Touchstone 2023

TOUCHSTONE

Literary Arts Journal 2023

STAFF

Chase Berger

Ali Burgess

Ariel Castillo

Patrick Galloway

Eros Guillaume

Blue Lazos

Brooke O’Brien

Venus Turnbull

Jaylen Walton

SELECTON COMMITTEE

Christina Hogu

De’Vanese John-Baptiste

Lily Paternoster

Bella Steiert

Logan Warren, Social Media Director

A Wilson

EDITORS

Julexis Gonzalez, Associate Editor of Touchstone

Lisa Jordan, Executive Editor of Touchstone

Xanthippe Pack-Brown, Editor-in-Chief of Hatter Network

Hayden Collins, Creative Director of Hatter Network

Alexa Hutton, Graphic Designer

FACULTY ADVISOR

Crystal Baroni

DESIGN COVER

Gum Girl by Ciara Kelley

@ciara.creates on Instagram

6 touchstone 2023

Dear Reader,

I am not sure what brought you to Touchstone. Are you reading because you were published? Your loved one was published? Just out of morbid curiosity? Either way, I am glad that for some reason, this magazine has made it into your hands. There was a lot of love poured into the forty-third volume of Touchstone, as you can tell (or at least, I hope you can tell). To the hands that worked on this magazine, thank you for your creativity, your drive, your skill, and your passion.

To my Creative Director, Hayden, I am so glad that you were able to take my vision and run with it. I could not have come up with something this beautiful and unusual on my own, so I am grateful that you were on this project. Logan, my lovely Social Media Director, thank you for pulling off one of the best marketing campaigns we have had yet. Touchstone and Uncouth Hour would not have been so successful without your commitment. To Xanthippe, my Editor in Chief, thank you for passing on the torch and entrusting me with Touchstone. I will not say that I was never nervous or doubtful of my ability, but you always believed in me and pushed me to keep at it. I am so honored to follow in your footsteps. Finally, to my Associate Editor, my co-host, my friend, my roomie, my partner in stupidity: I cannot stress enough how lucky I was to have you by my side throughout this process. Every Uncouth Hour, every meeting and training, every long night spent on this magazine was so memorable and so fulfilling because of your love for and dedication to this work. I am immensely proud of you for all you have accomplished. Thank you for being on this team and for sharing this labor. I love you with every fiber of my being.

Okay. I’m done being sappy. Enjoy Touchstone for all its worth.

With love,

Lisa Jordan, Executive Editor of Touchstone

Hello reader,

Without this publication I wouldn’t have been able to explore all that there is about Touchstone and the impact it can truly have. My biggest goal with this piece was to grow and expand my connection with those around me. As we come to the end, I realized none of that would have been possible without our wonderful staff and readers and supporters that pick up this magazine for the first time and many times after that. I am so happy that Lisa and I get to share this beautiful publication with you. So, from the bottom of my heart and all of the past versions of me- thank you. Thank you for having the courage to submit your wonderful work. Thank you to giving Touchstone a chance. Thank you for sharing this with your friends and family. And thank you for just reading this. I want to thank all of the ones around me who make life worth living, and those that I have yet to meet that will change my life for the better. My only hope is that this publication changes you in the ways it has changed me. Happy reading.

Julexis Gonzalez, Associate Editor of Touchstone

Hello reader,

Thank you for picking up this copy of Touchstone 2023! We are so excited and grateful to share the 43rd edition of this literary magazine. Touchstone has such a rich history, and you are now a part of that, so congratulations! It has been such a privilege to watch Lisa, Julexis, and Hayden and her team bring this edition to life. The staff involved were so excited to be a part of putting this together, and it shows in the quality and personality that can be found throughout the magazine.

Lisa, I am so proud of everything that you have done as editor. I know you were nervous stepping into this position, but I knew you could do it from the beginning. You are an amazing leader for your staff, your eye for curation is incredible, and it has been such a privilege to watch you grow in your leadership and work.

8 touchstone 2023

Julexis, you have really gone above and beyond as Associate Editor. You are the life and heart of Uncouth Hour, and it is so refreshing to see you up there every Thursday. Your commitment to this team is unwavering and admirable, and we are all lucky to have you. You will do great things in England while you’re abroad in the fall. I can’t wait to see all that you do.

Touchstone staff, you all were incredible this academic year. You all really rose to the challenge and met Lisa and Julexis where they needed you. You all have produced a beautiful thing and should be very proud of all your hard work and dedication.

Reader, enjoy the work in this edition. I hope it will stick with you the way it has me. Thank you for supporting such a rich and thriv ing community, and I look forward to your continued support in the future. Read and create while you still can.

Happy reading,

Xanthippe, Editor-in-Chief

p. 13 The Everyday Life of an American Teenager - Carmen Cruz

p. 18 Flower Friends - Kels Liu

p. 19 Wander - Evan Hernandez

p. 19 Keeper - Katherine Orfinger

p. 20 Deceit - Hayden Collins

p. 22 The Hermit - Madison Sepiol

p. 23 *Bruised - Xanthippe

Pack-Brown

p. 26 Camarderie - Grace Herzog

p. 26 To The Tenth Muse - Allie

Wilson

p. 27 Siege on No Man’s Land -

Katherine Orfinger

p. 28 Green Thumb - Eros

Guillaume

p. 28 Whales Over the Arctic - Gail

Montgomery

p. 29 Do You Remember Me -

Alexis Diamond

p. 31 *Hold Me In This Nightmare - Lisa Jordan

p. 32 A Prayer - Jillian Semmel

p. 33 The Crowned - Jillian Semmel

p. 34 Life of Towns - Nadia Papin

p. 36 Spotlight - Elizabeth

Kupferberg

p. 37 Remember When - Allie

Wilson

p. 42 The Process of a Name -

Maia Robbins

p. 43 in the lowlight - Maia Robbins

p. 44 Bodily - Ella Swartz

p. 45 *Old Stuffed Fox - Julexis Gonzalez

p. 47 Gravedad de la luna - Diana

Rodriguez

p. 48 Poltergeist - Carmen Cruz

p. 50 Division - Sam Berman

p. 51 In Another Life - De’Vanese

John-Baptiste

p. 53 Interwoven Feathers - Brandy

Bennett

p. 54 Observation - Evan

Hernandez

p. 55 Wushes Bone China - Kels Liu

p. 56 Road Hazard - Blue Lazos

p. 58 Please Don’t Look - Logan Warren

p. 59 In Defense of Despair - Lily

Paternoster

p. 60 The Great Thaw - Grace Herzog

p. 62 Belove Me Baby - Xanthippe

Pack-Brown

p. 63 Occupied! - Gail Montgomery

p. 63 Walk in The Woods - Venus

Turnbull

p. 64 Fairy Garden - Venus Turnbull

p. 65 selfish - Hayden Collins

p. 66 Confluence - Madeline Morrell

p. 67 Red lace - Madeline Morrell

p. 68 Morning Meeting - Ella Swartz

p. 70 Parasocial - Nadia Papin

p. 71 Victim Six - Lily Paternoster

p. 72 Ampersand - Interview with Touchstone’s cover artist, Ciara Kelley

* - editor piece 11

Confessions From A Normal Everyday American Teen

Carmen Cruz

4/13/16

Night after night, I toss and turn in my bed for hours desperately attempting to catch up on sleep, but I always lose to the pain preventing me from getting comfortable and to the intrusive thoughts that plague me. My brain torments me with memories I’d much rather forget: the day I got injured, the day my childhood dog passed away, any one of the days my father’s fits of rage gave me a panic attack, and so on. Severe chronic pain is a cruel enough life sentence, but the fact that this trapped me in my abusive household was so much worse.

We couldn’t afford much more than hand-me-downs and ill-fitting thrifted garments, so to my rich white classmates, I was a total freak. Sure, I hated every second I had to be there, even considered it to be torture at the time, but at least it got me out of my house for a while.

I’d always dealt with bullying at school. I was a weird kid. My hyper-religious folks never let me do anything that didn’t “glorify the Lord.” I never saw any movies, listened to any music, or read anything that wasn’t religious for the majority of my youth, so I hadn’t the slightest clue how to talk or relate to my peers.

A part of me always knew that our family wasn’t healthy, though it was hard to articulate why at the time. I remember sitting in our pew at church, listening to the pastor ranting about how women these days just don’t know how to submit anymore. He’d joke about using violence to correct the problem, and the congregation would clap and laugh and cheer. “Godly women know how to behave.” I turned to my mother, enamored as she was by the “man of God” before her, and attempted to process my repulsion.

If he accused me of something I didn’t do, I couldn’t argue, I’d just have to accept my punishment. Hands raised in the air, if you drop them you’re dead, ten minutes or more, the burn is better than the beating.

Work at the office was hard for him, but life with him was impossible. I wanted him to love me so badly, but I was also terrified of him. We’d all dread the moment he came home, never quite sure what his day was like, or what kind of night would follow.

These days, I find myself spending the majority of my time in another place. Or, no, in another headspace. I’m desperately trying to find just one good reason to stay, but there appear to be none in sight. My objective reality is so damn grim that I have instead begun to retreat into my own psyche. I romanticize every little moment as if it were a movie.

It wasn’t any different at home. My father always had the final say, even if he was dead wrong and we all knew it.

Even at the worst of times, I imagine a soundtrack or some grand musical number that will signal some turning of the tides in my own narrative – but of course, that never arrives. No soundtrack sounds, no choreographed dance number ensues, the lighting never shifts, no audience exists to laugh at my misery. Day after day, it is merely me, myself, and I, left to pick up the pieces.

When romanticizing my actual life doesn’t work, I turn to fabricating a new one. See, I’m not actually me, and I’m not actually here. Really, I’m in a chateau in France right now, off on some grand adventure. I’m not actually sitting on the floor of my bedroom rocking back and forth, shaking and crying uncontrollably. That’s merely an illusion. In reality, I’m at the beach with my dog, and it’s sunset, and we’re the only one’s there. I’m singing to the sea whilst my dog is off chasing birds again, giddy and frolicking. I run here to feel safe, to feel free, two things entirely foreign to me otherwise. I paint pictures in my mind and place myself there, make it so real that it can’t possibly be fake. I can smell the salt in the sea breeze, I can feel the cool white sand in-between my toes, and hear the seagulls call to me from their jaunt along the horizon. My pain can’t find me there. My father can’t find me there.

This new method has proved to be far too effective. I now spend most of my time fleeing to these places, fabricating intricate plots with a whole cast of characters. Multiple sets of each exist simultaneously, and I flip between channels frequently.

On one track, I’m in the middle ages, caught in a brutal war and fighting for freedom. On another, I’m the lead singer in a very successful band. You get

There could be something like eight channels going on at any given time. Each has its own universe, with a unique cast (all of whom I know by name), and its own soundtrack. The only thing they all share is that I’m a person of interest in every one of them. If I’m not the main character outright, then I’m the villain, or some ultra-powerful wizzardress, or any combination of these. Once I’ve fully completed the plot on one of the channels, then I’ll drop it or switch it with a new story.

Sometimes, I’ll listen to music in my room and imagine it is in fact the soundtrack to my mind’s movies. From the outside looking in, I seem to space out for long periods of time, but to me, I’ve left entirely. I fear I may be losing my mind.

I decided to look into it a bit last week; Google says that it’s something called maladaptive daydreaming. While it lacks extensive research, it’s been well documented as a coping mechanism of sorts for people experiencing extreme levels of chronic anxiety or PTSD. For me though, I think it’s something closer to escapism. When life gets to be too much here, I simply transport myself somewhere better. But that’s not the healthiest way to approach life’s problems, it seems.

I’ll catch myself doing it often, sitting completely still and staring off blankly for extended periods of time. No one else seems to notice, much to my relief, but it’s making me anxious, and it’s become much harder to concentrate on the here and now when I need to.

To try to bring myself back into this plane, I’ve pivoted to goal oriented thinking. I’ve obsessively collected pictures of places I want to go and things I want to do (all things that actually exist in this realm of reality)--hundreds of them, and pinned them to my wall in a sort of collage.

I call it my dream board. I stare at it every day, and imagine this version of myself eventually doing those things.

I’ve also taken to writing letters to people I eventually hope to meet, people who will finally fulfill the perfect image of what I’ve always hoped my family could be. I feel self-conscious as I do so, it feels more pathetic than anything else, but in the moment it seems to give me a shred of hope.

Despite all of this, I still can’t seem to pry myself away from the drug of escapism. I can’t seem to help but continue my quest for something, anything, different. I want to get away so badly, but I’m also trying to stay, and this is the best compromise I can come up with. I can’t tell if I’m crazy, just really sad, or something worse. For now, all I can manage is surviving tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow after that.

I hope that one day, future Carmen will look back on this period of time and laugh, brushing it off as a necessary period of growth. At the very least, the prospect of this internal turmoil contributing to some bigger picture gives me a shred of dignity amidst the insanity. Because present Carmen is so not laughing, she’s not laughing at all.

Flower Friends

asters: illusive waves and booms

roses: babble of stars

succulents: desert pilgrimage

ophelia: toxin teases kiss down collar

lily: grapefruit seltzer on tongue under

Kels Liu

midnight tears, manic undoings, synonymous glass

moorscapes in summer bloom kissing velvet ladies on sleeping stars groomed by sunspurs with fairy’s breath

watched by autumn guests in cherrybell spring peplum and somehow I always come back to you.

Katherine Orfinger

a single act drawn out a hymen stretched over generations of women whose bodies are strange lands so much sinew and story gristle and faith a hush falls over my desert we tell stories as though we were there the shrill plea to be unhanded don’t call on me i am not my body’s keepe

Evan Hernandez

Xanthippe Pack-Brown

Tender to the touch. A sky on fire. Built out of a kind of freshness that feels youthful and fleeting. An opportunistic kind of pain that feels like a beginning, that instills a kind of excitement only rooted in what is not known, yet.

There is a gemstone buried deep in the layers of my skin. It is growing out.

Steadfast and reliable. Sensitive, prone to anger when pushed too far. A wound I can’t stop licking just to feel the ache– so that I know it’s still there.

A period of adjustment; we’re still getting to know one another. You remind me that it must get worse before it can get better.

There is a raincloud stuck under my skin. It is so full of brimming storm that the rest of my body feels heavy. When the clouds break, I am not sure who I’ll be.

You’re growing on me. I feel like I know you better. I know what sound you make right before you speak. I know when you’re falling asleep next to me, limbs jerking and breath evening, because you’ve never been able to sit still.

The ache continues to dull. Sharp pain is only felt when pressure is applied. A body so heavy I feel weightless, euphoric.

An electric storm amongst my muscle, deep below what is visible. Sporadic and unpredictable, but kind. It only hurts when it has to, when it doesn’t know anything else. Each bolt of lightning left on the surface is a wakeup call, a distraction. The rain falls so heavy that the ground is crying. We’re up to our knees in it.

1. Red

2. Purple

3. Blue

We must get worse before we can get better. We stay until the ground swells up to our chests. Then, start pushing.

People keep asking about you. People keep placing damp fingertips on my tired skin and pressing, pressing, pressing. In search of something. In search of a sign, an ache.

But I know you now. And I know how to use this pain for pleasure. They press further, leaving swirls of fingertips and red promising green someday on the surface of me. They press in searching, but there is nothing to find.

You told me I must get worse before I can get better. When does it stop?

I only see you in the dark. You’re all over. I could fit into your pupil, let it wrap me up and tuck me in.

There is not an inch of me that doesn’t know you, know this. But only in the dark so deep you can step into it, is when you’ll hold me. The dark holds us until I wake up. I am at the edge of the bed. Yellow spills in, illuminating the floor.

6. Fading

The color is mostly gone, but I still see an outline of what is left. I will still press frantic hands into myself in search of the feeling, in search of you. We are so small; I don’t even know where we exist anymore.

I feel you most in the dark car. The brights are on and I can feel more than see your weight next to me as yellow road signs flash by.

You lean in, head to my shoulder. Pressing a bruise into my skin, reminding me you’re still there.

I stop at a red light and look over to you, still feeling the weight of your head on my shoulder. I move carefully, so as not to disturb you.

You’re already gone. Not even the bruise decided to stay.

4. Green

5. Yellow

I remember what you look like in the morning, sleep drunk and happy. I remember how you feel in the evening, in the deepest parts of night, in the summer storm of the afternoon.

You felt all-encompassing under my palms, in my eyes. Now, all I have are these moments threaded through the lines of my hands- empty and full at the same time. Forgetting is unkind.

I take these pieces of you and press them into my skin. Push deep, deeper, bursting blood vessels, stirring storms, sink in my teeth for good measure. You’re pressed into the deepest parts, my skin has since hardened to protect me from you, but you’re already inside. You won’t be so easily pushed out.

I am left feeling sore and bruised, with skin too tired for tenderness. But rupture is resistance, and there must be bruises everywhere.

Grace Herzog

To The Tenth Muse

The uneasy white horse, breaking on white rock;

Ionian heart welcoming a setting Sun.

Silhouetted by Selva’s fingerprints, tracing lawless tresses— salt in the clouds reflecting Love’s tracks down your cheeks. Hollow is the heart cast into constellations.

Allie Wilson

Seige on No Man’s Land: Revisiting Ann Carson

Victim Town

My God–

–did you wrong–let him–bear all the consequences–let all things unholy–ravage him–let your open mouth–be–a loaded gun–tell him–how you longed–to part his lips

Town of the False Poetess

–you were right–the whole time–but you didn’t have to –be– so smug about it–queen of the crime scene–spend

–a romantic night–in a padded room–don’t –forget–

the pen is mightier than this whore–no–matter where she hides

–her dagger Survivor Town i tried

–deadly want–inverted me– i want wanted–does it–doesn’t matter?

–body clock–body talk–this place is dangerous–

–enough. you can put your weapons down

Katherine Orfinger

Eros Guillaume

i love getting plants so much i keep them watered to help them thrive i pour more more more— MORE it goes on this way for a few weeks, months, years they seem to enjoy being under my care new leaves, new buds, more flowers keeping them alive, keeps me alive the seasons change

i see the withering begin

i’m sorry, i’ll try harder, i’ll try less?

i love you, why is nothing working? i want to help— i want this to work tell me what to do, i’ll do anything they’re not getting better their roots have gone to mush

i love you, even as the last petal, leaf falls is it possible to love too much?

Whales Over the Arctic

Gail Montgomery

Do You Remember Me?

Alexis Diamond

I looked at you, and you looked back.

We stared. And stared. And stared. Standing firm on my bedroom floor. Does it jog your memory?

The tears we cried, the smiles we wore, and the laughs we shared. Do you remember me?

I place my hand against yours. It’s cold and unforgiving. Our fingers touch, but it’s like ice. Has it always felt that way? I can’t recall.

You cock your head, that quizzical look still sitting heavy on your aged face. Am I that unrecognizable? Do I perplex you? I’m guessing you don’t, but I’ll ask again: do you remember me?

Why must memory be so fleeting? I’ve been forgotten before. I can’t allow this to happen again.

She repeats her words, her thoughts, and her ideas. Stating them each time like she hadn’t already done so 10 minutes earlier. I can’t tell her. I can’t say that I’ve heard this before; it would break her, so I listen. And I listen. And I listen. Nodding. Smiling. She doesn’t know what’s happening. Neither do I. But it’s happening, and it won’t stop.

I’m not her mother, but she thinks I am. I couldn’t be, but I look like her. She’s long passed before this moment, but I can’t tell her. It would break her, so I listen. And I listen. And I listen. Nodding.

Smiling. I tell her who I am, but she doesn’t understand. What do I say? How do I act? I don’t know. And I never will.

She lost her hearing aid. She hears its siren. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. It’s nearby, but she can’t find it. She gets panicky looking for it, until she calls me in. I help her to relax, but she can’t really hear me. I look. And look. And look. And then I find it. It’s in her shoe. How did it get there? I don’t know. Neither does she. But I clean it off and give it to her anyway. What a night.

She forgets her son. From feet away, I hear his heart shatter. And soon enough, she forgets me. It’s that same confused glare I see in you, but reflected on her.

I can’t take it. She can’t take it. She’s sorry, and so am I. No amount of apologies stops my sorrow. But what can I do? The damage is done. I am forgotten.

Here we stand in my room. I look at you. You look at me. That stupid look still on your face. I don’t understand. How could you not remember me? I get closer to you. Closer. Closer. I see you, but do you see me? I know. We haven’t been this close in so long. I talk, but do you hear it? I touch you, but can you feel it? I don’t think you can. Not anymore.

I inch slowly toward you until my nose finally touches the looking glass.

Now. Do you remember me?

Hold Me In This Nightmare*

Lisa Jordan

comfort

in the dark of night comes so quiet sudden breathless eruptions of little deaths sinking or rising into from

the depths of decay and unholy flame can it be so justified to scream to run to beg to pray when

your tongue has been cut and your legs severed?

Jillian Semmel

The Crowned

Jillian Semmel

Life of Towns

Before Town

Nadia Papin

Inside one room in one building in one town, there are cold, unforgiving tiles and walls made of plastic. The food is mediocre, sometimes edible, mostly not, depending on the day and the mood and whether the stars are aligned. Air so cold, even polar bears would freeze, walking through the halls inside this one building in one town is nearly impossible.

How anybody inhabits this place, only the scrubs know. It is their job to know.

When the time comes for me to be carried through the emergency doors, on a stretcher with tubes hanging out of my veins, kindly check me out and keep me home

so I won’t spend my final moments smelling Sanitizer and death.

DesolateTown

It is lonely here, Like an empty cup, No longer half Full or half Empty. Time moves on for The rest of the world — Except you — Still stuck in A time years ago, Waiting for that Car to come down that driveway that’ll never actually come.

BrokenTown

In bits and pieces. Not complete. Fragmented. Not whole. Fleeting and never fully there. Missing details what would make a difference.

Distorted and lost in time. A shattered record, playing no song to Completion.

AgingTown

The clock tediously ticks by, Waiting for the perfect time to stop

TickTock

TickTock

The clock knows no interruptions

Nobody can stop the maddening

TickTock

TickTock

The clock continues, rain or shine, Through blizzards and sandstorms, TickTock

TickTock

The clock stops when we do, When the earth has reclaimed us, When we are young again.

ArcticTown

snow Banks and snow

Stacks and snow

Paths and snow

Tracks and snow

Trails and snow

Memories and snow

BlazingTown

Bring back the home that was once made here,

The warmth long gone for many a year, Though out of pain, but not out of fear

Do you stand on the sideline and leer

At the flames consuming what was dear

But is now nothing more than a mere Fire, burning, as you shed a tear

At a tragic demise, oh so clear

As the raging inferno of your own creation tries to Bring back the home that was once made here.

AfterTown

Strong was the lion after suffering a loss

The first loss that really mattered Den a little colder, more empty, the absence noticeable, Growing bigger with every passing day,

The lion can no longer ignore the vacuum of space where there was once

Warmth, life, and pride. Strength cannot last forever. Strength cannot last a lifetime. Loss too great to bear, the lion

Wakes up once every blue moon, Sometimes every other day, sometimes twice a year, startled, aghast, wondering why Its strength is no longer there in those brief moments of Vulnerability and weakness.

Remember When?

Allie Wilson

Remember when that black metal bench out front wasn’t rotted? And we used to sit there to pick burs out of our shoes before we went inside? I’d always get bored and you’d take my shoes and socks off of my feet so I could go in and you could clean them. Then I’d feel bad for leaving you outside and I’d put on new socks to walk outside and sit with you. And you’d look at me and scream your head off because I just got new socks dirty while you were still cleaning my other pair.

And you’d smile.

December 2016

When I woke up, it felt like I was still dreaming. The hallway was too bright and there were too many people’s voices. I stumbled out of my room in time to see them wheel you out of the bathroom and towards the front door.

Oh. The light was because the door was open, we never use that door.

I never thought gurneys were that tall.

Someone asked me if I wanted to ride in the ambulance with you and before I had the sleep wiped out of my eyes, I was sitting in the front seat next to a man who kept talking to me as if I had a degree in health science.

I didn’t even know what happened. My mom told me you fell, but you’d fallen last week and we just picked you up.

How come sometimes ambulances stop at red lights even though they’re in a hurry?

Remember watching The Talk after school every day? You’d be sitting in your big chair when I got back and I’d yell across the house to let you know I was home and you’d watch me do home work on the carpet and get annoyed when your show ended.

I’d beg to keep the TV on so I could watch game shows and you’d walk around trying to find something to do. Like cleaning the kitchen again or folding laundry.

We’d just be together.

February 2017

Your rehab center was twenty minutes from school. Since Taylor and I got out in the afternoon, we’d drive there afterward to check on you. All the way down Del Prado, turn off on Veteran’s, over the bridge, right on Summerlin next to the two-story McDonald’s, and a left across from Bishop Verot.

Taylor made sure you had gotten lunch and checked all of your belongings. She’d grab you coffee and fix your blankets and turn the TV onto something you liked. I would watch YouTube videos for hours on end.

Heartland had an odd way of treating patients who happened to have diabetes as well as needed physical therapy. You had kept your blood sugar under control by watching your eating for 30 years. At Heartland, they waited until your levels were so low that your heart would stop, and then they’d shoot you up with enough insulin to last you the next day or two.

One day, Taylor and I turned down your hall and watched five nurses bumble around your room trying to restart your heart. Tay sat me down on a couch and told me to put my headphones on. So I did.

Remember before we lived in your house? When Taylor’s room was our playroom and your sewing room at the same time?

38 touchstone 2023

We’d pretend your standing Singer was a castle or a cliffside and get our toys tangled in the thread you’d left in it. We always thought we were quiet enough not to get caught, but you’d open the french door and yell about how much thread we were wasting and how long it took to rethread it.

But we kept playing there every morning.

March 2017

The night we took you home, we found out what “sundown syndrome” meant. Sometimes at night, patients with dementia get incredibly confused and sometimes violent. We had never heard of this. No one warned us.

That night you wouldn’t stay in your wheelchair and if anyone tried to stop you from getting up, you’d claw at them. I know my parents must’ve been calling people and figuring out what to do about your behavior. It’s kind of foggy.

I spent a few hours kneeling in front of you, holding your wrists to keep you from hurting anyone. You looked me in the eyes and screamed at me, using every curse word I knew. I looked at our arms and pretended we were just holding hands.

Remember when Tay had just started high school, so it would just be you and I sitting in the kitchen around 8:30 before Mom drove me to school? You taught me how to use the coffee maker and how much

creamer you liked. You’d show me how you logged your meals and I’d watch you take your blood sugar.

Sometimes we’d talk about school and sometimes we’d just sit. Once we talked the entire morning about gay rights and you told me you never understood the big debate.

“They’re not hurting anyone, we should leave them alone.”

Taylor and I made a deal: she drove everywhere, so I had to get you in and out of the car. I built a lot of muscle deadlifting you from place to place.

One time, we stayed home to finish chores; Tay was doing the laundry and I was mowing the lawn. She ran out to get me with tears streaming down her face and we were rushing inside before she could explain herself.

You were trying to tie your shoes because neither of us remembered to. You were in a wheelchair, shoelaces weren’t our top priority. But you had tried to do it yourself and fallen forward, banging your head against the counter. Or the corner of the wall. Either way, you were on the ground and your head was bleeding.

Tay was stumbling her way through a phone call to 911 and had to pass it to me since she couldn’t get any words out. Everyone on our road knew something was happening when two police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance showed up.

We found out that when one of us kids calls 911, it alerts Mom, so she met Taylor and you at the hospital. I don’t know why I didn’t go.

I guess someone had to clean up the blood. —

Remember that one night that I got the stomach flu and was up dry heaving all night? You refused to sleep until I’d calmed down.

And you made me eat so many saltines. Maybe that’s why I don’t like them anymore. We migrated from the carport to the living room and back again because you swore that movement would help settle my stomach. I was so dehydrated that I ended up passing out in a plastic chair outside.

But you stayed next to me until I woke up.

October 2017

We celebrated my birthday a week early that year. You had been admitted into a hospice center that week and none of us wanted to mention how nervous we were about your declining health and how close my birthday was. So we threw a party in your room so that you’d think you didn’t miss it, in case you did.

I got to open all my presents early and we got Athenian’s takeout for dinner. The nurses even let us bring in a cake. We cut you a slice even though you hadn’t eaten solid food for a week. For a minute, I think you even smiled, but I might be remembering wrong.

A week later, Mom and I were going to get my driver’s license. She hadn’t left the center since you were admitted and I only convinced her because I promised it would be quick and we’d be right back. Right before we walked out the door, you took your last breath. I remember everyone acting like they knew it was coming, but I didn’t understand how. We were just turning to leave and then a nurse popped in and nodded towards my aunt and my mother. I guess that was supposed to mean you were about to go.

They both broke into tears, holding onto your hands. You didn’t open your eyes, I don’t think you’d actually seen us for a few days anyway, you’d just look past us. I had read something about spirits needing to leave the room where they die, so I opened the door for you.

There was a therapy dog in the hallway named Elise, I sat down with her while I waited for whatever technical things happen when someone dies. My mom found me a while later and we went to the DMV.

The clerk rolled her eyes when I said I didn’t feel like smiling for my photo.

The Process of a Name

Maia Robbins

Maia Robbins

Old Stuffed Fox*

Julexis Gonzalez

The old fox stared with chipped black buttons loosely sewed into. Its front paws had seams fraying at the seams. These thin threads expose the excess fluff of their metaphorical guts, pouring out onto the dusty shelf. The small dirt stains coated this stuffed animal as I held it between my hands. Feeling the dirt and soot between my fingers, I only wondered what kind of life it had before this old relic hit plastic thrift shelves. What trials and challenges had this small innocent creature face to appear as damaged as this. Chipped nails and broken buttons.

“Hey, uh.. how much for the fox?” The man at the counter looks back down at the fox. Letting out almost a pity laugh. I watch him grip the top of the head with his dirty fingers. He taps out a cigarette between his other hand to let the ashes fall into the tray.

Flipping it around to examine the small strands of fur and thread that hung at the ends. I almost felt empathetic for how bad the animal had been held in front of me. It wasn’t so bad looking.

“Did you know the past owners?”

“You think I care about who owned this crap? ” He spat under his breath before turning over to drop the plush in a brown paper bag. There was no care that was given to that small creature with the exchange of $1.25. “Just another piece of junk. Enjoy.” Scarred hands and small strings from the seam.

The soot of its fur sat between my fingers. Gently and slowly, I washed away the dirt and dust from its fur to let it drift into the water around it. I watched the matted fur grow more and more alive with each comb through of left over hair conditioner I use to wash my hair with. He smelled like flowers and warm fires. Still tattered, but he looked better. For such a broken thing, it looked so happy.

“This old thing? Been trying to get this off the shelves for weeks. No one likes a broken toy, not fun to play with. That’s all it’s good for.”

My mother kept a box of buttons, it was the happiest thing about her. She could have had the worst days of her life, but those circles of multi-color designs made the rest of her day. A simple needle was all I needed. In and out with his new button eyes. Back and forth between its hands and neck, shoving parts of the inner stuffing back into place. Placing the old plastic parts of what he used to be into the waste. Something about changing apart of your appearance helped with the process.

It was silly, trying to fit him into my son’s old baby clothes… He never had the chance to wear them. Someone should. The old orange fox looked good in green than it did in that blue when we first met. I pulled paw through paw through the tiny green onesie. Cutting a small slit into the past fabric for his tail. Soft sweaters and pastel onesies.

“What do I call you little guy.” Just by the look of it, my room was in no shape to introduce our new friend. That would give me enough time to come up with a name. Folding clean laundry reminded me of the manager, so it couldn’t be his name. No one deserves to be named by the one that hurts him. Washing old dishes reminded me how fresh he looked after his brush up. Maybe Dawn like the soap…no. Too specific. Soon enough I recognized my old room floors, the way the sun would nicely shine down on my room, the fresh air I can get just by opening up my room door.

But it did. He and I both viewed the home a little brighter this time. This Stuffed Old Fox stared at me with black button eyes, and I didn’t feel so broken anymore.

“That’s a little better now…don’t you think? Uh…Stewart.” I hadn’t recognized that a name that came from nothing could mean so much to me.

La Gravedad de la Luna

me siento un poquito lejos como si flotara en la playa and the current is taking me further and further and further out though im okay sometimes floating away se siente just right

i suppose the only issue is that leaving es como olvidarme de lo que me importa

a veces quisiera volver a la orilla though once i make it back nothing is the same

i wish the sandcastle i left behind stayed the same i wish the tide didn’t rise

i wish everything would stay still

sin embargo al final

todo cambia y yo tampoco soy la misma que estaba en la orilla

Diana Rodriguez

Carmen Cruz

Division

Sam Berman

In Another Life

De’Vanese John-Baptiste

“Inanotherlife,Iwouldhavereallylikedjustdoinglaundryandtaxeswith you”-DanKwan

I think I’m too much in my head sometimes to get into yours. I know I used to keep a notes app with all of your favorite snacks. So one day, when you haven’t eaten. let’s face it, you rarely do. I can knock on your door Holding the key to all of your childhood memories, In hand, for less than $15 dollars because making it here was more important than making it down the list. Time is priceless.

In the moment

between me knocking on your front door and you opening the blue tin of your frst memory I will have learned enough to know exactly what I’m getting you for Christmas all the dreams and hopes you had, as you ripped away that wrapping paperfnally in the room with us.

Screw Christmas, I’m giving it to youthis Wednesday.

I can’t wait to see the smile on your face. I hope the news looks diferent that day that the 1st solar eclipse since 2018 makes its way across the sky and you and your smile

are the only source of light to be found for miles. I hope that the news does what it always does turns nothing into something, proposes that the world is ending we hear the rumors and content with this chapter never make a move to leave the world we’re nestled in.

we whisper our worst fears in each others ears only to be pulled closer by arms preaching acceptance fatigue pulls a blanket over the room’s corners leaving it with blurry edges because your smile is whisked away, only for a moment, as you stife a yawn brought on by the kind of laughter that makes the love in the room, transparent.

after an impromptu game of tag which leaves sheets nestled in the shapes of cocoons on the room’s foor we end up tangled in a mess, that will never see the other side of the door. Everything there is to be explored, is right here.

Where I get to spend eternity crafting your hopes and dreams. Where I get to be the last thing you see before you close your eyes.

This

reality is where my world lives.

But

this day, only exists in my imagination.

Interwoven Feathers

Yourharpyconnectionwind-sweptfeathers; Distortioneffectsaswan’squill; Phoenixsparksfire,Hephaestustreasures; ThefeathersoftheEarthsoughtwill.

Your sensibilities hedonism, Feathersforgedthroughsaltyupdraft; Orion’sbeltencapsulatedinprism FeathersderivedApollo’sxenograft.

SolumgroundbirthedHermesfeathers Adistinctiveproseospreycries; SymbiosisPhobosinkblotstethers; Nowtheravensappearinskies

Yourencodedalgorithmsfeathersbecame, synchronizedthroughdatareprocessedthesame.

Brandy Bennett

Evan Hernandez

Wushes Bone China

Kels Liu

tipped hushes poured in porcelain

storm from steaming brim

scalded sides, swollen tongue

whyamIyourteacup?

Road Hazard

Please Don’t Look

Logan Warren

Please, don’t read this closely. Take all of my words at face value.

I’m lying to you. I’m telling the truth.

Please ignore the lines and blots of ink. You can’t erase pen and I didn’t have any paper left to start over. Ignore the coffee stains on my manuscript. Ignore the spilled nail polish on my dresser. And the hair dye. And scars from impulse piercings. Ignore the water stains on my diary. I knocked over my cup. I can’t explain the salt left on the dried pages. Please believe me when I say I’m tired. Please correct the typos and don’t think about the characters. They have nothing in common except for the surname at the top of each page.

Don’t look at them too closely. There’s nothing there for you to see. There is no part of me on this page-- well, there’s a small stain from a paper cut. But that can be covered with liquid paper. There’s nothing else for you to see here.

This isn’t a poem. This is a warning. Warning. Warning. Your device is overheating.

I’ll blame the emotions on the playlists in my headphones. I won’t tell you why the playlists were created. I won’t tell you why I liked the songs. You can listen.

But you won’t find any pattern. There’s nothing here for you.

This isn’t a poem. This isn’t a diary. But please don’t look. There are no secrets being held here. It’s only an encyclopedia entry. But don’t look. Please Don’t look.

In Defense of Despair

Lily Paternoster

All the old thinking about rape is wrong— no division of whores/madonnas under his palm as it punctured tender flesh. I was good, sober, careful, kind. Let men take flesh off my bones like a roasted bird; a leg for you, skin for him.

Did Leda scream, flail her limbs, pluck feathers from Zeus’ suit? Did neighbors hear her cries, too?

Through tears I gasped until my chest couldn’t rise, television faded out. His fingers dug trenches beneath my waistband. A speckle of relief bludgeoned through fear, a millisecond of freedom, ceased by resurrection.

I am afraid to tell you there was no light.

The Great Thaw

Belove Me Baby

Xanthippe Pack-Brown

You are not better than the nonbeliever. Belligerently clawing, a nightmare bioengineered. Teething on the chance to be new.

The scalpel is always sharp, easily parting your skin, a nonviolent incision.

You were always in possession of something beautiful, too benevolent, with too much good intention, to show you the gore on the inside.

Reinventing a perfectly good body, outwardly it looks like the wrong kind or rebellion. A lowering of the self,

a neutering, a rebuttoning, a thieving of things unbroken, of a vessel unbroken.

A selfishness woven into this new infrastructure.

keep burning.

didn’t deserve the second chance.

It will

You can’t outrun being a newborn that

A Walk in the Woods

Selfish Hayden Collins

Red Lace

Madeline

Ella Swartz

Parasocial

Nadia Papin

Every morning before 8 o clock, I brew a hot pot of hazelnut roast and pour it over ice. I drizzle caramel over the top because it looks pretty – not because I enjoy it – and give the entire thing a little shake before taking one long sip. It’s good, but would be better with no caramel. I then feed my dog, put a plain bagel in the toaster, and open the blinds.

This – opening the blinds, looking out the window, and having my morning bagel – is my favorite part of the day. Watching people is my favorite activity –that’s why I chose to live in a shitty NYC apartment that can barely fit me and my old bull mastiff. I watch people every day, particularly this one woman. She’s tall and curvy and has hair that barely reaches her shoulders. I would die for this woman, though she does not know this, because she does not know me, nor do I know her, or, at least, that’s what she thinks. I watch this woman every day. She wears a trench coat with an ugly fur trim around the hood and sleeves when it’s cold. She walks her great dane puppy every morning, afternoon, and evening. She must work from home like I do.

She is always in a rush. Always. Moving with purpose and a swiftness those in NYC tend to have, the heels of her ankle boots clack against the concrete (I imagine they are clacking) as she walks down the street in front of my building every single day. There has not been a day where I have not seen her. For the past three years, I have witnessed the life of this individual from four stories above her, sipping coffee and giving my bull mastiff scratches behind the ear. It’s weird knowing we will never interact. She does not know I am watching her. I feel like God, watching her from so far up here.

I have seen her puppy grow. I’ve seen the different people on her shouder on evenings when she does not walk home alone – something about that is comforting. I feel like this woman and I have been friends for years.

Will I see her die too?

Victim Six

With precision, like surgery, hand a scalpel. My throat burned for months. Years. It was short, swift. I didn’t know--a grave. small grave. eighteen and so petite.

nobody will find me. nobody will find me. my body, nothingness, limp. I want to remember a time before; only glimpses, a tease.

I long to be an equal opportunity victim— sink my nails into his jugular, blood for blood, a bullet between lying eyes, watch crimson pour with vigor; exorcism.

One on one interview with Touchstone’s cover artist, Ciara Kelley

Q: What was the inspiration for this piece? Let’s start there.

I made that piece as a part of my senior high school AP Art portfolio. My entire thesis or theme was about self perception and self reflection. I think I was at a point in my life where I was stressed out because I was about to leave high school. Also just being very discontent with my self image and my body image, but also my mental and emotional state as well. I really tried to capture that feeling of removing yourself from yourself, if that makes any sense. Like, not wanting to be a different person, but just not wanting to be you anymore.

I was kind of going for that whole vibe of, you just want to be out of the world. You feel mentally and emotionally like you don’t exist, but you’re still physically present. So if you could somehow just peel that off, or take that off? Like that abstract kind of parts of yourself that you want to remove? You know?

Q:How long did it take you to create this?

This one took me a bit longer than some of my other pieces. I’m typically pretty fast at doing work. But this was all pen. So I use a ballpoint pen and a hatching technique. So I just made the tiny little lines to do the whole piece. It definitely took me a hot minute to get like the details I wanted of the face with that sort of like pulling effect-- like probably two weeks.

Q: Did you find yourself changing as a person as you created this piece?

I’m not sure if I was consciously aware that I was changing as a person. For me, art has always just been an outlet. And I think it was a way for me to like channel this sort of stress I was having about my own self identity and my own self perception. So in a way, it was helping me recenter where my focus was where my stress was resting at that sort of makes sense.

Q: How do you define yourself as an artist?

So I am not a creative writer. I’m very analytical when it comes to that, which is weird that I’m an English and Art major here because I don’t combine them that much. I definitely channel a lot of my stylistic creative side into actual physical artwork. It allows me to express something that I otherwise can’t express through words. A lot of my work stems from personal introspective discontent. It’s almost always a little morose in a way, I do a lot of peeling. I’ve painted a lot and drawn a lot of people taking off their skin. That sounds really gross. But I love that.

Q: What do you want people to take away from this piece?

I’m not really sure. I don’t want it to sound narcissistic, but I don’t make art for other people. I never have an audience in mind. And a lot of times, I just come up with something that I want to do for myself. I never real seek to be like, “Oh, I need to make this thing so that this group of people likes it or so that I can present it at this conference,” which I think is what also makes art a good outlet for me, because I’m not seeking validation in that way.

Q: Do you find yourself admiring or looking back on any specific artist?

I feel like my analytical brain is very like, oh, say the classical artists that you’d like. Because I’ve always been a sucker for art. For example, for spring break, I just went to Europe, and I just looked at art for 10 days, it was great. You know what I mean? That’s where I feel like I really get to thrive. It’s just staring at these masters like modern, and classical, that have just really honed in on subject matter and technique, and it’s just so amazing to see. I love Edgar Degas who makes all the ballerina paintings. I love the composition. I love the way that it flows, and that it’s really defined and detailed. But when you get up close, it’s still a little blur. And I think that’s why I love a lot of impressionist artists in general, like Saison Renoir, Monet, just so many different people that get up close. And when you’re near it, it doesn’t really look like much, but from a distance, you get the whole picture. I think I appreciate it even more because I can’t do that.

I’m so detail oriented, and I’m so fixed on things all the time that I really admire people that can be a little bit looser, and

people that can look at the whole broader picture rather than this tiny, little intricate point. I was drawn to people that I don’t do things that they do. There’s one more artists that I really love, Kalita Rawls. She makes a lot of water based imagery. I l kind of ran into her work last year. I got really, really into it because it’s these beautifully rendered portraitures. It’s so detail oriented, it looks real, it looks tangible, but then it’s concealed by water, or flowing fabric and I love that that you can make something so beautiful.

Thank you to Ciara Kelley for allowing Gum Girl to be the cover for the 43rd volume of Touchstone, and for sitting down with Associate Editor Julexis Gonzalez for this installment of “Ampersand!”

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COLOPHON.

The 43rd volume of Touchstone Literary Arts Journal was printed by Independent Printing in Daytona Beach, Florida, with a press run of 450 copies. The journal was created by student designers using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop on iMac computers. The 2023 edition of Touchstone consists of 80 pages, and fonts including Minion Pro and Helvetica. The 4-color process cover is printed on soft touch paper. Touchstone also features virtual content on hatternetwork.com and on Instagram @touchstonelitart, which is entirely student created, managed, and produced. All submissions to Touchstone are reviewed, selected, and edited by Touchstone staff and selection committee. All works featured are created by Stetson University students.

Special thanks to those who submitted their work and to our supporters.

DISCLAIMER

Touchstone exclusively features the work of Stetson University students. Each staff and selection committee member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly, and if they knew the creator of the piece, or they themselves were the creator, they were not allowed input.

Touchstone Literary Arts Journal. 43rd Edition, Spring 2023. Stetson University. Copyright 2023 Touchstone Literary Arts Journal. All artwork, photography, and literature are copyright 2023 to their respective creators. The ideas and opinions expressed belong to the respective creators, and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors of the 43rd edition of the Touchstone Literary Arts Journal, or the Stetson University administrators and community. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. None of the contents of this edition may be reprinted without the permission of the individual creator.

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