Circinus 2016 by Leah Schell-Barber

*Circinus*

Volume 9

Stark State College 2016

The Circinus staff would like to extend their gratitude to all of the students at Stark State College for writing, writing, writing, transforming the community one word at a time. We would also like to thank the coordinators and judges for both the College Writing and College Composition Essay Contest and the Creative Writing Contest.

Thank you.

*staff*

Editors-in-Chief: Marie Cox Leah Schell-Barber Editors: Devon Anderson Ben Rafferty Jon Silvey

*table of contents* Creative Writing Ellen Walton

The Beginning

Vanzetta Morgan

I Never Asked

Jessica Jones

Behind the Mask

Matthew Talbott

For Washington

LaVonne Buckle

Therapy

Creative Writing Contest Winners Brianna McAlarney

Crumble

Matthew Talbott

The Prosecution of Joab

Essay Contest Winners Jeremiah Seibert

School

Alison Romeo

Spilt Milk

Nina Krier

Hope

Meet the Authors

The Beginning Ellen Walton I sat across from my mother in the local Mexican restaurant, sipping the giant green margarita resting on the table in front of me. I didn’t necessarily like the taste of alcohol, but I drank it anyway. It made me feel like an adult. I had just turned twenty-one the month before, and with that, I felt like I was now granted access to a secret club held by those that could purchase their own alcohol. I had held up my license for the waiter with a nonchalance, as if to say, “Here’s my invitation,” like an old Hollywood-type getting into an elite party. That being said, I didn’t particularly like the drink. I would have preferred to have it minus the alcohol, but then it would have just been a slushy, and that would have totally defeated the purpose. I tried drinking it as fast as I could to get it over with, mostly. I sat sipping the drink and getting lost in the bright colors around me, trying to drown out the loud music and letting the chatter of the busy lunch hour costumers fade into a pleasant roar in the background as I wandered around in my thoughts. “So what do you want to do?” my mother asked, trying to strike up a conversation. This question sent a fear through me, though my face didn’t show it. Luckily, I was born with a poker face. Despite the half-finished drink sitting in front of me, I was not an adult. I just wanted to act like one. “Eh…I don’t know,” I said for the millionth time, and 1

took another sip from the straw. That question is asked to everyone from kindergarten. With each grade, the frequency with which that question is asked increases until it reaches a crescendo senior year of high school. Suddenly, your parents are asking you on a daily basis. Their co-workers are asking whenever your parents bring you up. Random strangers you’ve only just met are asking. Your uncle’s girlfriend is asking. Faceless questionnaires for the senior yearbook are asking. The little college advertisements in the corners of webpages are all bidding for your enrollment. Then, when you try to escape into Pandora, the advertisements for colleges pop up, every other song telling you how they have helped people just like you! achieve their goals. (I just want to fucking listen to some simple Michael Jackson, so leave me alone, just for like two seconds. Please.) The problem with me is that I had always assumed that I would have had it figured out by now. I just never wanted to actually work toward it. I just kept expecting my future self to get her shit together for me. Like I’d walk up to my future self, she’d pass me the baton, and I’d say, “Hey thanks, I’ll take it from here.” Alaska, something in my mind whispered, silently nudging me to bring it up. Fortunately and unfortunately, I spent my childhood with my nose stuck between the pages of books. Specifically adventurous ones. I grew up unconsciously thinking that when I was old enough, something would happen. What the something was exactly wasn’t clear. Just something. Something that would help me get started and on the right path through my life story. 2

I recalled the time I went to the local Barnes and Noble after having lost the battle of trying to get my parents to approve of a trip I wanted to take when I was 18. People always say, “You’re eighteen. You’re a legal adult. You can do what you want.” That is technically true, but at the same time the farthest from the truth. I love my parents, and wouldn’t want to do anything to make them upset with me. So I went to the bookstore. Instead of finding comfort in the books I was seeing, the trip ended up causing tears to swell in my eyes. This is the only way I’m going to be able to travel, I remember thinking with clarity on that day years before. Books are a good substitute for traveling and life in general. In books you can go anywhere and do anything. But their magic was starting to fade away; I wanted something more real. I was tired of substitutes. Even the restaurant we were in, for all its color and festive music, was symbolic of that. I could go there and have Mexican cuisine, but that was a poor substitute for actually being in Mexico. “Actually…”I said gathering up my courage. “I want to go to Alaska.” My mother started to fidget. It was subtle, and only those who knew her would have been able to tell. She knew it was time for our annual argument. “Why?” “I don’t know,” I said, only half-lying. “You can do that later when you’re older,” my mom said dismissively. That was her way of saying that it wasn’t going to happen, and she’d hope I forget about it when I was finally “old enough”. Whatever that meant. 3

“But I can’t do that when I’m older!” I protested. “I want to do this while I’m young enough. I have a job I can easily quit. I don’t have kids, or a boyfriend, or a husband, or even a plan. I have nothing keeping me back. I want to do this while I can. Before I get trapped into paying mortgages and my career or starting a family… now is the time to do it if I ever want to. Right?” My mother stared at me, not sure what to say and clearly starting to panic. “I hear people all the time telling me that ‘youth is wasted on the young’,” I said gently. “I don’t want to wake up one day and kick myself for not doing something like this while I could. I want to go camp across to Seattle, stay with Sarah for a while, then head up to Juneau…that’s what I really want to do. I’ll figure out the rest after I get back. Maybe if I get this out of my system, I can start to focus on college and stuff.” My mother started in on the old, “here’s what can go wrong with that plan” speech. I tuned her out. The loud music, the laughing chatter of the other customers, and my own thoughts and disappointment served as a distraction as she went through the bullet points she had used time and time again to dissuade me. I finished my margarita, and we left the restaurant. I sat silently in the passenger seat on the way home. Usually when my mother and I get into a tiff, it is over within a matter of minutes. Not this time, though. My mother looked over at me, slightly alarmed to see tears in my eyes. I never cried in front of people. Ever. “I’m sorry, Onny,” she said softly, calling me by my 4

nickname I’ve had since childhood. “I just want you to stay safe with me. I’d be worried sick…” I was touched by this, but still it didn’t help. I knew that she was simultaneously telling the truth and trying to guilt trip me. I tried to smile, but the frustration in me was too great to give more than a grimace. “Plus,” my mother continued. “You wouldn’t like it. You think you would like it now, but you wouldn’t like sleeping out in a tent like that! You take two showers a day, you adorable germaphobe; how would you like being out in the woods? It would drive you crazy, you wouldn’t like it…” This fueled the fire inside me. I was angry that she thought that I was too “soft” to tough it out in the wilderness. Even worse she thought that I wasn’t thinking this in terms of reality. She thought I was making up some grand daydream that I foolishly wanted to follow. Unfortunately for my mom, I am more like my father. We have an innate stubbornness hammered into our DNA that kicks in whenever someone tells us we can’t do something because of our own limitations. At that point it isn’t about what we want to do anymore; it’s about proving that person wrong. Our slogan: it’s not that I win; it’s that you lose. And while I love my mother, she was going to lose this one. I wasn’t sure how. I just felt it. I went to my room when I got home. I tried to find peace in there, but I couldn’t settle down. Even though I was sitting still, cross-legged on my bed, I was raging inside. 5

I tried to focus my attention on the posters hanging against the bright green wall in front of me for a distraction…then, I noticed something. All of the pictures had a character from a movie or book with their backs facing the camera, looking out into the unknown. Bilbo was standing, facing the rocky grey face of a mountain with dragon smoke rising from the entrance. Katniss was facing a crowd in the Capitol, unassumingly. My black and white copy of “Wanderer over a Sea of Fog” depicted a man standing on the edge of a cliff looking into the swirling unknown of the misty valley below him. It hit me then. I realized then that I had picked out posters and pictures that stirred something inside of me even though I wasn’t sure why. I had thought I picked out the posters because I enjoyed the movies or books they came from. But suddenly I realized that it was because I connected with those characters; they were all normal, ordinary people just before their adventure started. That was it. I wasn’t going to push this down anymore. Wanderlust had always been ingrained in me, and now it had become irrepressible. Pissed off, determined, stubborn, and more than a little buzzed from the margarita, I went to our living room to find my dad. He didn’t know what gone on between me and my mom yet, so I tried to calm myself, and asked innocently if he’d show me how to pitch a tent in the backyard. What followed can be summed up in a few short sentences. I wasn’t sure when I set that tent what I was 6

going to accomplish really. To be honest, I think I was just a little too tipsy. When I sobered up, I remembered thinking, “What the hell? Ellen. Why?” But there was no way I was going to show that party to anyone. And so I stayed out there a solid month. I told myself and the people who asked (concerned neighbors, mostly. I didn’t get my nickname “crazy neighbor girl” for nothing) that I was part of a conditioning process for my camping trip in Alaska, to which they would just nod, pretending to understand. To my utter shock, this worked. This fucking worked. How? No clue. I just know that I got the go-ahead to leave this June to travel across the U.S. and up into Alaska for a month. And what’s more, I get to camp in a tent to whole time, surrounded by the beauty of nature and, of course, the bears. So I keep writing, not sure how to end this story because to be honest it hasn’t ended yet. My story is just beginning. I’m at the part where Ben gives Luke the lightsaber. I’m at the part where Gandalf pushes Bilbo out the door without his handkerchief. I’m at the part where Kirk cheats on the kobiashi maru; the part where Hagrid gives Harry his letter. Dear lord, I’m a bigger nerd that I thought…Anyways, the point is I’m at the beginning of my story, not just in my Alaskan, adventure, but also in my life. I can’t write a complete story because it hasn’t ended yet, it’s only beginning.

I Never Asked Vanzetta Morgan

I never asked To be abducted It should have been My choice. Your Sadistic Laws obliterated My voice I never asked To be put on display To be mocked and Mistreated Without regard; renamed. What you need Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter To me, Because in death I will certainly be free. I never asked To be Interrupted. Bare-breasted, Nursing my young. I belong to you, or so you say. The truth Will reveal it self Not now, but some day. I never asked, Nor do I care to empathize. 8

I interpret How to be brave When to surrender In accordance To your will I must behave. In secret I pray That my Endangered soul Be saved, Before this barbarity Confines me To an unmarked Grave. I never asked To be a Slave.

Behind the Mask Jessica Jones Shot! Clash! To my knees I clatter The floor is ice but my mind is on fire The people around They scream They scatter But the man behind the smoke and gun Thinks he’s won this battle When his internal struggle will never be done His mom is sick—at home she’s dying His daughter was taken So long, his presence to love her is all but forgotten Each shout he yells out is a cry for help, “Please save me from my LIFE,” As he—BANG! BANG!—takes another. His anger is grief His malice depressed Each shot he rings out he begs, “Put me to rest!” Desperation! As he shoves the money in the bag. —Oh he’ll pay his dues; This could save his mother, With this paper he may finally see— BANG! I lift the hand from my eyes Daddy’s hopeful heart beats no more— And I rise. 10

For Washington Matthew Talbott

the well-met, hell-bent jet set spark and spit from minbar slight to regress, ingress, impress; all consume their share of sight. boldly, brashly blundering, bussing burning camp to camp, extoling two-speak virtues, barely glimpse the ground they tramp. These new-clothed courtiers hurl playground jibes and sandbox dreams, bind our mouth with yellow bow, and outshout the massing screams. they drudge across our land to show it is not we, but them, that know.

Therapy LaVonne Buckle

When she wakes up, she knows immediately that it’s going to be one of those days. Her head feels heavy, larger than normal. Just holding it upright is a struggle. Her heart likewise, and sluggish−oh so sluggish−each lub and dub spaced so far apart it seems as if the next will never follow the last. She rises slowly from the bed, her husband still snoring softly from beneath the comforter hiked up around the top of his head, pulled greedily forward, and tucked under his chin. She envies how blissfully unaware and peaceful he seems. As she rises her limbs creak and groan in protest and the last vestiges of her dream blows from her mind, leaving behind only vague, half remembered impressions and an overwhelming feeling of sorrow. Even if she can’t remember the particulars of the dream, she knows it was another dream of her mother. She has them so often that she can always tell if she’s had one−even if she can’t remember it−just by her body’s physical and emotional reaction to them.

She misses her mom. Plain and simple, that sums up everything, but yet there’s so much more to it than that−so many other emotions and guilt wrapped up within those emotions that she’s unable to just simply grieve her passing. So instead, she goes round and round, caught on a Ferris wheel of grief and apathy, guilt and anger−oh yes don’t forget anger, there’s that too−and she never finds resolution and the ride never ends. She gets dressed and starts the coffee, then wakes her 12

husband. She makes breakfast and asks what he has planned today. He says he should mow the lawn and weed, what was she thinking of doing? “Could we ride?” she asks plaintively, almost shyly. He looks into her eyes and sees the grief and deep seated pain there, senses her need and urgency in the tremor in her voice on the word “ride.” “Let me just knock down the back lawn real quick and then we’ll take off.” “Sure, that will be fine,” she answers, somewhat dejectedly. When he comes in from mowing, he finds her sitting on the couch with Cleo, her elderly female tabby siting on her lap. The cat is wrapped around her hand like a glove purring in ecstasy as she rubs its belly−and she is staring into space, unfocused and dazed. “Hey hun, I’ll just hop in the shower and we can hit the road as soon as I’m done. Hun…?” he asks when she fails to reply. She gives her head a slight shake and awareness slowly floods her eyes. “Great, I’ll throw my hair up and be ready in a minute.” Once finished with his shower he walks into the kitchen and finds her pacing the floor, the cat entwining between her feet and meowing beseechingly. He immediately senses her nerves are reaching crescendo and knows they need to hit the road, pronto. He runs to the garage and starts the bike. 13

“All set, let’s ride, babe,” he tells her. She walks past him without a word and stands by the bike waiting for him to mount so she can get on behind him. He throws his leg over and sits and she does her usual short-legged half-hop to get on behind him. She gives him a squeeze to let him know she’s ready and he can feel her need and impatience through the embrace. “Where to?” “I don’t care, just drive.” He knows from her clipped tone and the curtness of her reply that further attempts at conversation are pointless for the time being. They hit the road and he heads towards the farmlands of Hartville. As the houses grow further apart and the stops few and far between, he increases their speed, the farms and homes now whizzing past her eyes in a kaleidoscope of color and reflected golden sun. At this point what they’re passing doesn’t really matter anyway. At another time, or when she is in a different state of mind she would notice everything passing before her, thrilling in the brilliant hues of the flowers in their beds beside the farmhouses, the animals contentedly munching in their pastures, the farmers working in the fields. She would take it all in and sigh in contentment, filing the images away for future comparison as the season progressed and to savor the memory of in the cold barren winter when riding is just a blissful dream to come. They ride on…

Now though, in her current state of mind, she notices 14

none of it, and simply stares unseeing into the fragile landscape of her own mind and memory, the fragile and dangerous landscape, full of potholes and boobytraps to fall into and be scarred and re-scarred again and again. Her mother is gone … forever. That thought keeps looping round and round in her mind. She can’t seem to leave it alone or let it go. She plays with it constantly, like a child mindlessly working the edges of scab on a half-healed wound. Although this is one wound that never seems to heal, never seems to build that protective layer of scar tissue. It’s always there with her, crowding out all other thoughts during her waking hours. Not even sleep seems to offer her any reprieve. It’s the boogeyman that chases her across bleak and unforgiving landscapes of pain and grief in her dreams. It smacks her in the face upon waking, whether her dreams the night before were pleasant or bad. Pleasant dreams are almost worse than bad ones. At least when she wakes from a night of bad dreams her emotions are already in turmoil and she’s somewhat prepared for the onslaught of emotions that engulf her every time her consciousness catches up to the reality of her mother’s death. If her dreams are pleasant and she wakes up still basking in their glow however, she’s bushwhacked anew by the reality once it settles in. They ride on… Once her husband gets out beyond the farms, into the truly open road, some switch inside her is thrown. Her grief surges up from the unfathomable well it resides in and catches in her throat, threatening to choke her if not released. She lifts her head and screams to the heavens, a loud tormented yell of insatiable anguish that would scare the birds from the sky and the angels 15

from the heavens if it could be heard over the roar of the bike. She pours all of her pain, grief, guilt, and anger into it and it arches up and out of her, on and on in a long, undulating wail. Once the wail ends, the tears come, like a rainstorm triggered by a thunderclap. They roll down her face in torrents of tears and snot and she lets them come−not raising a hand to wipe them away or stench the flow. Her husband hears her scream and is grateful, knowing the tears it portends. He knows only this animalistic ritual of grief and rage, rage and grief seems to work to dispel her pent-up, all-consuming mass of emotions and fears, and without this release, he fears those very emotions would eat her alive. They ride on… They ride on this way for some time−she sitting behind him crying her now silent waves and he before her−his shirt slowly soaking from her tears−silent too and letting her cry. He takes turns and roads at random; knowing that at this time the ride isn’t the destination as on those days when they ride strictly for pleasure and enjoyment, but rather the vehicle of her release from her prison of pain and grief. They ride on … Eventually he feels her body begin shaking as it’s wracked by huge sobs that roll up from the very core of her being. Those first few rides after her mom’s passing, when this process of grief and healing first began, he feared she would fall of the bike, knocked from her seat by the very force of these sobs. Now though, he knows better, some unconscious sense of balance or presence keeps her safely in her seat behind him, only 16

her grief falling by the wayside, at least temporarily. So now he welcomes those sobs when they come, knowing they’re the next step in the process that will hopefully bring her back to herself − and to him. They ride on …

He misses her. Her and the life they shared before her mother’s death. He wonders how long this cycle will continue and hopes he has the strength and patience to see it through. He misses the spark that used to light up her eyes every time they started one of these miniadventures on the bike and hearing her joyous laughter ring out behind him whenever she spied something by the roadside that delighted her, which before all this, was often. Her glee was infectious and childlike in its spontaneous exuberance, and he couldn’t help but be caught up by it too. Now though, her need is scary in its intensity and all-consuming in its grip and he fears being caught by its undertow himself. They ride on… Another half an hour and he feels her sobs subsiding, her arms moving as she begins to dry her eyes and wipe the snot from her face. He sees a gas station up ahead and pulls in claiming he needs to use the restroom so she can have an excuse to unobtrusively go and wash her face. She gives him a slight, grateful smile and ducks under his outstretched arm as he holds the entry door for her. When she returns, he’s back at the bike waiting and pretends not to notice her inflamed bright red cheeks and eyes. He looks into her eyes and asks if she’s ready for more and smiles when she nods and weakly smiles in response, his heart uplifted by this tiny show of her recovery. Yes … he thinks, the healing has begun. 17

They ride on … Now she has returned to herself, but is still locked up inside her grief. It’s noontime, the sun directly above them and she sees her shadow riding on the roadside beside her, her shadow-self sitting in imitation of her. She imagines her shadow to be her grief, locked in perfect-step to her−sometimes maybe even gaining−and above all, never letting go. Some days she sits behind him and thinks of her guilt and anger − at her mother for making them watch her commit suicide the slow way, just like her father, only with cigarettes rather than her dad’s weapon of choice, alcohol − at her sisters for their soul-sucking voracious need and infantile behavior that helped to hasten her mother’s death−and at herself−maybe most of all herself−for not being able to release her rage or at least put it aside to spend more time with her mother before she was gone. On other days she thinks of the good times she shared with her mom, few and far between they may have been. She hears her mother’s lilting voice as she read her stories as a child or told her silly jokes, remembers quiet walks with her in the fields behind her childhood home, talking of everything and nothing at all in hushed, reverent tones, the trip to Florida for her brother’s wedding when they all went parasailing and her mother’s initial fear turning to amazed joy when she discovered how much she loved it. These memories play over again and again in her mind, sometimes bringing fresh tears, sometimes bemused smiles, sometimes cheeks flushing with shame and the pain of being cheated out of reparation by her own anger and her mother’s early death. 18

They ride on… It’s around three now, the sun now well begun on its inexorable march west. She spies her shadow now riding somewhat obliquely beside her. Is that my grief now she wonders? Am I finally beginning to outpace it, could I someday even break free of it? She finally begins to become aware of the world around her, to perceive and even appreciate the beauty she is surrounded by on all sides. She sees a small farm on her right, the angle of the sun turning the ripened tops of the corn in the field to waves of golden fire. On her left, back and while heifers idly dawdle, some lazily chewing their cud, others peacefully lying on the ground. So much life all around me … she muses … so much beauty... They ride on… Evening is upon them now. They pass a lake; the sun’s dying rays exploding upon the waves as they gently roll; prisms of red and gold, magenta and pink escaping from the waves. A red-tailed hawk soars over their heads and its shadow-twin swims over the waves, and she is caught up in awe by the image, her heart soaring in its majesty. Nature is performing its subtle magic on her troubled soul. She breathes in deeply, smelling the wet aroma of the lake and the pungent stink of decaying fish, and it feels to her like her first breath, as though she had been drowning in the bottomless depths of a lake of death and grief and just now had surfaced into the bright sunshine of life … and hope. They ride on … Eventually, she begins to feel some sense of−if not peace exactly−then of finality. At this time she grasps her mother is gone and there is nothing she can do to 19

change it. She knows must go on and live her life, accepting she did the things she did−nothing can change them−and she must accept that. She has to live her life and make the best of it−for nothing would have hurt her mother more than to have her give up and not try to go on.

They ride on … Now she sees that her shadow twin is riding well and fully behind her, its pony-tail streaming up and away from the shadow form, its jacket billowing back like a sail. She imagines this is her grief, at last falling off her − if not for good − then one day hopefully for the last time in this all-consuming form. She gives her husband a long tight squeeze and he breathes in silent relief for he knows − for now − she has come back to him. “Ready to head home?” he asks. “Oh God yes, my butt is screaming for a break,” she laughs in reply, and his heart soars to hear the apparent ease of her laughter. As they pull into the drive he offers up a silent thanks to Nature and the Gods of Chrome and Steel for bringing her back to him once again − at least for now − and reverently beseeches them to be ready and willing to help again when her next grief-storm descends.

5th annual Creative writing contest winners

Crumble Fiction Category — First Place Brianna McAlarney Lucy slammed her shoulder into the door trying to escape the bitter cold December afternoon. As she slapped and kicked at the innocent plank of steel, she was glad none of her neighbors lived close enough to hear the racket. Just inside she could hear her mother’s achingly cheerful voice calling “Just a minute!” Three agonizing minutes later the door was finally ajar … yes, ajar, not open but cracked just enough for Lucy to slide her slender body through. “I was reorganizing again” her mother chirped, her voice a remnant from the 1950’s. Lucy stared numbly at her mother, bemused by her god-awful holiday sweater vest. “Organization is usually easier when you get rid of things you don’t need, Mother,” Lucy growled as she dodged boxes, piles, and stacks of her mother’s treasured rubbish. She heard the deafening crunch of some indistinguishable substance beneath her shoe. Again, she was thankful, glad that the crunch hadn’t been a squish. As she made her way through the kitchen, a bundle of mail slid from the top of the empty refrigerator box (which her mother insisted she was going to use for something), sending a cloud of dust and mouse feces straight into her face. Coughing and spitting, she found her way to the bathroom by touch, afraid that opening her eyes would cause her to contract some kind of disease. She was thankful that she couldn’t see 22

what her hands were grazing over, the textures transitioning from fuzzy to sticky to slimy, and back again. Finally making it to the sink, she washed her face, relieved by the lack of mice and cockroaches in the almond colored basin. Needing his company, Lucy went to find her father. He was in his usual spot, the basement, where he was pruning his less than legal plant life. His kind face seemed to glow under the grow lights, deepening the wrinkles he’d earned and wore proudly. His bald head bobbed up and down as if he were listening to music; he’d had the nervous tick for as long as Lucy could remember. He was quiet, clean shaven, and always sporting at least one fashion faux-pas. Today Jack wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt, plain khaki shorts, and white socks with brown sandals. Lucy would have been embarrassed by his appearance if she hadn't found it so endearing. “Mom’s reorganizing again,” she said as she rolled her cow-brown eyes. Her father shrugged, handing her a newly rolled joint he produced from his shirt pocket. Lucy toked; letting the skunk of the marijuana overwhelm the sour, tangy smell of cat urine that seemed to linger permanently in her nose. She slinked down onto a hard, metal folding chair. As she exhaled she felt her stiff shoulders begin to loosen, and welcomed the delightful haze that began to fog her mind. It hadn’t always been that bad. Lucy’s mother, Debra, had always been a little frazzled and unorganized. The house had always been a little cluttered, but no more than usual. Until death destroyed the delicate balance of their household. Just a year before Lucy left for college her grandmother passed away. The demanding 23

old matriarch had been the family’s lynchpin; her indelicate insistence for order and routine had kept everyone grounded. The loss of her mother, coupled with empty-nest syndrome, had thrown Debra into an emotional tailspin. She began filling her new emptiness with multitudes of unnecessary collections.

While in college, Lucy had always meant to visit her parents, but California was so far away from their Pennsylvania home. After graduation, she found the job market less than friendly and the cost of living on the west coast stifling. Like so many other millennials, she had to move home. However, home wasn’t as she remembered … nothing was. Thoughts of her home-coming often plagued her while she was high. Opening the door for the first time in four years had been shocking. From the moment she’d opened the front door she felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The stench of piss and garbage assaulted her, biting at her, stinging her eyes like a swarm of angry bees. Attempting to inhale, her breath caught in her throat; she surrendered to an uncontrollable coughing fit. Lucy had been hopeful then; she thought that she could fix everything. For months she’d tried to better their circumstances. She’d clean out the least noticeable areas of the house while her mother was shopping. However, Debra soon became wise to her daughter’s activities, and refused to leave the house. After that Lucy did the shopping, and Debra’s hoarding was uninhibited. Still, Lucy was thankful for the little things. She was thankful when the sight of rodents no longer caused her to break out into hives. She was thankful that her 24

bathtub was deep enough to drown said rodents. She was definitely thankful for the strainer and dish gloves she used to divest the house of their tiny furry carcasses. Lucy was thankful … until she wasn’t. Slowly but surely her gratitude was replaced with exhaustion. She was tired, tired in every possible way. Weariness ached in her bones and sat like a brick in her stomach. Working in retail, coming home to a junkyard, having to cover her bed with plastic, finding holes chewed into her clothes … it was a never ending circle of psychological turmoil. Though rarely drug induced, Lucy’s days and nights passed by in a haze. *** “Is there anything I can help you find?” Lucy uttered for the three hundredth time that day. “Yeah, can you help find a fragrance that says ‘I’m single and sexy, but not easy?” Seriously beginning to think that as someone who’d lost most of her sense of smell and all of her patience shouldn’t be working the perfume counter, Lucy blinked. “This one smells like peaches” she said. She was in desperate need of a vacation and or a rescue. In college she’d learned that times like these required a trip to her emergency box (an idea her roommate had come up with), s an 18 quart Rubbermaid container that contained every cliché item a girl could need. The problem was, Lucy didn’t think half a bottle of sour apple schnapps was going to cut it. Refilling her emergency box had been easy enough, and a welcome distraction from reality. Lucy’s online shopping cart had been filled within minutes, every 25

click more satisfying than the last. And after five to ten business days and a few hours of buyer’s remorse, her packages had arrived. She decided to keep her newly filled, mental health day toolkit in her car to protect its contents. Her mid-sized SUV was looking about as beat down as she felt: the silver paint was chipping and giving way to rust, the fenders and wheel wells were dinged and dented. Even her hot pink surfboard, which was still attached to the roof, seemed to be wilting, the sun bleaching its color. In Pennsylvania, having a surfboard on your car was more ironic than anything else, but there hadn’t been any room in the house to store it. For months Lucy had avoided looking at her board, knowing it would only remind her of a freedom she no longer enjoyed. *** A year went by. The three of them carried on, going through the motions, pretending they were really living rather than just surviving. Crash! Lucy bolted from her bed and raced downstairs. Debra was lying on the floor, half covered with boxes of newspaper, moaning and clutching her side. Jack was already unearthing his wife from the mess. “What happened?” Lucy asked, her voice shrill with panic. “I was reorganizing and I slipped” Debra explained through tight lips, the pain evident in her drawn face. Her poof of auburn hair was matted to the side of her face; even the laughing snowmen on her sweater seemed less jovial. The hospital had been a mad house. They waited three and a half hours in the E.R. Apparently a 65 year old woman with a broken hip wasn’t the highest priority case they’d had that morning. Thirteen hours later Debra 26

was out of surgery, but she wouldn’t be allowed to go home for a few days. Lucy and Jack drove home in silence, both needing rest and some coffee that didn’t come out of a machine. Lucy opened the door and switched on the lights. As an artist, Lucy had always been amazed by how much light could change perception. In the dark their house looked like everyone else’s, but, when light was applied, the illusion of normality was shattered. There in the open doorway, Lucy stood taking in the sights and smells of her home as if for the first time, and she wept. Every pile of filth seemed filthier, every odor more pungent, every bug and rodent seemed to have multiplied ten-fold. Jack held his daughter, “There’s nothing we can do tonight, let’s get some sleep,” he said. Lucy nodded, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to sleep again. She couldn’t understand how she’d gotten used to living like this, and that scared her. She spent the night pacing the three foot section of clean floor in her room, considering her circumstances. Morning couldn’t come soon enough for Lucy. As soon as the sun rose, she began hunting down the cats; soon Mr. Fluffybutt and Sir Sherbet were ushered into their carriers. She woke her father, “Dad! If there’s anything you want to keep put it next to my car.” Slightly confused, Jack nodded, grabbing a few joints “for the road,” his wallet, car keys, and the cat carriers. Sitting on the hood of the car, he waited for Lucy to finish whatever she was doing in the house. Lucy had finally able to use her emergency box; she emerged 27

from the filth wearing her new black, floor length evening gown, her white, satin, elbow length gloves, brunette hair a perfect bun on her head, held in place by her new, rhinestone studded hair clip. Smoke began to billow from the windows as she climbed to the roof of her SUV, her new black pumps making the journey more arduous than usual. She sat on her surfboard, which she had covered with a blue checkered tablecloth, her emergency box at her side. Looking and feeling like Audrey Hepburn, she gracefully handed her father a pack of Poptarts, “a wonderful day for a picnic don’t you think?” Lucy said. Jack reached back and patted his daughter’s ankle, watching as flames began to lick at his house. The mice seemed to ooze from the house like pus from a festering wound; they created a wave of brown over the green grass. Lucy began to laugh. She was finally free. Freedom tasted sweet, like sour apple schnapps. It smelled like burning hair and rubber. It sounded like sirens screaming down the street. It felt like the heat from the fire on her face, the cold, hard metal hugging her wrists, the hand pressing her head down, the cool leather she was now sitting on. Her freedom sounded like a woman’s laughter, cackling, uncontrollable laughter. As she watched her childhood home crumble, she laughed harder, realizing that she was probably the best dressed arsonist in the county.

The Prosecution of Joab Poetry Category — First Place Matthew Talbott I’ve wondered long, oh Absalom: where has your fury gone? -That cloudburst flame in which conceived Yourself and MarianneDid the efforts of your birth exhaust your endless font? -The spring that you called Delaware, maybe yet Rubicon,That which you fed for pater’s glory and shouldered bannered run to claim the dawn and mirror might missing, lost with Republic gone? What compelled your crown to rest in nest of eagle’s down? What stayed your hand, sheathed your rod, and tore your contract to the bound? What moves within you, Absalom? What calls your lips to sound? Who remains atop the helm as lilacs rot in Hallowed ground? Radiant child, princely son, oh self-named heir of Peace! How you so proudly postured yourself as champion of the least! With open arms and horizon embraced you swore to make them whole. High ambitions, yes, my lord, but when did your reaching cease? You settled in to what you stole and called yourself complete, yet here we stand in concrete wood with Megiddo to the East.

7th annual Academic writing and college composition essay contest winners

School Academic Writing Category â&#x20AC;&#x201D; First Place Jeremiah Seibert Not everyone wants their child in a private school; however, one should consider the opportunity if possible. Public and private schools both have their advantages and disadvantages. Since I personally went to a private school all my life, I am a living example of what it can do. I used my experience to show my college classmates that private schools may teach differently than public schools, influencing them to see that private schools are not always a bad thing. Schools teach differently, and some are more advanced than others. My personal experience in a private school has shown me that the one I went to helped students learn more by using different teaching methods than some public schools. Being taught phonics when I was in kindergarten gave me a head start in reading. When some kids came from a public school, where phonics was not being taught, they had difficulty reading some simple sentences that were easy for some of the worst readers, such as me. Many of the kids were kicked out of a public school, and they did not care about their grades. Therefore, their parents sent them to my small private school where they could get help. Some of the ways the school would help them were by correcting bad behavior and helping them excel academically so that they could become better students. The school that I attended started teaching the multiplication table in the first grade, compared to some schools who did not teach it until a later time. Some schools teach students to check their addition problems by adding the same problem up to see if they get the same answer. My school taught me how to cast out 31

nines, which is a much faster, easier, and more efficient way of checking addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division problems. I did not realize until college that not many people know about this time-saving way of checking math problems. I was asked to demonstrate how to cast out nines in college, but instead of helping my fellow college classmates, I just confused them. They did agree that my way would be easier if they had been taught it in school. I also found out in college that schools do not teach their students how to diagram sentences. When I was taught how to diagram, I highly disliked it, but now I see why they taught me it. Diagramming helps you understand how the sentence works and functions, and how to punctuate the sentence properly. Diagramming has helped me correct grammar in a sentence that I did not understand because I could figure it out visually. If you are a visual learner, this can make a confusing sentence easier to understand. Besides academics, some schools require a dress code. Some schools are not as strict with their dress code as other schools. My personal experience with a dress code was unique. When I got ready in the morning, I did not have to wonder what I was going to wear that day. Normally for me, it was khaki pants and a blue polo shirt every day, except Wednesday when we had to dress up for chapel. The proper facial hair length and head hair was always being evaluated for the guys. The rule stated that your hair could not touch your shirt collar, or when a teacher told you to cut your hair, you had to. Dress codes help cut back the competition or â&#x20AC;&#x153;economic classesâ&#x20AC;? of kids in schools. Depending on the strictness of the school, I had to show respect not just to my teachers, but also to fellow 32

classmates. Especially, swearing and back talk were not acceptable under any circumstance. We were taught to be polite because nobody likes a rude person, and never to forget the valuable lesson that I have been taught. If broken, the rules were fully enforced. This was an important lesson for everyone because when you get a job you will have to respect your boss, or else you might be fired. Since public schools have larger classes, the students do not always receive the proper attention that they need. When attending a small private school, the teachers are willing to help you however long it takes. When I was in high school, I was struggling with chemistry. Sometimes I did not understand the homework. Since I was in a small class, I was able to talk to my chemistry teacher in study halls, which made me feel more comfortable asking him for help. One study hall turned into two, and he continued to help. This showed me that it does not hurt to ask for help with something that I do not understand. Since I was in a small class, my teacher saw that I was struggling, and he was able to help me. Private schools can be a great advantage. Some of my fellow college classmates may not have been taught how to diagram or to cast out nines, and that is ok; however, those skills have helped me greatly. Even though they may be considered old ways, they still work just as well. Some people put “labels” on kids who attended private schools, such as rich, smart, or outcast, but I showed my classmates that I do not want to be “labeled.” Having gone to a private school my entire life has shaped my life drastically. The valuable lessons and values that you learn in a private school will last you a lifetime. When I did not understand a chemistry prob33

lem, my teacher always said, “you got it,” which showed he was not going to give up on me, even when I was ready to quit. One should consider sending one’s child to private school. It will help the child get a head start in schooling, learn to respect others, and prepare for a future job. It has also influenced some of my classmates in college. They see that there are other ways to do something, which has the same results, and some older ways make things easier in the end.

Spilt Milk College Composition Category — First Place Alison Romeo “There is no use in crying over spilt milk,” the saying goes. Other versions go further: “Don’t cry,” we’re admonished. The origin of this phrase is unclear, but after being in English usage for over 300 years, it’s a deeply ingrained cultural cliché warning people not to express grief for things which cannot be changed. We’re not ever told the reason why it’s unwise to cry over spilt milk, just warned not to do it. Perhaps the admonition is intended more for the person saying it than it is for the recipient. In other words, saying “Don’t cry over spilt milk” is more akin to saying, “Stop talking about that because your grief makes me uncomfortable.” Americans, as a whole, are intensely uncomfortable with public grief. If we’re ever going to get serious about mental health as a culture, we need to get over our fear of grief and start having productive conversations. It’s time to put away the trite clichés. My life changed instantly on the afternoon of October 17, 2012 when a solemn-faced, white-coated doctor and his nurse assistant entered the private ICU waiting room at Akron General Hospital where my husband Roger and I waited anxiously for news of our son. “I’m sorry…” he began. I don’t remember much of anything else after that except for the wailing, the high-pitched terrifying death scream that filled the room and paralyzed me. It wasn’t until later that I realized the source of the shrieking was me. And with that, I joined the ranks of parents of dead children.

Of course, there’s more to the story than that. The story 35

actually began the day before, a picture-perfect fall Wednesday when I witnessed the aftermath of the accident between the semi-truck and the compact car my son drove, when I watched in silent horror as the rescue workers struggled for 20 minutes to free him from his crushed metal prison: the jaws of life ripping the roof off, the metal-cutting saw chewing through the floorboard to free his legs, his lifeless body slumping sideways out of his seat. I noted every detail, from the chopping whir of the helicopter, to the paramedic straddling my son’s body while doing chest compressions to restart his heart. My brain recorded it all and filed it away. For weeks after Maxwell’s death, I didn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, and when I did, my dreams were filled with blood and gore. After that came the panic attacks. Any loud noise or anything startling could trigger them. The flashbacks were the worst, and I never knew when they would happen. I could be in the middle of making dinner, for instance, when something would switch in my brain, and suddenly I was back at the accident scene, reliving the nightmare. Weeks turned into months; months turned into a year. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t go anywhere without intense fear, I couldn’t keep food down. I wanted to die. In the early days of my grief, friends and neighbors were eager to help. They raised money for the funeral and memorial grave stone, delivered food and supplies, and entertained my surviving children. The initial support was beautiful, but I quickly learned that after about two weeks post-funeral, no one wanted to talk about my dead son and how his absence had permanently altered the landscape of my family. I can still remember the first time someone tried to comfort me 36

with trite words: “You must be strong for your other kids” and “He’s in a better place now.” When it comes to death, with few exceptions, there are two kinds of people: those who say nothing and those who say too much. The first group wants to avoid being reminded about death, so they tiptoe around the subject altogether. Because they don’t want to make the grieving person feel worse, and they think that saying anything will hurt, they opt to say nothing. Others would say something if they only knew what to say. I’ve learned that the people who get stricken looks on their faces when I mention my son Maxwell tend to belong to this first group. The second group of people say all the wrong things. These people can only make sense of senseless tragedy through the liberal use of platitudes. These are the people who remind me to be thankful for the children I do have and not dwell on the one that died. Sometimes these people like to remind me that this is all part of God’s plan, and that my son is in a better place now. In all cases, it’s neither helpful nor appropriate to suggest a solution for my grief. You can’t fix death, you can’t erase my pain, and it’s simply not kind to even try to.

In her book Sunrise Tomorrow (1988, p. 96), Elizabeth Brown suggests that these kinds of responses are as old as the Bible. When the patriarch Job experienced the terrible tragedy of the deaths of his entire family, his friends came to sit and grieve with him. For seven days, they wailed along with him, but after a week of mourning, they were ready to move on. Ostensibly trying to help him, instead they heaped criticism and judgment on him. Job’s friends essentially told him that how he was grieving was wrong. 37

Clearly the bereaved need to speak about their loss, and they need safe people who will listen to them without judgment or ridicule. They want to talk about what happened and what the loss means to them. Telling their stories is one way to heal, and listening to their stories with compassion is a precious gift that costs the giver nothing but some time. The Dougy Center, a national support organization for grieving children and families, has published a “Bill of Rights for Grieving Teens” (Teens at The Dougy Center, n.d.). Though aimed at young people, the list includes wisdom for bereaved people of any age. For instance, a grieving person has the right “to be heard with dignity and respect,” “to not have to follow the ‘Stages of Grief’ as outlined in a high school health book,” and “to grieve in one’s own unique, individual way without censorship” (para. 1). At the end of one perfectly ordinary day in my life as a bereaved mother of three plus years – which is mostly to say I did my daily work and didn't break down into tears – I happened to glance at the back of the head of one of my surviving sons while he was playing a video game with his younger brother, and suddenly I was seeing Maxwell just like it was yesterday, doing the exact same thing. The pain of missing him is always there and usually just throbs like a really deep purple and yellow bruise, but when it unexpectedly pierces like that, out of the blue...I can't breathe. Perhaps one day our society will evolve to the point where the free and public expression of grief is no longer met with platitudes and condemnation. Perhaps instead of saying, “Don’t cry over spilt milk,” we’ll learn instead to say, “I’m sorry for your pain.” If we can do that, we will invariably make the world a better place for both the bereaved and non-bereaved alike. 38

References Brown, E. B. (1988). Sunrise tomorrow. Old Tappan, NJ: Revell. Teens at The Dougy Center. (n.d.). The bill of rights of grieving teens. Retrieved February 7, 2016 from http://www.dougy.org/grief-resources/billof-rights/

Hope College Composition Category — Second Place Nina Krier This summer I went to a psychiatric ward for the first time for my continuing depression. I initially planned on writing about the importance of getting help, but I realized something vital: I have not significantly improved since I began receiving treatment four years ago. To cope, I’ve begun free-reading, starting with the fairly famous Looking for Alaska by John Green. In reading, I began to question what kept Alaska Young, the main character in the novel, from dying for so long. In the novel, Young didn’t receive any sort of “treatment” like I do. Instead, she had hope. She had friends, a boyfriend, and she was incredibly intelligent. Many factors gave her a relatively happy life and hope for a successful future, despite her childhood trauma, where she had likely been able to save her mother’s life but did not. I had thought for a long time before realizing that I didn’t know what to hope for, which began my search for hope. The truth is, I don’t know why I’m here. Treatment doesn’t significantly help, I’m uncertain about my career path, and I don’t have the kind of close friends Young did. However, as Young did, I am looking for a way out of the labyrinth of suffering. I’ve come to realize I’ve been in this labyrinth since the night I was admitted into the hospital, or perhaps when I started receiving treatment four years ago for depression; however, after reading Looking for Alaska, I now know that hope is the beginning of the end. Young’s rather negative depiction of hope is often a true one: “You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you’ll escape it one day, … but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present” (54). Young is expressing how hope is of40

ten used as a means of escape from reality, which most everyone does, in some form. Most everyone looks forward to something, as far as retirement, or as soon as their next meal. In my case, I hope because, after being lost for so long, I don’t know what else to do. I often find myself hoping tomorrow will be a better day; someday I’ll live without treatment. It is this hope for a better future that helps me escape the struggles of the present. I arrived at the hospital the night before my birthday, and that night, I did not have hope, but I should have. I should’ve had hope because, once I came home, there were people that cared about me; I had family and friends that wondered where I’d gone and why. I didn’t know what to tell them. To most, I simply did not answer to their worries. I was afraid of what they would say or think. I’m not so afraid anymore, because I have hope I will get better and I know that I was only in a hospital and not in my grave. During my week in the hospital, I relied solely on hope. I had my own hope to recover enough to leave the hospital, hope from countless doctors and nurses, and even hope from a few other patients with whom I briefly became friends. Unfortunately, not all of the patients had hope for themselves. On my final day at the hospital, word got out that another patient, Charles, had been cutting in the bathroom with a piece of metal he picked out of the air vents. I saw the outside of his forearm, which clearly read “DIE” in deep cuts, and the inside of that arm was bandaged, hiding what must have been even harsher marks. I hurt when I saw Charles had no hope for himself, when every day he’d been comforting others and giving them hope. I believe if he had hope of recovering, or even hope of faking recovery simply to get out of the hospital like most did, 41

he would not have cut himself again. He would have been able to look beyond his temporary days at the hospital to a future in a home of his own, far from doctors. Hope lead many other children out of the hospital while I remained in treatment, and hope led me home after a week as well.

Despite looking for hope, I often feel the opposite: fear. Almost everyone fears something, whether it be sharks and spiders or loneliness and death. I fear being a patient for the rest of my life, and I fear that the rest of my life will be short. Because of fear, hope is necessary. Fear is often the reason people like myself want to quit everything, such as going to school or work, or trying to associate with friends and family. For example, fear of failing a test may make a student believe it isn’t even worth attempting to study for. In my case, my fear of an empty future made me want to erase my existence. Hope of passing the test that could make the student study, and hope for a successful future could help me conquer the fear of a bleak one. Without hope, humanity would be eternally terrorstruck, and nobody would have such hopeful ideas that would improve society. If Young had no hope for her future, she would not have been attending classes at the prestigious (albeit fictional) Culver Creek private high school. Similarly, if Anne Frank didn’t have hope that the Third Reich would one day fall, she would not have written such a journal for the future of the entire world to read. If I did not have hope of recovering, I would have died that day instead of going to the hospital. I hope someday to view the world as Young’s friend and admirer Pudge does in Looking for Alaska. At the end of the novel, Pudge must write an essay to answer 42

the question, “What is your cause for hope?” He recalls the labyrinth of trauma and suffering Young went through, but he sees “Those awful things are survivable, because we are indestructible … Like energy we can only change shapes and… [we are] greater than the sum of our parts” (220). Hope to survive is what makes people survive, whether it be through a small embarrassment at school, or a war halfway around the world. After seeing Young escape the labyrinth via death, Pudge had hope to find a different way out, and I wish to find this way as well. Strangely, I have improved more in the past few months than any other given time over my four years of treatment. Now I’m relatively normal, and it’s for many of the same reasons Young survived for several years past her trauma; I’ve made close friends, I have a steady boyfriend now, and I’ve been accepted at an art institute after receiving a fairly high score on my tests. There are still days where I get a little depressed, but it’s becoming a thing of the past. I’m closer to a more hopeful future every day, and I don’t feel like quitting anymore. I want people to know something that helps me every day: It’s okay to be depressed. It’s okay to be sad, even for no reason, and even if there are a million reasons. And it is okay to feel like life is not worth living, because that is acknowledging how life could be better. But the one thing that people must remember is that they don’t have to end their lives. We can change things in a different way. We can make the difference between life and death. We can hope. Works Cited Green, John. Looking for Alaska: A Novel. Dutton Books, 2005. Print. 43

*meet the authors* LaVonne Buckle is a 50-year-old very non-traditional student! After working for the Stark County Board of Developmental Disabilities for 20 years, she finally realized that helping others, particularly those with developmental disabilities, is her true passion. LaVonne is a Human and Social Services major and will be transferring to The University of Akron in the fall to complete her Bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of Social Work. She hopes to be a Service and Support Administrator for Stark DD or another agency. LaVonne has always loved to write! "Therapy" is a somewhat autobiographical story about her journey through the grief of her mother's passing in 2005. She is a motorcycle lover, and she does consider nature and "Harley Therapy" to be the best cure out there! Brianna McAlarney, 25, has always enjoyed reading and writing. She is currently pursuing an Associateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Degree in English Composition. Her goal is to one day become an English teacher and inspire the next generation. She is both humbled and honored by this recognition and hopes everyone is entertained by her story. Vanzetta Morgan was born in raised in Cincinnati, Ohio. She came to Stark State College to study American Sign Language. She finished the certificate program, and plans to move back to Cincinnati and get her degree at Cincinnati State College in their Interpreting Degree Program in the fall. Writing has always been a passion of hers, and Vanzetta hopes to create words that will educate, inspire those who read her work.

Alison Romeo started her college degree many years ago before setting it aside for a time to raise and homeschool her ten children on a very small farm in the southwestern corner of Carroll County. She always knew she would finish what she started though, and today she is diligently working fulltime on her degree in Technical Communications at Stark State, where she carries a 4.0 GPA. After graduation, she intends to pursue her Bachelor’s degree at Kent State. In addition to writing, Alison’s interests include baking, playing games of all sorts, and telling terrible jokes. Jeremiah Seibert is currently a full time student at Stark State College. When he is not studying, or doing homework, he spends time outdoors camping, kayaking, 4-whelling, going for walks, working at home, and raising a wide variety of animals. He is currently working on finding a major that he would like to pursue as a career in the near future. Matthew Talbott tries to write down whatever little bit of interest and inspiration comes to him in the moment. He’s sure that very often what feels like a simple jotting down is actually a long time’s struggle, but putting words together prettily is deeply entertaining to him. Also, he is a communications student.

*meet the authors* Ellen Walton graduated from Wadsworth High School in 2013. She's been at Stark State for three years and is getting her Associateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degrees in English Composition and Literature. Her dream in life is to become an author because she believes in books as a form of escapism and wants to provide that for people. More specifically she wants to be a best-selling author so she can finally afford to own a sea lion...or fund her traveling around the globe...either is cool. Also included in this edition: Jessica Jones Nina Krier

Stay Tuned... The 6th Annual SSC Creative Writing Competition Win a $25 gift certificate to the SSC Bookstore for a winning entry in poetry or fiction! Contact Tom Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien for more information at TOBrien@starkstate.edu