storm outside raged so powerfully that the streetlamp had gone completely dark. “I’m sorry. I hope your people find their heat,” Aodhamair said to the faery girl, standing up and opening the window before turn-

ing to face her again. From one of her amber eyes fell tears of ice; from the other, tears of molten precious metal. She lurched towards him, her hand contorted monstrously in a desperate attempt to claw at his face, but by

the time she reached him, Niamh was a brisk wind, passing harmlessly around his torso and out into the storm. A moment passed while the clouds retreated into the sky, and the streetlamp retrieved its light.

photograph by Brendan Voigt

Ode to the Fireflies Ed Gartner

That night, thousands of stars danced between us as we clutched our wax swords and swung their flaming blades to ward off that night. Our hands, clasped, clutching; touching, lapsed: one last chance to catch fireflies in a childlike dance. depressed, joking; hoping expressed with our hands. Fireflies and goodbyes flit around the field. I draw a bead on a girl as she does the same and hands me her own: red now threaded on my aegis for the ages. Goodbye, fireflies. Diana exhaled you to light my skies for a single one of her breaths. My heart was a jar to capture you. Trapped, loving; shoving, englassed: one by one you died, flew, flickered out. Shattered, fleeing, being scattered, I found I was enraptured in my heart. Eleven remain to light my life

for every single one of my breaths. Good fire flies by, emblazing its blessing for my blindness. You led me well, set my feet. Now our paths diverge. Forget, forget! Fireflies, goodbye! My hands: calloused, grasping, lastingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;doubtless since you held them and ceased their shaking. Honored, skipping, flipping, treasuredâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; fly bright through my hands. Every night carries the magic of that night; that night, which has saved for me my every night.

Quick Visit, photograph by William Kelly

A Commentary on Whims John Burke

T 14

he faint white dotted line strobed past on his left. The guard rail remained a steady wall on his right. The irregular slithery cracks were swallowed up directly in front of him. Small droplets appeared on the windshield. Bigger droplets exploded on the glass and re-formed into thin running streams. The pounding of the wheels on pavement, the humming of the ancient engine struggling to push up the gentle incline, and the low roll of the distant thunder all added to the pounding, humming, and rolling already inside of his head. Then a new sound. The window squeaked down. The wind tossed his hair. The noises filled him. The mist made him feel alive.

watercolor by Joe Fentress

Bubble Blowing Andrew Gammon

hen I am twenty-five feet in the air, upside down, and hear an old man scream “BOOTY TURN” or “UUHP,” you best believe I’m going to turn my backside, for lack of a better term, “UUHP.” However, I don’t rely on these vocal cues while swimming, which is probably why I took to it so fast. While racing down the pool, I bellow a scream with each bubble blown, as if I were trying to scare off a bear. At each turn my gusto elevates from a semibaritone to a prepubescent first tenor, and at every finish my sound becomes blocky and periodic, like a panting dog. All this screaming may come off as strange, but I need the sound. I need the loudness. Screaming about the little nuisances throughout my day or just for the hell of it gets my blood pumping and my mind sharpened on what needs to be done. Sadly, I don’t have the luxury of a face full of water to muffle my screams throughout my day. Yelling while in the middle of a dive is usually frowned upon by the judges, and shouting while running down the pole vault strip would make me choke on my own breath. Not to mention most of my teachers would not appreciate me cursing out the chair that stubbed my toe earlier that morning while I grinded through a test. However, I have found loopholes. My pole vault coach stared at me with wide, confused eyes when I first asked him to scream at me as I sprinted toward my vault. He was uneasy, being a quiet, humble man who wouldn’t send a steak back if it came frozen to the plate. However, within the next couple of vaults I had improved a full bar height, causing him to gladly embrace the new arrangement and begin screaming out things

like “BOOTY TURN,” so that I would flip over in the air and arc my backside as if I were just punched in the gut. While learning the reverse one and a half, I requested my dive coach to puff out a short noise when I needed to come out of my tuck. This little “UUHP” made me bust out of my tight ball with strength and aggression, saving my back from the smacks that made people turn and pray. Although I’ve had success finding loopholes for sports, when it comes to school work, it gets messy. Listening to music while preparing for tests makes me angry; watching T.V. while doing homework proves about as effective as playing Operation on a roller coaster; and pen and foot tapping makes me bite down so hard on my back molars that if I switched to my front teeth, half of them would shatter. The loud sounds that help so much with sports sabotage my academics. I do all my school work in the basement because the slightest noise my family makes can set me off on a flurry of thoughts that perseverate along for a good fifteen minutes. During my free period, I work at the single desks in the library, supposedly the quietest area in the school. This is where I take my history notes (I can’t stand the subject so I might as well get it out of the way when I can focus the best with the least distraction). But, for the past week, two freshmen have decided to eat their lunches and babble in my once-quiet sanctuary. I have tried to manage working over the noise, but let’s just say last Friday’s test over the aftermath of the Great Depression went just as well as Hoover’s policies to fix it. However, just because studying in a wind tunnel of freshman chatter and potato chip crunches proved more difficult to combat than sprinting down the pool with screaming breaths, it’s still not a task so mountainous that it can’t be solve with something as simple as a little bit of bubble blowing.

Winter Light, charcoal drawing by Lancer Li

Madness Matthew Loranger The softness of your touch pours an ethereal haze into my mind where there is no sun or stars, only the moon her light cast upon us, giving us the madness the madness that told us to venture deeper into that cold darkness the madness that told us when we had felt the otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand and when I had felt yours, I felt a conversion experiencing the Divine for the first time thus, I threw myself to you like Gaia to the night You have created a storm within me I want to be drenched in your love, to be enveloped by your passions, fears, and desires I cannot look at you without being silenced by the thunder youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve created in my head and so, as we lie here, love to love, I have one wish: let these words be your mirror.

An Attempt to Lose My Temper Mitchell Shorey

18 Meet your mark, spinning stone, and disperse flat sheets of stagnant glass. For if I do not see the tattered scraps of my temperament strewn in the air tonight, then his brand of surface love will learn how to paralyze me.

watercolor by Joe Fentress

Feelings on Repeat Nick Sondermann Sherbert layers melting down Into the hills, painted gold as a crown With the sunset bringing gray night Whose star-speckled cloak may conceal the flight Of my soul in form of words Onto this page and off again, like birds Flapping, undecided of the direction Of this poem and, seeking protection, My emotions couple with sounds In form of words, my pencil pounds My paper, desperate for some deeper meaning For these words that are never fleeting Just like the sunset whose glow recedes Only to return again i feel and i write i write but it doesn’t feel right i don’t know what words i need All i know is to heed The call of the page and the feeling of rage That tells me to tell you How i feel, but if i do, You will leave me and break my heart And that is why i can’t say “i love you”

Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dodecahedron, drawing by Lancer Li

yes you said yes I will Yes. William George Before the doctors gave us the final word, one so suavely leaning flat-palmed upon the window sill, believing, perhaps, the manner of his speaking could charm from his words their chill, the other standing well below my bed, the chart with my latest numbers pressed to her starched coat and, beneath that, her breasts, comforted, perhaps, by her closeness to the door, we would wrap our lives’ fragility in a cellophane of possibilities and gibes, fashioning stories you and I would spin to breathe into our sadness life–– Remember the time you made me promise to harvest all the gold from your filled teeth?–– Mostly we’d talk of sprinkling the ashes of whoever would go first: You promised me Newgrange or the Dingle Bay and I promised you Provence or Hatteras. Sometimes, like mad morticians, we’d threaten places we wouldn’t get caught dead in, like Youngstown, Oh. or Nanticoke, Pa., you and I, to play at cover-up, but after, we could not revive our game, for the doctors’ deadly data had stripped away all layers of diaphany we had draped around our shivering hopes that it would not truly come to this. And then last night, while snuggled in my bed we spoke of ashes one last time. You chilled me with your planning. What did you mean by being so prepared? You said you’d fly to Dublin and rent a car for the trip to the tomb at Brú na Bóinne. Your pockets would be torn, then loosely oversewn so that, when the tour guide offed the lights,

you could tear your pockets and let me go. How long had you been waiting for the word to execute your plan I want to ask but cannot bear to know? How calmly will you leave whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left of me in that cold, dark place to be trampled on until the end of time? And just how gladly will you linger at the mouth of that low-lintelled, ancient tomb to stretch the ache of me from your bowed back and fill your lungs with bracing Irish air?

photograph by Liam John

Sleepless Nights Will Lymberopolous

t was ten till midnight as I drove down Keebler Road. The fall season had come and gone; it was just cold enough to regret not taking a jacket. The car’s heater forced air from the vents, so I turned it to low, leaving just the hum of the engine as I coasted down the thirty-five mph lane, my car repeatedly illuminating brighter and brighter orange and then fading back to a shadow. I debated calling Chloë. She was a short brunette girl with a nice laugh and a cute smile, but could be bitter to people she didn’t like. I would call her late at night just to hook up. Some days I would go without her, checking to see if she would be the one to reach out, but she never did. I mean, she was cool, but our relationship was never more than friends with benefits. I flicked through my contacts and found hers. She would be up, even on a Tuesday night. But for some reason I couldn’t get my thumb to hit the dial button. I passed the road that lead to her neighborhood and then took a deep breath and looked back down at my phone. I called another number. After four or five rings I gave up and began to bring the phone down when I heard a faint and confused, “Hello?” I pushed the phone back to my ear. “Hey, you’re awake,” I said quietly. She laughed softly. “Not really. What are you up to?” I pulled off into a neighborhood. “Nothing.” I spun the wheel and rolled down another street. She laughed. “What?” “Hey, come outside. I’m here.” “What? What do you mean?” “I mean I’m here. Outside. I’m in my car. Here—I’ll flash my lights.”

I heard a few bustling noises, an “ouch,” and an exhale. I flashed my lights a few times. “Oh my goodness. Nick, what are you doing here? It’s midnight on a Tuesday night.” “Don’t know. Couldn’t sleep so I went for a drive and thought, ‘You know who I haven’t seen in awhile? My good friend Taylor Belle.’ So here I am. Throw some shoes on and grab a jacket; it’s chillier than you think.” “Where are we going?” “It’s a surprise.” She didn’t reply, and after awhile I figured she had dismissed me as crazy and gone back to bed. I had shifted into drive when her gate opened. Her body shimmered as she hurried over and opened the passenger door. Was she wearing silk pajamas? “You came?” I said as she closed the door. She didn’t face me but spoke as she buckled in, “Yeah, I figured I haven’t seen my good friend Nick Jansen in awhile.” I smiled. “So come on, you have a surprise?” I threw the car into drive. “Yeah.”

n a matter of seconds we were back on Keebler. “I’m not going to lie,” I said. “I’m kind of surprised you came.” “What? You don’t think I can be spontaneous too?” “I don’t know.” I laughed. “You were just always the one who needed a plan.” “And you were the one who never had one,” she whipped back. I’d be a bit hurt if it weren’t true. And I had a saying, “If someone tells you the truth and you take offense, then you are a fool because it is just the truth.” Speaking of not having a plan, I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t think she would come, and I would just go home. But now I needed something to do, some kind of surprise. I decided I’d just let the night take me where I needed to go.

“So…” I said, “how’s Justin?” She kind of laughed. “He’s good.” “What?” I said in defense. “Nothing, nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t have a surprise, do you?” “What? Yes I do,” I said, gesturing towards the dark road we rolled down. “We have to get there, though.” “Alright, alright.” She smiled and looked away. It was quiet for a moment as I searched

for something to say, but she was the one who broke the silence. “What ever happened to Casey?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, weren’t you two dating for awhile?” I laughed. “What, what’s so funny?” “Casey and me?” I laughed again. “No, no, we were hardly talking.” “What, really?” she said. “I thought you really liked her.” “Nah, she wasn’t really for me.” There was another moment of silence, so I started up again, “But it’s cool you and Justin are still together. Total time is like what? A year now?” “Yeah, something like that.” “Yeah.” Keebler Road opened up onto Belt Line. At the intersection there was a Taco Bell, a Bucky’s Express gas station, a Bank of America, and the Camelot Bowl. “Alright, so where are we going?” she asked again. I didn’t answer, but I finally had an idea. When the light turned green, I crossed the intersection and turned left into Camelot Bowl. “So you think you’re spontaneous, do you?” I asked with a laugh. “It’s closed?” she asked, looking at the vacant building. It was closed. The normally red, swirly, neon text that spelled Camelot Bowl was black. I spun the wheel as we passed the two front doors and drove behind the building, pulling the car into the stout alleyway where the dumpster sat. I dropped the car into park and turned off the engine. I pressed on the light above our heads. “Ready?” print by Matthew Thomas Taylor look at me, perplexed. I knew

she wanted me to explain, but I wanted her to answer first. “Nick,” she said, mouth gaped as she searched for words, “I’m dating Justin.” I laughed. “You’re crazy,” I said, then pulled the keys from the ignition and hopped out. As I walked around the car, I realized how much I was gambling. You see, I had a friend who worked at the bowling alley, and he said they never locked the back door. He said he would sneak in after hours and snatch a few drinks from the bar, but I never believed him. And now this whole night was riding on his word. I opened the passenger door. “You coming?” “Nick, it’s closed,” she said, her eyes switching over the back of the building. “Come on. I’ll protect you.” I said and reached my hand out. She paused, took it, and stepped out of the car. I began looking for the back door, trying not to make it obvious that I didn’t know where it was. “Nick, you don’t even know what you’re doing!” I shushed her softly. “Yes, I do. It’s right….” I said, walking further away and scanning the wall. “Here!” I waved her over and she began to walk. I watched her—blond hair, silver-silk pajamas and all—quicken her pace as she left the safety of the car. I turned back to the door, reached for the handle, and closed my eyes. “Please be open…. Please be open….” I slowly twisted the handle, fearing it would lock up on me, but it didn’t. Sweet! I pulled. Wait. I pulled again… It wouldn’t budge. Damn. I gripped it with both hands and yanked at it. The door grinded against the ground and then swung open. I laughed. “What are you doing? You can’t go in

there,” she said, stopping five feet from where I was holding the door open. “Sure I can.” I kept the door open and crossed to the inside of the building. “See?” I walked back out. “My dad knows the owner. We’ve done this before.” And I wasn’t lying. My dad knew the owner, just not on a personal level, and we had bowled, just not after hours. “You sure?” Taylor said, holding herself back. “Absolutely.” After a few seconds of contemplation, she shook her head, smiled, and began to walk towards me. She pointed a finger at me. “You’re crazy.” “I know.” I smiled. “It keeps things interesting.” I followed her inside. The dull lamp light from outside cut out as the door swung shut behind us. “Nick,” she whispered. “Yeah?” I whispered back. I couldn’t see anything. “I can’t see anything,” she said. “Where are you?” Then I felt a hand bump into my chest. She patted my face. “Here.” I slowly took her hand from my chest and held it. I felt the cold soft silk sleeve against my wrist. My other hand brushed the wall. “There’s gotta be a light switch around here somewhere.” “Hey, Nick.” She was still whispering “Yeah?” “I miss this.” My hand fell upon a light switch, but I paused for a moment. “Well, we’ve got tonight.” The room lit up. Her hand slipped from mine. We stood behind the bowling alleys, where the machines sort the pins. I quickly spun around and found the fuse box and snapped them all on. There was a low hum and rumble as I took Taylor by the hand

and led her around the machines. The small pathway used to get behind the scenes was against the wall. We walked up, out to where the lanes where, and looked out as the lights flickered on. Thirty-two lanes streaked with fluorescent light and gleaming with oil lay before us as thirty-two machines set the pins up. I couldn’t help but be a little impressed with myself. “So what do you say? Want to do a little midnight bowling?” She laughed softly at my remark. I looked at her, and she shook her head but couldn’t hold back her cracking smile. “What?” I said, happy to see her enjoyment. “This is incredible. I’ve never been here with no one around.” “Well, come on.” I left her side, hopped up behind the bowler’s lounge, and grabbed a Cobra 300 black ball. I looked back at Taylor, who was still standing on the pathway to the side, overlooking the quiet, set up lanes. “You bowling?” I said. She skipped up to the rack of balls. “Don’t get mad when I beat you,” she said, looking over the orange and pink bowling balls. I laughed and walked along the lanes, stopping towards the middle. The pearlwhite pins with red stripes awaited me. Spanning all thirty-two lanes was the classic ’70s pastel mural of the words, Camelot Bowl, Strike, Camelot Bowl, Strike, Camelot Bowl, with purple and lime green bowling balls crashing into yellow pins. I placed my ball on the ball return and then sat down at the computer and entered our names. I spun in the chair. “You’re up first!” I said as she carried her pink ball over to the lane with both hands. She smiled and passed me, hopping up onto the lane. She pressed her feet together and brought the ball up under her chin. Her

blond hair flickered golden light as she blew some strands away from her eyes. “We playing like old times?” she said, still looking down the lane. “What do you mean?” “You know, you bowl a strike you get a kiss.” She stepped forward carefully released the ball down the middle of the lane. I leaned forward and watched the ball. The pins crashed softly. Number ten remained. “That’s too bad,” she said lightly, turning around and looking at her feet with a smile. I ran my hand through my hair and shook my head with a smile. What in the world…? The ball popped up in the return. She picked it up and bowled number ten down. The spare symbol flashed on the TV above with Taylor’s name over it. I got up from my seat and grabbed the Cobra 300. Taylor was still up on the lane. “Good luck,” she said with a wink, and then passed me and sat down behind the computer. I stood with my feet together and looked down the lane, but couldn’t concentrate. I just kept smiling. I was glad she couldn’t see my stupid grin. “You’re crazy, Taylor.” “I know,” she said. “ It keeps things interesting.” I shook my head and then hooked my ball down the right side of the lane. I missed the kingpin, knocking down only six. I turned around, embarrassed. “It’s been awhile,” I said. “Yeah, it has.”

he game continued and we recalled old memories, like the first time we met on a blind date set up by our friends, and how we had to have my grandma pick us up because we were only in the 7th grade. Or how on New Years we locked ourselves in the pantry and never told anyone if we kissed or

print by Matthew Ceriotti

not. And that one time I had convinced her to jump in a lake with me on a summer night under the full moon. We dissolved back into the days when it was just us. For the rest of the game I looked for a strike. But it never happened. The game ended with a score of 112 to 99. Taylor had picked up her pink ball from the return and was walking back to the rack she had taken it from. I checked my wrist

to see the time but was without my watch. I noticed Taylor’s phone on the table next to the computer and clicked the button to see the time. She had a green message preview on the home screen. Justin: “Love u 2. Gnight Taylor” Underneath the message was the time it was received: 12:43 AM. I looked at the time on her home screen. 12:47.

I backed away from her phone. Had she been texting Justin all night? Taylor came back over. “I kicked your butt,” she said. “We can rematch sometime, though. You better start practicing on those strikes.” She laughed. I looked at my ball, sitting alone on the ball return. “We need to go,” I said and grabbed it, heading up to the racks. “Yeah, really,” she said, following me. “Could you imagine if we got caught?” I set the ball on the rack and headed over to the pathway leading behind the lanes. I took one last look at the empty thirty-two alleys gleaming with oil as I walked behind the scenes. I found the breaker box and snapped them off. I heard the hum of the machines die and saw the lighting on the pathway flicker till it was dark again. Now only the small fluorescent bulb lit the room. I found the switch and turned around before flipping it off. Taylor stood directly under it. She was looking around the room, her golden hair and silk pajamas catching and reflecting the light. Suddenly I grew very tired. I flipped the switch off. “Nick,” Taylor said with a light laugh. “I can’t see. Where are you?” I passed her, walking to the thin line of light that was under the exit door. I pushed on the door and felt it grind on the cement until freeing itself and swinging open. “Oh, there you are.” Taylor said. I held the door open. “Brrr. It got colder,” Taylor said, walking out behind me. “Yeah.” We climbed back into the car and Taylor rubbed her hands together. “Crank the heater,” she said with a laugh. I pressed the red arrow until the screen said ‘high’ and then put the car into reverse. “Dang, it’s almost one in the morning!” Taylor said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty late. I’ll take you home.” “You want to stop at Taco Bell? Remember that one summer when they always gave us free freezies?” “Nah, I’m alright. I’m pretty tired.” As we drove down Keebler, I could tell Taylor was trying to come up with something to say, but the car stayed silent. I opened my mouth but caught my tongue twice before finally getting it out. “Why did you pick him?” I stared out down the street. “What?” She was looking at me. “I mean why’d you pick him? Why Justin?” I looked at her as she paused with her eyes closed. “You disappeared on me, Nick,” she said, looking up at me. “I went months without hearing from you.” “I was in the hospital, though,” I said right as she finished. It was quiet again. Then she spoke. “I know, and I waited for you, Nick. But you weren’t the same after you got out. And it became too painful to hang out with you.” Her voice grew strained and weak. “You didn’t look at me the same way. The light in your eyes, the memories, who I was to you… it was all gone.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I was recovering. You don’t just bounce back from car accidents like that.” “I know,” she said, “but after that spring day when we went longboarding and then talked under that tree in the park…” “Didn’t anyone tell you I was recovering? My memory was wiped, but I was recovering. We just didn’t know it’d take so long.” “Nick, do you know what day I’m talking about?” “Yeah, the sky was overcast. You were wearing a dark maroon scarf.” And we sat under that damn tree, dead and gray, mocked by the budding trees surrounding it.

print by Joe Fentress

“You told me you didn’t want to see me anymore.” She struggled with her words. I remember. I did say that. But it wasn’t true. I remember wanting to call her back and tell her it wasn’t true, but I had to let her go. I couldn’t bear to see her anymore. I hated the disappointment in her eyes and the fakeness in her laugh. “I know,” I said. And that was the last day we had hung out together. Sure we saw each other now and then at local events and parties, but that was the last day we were hanging to be together. The thing that I hated most was probably that I knew she was someone important in my life, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t see why. I couldn’t recall the emotions or memories until about a year and half later when I finally recovered. My mind healed, and everything I knew came back to me in the middle of the night. I awoke with a gasp. I remember my parents having to calm me down and explain everything that had happened in the last two years. I soon learned Taylor had a boyfriend, and apparently we weren’t close friends anymore. Also how I would also be re-doing my sophomore year in high school, and I wouldn’t be graduating with my friends. I didn’t go back to sleep that night. We were seniors now. Nearly a year and a half later, and here we were. The conversation for the rest of the drive was choked by the impossible task of letting go of the past. Soon we were back in her neighborhood and then in front her house. “Well,” she said. “Thanks for tonight. It was a lot of fun.” I could tell she wanted me to say something, perhaps a request for her to stay. “Sure,” I said. “Careful getting in.” Her hopeful expression was gone. She pulled the door handle open and stepped out

of the car. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “Well, goodnight, drive safe.” “Yeah.” She shut the door. I threw the car into drive and pulled away. I spun the wheel at the end of her street and soon was back on Keebler. About ten seconds later I realized the big mistake I had made tonight. I pulled my phone from my pocket and called a number. It rang a few times, but I knew she would answer. “Hey,” she said. “Hey Chloë,” I said. “Want to hang out?” “Sure.”

Reeds, print by Sean Anderson

Parthenope Matthew Loranger Today I bind myself to a mast of coffin wood and bathe in the song that renders hearts anemic. Blessed be the black waves baptizing me in their mist, numbing my tongue, burning my irises, crowning me with my own matted locks. I abandon the land of my birth in exchange for the beautiful uncertainty of my own divinity, of my own mortality. The sirens call from their isles, but I know only the beauty of their death is my salvation.

charcoal drawing by Lancer Li

All Fears of the Forest Matt Dorsey

In my bed sitting sickly, Unable to sleep, I read of Forests. Of horrors, treacherous hags, Howling wolves, mouths framed with blood, Wisps beckoning and luring me Into one of a thousand Coffins outside my door. And on the Fourth I sit outside the Forest As sparklers borne by friends Streamed between the trees I sit next to the barbecue And smoke smothers my friends from sight I imagine a landscape before me Of terror and gore and death and madness And screams and Laughter? The haze clears And Meg from down the street Standing at the edge of the Forest Waves her arm, Luring? Welcoming. I rise from the lawn chair And cross the threshold Into the magic(less) night. I blink, and inexplicably I see That all the horrors in the woods I feared So terrifying, petrifying me Miraculously vanished, disappeared.

photograph by Brendan Voigt

An Opera Singer In Middle School Trevor Scott

he quiet, dimly lit atmosphere made me feel I had just entered a church. The kids, sitting with perfect posture, dressed in their Sunday best, struck me with their serious faces. This was the biggest part I had ever auditioned for, and I knew that there was no way in heck I could get it. Terrified, I thought to myself, “Nah, this is for old people.” Five minutes later, a smiling, excited man in his early twenties greeted me and brought me into the audition room. Opera had never struck me as something fun. Sure, it seemed pretty cool, but I didn’t exactly want to spend my whole summer in a dark theater singing for a bunch of old people with binoculars. But when my parents told me that Opera Theatre of St. Louis had auditions for the children’s choruses in Carmen and Alice in Wonderland, I tried to keep my spirits up. If I got in, it would be a paid job, and the idea of my very own paycheck appealed to me. As I entered the audition room, it felt even colder than the waiting room, but it was about the size of a small gym and had huge windows that let light in naturally. As I walked in, a half-dozen judges glared at me. After a small murmur among them, the one in the center looked straight at me and asked, “What’s your name?” I spat out my long-rehearsed response, “My name is Trevor Scott and I will be singing ‘Santa Fe’ from Newsies.” Another small murmur. I wondered if they had already cut me. But then the piano started with its mysterious D and E major chords. I opened my mouth and every note seemed dry. I let sound out normally, but I hissed out consonants like I hadn’t drunk anything in days. I pushed through slowly,

trying to accumulate spit to make my mouth feel better. When I ended the song on the low, quiet F, I found myself trying to form quality sound, to hold my voice back because the music was marked piano, to act like my character (a seventeen-year-old newspaper seller questioning his identity), and still look natural and relaxed all at the same time. I expected applause, but received a quiet “Thank you” from the same person who had asked me my name. As I practically ran toward the door, wanting to get out of that torture chamber, the same person who brought me in shouted, “Whoa, hey, where are you going?” He ran over to me and sat down at the piano. I looked at him, eyes wide with fear, an obviously fake smile on my face, unsure of what I should do. He told me he would test my vocal range and it would be “very simple.” Indeed, we flew through the music theory, running scales up and down, singing combinations of notes, and testing memory skills. By the end of the test, however, things started getting challenging. He began asking me to identify the notes in a chord, which I could do with some thought. When he finally finished examining me, he told me that I did a really good job and that I had something called “perfect pitch.” I just thought he meant that I got all the notes right. Little did I know that this “perfect pitch,” a rare condition acquired between four and six years of age, which allowed me to name any note sung or played and sing any note given to me, would shape my future years as a musician, a singer, and a student. As a seventh grader, I had already been a fan of sacred music. I had started singing

in fifth grade in the children’s choir at the Cathedral Basilica. The opportunities it gave me—singing for Cardinal Dolan, at Stan Musial’s funeral, and twice at Powell Hall—interested me in singing and vocal studies. But opera was always a mysterious field of music that just wasn’t the same as singing in a choir at church. To a seventh grader, church seemed to be a straight path to heaven. Opera seemed to be a little outdated, and it only made it worse to have “friends” at school making vibrato-filled noises and laughing at me as I sang loudly at Mass. Generally, though, my mention of a paycheck made them leave me alone. Two weeks later, my family and I were eating dinner when the phone rang. Having not heard from them for weeks, we were slowly losing hope. However, all four of us rushed like linebackers to see who was on the caller ID. “Opera Theatre of St. Louis.” My heart squeezed up into my throat. My mom,

with a frantic, loud voice, ordered the three of us back. As I listened, I couldn’t help but nudge my ear closer and closer to hers as she repeatedly pushed me back. I could make out an excited voice on the other end of the line. When she hung up the phone, her wide eyes and gigantic grin signalled the beginning of a new adventure. And not only had I gotten the part; I also had a solo in the American premiere of Alice in Wonderland by Unsuk Chin! I could meet the composer, work with fifteen talented kids my age, get a membership into an exclusive opera union, and be on the local news. Later in life, it would lead me to numerous opportunities in Opera Theatre of St. Louis’s Artists-in-Training program, to a much stronger interest in classical music, and to connections with other music lovers from literally all over the world. And it all started with a terrifying audition in a cold, quiet room in suburban St. Louis.

Another Day in the Office, photograph by William Kelly

Headphones, Part II Edward Gartner

Oh, sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you. Here, listen to this, tell me what it feels like. Isn’t it brilliant, that someone can speak and ignite a spark in you? I invoked Calliope to run down the black keys and Confirmed the Messenger to guide me, but if gods and Gabriel cannot coax nectar from my lips, then with Echo’s voice I shall mimic the ambrosia of greats. Waves of bass, take my arms and flow through them: I must choreograph poetry in your beat. Drums spiked with snare, guide my feet as I sing to your rhythm. I used to believe that words sound better when silent, unspoken in our heads as the words in my own threatened to overthrow me and count me among the dead. But now the lexicon of verses of friends has given me a nexus on which I can stand and to honor them I must write for them and pursue things nobler than my own ends. Therefore, I beseech thee, humble humanity, let this opening opus pry open the floodgates. Let me be the catalyst that sparks conversation. Let me stand not on Olympian heights with the wings you’ve given me, but let me be your voice and touch your hearts.

Monday Night Club Rich Moran

e had driven out to a farm beyond Bellefontaine Neighbors for a picnic with my parents’ friends and their kids— The Monday Night Club. I thought of that name as a single word,themondaynightclub, as one thinks of Cape Cod without seeing the fish or of Lemay Ferry without imagining a boat crossing a river or of Los Angeles without the hope of angels. For one thing, the Monday Night Club never, in my life, met on a Monday Night. It must have once met not for Saturday picnics but for clubbing on the one night most folks stayed home. Even as a kid, though, I sensed that this club conjured the mysterious, longgone time of my parents languorously in love. At these events I’d spend the whole day playing “Indian Ball”—the batter trying to hammer the baseball between two foulposts (“Indians,” don’t ask me why) and past or over the fielders. I’d play for a couple of

hours, race in to reach my right forearm into an icy cistern, pull out a bottle of soda, lever off the cap, chug down its frigid tingle, and race back out to the field to play for another hour until the ribs were ready. Eden. The women smoked, gossiped, played cards. Off to the side of the pavilion, the men drank, threw horseshoes, and joked—Dad in a brown shirt, black pants, and red face. On that day at Hidden Lake, I was uncracking a soda when I saw it happen: Aunt Helen joshing my dad about the stash of “dead soldiers” (empty beer bottles) lying in the brownish weeds near the horseshoe pits; Dad noticing me nearby, “We’re going home, Tommy. Grab your glove”; Mom hopping out of the picnic table, striding to catch us: “She didn’t mean anything, Frank.” The car. My door. Then his. The roar of the engine. Mom pleading as she scrambled in. The grumble of exhaust, the dust, gravel, concrete, metal, crash.

Men in the Moon Ben Krummenacher

Look, for a second, at the cherub, drunk off our silk teat, blue milk scrawling ’neath its tongue, cooing, “Moon, cruel Caina misters, when will you come down to play?” Eyes, cast in black puddles, seek to meet iris bouquets of pearl goblets spilling cosmic cream from glass soaked in boysenberry streams of laughter from our Omelas hallway up above drip lullabies, though it never sleeps.

collograph by Matthew Ceriotti

Grow Up James Pollard

“

amey?” she called, “Jamey! You wanna go the zoo with Charlie and his grandma soon?” “Ummm…yeah!” I shouted back. I hopped out of my living room couch and bolted up the steps into my room, snatching a ball cap. Trotting down the steps, I returned to the couch, my buttprint still fresh on the soft blue leather. Forgetting to grab the remote, I yelled for my brother Ed to come get it for me. At six years old he would do whatever I asked. Taking the remote from him, I flipped on the television. My thumb tapped the channel button rhythmically. Nothing good on. A pair of wheels finally slowed down in front of our house. A sign rooted in the patch of grass between the street and sidewalk read “No Parking” with days of the week and times listed, but nobody ever got ticketed for parking there. The side door flew open, and out came Charlie, a Cardinals flat cap covering his fresh buzz cut. Before the treads of his shoes could reach the sidewalk, I had burst through the door, but my mother wouldn’t let me leave without kissing her goodbye. After a quick peck, I skipped down the front porch steps, hopping over the second-to-last step with the crack running down the middle. Charlie’s Aunt Ashley and baby cousin, Ben had come. Charlie and I sat in the back on opposite sides of Ben, making goofy faces at him. After taking forever looking for a parking spot to no avail, we had to park by

the art museum and march from there to the zoo, but I didn’t mind. It gave Charlie and me time to chat about the Cardinals and our vacations. As we walked, we found a rubber band lying on the pavement. Dark brown dirt blanketed the lighter brown surface as it lay stiff in his hands. He held one end tight in his left hand between his thumb and pointer, the other end around his right thumb. His eyes widened as he looked at me, the dimples in his cheeks holding back a laugh. I could see his mind begin to wander, but I had noticed it too late. He released his grip, and the rubber band flew several feet before colliding with my arm. It stung, but if I let him know that, he would keep it up. “Hey, let’s get your aunt!” I whispered to get him to stop shooting it at me. So we got his aunt. And then his grandma. And he got me a few more times. Other than that, the zoo left us bored. We had come to see the dolphins or something, but they had closed. Stumbling into the snake room, Charlie sloped his shoulders, his eyelids drooping down, face blank. He wanted nothing to do with the zoo anymore. Neither did I. He identified new targets to shoot. He would fire at a leaf on a tree or a sign. He hit them every time. But plants and inanimate objects eventually lost their charm as well. He pointed at a little boy’s Skechers and pulled the rubber band back. Once again, I knew nothing good would come of this. My right hand swung back, open-palmed, and came crashing down on nothing. Too late. Even with my contacts, I could only see a brown blur gliding through the air. My head spun left and right, frantically looking for his grandma or aunt. Luckily for Charlie, I couldn’t find them. When I returned my gaze, the rubber band lay on the ground by the boy’s shoe. Charlie snickered.

“He didn’t even notice!” he laughed, attempting to whisper. I chuckled uneasily. “You try.” He held out his hand, an open palm revealing the rubber band. “I’ll miss anyway. You do it.” I enjoyed seeing him make a fool of himself. “Pussy.” He spun around and walked over to a bench, stopping only to look back at me. I wanted to look around for his grandmother or aunt, but I found myself following him. I slumped next to him, my back bent, head turned to the sky. I looked over at him, legs spread, arms hanging around the bench. He oozed confidence. I kicked my feet out, hanging my arms around the bench. Although I was resting inside the airconditioned snake room, sweat fell from my forehead and into my eyes. It stung for a moment, as it had stung when Charlie’s rubber band slapped my arm. Perhaps if clouds had covered the sun that day, I may have had a clearer head. Perhaps I would have realized

how incredibly uncool Charlie had acted. But the warm air boiled my blood. Charlie held his hand out, offering the rubber band to me once more. My fingers brushed up against his palm, swiping the band from his fingertips. I searched the room, looking for a target. I wanted to impress him, make up for my rejection of the rubber band earlier, so I decided I would prey on someone farther away. My gaze landed upon an overweight, middle-aged woman pushing a stroller across the room. She had paused to grab something out of her purse, while her kids forced their faces up to the glass, drooling over a snake. My fingers trembled. I discreetly pulled the rubber band back, holding one end tight between my left thumb and pointer with the other end wrapped around my right thumb, exactly as Charlie had done it. I heard more voices talking and bustling through the room than

Afternoon Stroll, photograph by William Kelly

earlier. No sun could blind me, only the artificial light of fluorescent bulbs. I aimed it at her foot thinking if I missed, it would just hit the floor, and if I hit her, she might not notice. Squinting, my thumb and pointer released, and it flew through the air. But as the band flicked out of my hand, it brushed the tip of my thumb. As it glided through the air, Charlie ducked behind a plant. The woman continued to shuffle through her bags, her behind up in the air. I saw perfectly well with my new contacts the faded brown of the rubber band slap the woman’s teal sweatpants. I heard the plant behind me chuckle. My lips began to expand, but I forced them to contract, squeezing a weak grin. The woman whipped around and

fixed her gaze upon that grin. She looked down to the rubber band momentarily and then stared back up at me. “Grow up!” I no longer had to force the grin to contract. I sped off to the men’s room and locked myself in a stall, sitting there. Had she lowered her eyebrows and wagged her finger at me, I would not have cared. But she just stared at me, expressionless. She felt ridiculed. A knock on the door interrupted my thought, so I rose, twisted the lock open, and shuffled out, head to the ground. Charlie rushed up to me, hissing with laughter. I tried to tell him I had not aimed for her bottom, that I had meant to hit her shoe. But I never did. I had impressed him.

Gallant Crossing, photograph by William Kelly

Devotion Edward Gartner I remember the day the priests of that church laid their hands upon me to communicate a blessing, a branding through that baptism of blue. I squirmed under the acrid, burning stench of my cool new lacquer, and thus I entered into the worship. The holy water quickly dried, bonding with my flesh, an indelible mark. Sometimes I chafed under its scaly half armor, sometimes, caught up in the glory of brethren and standard bearers, I proudly bore the colors of my crest. Nevertheless, I noticed my colors fading, flaking off as if to slake some primal urge to evolve and shed my skin. As my transformation was nearly complete, I tried to gather up the ashes of my old life to stave off a fiery new baptism. Dressed in white robes, I resigned myself to it, to this neo-Confirmation as the commencement began. I watched the last of my life-paint float down, silent as snowfall on uncrushed leaves as I shook the high priestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand. Had a quarter of my life passed without remembrance? Did I now have to portion off the past? Why did I give it all just to leave?

I searched my shirts and found spots in the stitches, I perused my pants only to find paint on the legsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; paint that was not my own.

specks covered the sleeves from smiling faces a woman gave to me to make me welcome in the first year of my devotion, the chest blessed from my best friend when he poured his soul into my own in my second year in the chapel, my legs dotted from tears of self and peers, as I spoke and prayed to inspire them in a testament to our bond in our third year, and the whole doused again as I baptised new acolytes myself, with the full knowledge that they will not remember my face, in my fourth and final year of the ministry. Similar specks coated the walls of my church; each surface holds the purpose of men and women long gone, each fleck a token of those graduated. Ours are among them, albeit overwhelmed: indelible mark begets indelible mark, and we progress as new tradition takes the helm.

Minute Man Frank Kovarik “In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.” —T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” I am a time-traveler. Not one of those you see in movies stepping into contraptions of dials and pistons. No, my mechanism is simpler. I won’t bore you with details. I chant a few words, snap my fingers, make some such gesture, and there I am, in the past. The recent past, I should add. A minute or so, ninety seconds maybe. I edit my history as one erases a typo on a computer screen: a few taps of the delete key. Walking down the hall I see him. “Hey, Harold,” I say, and watch his face crinkle. Stop. Walking down the hall I see him. “Hey, Phil,” I say, and he nods and passes me by.

Or, driving down an unfamiliar street, fiddling with the radio, I miss a stop sign and collide with a car crossing in front of me. Stop. Instead, I stop.

Wondrous. And yet, you know how certain keys on your keyboardâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the A, the S, the D, the Eâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; gradually lose their faces, worn smooth and blank by the constant friction of fond fingers? The delete key shines with an unearthly gleam. I live my life looking backwards, second-guessing each decision, each gesture. Did she like that joke? Should I have ordered that pizza? Did I pay too much for that gasoline? And last night, lying in bed, having recently abused then disabused myself, I decided to swear off time travel after realizing that nothing, technically, could stop me from returning to childhood, unliving my life measure by measure, minute by minute, scuttling backwards, crab-like, across the silent sea-floor of time.

To the Bricklayers of the Raphael Hotel Suzanne Renard In bitter chill and wind that will not end, Unto your pleasing arch and hod you bend, While swirls the commerce deep below, Glib handshakes trade, and profits flow, Above—the rope and pulley, your best friend. Sun glances off your skin, too rough to burn. Your concentration mocks each deadly turn. If a pint of ale some claim to merit, By moving wealth their kin inherit, You descend—to raise a health you bravely earn. Toiling with your trowel, so deft your hand, Minutest moves in a scheme so boldly planned. Do the shoppers crane their necks a while, See your paycheck spent on wife and child, And your body bent to a city’s proud demand? Your colonnades and diamond-checkered peaks Eclipse even the wonders of the Greeks. Though the ones, whose money talks, may think Your mountain yields to their flourished ink, Your brazen artistry more richly speaks. Your building may be bought and change its name,* Yet you rise above the shallow, fickle game. Your genius brandished in the air, No sidewalk shyster dreams to dare. As the candlestick survives beyond the flame, Your high design endures to sign your name. Dec. 27, 2016 *This neo-renaissance Chicago building, opened as the Hampshire House in 1926, became the Raphael Hotel in 1978, and is now called the Raffaello Hotel.

A Spider on the Wall Gabe Lepak

I am alone. There is a spider on the wall. I’m content with one of those facts— Actually no, none at all. You see, spiders terrify me, And rightly so. How can eight legs be justified? It only takes me two to go. As nature would have it I grabbed a shoe And went to Mrs. Spider To see her life through. Arm up. Twist back. Breath in. Nothing. “What?” “What?” “WHAT?” Kill the thing, Gabe! Why are you hesitating? Throw your arm and kill it, Stop this incessant waiting. But I can’t, Although I despise her. My arm simply refuses To end this spider. “Perhaps it’s gone,

My fear just up and left.” I guess so. But My heart’s still pounding in my chest. And yet I’m just standing here, Watching a spider spiral And second thoughts are beginning To go viral. I balk, simply shocked That I ever thought spiders beastly, Watching this creature walk A few feet in front of me. I say, “Hi spider, are you alone, too?” Being a spider, it doesn’t say much. What it does do, however, Is give me a touch. And with that, I regress, Screw all that I’ve learned. That shoe comes up, And justice is returned. So, a spider is dead, Gone at my hand. Impulsive? Sure. But I’ll be damned If I find out I’m not afraid of them. You see, I need them to make me groan Because I’d much rather distract with spiders Than fear being alone. But there’s no spider on my wall. I am just alone.

print by Joseph Fentress

Phosphene Brad Gale Do you know those small, vibrant, scampering lines that you see in your eyes after you rub them too hard? Well, there is actually a scientific name for them: Phosphenes.

Phosphenes don’t stay long in your vision, and aren’t too important. They come and go, playing little tricks on your eyes whenever you rub them, by accident or choice. People are a lot like phosphenes, in a way, small to the universe, mutedly different, scampering around in front of your eyes, as if what they are doing is of greater importance, only to disappear from your life, quicker than you could realize, having barely made a lasting impact, except maybe to you. I’ve become quite joyful when I see phosphenes. I can rub my eyes, and they will always come back just for a short while, hurrying about, and I can tell them how much I missed them, even if I can’t say the same to the people in my life, who I’ve lost, small, vibrant, and beautiful but who won’t come back when I rub my eyes.

Ice Mosaics, photograph by William Kelly

The Mulch Pile Joe Feder

was too young to remember the first time that my family happened upon the uncut, grassy path, hidden deep behind our house in the back of Queeny Park, but after that day we were drawn back, not because of the path itself but because of the mulch pile. An oasis of industry surrounded by an ocean of wilderness, empty bulldozers and cranes always haunted the ghost-town-like pile. The varying shape and size of the mulch pile brought countless new environments for my family to explore. This mysterious atmosphere called us back week after week, through all seasons, to scale the unstable slopes of this towering mound before racing back down, getting little woodchips lodged in our shoes that poked like needles. One day, around Thanksgiving, my dad, sister, and I wrapped ourselves in thick coats and led all of my cousins and uncles through the forest to the then frost-covered pile, and we played tag for what seemed like hours until the sunlight had disappeared and our hands were numb. One time, after diving from the peak and rolling all the way down to the base of the pile to avoid being tagged, I waddled up to my dad and his brother, every movement pushing a sharp splinter of wood into somewhere on my body. After I told them the problem, they shared a sly grin before grabbing me by the ankles and dangling me upside-down, wood chips cascading out of my pants and coat like raindrops. About two years later, my uncle died, and thinking back on this frigid, overcast day has kept his memory alive. As time went on, my family grew more and more busy, and our afternoon excursions had been all but forgotten, but I was getting to the age where I could go on walks alone,

an opportunity that I utilized whenever the weather was nice enough. In the spring, instead of sticking to the confines of the path, which became dangerously muddy after a good rain, I tended to go off-road, pretending to be going on an important expedition for a long-lost city. After systematically weaving my way through the blossoming bushes and budding trees, I stumbled through the underbrush and into the clearing. Gawking up at the twelve-foot-tall mound, my mind instantly began to morph the pile into a menacing wall with bow-wielding guards pacing along the top, scanning the forest for intruders. I would press myself up against the nearly vertical side, the earthy smell of the mulch overpowering the smell of the flowers blooming nearby. When I finally gathered the courage to ascend, I did so slowly before leaping on to the plateau at the top and shooting off my finger guns at the unsuspecting guards. After my successful attack, I would throw myself down the more gradual slope on the other side of the mound, acting like an action film hero. The mulch would poke me so badly as I tumbled down to the ground that I had to struggle not to yelp. After one particularly successful mission in late summer, I decided I had enough time to rest up before returning home, so I trudged back up the pile and lay face-up at the top, staring at the clouds floating quickly along in the swift wind, and the birds hurriedly fluttering far overhead, as if chasing the clouds. I closed my eyes and embraced the warm rays of the sun burning my skin, the constant sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, and the more distant sound of cars rushing down a distant road. The mulch, having been sitting in the sun all

day, was like a warm, albeit pointed, blanket that enveloped my body and lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, the sun had begun to sink dangerously low, and I jumped up in a panic, immediately freezing after hearing the snap of a twig behind me. Turning around slowly, I discovered that a family of deer had stopped in the underbrush behind me and were gazing, transfixed, in my direction. After staring me down, wasting more of my precious daylight, they cautiously proceeded along their way. As soon as they had disappeared from view, I sprinted back down the path toward home, arriving well after sunset to a sharp scolding from my mom and dad, which I ignored so that I could shower and wash the earthy, brown makeup that had accumulated on my face and arms throughout the day. In my youth, I learned to depend on that ever-present mulch pile for stability. On some weekends in the fall, when school seemed overwhelming, I would take a break from work and leave the house. I had only to grab a hoodie out of the closet and head out the door, for I had gotten to the age where I did not even need to tell my parents that I was going for a walk. The air during this time of year was brisk, but not so cold that I could see my breath. The last leaves of summer clung delicately to the trees, but most had fallen to the ground, paving the path with their crinkled and misshapen bodies and leaving gaping holes in the forest where vegetation had once obscured all vision. Through these gaps, I could make out a narrow stream, nearly dry from lack of rain, as well as squirrels frantically scam-

pering up and down trees in search of a few more acorns before the seasons turned. Days like these linger on in my thoughts. At the pile, the mulch had lost its fresh scent, and the whole forest was going dormant. I could feel the desolation, and this gave me space to reflect. Sometimes, I would even bring along my phone and earbuds to listen to some soft, soothing piano concerto while watching the bare tree limbs sway back and forth and wondering if I could return again before spring. One year, during these fall months, I began to notice something different. It began slowly, but as time passed, it became painfully clear. The mulch pile was shrinking week by week. As the weeks flowed by, this gradual disappearance forced me to think more about the strange place that had inspired such awe in me, this place that had seen me change from a little boy holding my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; hands to this young man beginning to flirt with the idea of independence. I journeyed through the barren woods and along that meandering path every weekend, witnessing the steady disappearance of my childhood playground, and in the end, only a mucky residue remained where the once mighty mulch pile had stood. I stood there for a few moments, my mind racing to recapture the images of my childhood, the yellow daisies uprooted and tossed on to the base of the pile by some woodland creatures, the illusion of flight standing high atop the mulch pile with the breeze brushing past my face in a hurry to get nowhere, but they were already floating away, just out of reach, like the clouds and the birds.

But for the Grace of God Matthew Quinlivan

And we marched, Sherman and I, Wading through the carnage of A nation torn in two, divided By our hate and our hate alone. And we marched to the sea. And the land of my own birth stood Exposed, vulnerable, victimized, raped By “American zeal” of conflicted ideals, and for what? For their patriotism and their patriotism alone. And we marched to the sea. And Georgia, O Georgia, from whence I sprung From my mother’s loins, to see her Etherized, prostrate, mauled, left me weeping For my Americans and my Americans alone. And we marched to the sea. And we burned and slashed, Sherman and I, Through a state of Georgia, a state of rebellion And I slaughtered my brothers, not for him, But for the Grace of God and His alone. and I marched to the sea.

Congratulations, Department Chair William George

Since you’ve been made department chair you may with modesty now wear that herringbone you tucked away for this merriest of happy days when those toadies who’d chaired before made way for you, whose destined chore is to conduct and elevate the lowly ones, the hairy apes who would, if you were not installed, be hanging by their toes, enthralled by chords ’twould make a maestro cringe–– off-key whingeing of the ill-bred fringe that must be suffered by the suited few who wield the baton in the zoo.

photograph by Tate Portell

(Unnamed) Seamus McFarland

e held onto the lash, hooked around the sunken root along the shaded dirt wall. The many scratches buried in its tattered length spread into his own hands. Dirt flowed down into the cuts, muffled drops of blood hardly breaking through. The dirt also soaked the sweat from his face and isolated the look of burdened tears sliding from his eyes. His teeth ground, filled and frothing with scum, too desperate to spit. The darkness of his pupils glowed red from something disgustingly bright. He was stuck there, slowly sliding down from his grip, inch by inch, but never slipping from the same forked marking in the lash. All that he knew was that lash, the dirt, the root, the ashen air around him, and what scant liquids were sucked from his skin. His focus was a round, imperfect sphere, blackened and cut at the edges. Nor was it understood in location and direction, instead torn and scattered to wherever his boiling thoughts swept them away to.

The clouds hung mockingly far above his nose. His body shook in varied bursts, swallowing up his strength. A low rumble of anger thrummed in his chest and cracked in his mouth, glaring wide-eyed at his strange crumpled and swirled horizon. The sweat broke through the dirt and the frosting gusts, traveling at a slant into his cloak, encapsulating the cloth along with him. Slowly, his being of skin turned to stone, quieter, unmoving and heavy. His vision turned white, blurring the storm from perception. His leather shoes dug deeper into the wall, forming two perfectly shaped footholds for a child to climb upon. The lash broke. There was a loud rustling, a beat once or twice every half a second, and a silenced crack or two, all smothered in a pain that crawled from the back, into the head and through the ears, spliced with the sound of what could be his gasp or someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scream.

Hands 56

Rory Butler Hands, posed with painter’s brush, Depicting his most sacred wood-thrush. All the creatures of the canvas are well-designed, All the geometry of his work is well-aligned. One, holding that perfect stance, Bowing the music for the other to dance. She steps and slides, careful for tone and time, And after a graceful fall, she climbs. Wrapped around the poet’s pen, Artfully telling tales of men. Rushing to keep time with the muse, Vices, demons, devils it will accuse. Hands, firmly spread beneath axe’s head, Getting wood to make warm the farmstead. ’Gainst the tree their mechanical slide Brings the steel head down with shearing force. Twisting and looping that soft steel wire, More time for hunting they acquire. The careful gentle tweak of string, Lean rabbits and fowl to dinner will bring. Cupping precious seeds they sow, Which will in time to food grow. Ho! What work what work what work it will cause! Not just for hands but for jaws.

Hands, cupped in tight hard fists, With bony bloody beaten knuckles on each, Every jab is pain for the wrist But that hurt, to the rage, will never reach. Tightly, snuggly wrapped on warm sweaty skin, Each passing breath is a setback to their task. No difference it makes whether friend or foe or kin, The flesh from the spirit theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll unmask. Fastly firmly against the shoulder blade, It pushes the stock and cups the trigger. The finger pulls and the choice is made. Oh what work what work what work it will cause, To bury a man who should have stayed.

Abandoned Metal City, photograph by William Kelly

3643 Junction Blvd Brad Gale As seen from a third story window: A maiden ailurophile perfumed, decrepit abandoned with her cats A furtive entrepreneur slicked, opulent having a dalliance with living A comely house-wife demure, gentle pure in her daily disposition A middle-aged carpenter calloused, unassuming murmuring small wisdoms as he works Going about their days, together yet alone

print by Joe Fentress

Sunday Best Matthew Loranger

Persephone emerges from the underworld with the slight grace of the breeze drifting into our open wounds. But she is not here, is she? She rests. It was a long walk out of hell, and her legs are tired. She never asked for it, never conceived of those months without light, but she breathed our air and cried our tears. Here, a son shines in black against his equal pouring through the double doors. The air of new life is alien to us who bask in formaldehyde and Sunday perfume.

Mischievous Forest Friend, photograph by William Kelly

Paris Jack Buehring The pride of the prince, Who seeks a joyful bride From the Capulet clan. Her parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; preference, But the bride refuses, And her defying death leaves his soul stupefied. He goes to mourn for her, But his petals are met with metal From her true loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blade.

The Kraken Flower, photograph by William Kelly

The Clashing Dance Carter O’Donahue

hey moved like they’d been studying each other’s movements for centuries. Each step was placed perfectly. When her foot moved backwards, his followed as if their footsteps were chasing each other. Suddenly, their tightly pressed-together bodies tore apart like the particles of an atom splitting. She gyrated away from his body like a tornado. Her pure white jeans and pink, flowery shirt transformed into a blur until suddenly only their hands bound them together. Then she quickly twirled back and returned into his embrace. Their footsteps resumed their epic chase. As I watched my cousin Ruva and her husband dance to Celso Pina’s “Enamorada” from a table bordering the dance floor, I felt a rush of awe. Knowing their movements as well as they knew each other, they moved fluidly and comfortably. I longed for this familiarity. Throughout my childhood, I’d always listened to cumbia whenever I was with my father. Its rhythm would dominate my eardrums, and, although I didn’t always understand its simple melodies like in the “Cumbia Sampuesana” or “El Triki Traka,” I enjoyed listening to it. Whenever we’d go to parties or quinceaneras, I relished watching couples’ elegant motions without ever losing their rhythm, no matter how ridiculously drunk they were. As the men with their rosaries spilling out over the top of their unbuttoned shirts stumbled to the dance floor, they would quickly regain their balance to dance. Dancing to the music was second nature to them. I craved their free-flowing motions, but the dance always felt awkward for me. It

was as if the music were integrated into their bodies. It was a part of the rich Mexican culture they’d grown up with. My hips weren’t constructed for cumbia’s endless twist and turns. I felt out of place. Although my dad introduced me to this exotic and lavish culture, I never fully knew it. Most of my dad’s side of the family resided in Mexico City, and for the majority of my life, the only contact I’d had with them was over the phone in hobbled Spanish. My dad always had to translate for me, and although I loved the Mexican side of my family, I was unfamiliar with them. When I finally met everyone at fifteen, I felt awkward in their presence. We were always informed of each other through my dad’s stories and background, but we never fully knew each other. I never actually heard my Uncle Noe’s corny jokes, or my Aunt Rosalva’s squirrely giggles in response. I hadn’t felt the warm and tightly squeezed hugs of my abuela or listened to my abuelo’s epic baseball stories from his youth. We never shared that genuine moment of laughter or intense conversation that revealed one’s true self, the details families usually know about each other. Just like the music, I’d always adored and craved to grasp them fully and hoped they would absorb me as one of their own. But just like dancing to the music, I felt awkward, so that night, when my cousin Angie strutted over to my table and urged me to dance, I panicked. “Bailas conmigo!” she insisted in her high and outgoing voice. Although her soft, emerald eyes and wide smile dispensed a feeling of comfort, I felt embarrassed. Dancing just wasn’t my thing—especially cumbia. My lanky body couldn’t keep up with its quick turns and movements. Watching me dance was like watching a wingless bird trying to fly—unpleasant and embarrassing. “Lo siento, pero no puedo bailar. Soy terrible,” I disclaimed in a shy, quiet tone. My pale

cheeks quickly turned a shade of red. Forcing out a meager smile, I hoped she’d accept my plea and return back to the dance floor. “Esta bien, no me importa. Ven conmigo.” Grabbing my hand with her soft, petite one, she dragged me to the dance floor like a ball and chain attached to her leg. I searched for my dad or any of my relatives to rescue me from embarrassment. However, when I met Dad’s eyes, the only assistance I got was a wide grin. Reaching the only sliver of open space in the corner of the crowded dance floor, she spun around and clasped her short fingers with mine. Without saying a word, Ruva demonstrated the simple, three-step footwork—the basics. Our clasped hands swayed in a circular motion as if we were waxing Mr. Miyagi’s car. The Cumbia Cienaguera’s quick, rhythmic beat and fervent bass surged through my body like a needle shooting fluid into my veins, but my body couldn’t articulate its flow, and my giraffe legs struggled to keep up with her simple movements. Her fluent transitions from one position to another clashed with my choppy steps. With each falter in my step, I slowly began to panic—until she laughed. She giggled excessively at my awkward movements. At that moment, my panic trans-

formed into ecstasy. I no longer felt the flock of eyes closely examining my every mistake. That genuine laughter I longed to share suddenly arose; the seed of familiarity I craved to know taking root in our relationship. Aniceto Molina’s deep voice blasting from the speakers soon tuned out my worries. As my feet began to recognize her footwork and develop the epic chase I had watched her previously do, I began to learn about her. She transformed from being some prima I’d only known by scrolling through pictures on Facebook to my cousin, the sweet, outgoing girl that giggled at my accent and made me feel comfortable enough to embarrass myself in front of her. I conjured the courage to explore outside our simple three-step patterns. In an exceedingly daring attempt, I “twirled” her under my hand. It failed miserably. Trying to sort out our twisted arms was a disaster. Now that dance has become the first of many memories with my dad’s side of the family. I’ve learned to connect with family members like my cousin, creating those little memories of failed dance moves and shared laughter that piece families together. I no longer feel out of place around them, always dancing to Aniceto Molina’s voice when it surges through the loudspeakers.

design by Joe Fentress

Crumple Jonathan Shaver The crunching sound like fallen leaves upon the ground, under feet. Hands ensnare, create a crease. Two from there, and then comes three. The palms, the pink, the fingers, teeth. The white paper, gum, the chewing beast. What once was, now thrown to trash with twigs and crumbs. No burn, just crash.