Staff
Lucrezia Chiesa
Justine Gouldsbrough
Deirdre Hardesty
Maria Latour
Elsa Lloyd
Sheridan Macon
Mia Martinez
Phoenix Medley
Parker Moore
Brooke O’Brien
Logan Warren
Editors
Selection Committee
Lane Davis
Caitlyn Eudy
Ciara Kelley
Carlye Mahler
Bun Shamsidin
Grace Smith
Mickey Smith
Ali Burgess, Executive Editor of Touchstone
Venus Turnbull, Associate Editor of Touchstone
Cas Bradley, Editor in Chief of Hatter Network
Design
Hayden Collins, Creative Director of Hatter Network
Maria Latour, Graphic Designer
Faculty Advisors
Crystal Baroni
Jelena Petrovic
Cover
Off-Road by Indya Mckoy
@choose2wander
Dear reader,
Our 44th edition of Touchstone is finally in your hands, and I almost wish it wasn’t over yet. Working on this edition has been transformative, and soon you’ll know that after reading. I truly could not feel more pride in this piece, in the work of myself and Venus, and the work of our lovely staff. Touchstone was a lifeline for me this year, and I hope I do the legacy justice. Now time for a couple of thank yous. My staff, with your unyielding love for this magazine and the community it provides. Those who attended Uncouth and Creative Corner, and those who submitted to this year’s edition, you all shared a piece of your hearts and souls with us and to that I am forever grateful. Lane, our irreplaceable WHAT Radio Executive Station Manager, you are amazing inside and out, and hosting Uncouth Hour with you has been something I look forward to every week. Hayden, our Creative Director, you are such a wonderful artist and this Touchstone wouldn’t have been what it is without your guidance and support. I know you’re destined for great things. Cas, our Editor in Chief, you showed up when we needed you and were always there to fight for us and this year’s journal. You are so ambitious with an unmatched spirit. My amazing Venus. My Associate Editor. You have been such a pillar of support in my life this year. Through working together and living together, I have gotten to grow and bond with your incredible spirit. I owe you everything. I don’t know what I’ll do once you graduate, but nothing could replace the experience of getting to do this year with you. I love you always. Before I get too sappy, thank you to everyone who saw something special in me, I hope I’ve made you proud. Finally, thank you to those who are reading. I know you’ll find something in here that resonates with you and fills your heart with love the way mine has been. Don’t forget to live through art, you’ll find it makes life a lot more interesting.
So long and thanks for all the fish, Ali Burgess, Executive Editor of Touchstone
Dear reader,
I feel truly honored to present to you the 44th volume of Touchstone! This edition is overflowing with the love, passion, and talent of those involved, and I could not be more proud of the hard work that Ali, I, and our exceptional staff poured into creating this magazine. As I am not traditionally a writer, I am struggling to put my appreciation for Touchstone into words. It has truly been the most defining part of my college experience, and now that it’s over, I could not be more grateful for it. Because Touchstone is more than these pages, I want to acknowledge the community that surrounds us, you have not gone unnoticed. To everyone who submitted, thank you for your courage and creativity. To our phenomenal staff, thank you for your careful work, contagious positive energy, and amazing talent. I know I am leaving Touchstone in capable hands. To Hayden, thank you for offering your creative talent and guidance. You were the first person to welcome me to Hatter Network, and I would not be where I am without you. To Lane, thank you for your hard work and dedication, you and your staff have made Uncouth Hour a joy to run. To Cas and Dr. Petrovic, thank you for supporting us in your leadership of this organization. To Ali, my incredible friend, roommate, personal hairdresser, errand buddy, and truly inspiring Executive Editor, I’m afraid I could never find the words to fully express how grateful I am to have gotten to lead Touchstone by your side. Thank you for the unwavering passion, unlimited care, and endless encouragement you provided for Touchstone. I know you have remarkable things ahead of you. Finally, to the readers of this magazine, thank you for giving Touchstone a chance. As I offer my final farewell, I hope to leave you with the same admiration for this curation as I hold. So please enjoy your journey through this edition of Touchstone!
I hope you love it as much as I do.
Forever yours,
Venus Turnbull, Associate Editor of Touchstone
Dear reader,
As I approach the end of my Stetson journey, I remember Touchstone is the original reason I became a part of Hatter Network, and it has been the most memorable part of my college experience, so I struggle to even begin to express how much I love this project! With all the magazines I have had the privilege to design the most impactful part has been the team I have been blessed to do it with. Venus, where do I even begin, I’m so proud of you. I’m beyond grateful for the work we have done together and am honored to call you my friend. You’ve been truly wonderful and your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed. Ali, getting to know you and seeing you in your element at every Uncouth, I’m not alone in admiring your dedication to this branch as you work at making it the best it can be. The dynamic duo, the beating heart of Touchstone. Your staff couldn’t ask for better leadership or bigger shoes to fill. This little book is the embodiment of every artist’s passion; the cozy corner of a coffee shop, long hours in the studio, late nights writing, all of it bound in paper and curated with care. Take your time with it, ruminate with the intention and sit with the perspective, or just cozy up with a warm drink and start reading.
With friendship and sincerity,
Hayden Collins, Creative Director of Hatter NetworkDear reader,
Creative expression is a process that forces you to share your vulnerability with others. Touchstone’s goal is to make creative expression more accessible to the Stetson community by providing opportunities and making those events feel safe, and Ali and Venus’s efforts in this have been incredibly apparent. Uncouth Hour and Creative Corner have had record attendance with a monthly crowd of regulars. Additionally, they have brought together a passionate and hardworking Touchstone staff, who put countless hours of effort into this year’s journal. Please enjoy this year’s Touchstone: a culmination of your community’s works of creative expression.
Please, read on and enjoy, Cas Bradley, Editor in Chief of Hatter Network | 9
p. 13 Ornithomancy
Deirdre Hardesty
p. 14 The Witching Hour
Morgan Hibel
p. 16 True Colors
Jillian Semmel
p. 17 As the Moon Rises
Elsa Lloyd
p. 18 Goobi
Lane Davis
p. 20 Grimbus
Nathan Gonzales
p. 22 To leak
Grey Smith
p. 23 Life in Death
Mickey Smith
p. 28 Cliffs of Northern Ireland
Justin Bardell
p. 30 Purgatorium
August DuPuis
p. 32 Polarize
Nurdaulet Myrzabekov
p. 33 Custom Beige
Grey Smith
p. 34 looming *
Cas Bradley
p. 35 counting stages *
Ali Burgess
p. 40 Shedding
Parker Moore
p. 41 I Would Have Loved Him
Sheridan Macon
p. 42 Underwater Lullaby
Christine Glezer
p. 43 Hecate
Maria Latour
p. 44 my bones my cage
Reagan Swayze
p. 47 anatomize *
Venus Turnbull
p. 48 Awe
Grace Herzog
p. 50 Little Laika
Phoenix Medley
p. 51 Orange Cassidy
Maria Latour
p. 52 Tongue-Eater
Maria Latour
p. 53 12.23.2020
Zoey Ritchie
p. 54 I Saw Her in my Dreams (Again)
Bailey Workman
p. 56 resurface
Reagan Shivers
p. 57 six string haikus
Elsa Lloyd
p. 58 naive memories *
Hayden Collins
p. 60 educate and conserve
Cas Bradley
p. 61 i know the end
Hayden Collins
p. 62 Solem et Lunam
Sheridan Macon
p. 64 Pressure Building
Nurdaulet Myrzabekov
p. 65 True Colors
Jillian Semmel
p. 66 A Love Within Mythos
Alexander Vargas
p. 67 golden
Reagan Shivers
p. 68 How to move to another country
Elizaveta Garifullina
p. 71 Perspective
Grace Herzog
p. 72 Perfectionist
Morgan Hibel
p. 74 Ampersand with Indya Mckoy
This edition of Touchstone wishes to provide a special thanks to our former faculty advisor, Crystal Baroni. All of Hatter Network owes their success to you and your endless support. We would not have been able to create this year’s Touchstone without your guidance and belief in our vision and abilities. We are so grateful for the time you shared with us here at Hatter Network and we hope we made you proud!
the way the trees reach for one another above busy roads the way the sun filters through their leaves, shining a spotlight upon them as if they were star-crossed lovers dancing on stage. they sway in the wind with cardiac rhythm, passerine poetasters fill the air with partridge-song and pipit-rhyme
like poets to a romance that predates them.
i feel i am much the same. i repeat a love as old as time like a clunky, careless recital.
i, the leander to your hero, the orpheus to your Euridice the icarus to your soft and soothing sunlight. i hope only this time there could be no storm.
no worrying eye. no melted wax wings. only trees
The Witching Hour
Morgan Hibel
highway above ocean below two jaws align to envelope the evening my words burn up between the ribs of some passing engine yours drown behind your teeth night stirs
the blind moon sees with perverse, silver fingers gropes at oily waves, canvas sails, fishing line, strands of hair; teases dark mirages from distant waters; creeps up the jetty, the pale curve of a wrist
dazzled grains of salt embedded in sandblown skin thousands of spider eyes shuttering with each step are we still skin and bone? or just an after-image of who we used to be?
stars recoil, disgusted by the rancid odor of the sea of the tide, pressed up against sharp knees of crouching mangroves of the little gutted creatures, plucked and ravaged dark juices sprayed over sandals smells like home
Goobi Lane Davis
Birthed from within a fairy ring
A creature but an ankle high
When the Grimbus wanders on by The flora bows to righteous king
With a tiny twig for a wand
Grimbus gives barren soil life
Celebrant tune played from his fife
Joyous from colors he hath spawned
Surely all creatures do so love
The grimbal ground on which they tread
But there is featherless biped
Which spews its hatred from above
Chance of shrinking point-one percent
Years of pure economic bliss
And GDP growth now at risk
The source of protest and dissent
The meeting of pundits inane
Devises a brilliant plan
To economically expand
The highway needs just one more lane
Then a wizard came bursting in
With beard flowing and speeches terse
“What about all Grimbus dispersed?”
And so the chanting did begin:
“Woe unto Grimbus! Woe unto Grimbus! Extermination we bestow unto Grimbus!”
This foolish codger they had banned
From future meetings for this clash
Conviction strong and judgement rash
The council forced the wizard’s hand
And so he cast a spell to vex
Future generations to come
Destruction which had just begun
Became part of a dreadful hex
Man waged its war forevermore
With ashen soil and Queen Anne’s lace
To make room for more concrete waste
With Grimbus confined to folklore
My stumbling feet weave over one another in an uncoordinated dance along the cracked sidewalk, propelling me on an endless stroll to an unknown destination. They scrape along the ground, my mind unable to control them as it used to before. The teeming energy of life that expanded across the world took a sharp halt long ago, nothing replacing it but the quiet sigh of death. My trusty, worn out shoes have become a burden now.
Everything I used to love has morphed into something different: no longer useful, no longer fun, valuable, or special. Everything has become nothing.
My yellowed, bloodshot eyes fix themselves on an undetermined point in the distance. My vision has worsened over time. What was once crisp and bright has become blurry and dull. Spots wade through my sight, intermittently blocking out the pathway in front of me. The clearly marked sidewalks and crosswalks leading to run down shops and buildings seem to blend together in my vision.
What am I looking for anyways? Do I still look for their comforting presence now? Now that it doesn’t matter anymore.
My hands have grown cold over time. They brush against my jacket, my long brittle nails catching on the loose threads. The only remnants of my old life found in the chipping nail polish clinging to the edges of my nails. The only tangible reminder of who I once was.
After all these years, my body has become a stiff shell. How long has it been? Two years? Five? I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure of anything anymore. I have nothing to do with myself other than to walk and to listen, the slow pace matches the sluggishness in my mind. The trees rustling in the breeze, the stirring of others a few streets over, the occasional fearful cry for help. Sound is my only anchor now that my vision is starting to go.
How did I end up here?
A low groan escapes my lips. I haven’t eaten in a while. I drag myself along in search of my next meal, my hunger insatiable and endless. Food used to be abundant, shared at a table with my closest friends or my dearest family members. Now it is scrounged up from what lays on the floor, the scraps someone else left around. It seems barbaric, but everything is so numb I don’t seem to care.
I see a house off the main road I’ve been walking down. I turn into the grassy hill that stood between me and the building. It’s familiarity draws me in somehow. I’m sure I’ve seen it before…
. . .
The building barely sits on its frames, a miraculous feat. The house had been abandoned by the looks of things: debris from the surrounding trees engulfs the front porch, the door handle orange from age and lack of use. I trip up the stairs to the entrance and fall into the door, my body weight cracking the wood. I try the door handle despite its rusted look. I pull and tug, but it’s no use. I limp back a foot and slam myself into the door again. Again and again, until I finally break through the withering wooden door. I lurch forward, barely stopping myself from hitting the splintered floor.
Memories of the house come flooding back in waves:
‘Come on over, there’s a roast in the crock pot!’ my mother shouted across the street to our neighbors. Everyone would pile in, ten or fifteen people gathered at the dinner table that only fit six. Everyone grabbed for a plate of fresh, hot food. The television happened to be playing football as it always did, we all piled onto the small couch and watched. Adults screamed and yelled incoherent words at the tv that meant nothing. Children picked out favorite teams based on what colors were the prettiest. My family prepared hot cider to pass around in plastic cups, only a few sips in each so everyone could have some. Five lonely mugs sat on the counter for our enjoyment after the crowd left. Only when it was just us were the throw blankets scattered around the living room like decoration and the doors were shut to keep the warmth in.
I remember those times.
Now the only warmth comes from the people on the ground, if they’re still fresh.
As I right myself, the narrow hallway expands in front of me, warping my view. I hobble down the corridor to the small kitchen, an irresistible pull guiding my steps. A scene I could only describe as unnerving had elapsed long before my appearance today.
Spilled hot cider cakes the counter in a now cold, sticky goo, the mug it came from laying helplessly on its side. I could imagine the remnants of warmth and coziness, recalling a time where I might have found comfort in a drink like this. Plates of rotten, untouched food sit on the dining table in the corner as if inviting the previous hosts to come back and sit
24 | Touchstone XLIV
for a meal. There was no point; they wouldn’t like this stuff anymore anyways. The scene feels like a whisper of a forgotten life, something that was once peaceful and lovely turned chaotic and primal.
A chair lays on the floor covered in dust and defeat, knocked over in someone’s futile attempt to flee. My vacant eyes scan the room once more in an attempt to bring back the emotions I felt for this place, trying to make sense of the empty house that once bustled with life and bubbled with happiness. It felt wrong for it to be so silent, so lifeless. Even in the farthest reaches of the house, a shout or some laugher could have been heard from here, but the only sounds now are the soulless groans past the entrance.
I know I can’t stay here. The odor that draws me in to the farther rooms permeates my nostrils as I inch closer, infiltrating my brain with an unmistakable hunger that would never be stopped once it began. The insatiable starvation that wracks my broken body forces my feet unwillingly away from the exit. My body became heavier with each step, the anticipation blooming a rare, terrible warmth within my cold chest.
The hallway of rooms feels endless as I reach for the only door of significance. The pull of what lies ahead excites me in a cruel way. I knew I would see them there, laying in their own decay, in their own ruin. It’s almost like their endless cries continue even now, years later. It pains me, knowing they sacrificed so much for so little.
After all, I met their same fate not long after. They were the only family I knew, the four of them.
I hesitantly push the door open a crack.
The unmistakable sickeningly sweet smell of rot engulfs the hallway as the door opens with a creak. Huddled in the corner were the four of them, terror still etched in the sagging, perishing lines on their faces. Even in death they held each other so close, their overflowing emotion acting to immortalize their familial love.
Despite this, my most primitive instinct propels me forward. I hadn’t eaten in so long, what was still left of my humanity struggling with my overwhelming famine.
With trembling hands, I can no longer resist the force that brought me here. I descend upon them, tearing away piece by piece, each chunk a memory of them I will keep within me, a grotesque communion. My frenzied hunger looks past their dead eyes fixed in fear and their decaying bodies. I am driven by a monster that lives inside of me, which abandons all reason or rationality. Their bodies became nothing more than mere sustenance for my gruesome appetite as I rip away what was left of their spoiled flesh.
In a strange way, I felt as if I were preserving them. In their consumption, they will live on inside me, their existence parallel to mine. Despite their humanity, even in death, they are bound to my monstrous fate forever.
26 | Touchstone XLIV
August DuPuis
where do we lie between sweetness and rotting? between shallow breaths and half-eaten nectarines at your bedside
You tracing the life lines into my palm with feverish delicacy
The dried pits nestled under your ribs
You let me sleep inside of your chest
Seventeen
home like you promised, like I insisted a borrowed raincoat draped over your lap like a porch-bound hound dog
When did I let you grow old?
Tall child with ripened eyes and stick-bone hands How many people are you?
my middle name held behind molars
Meditative cold cloth back and forth to water basin the space where your hand ends and mine begins I don’t want to play house anymore
Is this how you harbor a daughter? Is a room without a door still a room?
A waiting room. I do you let me
but its powder blue and drenched with midday sun-sickness you, belly full with consolation and cloth-wrapped sympathies air thick with dried bouquet hay-scented sweetness gas station get well soon!
Locked leather briefcase under bed I broke your favorite lamp yesterday In grandma’s hallway I was so careful
but you couldn’t take your eyes off of the cardinals
Swarming the backyard when you’re clawing for a taste of inconsolable sweetness
I. Early Stage:Denial
moving in was never easy. fluttering growing pains, but it’s all familiar. been here before. new steps, new home, new me. perfectly methodical, i…this home is a castle. built, imagined in my mind. headlights scatter through stain glass windows, illuminating something i can’t seem to place. something’s wrong and i cannot seem to stop it. cannot seem to place it. control is something lucky. when you hold the whole universe in your hand, it starts to eat you up. it’s on those warm summer nights when the mold creeps in. when you’re too busy with the long days, chasing the sun.
one day the worm will turn, resounding like a war drum, today is not that day.
“what brings you in today?”
want a drink? i have so much to offer. cranberry, tea, coffee, cola, wine? take your mind off the smell, you’ll forget it once you’re settled. i ignore the whistles in the trees. something eerie about the way the fungus trails behind me, marking everywhere i’ve been. but i never did anything inviting. nothing was wrong here, just a slip of my hand. lost control for a second. my coffee spilled. the pages fucked, my project, my plans. it’s fine. just a set back. could we ignore the mold on my bread and the heat in the house. and suddenly it’s new again. squeeze your eyes hard enough the green splotches blend right in.
i built this home on pure structure. laid the foundation on hearty soil. always kept routine. no dishes left in the sink. no laundry left overnight. no excessively long showers, put my makeup on each morning, i cared. how could some foolish person let it in. i am no foolish person. i am better. than you. than this. don’t let it in, we have no reason to house it. some god of yours let it fester. and it’s selfish. fungus grows from within, suppose i am to blame. cracked wood, creaking fingers are vines entangled. leaking spores into the air. i cannot stop them. i could have done more. it bubbles from within, my hair sticking up along my spine, am i still human? i feel the familiar fuzz from my windowsill. can never leave me. makes my skin raise, inches off the bone. who gave it the fucking right.
“can you rate your pain from 1-10?”
my water bottle sits on my desk. tiny circles spin atop the buoyant threshold boiling up like lava amidst the rising temperature. they can grow here. my own saliva makes me sick, i am becoming one with the heat. my hair piles up on the floor, bonding closely with the mold. i wait for it to hurt and rip the bark off my skin. shattered frames on the floor. holes peeking through the baseboards from steel toes. no shell my body musters can devoid the fungal hunger. there is no faith here. just the urge to devour, and i should have known. fungus can grow where it wants. why can i not control what is mine. my home.
i rip my insides to my outsides sprawling them all on the walls. paint my prison with crimson, let it mold all up again.
i come home. shoes don’t even bother to slip off before melting into the familiarity. this is where we live now. the mold and me. it feels like butter, pillowy soft and oh so inviting. pulling me down slowly into the bed as it grows. i believed i knew all nooks and crannies of my home. i have built it to become a withered shell of what i once knew. and so i succumb to join it. nothing loved me so dearly before. knew all of me so well. the weight has shifted. can’t bother cleaning those makeup brushes, knowing i paint a face of mold ridden paste. knowing my drunken walks home to my same walls, they welcome me. cracks in the paint from too many pictures hung. they are condensated now. frames blurry of people i couldn’t dare let know of my disaster. the roots of fungus grow out of order. leeches. sucking onto anything that provides. at least. at least i can provide.
“what are your symptoms?”
i think i’m starting to lose myself. that vicious self control. the determination i once felt to build this structure has crumbled down. my plans are coffee stained, and i fear i never got around to remaking them. mold trails off the pages, down the walls, into the air. it feels hopeless. never ending. no sight of motivation to rewrite. windows open, inhaling cracked leaves from seasons i’ll never know, i have no attachment here, just the ache of unimaginable hunger. i am the fungus in my lungs. i have become the thick air i swallow. it is comfortable below the pillowy fortress of mine. a fuzzy feeling inside and out.
a little diy project. i scratch your back you scratch mine. but it’s hard to recall where it started. was i too naive to pay
36 | Touchstone XLIV
attention? can my naivety convince you to hand my sisyphus gift off to another? we could paint over the cracks in the walls. let the water drain from the ceiling. please ignore the piles of soiled garbage. let me claw out from the underground, i promise i’ll make it worth it. i can feel it touching me. everywhere. all the time. it grows down my back and into my socks. my shoes feel tethered and my socks are touching my toes and my neckline holds my life in its stitches. i fear i’m suffocating now. cough up chunks of rotten wood, moldy bread, and pain relievers. choked up feeling inching up my throat resounding with creaky breaths, don’t you want to help rebuild this home?
“can you place your pain for me?”
could i place my pain everywhere? but it seems like i’m selfish for taking this pain as my own. but it’s been growing under my fingernails. picking skin without giving it time to grow back.
scabs never get to linger, i think my white blood cells are growing a distaste for me.
call me metastatic, my roots have grown much farther than where i started, and that’s never been a good thing. i was never one for making deals with god but i fear i have no choice. can you let me live another home? take my body from this cavern, explore a world unknown. where i never learned the ache of knowing how god damn hard it is to get rid of the mold. provide another home to flourish, us, separately. give up my keys to the landlord, throw my things to the curb.
i don’t lock the doors anymore, like i did once before. not to submit, but rather invite. can i offer you a drink? all of it’s fermented, grown with me. the fridge grew hot one day, fear i didn’t notice. but this is mine. my home, i am tethered here. rooted deeply inside. if her foundation cracks, the ceiling falls, the mold absorbs, i go down with her. my mother taught me to fight for the things i want, but i don’t think she prepared me for this. and i am tired of fighting. no one told me i am the fungus, it was mine all along. it didn’t hunt me from the outside, it ate me whole from within. i know i never did anything wrong, my blame is misplaced on an innocent fawn.
“what does a good death mean to you?”
sometimes i can’t remember where i started. that land doesn’t seem to be there any longer. i hope i left it kindly for when they write in my memory. thick air provides a blanket, always caring for me. my home, she never meant to hurt me, it was out of her control. can’t blame the structure for an otherworldly source. i was never naive, just hopeful. i never shirked away from the fear, i held it close. knew it could never leave. i engulfed it, devoured it, and now. now i lay amongst my dirt castle. accepting. i am the dirt, the grass, the flowers, the trees. i am the forest, forever growing, i never leave. and the sun always rises in the east.
(for Frankenstein’s Creature from a transgender teen)
I would have loved him, Wretched as they say he was. I would have taken his horrid hands Into my own horrible hands. Horrendously mangled Together Would we be. Into his eyes— Golden, ghastly, Glowing, gorgeous— I would have gazed. I would have grinned At the sight of his scars, Which bear a resemblance to mine.
There would be no speak of daemons. For even angels— Indescribably inhuman, Encrusted with eyeballs, Sprouting wretched wings, Needing to demand “Be Not Afraid” At each encounter— Are horrifying upon first glance. And yet they are nothing but holy. Why then, should he not be?
He would have been the holiest, to me. For I would have beheld his heart— Beaten, beloathed, betrayed,
Sheridan Macon
Barely even belonging to him— And seen it beating just as mine. I would have seen it
Bursting at the beauty
Of all he beheld; Filled to the absolute brim
With nothing but love.
Tell me, which monster do you know Whose heart looks like that?
I would have loved him. And had the world not been as it is, He would love me too.
I crush the pill between my teeth. I had already known that today was going to be one of those days. Red-hot joints, spoon half-empty kind of day.
A day reigned by sluggish limbs, oh mighty king of stiff bones. Disease’s throne my bed, built upon tears and sweat. Fatigue whittling away any energy I possessed with lethargic fingers, relentless in its gluttony until there was nothing left but the vaguest resemblance of a person. I was always told to count my spoons with a positive attitude. Half-full, not all gone. Still brimming with the potential my fragile bones would use to carry my body as the hours waned on. What bullshit. Potential was only a revolutionary concept to those who’d never had theirs stolen from them. ‘Course there were the “good” days. There always were. That was the law of the universe. Balance in all its unequal contradictions. Seemed to me I was always taken from more than I was given.
Those were the days where I gnawed on false hope, sucked up that marrow from the same bones that had failed me not even twenty-four hours ago.
Where I grew warm from the always damning thought that maybe things will get better. Grew drunk with the belief that if I told myself that it would get better than it must. A belief that died a lie, buried in the same cemetery right next to ‘dreams and ‘desire’. You don’t get to have much of those when you’re imprisoned by your own flesh. To me, I was that snake, the Ouroboros, chasing my own tail
in the same god-damned cycle of futile hope eaten away by despair. Over and over in the same toxic infinite.
I cannot remember who I was before this sickness. What was it like to run barefoot on the sand without wanting to double over in pain? When was the last time I had ever felt comfortable in my own skin? When was the last time I had looked in the mirror and saw not a sallow monster but a girl?
I was more likely now to feel threatened by my own flesh. My bones, my cage. And I was no songbird.
I cannot remember who I was unblemished by the taint of the medicine. Needles in my skin. Hair falling out in clumps on the shower floor. Appetite chewed up by a perverse numbness in the basin of my stomach. A buzz in my veins.
The notion that my body was no longer mine, the word ‘autonomy’ not from my mother tongue but from a language so foreign it seemed impossible to learn.
I had tried to turn this into an ‘experience.’ Something that would make me a stronger person. Motivation. A story to laugh about twenty years into the future around the dinner table.
“Hey, remember that time I was bedridden for months and trapped within my sweat-slicked and crumb choked sheets?”
I rewarded myself after chemo like a dog. Good girl for taking your medicine, now here’s a treat. I decorated my pillbox with stickers, though the smiley faces were more of a mockery if anything.
After a while, I learned that it was much better to let myself be weak than pretend to be strong. I would have been strong enough to pretend in the end. I was weak. I wasn’t a liar.
Sometimes, like today, I chew up the pill. I let the bitter taste melt over my tongue as a reminder that freedom is not
binary. I may be able to move again, my feet may take me places one after the other but as long as I was underneath this metaphorical knife, my body was never my own. Other times, I swallow with water and forget it never happened. Maybe that I’d delude myself into thinking I was better. And sometimes delusion was one hell of a drug. In the end, I ache. I ache. I ache. I am always waiting. Waiting. And maybe that’s what healing inevitably is. A spasm of pain twists up my spine before settling in the nape of my neck. My shoulders sag and my lips contort in a frown as I twist open the cap of the bottle and shake out another capsule onto my palm.
But I must wait some more. My spoon is emptier. And I crush another pill between my teeth.
“Can cuteness save a species?”
Little Laika, I’m afraid it killed you, even with your spotted nose and black bell ears.
Your backup’s puppies were too cute for her to be killed.
Your keeper’s affection is what stood between you and the stars.
I’m sorry, little Laika, that they could not love you enough to save you.
I’m sorry, Laika — Little Barker — that even after your call went careening over Russia, you were bottled into that box of tin anyway.
Oh, little Laika, did you press your nose against the cold of your container?
I hope it’s rusted where you did.
Little Laika, full of metal and misplaced trust, tearing through splatted black, at least you had a window to see through. I hope the stars looked bright to you, even as your small heart battered against your chest.
I hope your belly was full of the scraps passed to you before your flight, even as your heavy breath fogged the glass. I hope you remember the feeling of little hands scratching behind your ears while your paws scratched at the metal of that boiling casket.
Space can’t hold sound, but I know she made an exception for you, Little Barker,
I know you did not die silent. The sun forever holds your voice in her hands.
Little Laika, what are constellations if not lightning bugs meant for you to chase?
What is the Earth if not a ball meant for you to catch?
Oh, little Laika, I can see your paw prints scattered throughout the stars.
I sleep forever, only interrupted by brief flashes of life. I saw her in my dreams so now I am awake again. She stands silently across the street, singing harmoniously. Her form has no border, no discernable shape or frame. I stare for a while, tracking the way the light from the street lamp bends around her.
She calls to me, and I have no choice but to obey.
As I am pulled to her, I am surrounded by hundreds of my past faces, all of which beam with joy as I find my way. The Moon and Venus watch over knowingly as my breathing slows. The air I draw into my lungs is sweet with lavender and chamomile, I am in labor.
Once again, I begin my symphony. The atoms in my person hum in syncopated rhythms, the hair on my body grows and withers off in cycle, my teeth fall out and grow back with every step I take. I am born again then I die again.
Suddenly I am with her. I look into her eyes and know her immediately. I see her first days, and I see her last. I see her passions and I cheer, I see her father and I weep. From her first day to her last, she is utter perfection.
She reflects the light of the stardust she is comprised of, She is the divine in its entirety. To become Her is to become perfection, as creation itself smiles at her light.
I understand that this life cannot grant me the peace I had in my slumber, but in my rest I cannot experience Her so I will never sleep again. I could know Her a thousand times over, and I will still choose to embrace Her. There isn’t anything between us now, I reach out my hand and She takes it. She chose me as well.
Our skin thrashes and tears, our flesh becomes liquid and mixes together, at the center of our mass is a shooting star. I have died again and again, but now I Am. To be is to suffer, to be lost is to be human, but one day
She will revisit this street as another face, and She will choose this life again.
I see Her at the heart of the Earth, I see Her at the edges of the universe. I’ve seen Her at the beginning of time, and I’ll see Her at the end of it all. I saw Her across the street, I saw Her in my dreams.
breezes sting, crisp air cinnamon and dried flowers mirthful strings, moth wings
you kissed the moon’s cheeks lips silver as barren trees knees flush with their rot
breathless, nylon flutters beneath your tongue, autumn hums fragrant melodies
wrist stutters, chords stall reality snares memory pigment flayed from branch
hues drift, palm thrums in a hollow crescendo sore veins croak, timbre
melody insists: start again, with autumn nights, with your mouth to mine
Lloyd
* naive memories
Hayden Collins
i know the endHayden Collins
Under the timid, waning moon we stand alone together, silent and heaving midsummer air. My beaming heart rests in your palms. I do not mind that my soles will melt into the asphalt. I would stay forever if you only asked. Would you? Would you? Would you?
Would you? Wouldyou? Wouldyou? you?Would you?Would undeee. er theee electrice sunbeame i choke one a stagnant air I knew what you would show me but. i didn’t know it woulde glow so bright. it’s not fair.ee i know i do not deserve that gift i have to leave before you burn me
Jillian Semmel
I wish to harmonize with you
A brew of hunger and desire that transcends the Gods Making shipwrecks out of your dress
Aphrodite shall curse our names for our symphony overpowers the reverberate of Eros’ wings
We will live beyond any poet Become immortal For passion never ends
Oh beautiful diamond, Do you wish to become my Psyche? And I become the monster in the dark Turned lover
Will thou become Hestia?
And I become thy flame?
In your hands I will either burn brightly or flicker out
You hold that power
But what is a hearth but the center of a home? A sanctuary
Are you the apple of Eden, or the pomegranate of Hades?
Time will tell
Oh my Eurydice, Let us pray we do not fall
For I shall persevere like Sisyphus Although meaningless
If I could stand by your side
golden Reagan Shivers
1. Decide where you will move to
There are 195 countries in the world. You have 194 options from which you can choose. If you are moving because of the war, you have much less time and fewer options. But this is normal. There are still a lot of countries. Don’t make this decision in one day. More precisely, in one evening. Only if it is absolutely necessary. If you are under the age of eighteen and you move alone, your options are even more limited. But maybe your parents have friends who gathered overnight and left for another country. You should go with them. Even if you don’t want to move to that country. Sorry, but this is how it works. You have a week before moving. Remember that the government does not want to let you leave the country, so pretend you are going on vacation.
Buy two-way tickets and book a hotel. Who among us doesn’t deserve a little vacation?
2. Pack your things
Pack your whole life in two suitcases: one bigger and one small. Pack your favorite pictures of your family and friends (especially the one from New Year’s Party), a blanket that you use all the time while watching movies with your mom, and a spoon that will remind you of home.
Take perfumes that will remind you of home (that one
perfume that smells just like brownies you baked with your friend), but never use them.
Take your favorite books, but never read them. (If you start reading them, you will remember how you read them at home, in your bed, with your cat sitting around, and it will break your heart into many little pieces.)
Take all your old notebooks, but never write in them. (If you start writing in them, it will break the remnants of your heart if something is left to break.)
Take everything you can or take nothing.
Do not pack people and animals in a suitcase. Even if you really want to, don’t. They won’t have enough oxygen. No matter how many things you have taken, it will seem to you that they are not enough. It is ok. There’s no need to pack the whole house (It’s a trap.) You may need help, as these suitcases are cumbersome. After all, these two suitcases are your whole life from now on. Ask for help. It’s not scary. You need it.
3. Spend time with all your friends
See your friends. With each of the people who are important to you. Hug, cry. You never know when you’ll see them again. Try to remember how you almost blew up the whole kitchen while trying to melt chocolate, how you swam together in a lake and wrote different stories together all of the time.
4. Spend time with your whole family
See your family. With each of the people who are important to you. Hug, cry. You never know if you’ll see them again. Try to remember how you made blini with your grandmother,
how you traveled with your mom, and how all three of you laughed together.
5. Head to the vastness of the unknown (on the way to the airport), look out the window
Notice what a beautiful nature you had right next to you all the time. Look at the beautiful forest, which is covered with snow. It looks like a fairy tale. Have you noticed this before? Have you noticed while you still had the opportunity to enjoy it? Or did you notice all the beauty when you couldn’t look out the window anymore?
6. Cry as much as you want, but don’t be afraid
You can cry while you are still at home. You can cry while you are meeting with friends. You can cry when you say goodbye to your cat. When you say goodbye to your family at the airport. When you turn around and can’t see them anymore. You can cry on the plane. Don’t worry, they won’t look at you, everyone understands. You can cry when you land in another country and enter a new apartment. You can cry when you look out of the new window and see nothing familiar. You can cry when you go into a supermarket and don’t find your favorite products from home. You can cry when you realize that you will never belong in another country or your own country ever again. You can cry after a FaceTime conversation with your grandmother. You may cry when you realize that you are missing your nephew’s childhood years. You can cry. But most importantly, don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid because all these tears will pour into something new. Eventually, it will become easier. I promise.
Q: Is there a primary reason you feel motivated to create art?
I believe that art is a beautiful form of selfexpression. It is a way for me to share my thoughts, without having to use words.
Q: What is your artistic style and process?
I really enjoy taking photos that look posed or candid in a natural environment. In terms of lighting situations, I never really have any expectations, and just kind of go with the flow, and have a great appreciation for the element of surprise.
Q: Where do you typically draw inspiration from?
I enjoy going on long walks in parks, or just around smaller downtown areas, and usually draw inspiration from my surroundings. Once I have an idea, I write it down in my photography journal, and immediately create a new Pinterest board so I can organize my thoughts/ ideas.
Q: Is there anything you want people to take away from your work?
I love to share images that can be interpreted in more ways than one, while keeping my own thoughts private. With this specific piece, though, I just hope that viewers will admire the beautiful scenery. Art is extremely subjective, and I love creating photos that make people ask questions. :)
Q: What was the inspiration for this piece?
My dad, brother, and I were walking around areas in Monmouth County, New Jersey, and I decided to take my camera along with me. I really like discovering natural alignment in any environment, and the colors of the houses, along with the cloudy sky, were beautiful to me. My brother, (the person in the cover photo), just happened to be walking in frame, and turned around at the perfect moment.
Q: Why do you feel drawn to your specific medium?
I was told that I had a ‘good eye,’ whenever I would take pictures on my iPhone, so, slowly but surely, I decided to start taking photography more seriously! I genuinely love doing it, and I love being able to capture images that convey certain emotions!
Thank you to Indya Mckoy for allowing Off-Road to be the cover for the 44th volume of Touchstone!
The 44th 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 2024 edition of Touchstone consists of 80 pages, and fonts including Spectral, Chomsky, and Black Chancery. The 4-colour 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 and their work and to our supporters.
Touchstone exclusively features 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. 44th Edition, Spring 2024. Stetson University. Copyright 2024 Touchstone Literary Arts Journal. All artwork, photography, and literature are copyright 2024 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 44th edition of the Touchstone Literary Arts Journal, or the Stetson University administrators and community. Any similarities to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. None of the contents of this edition may be reprinted without the permission of the individual creator.
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