The University of Toledo's Literary Magazine
Cover Photo by Hannah Myers
The Mill Literary Magazine Spring 2022
M. Pasztor / O. Manias / J. Tienvieri / K. Margis themillmagazine.blogspot.com
The Mill serves as The University of Toledo's student run literary magazine. Our purpose is to showcase and publish the best in writing and art by the student body. These pages are a result of a collaborative effort by students and for students.
County Road Reminders ........................... 12 Hunter Klickman
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*The Beach ................................................. 17 Keira Jefferis
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Equal in Weight 4 Victoria Kochan
My Grandfather Was Scattered in Gatlinburg 10 Hunter Klickman
*(Untitled Poem) ................ 9 Skyler Myers
(Untitled Photo) ........................................ 10 Kenyata Stevenson
(Untitled Photo) ......................................... 14 Hannah Myers
Contributing Authors and Artists ........... 23
Allfather's Toothache 3 C. T. Arbor
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*Olfactory Memory 13 C. T. Arbor
Engendered ................................................ 15 Hannah Myers
Letter to an Unborn Son .......................... 22 Noah Wing
Clay Word Landscapes 18 C T Arbor
(Untitled Photo) ....................................... 18 Kenyata Stevenson
Icarus 7 Morgan Sharpe
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Inspiration 15 Hunter Klickman
*Staff Favorites
(Untitled Poem) ......................................... 8 Skyler Myers
Letter from the Editors ............................ 24
War at Home 8 Madison Taylor
Cool, Fresh Ink 21 Noah Wing
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Pity Party ................................................... 16 Hannah Myers
Christmas Break 6 Noah Wing
It Ain't Much, But It's Cool to See ........... 22 Hunter Klickman
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Pilgrimmage 14 C T Arbor
Sunlight on Plastic Waters ...................... 19 Isabelle Porter
Cruel Mercy 11 Madison Taylor
A Simple Storm of Thought ...................... 16 C. T. Arbor
The sun rises from behind the snowy northern mountains In a dawning sky of green as he soars above the clouds And slides along the shimmering aurora borealis. The scratches on Chronos’ tongue are still visible as He Drools over the surface of Gaia, filling the first lakes and rivers.
Flying within view of the swirling lighting storms of Jupiter, The violent skies and frozen oceans of Uranus and Neptune, Further past Pluto’s realm of red mist and rotting bodies, He faces a being far grander than Allfather Time. Eater of stars, the eternal darkness, the primordial Mother: Infinity.
Time Crunch. Teeth stained with grime and rough with decay Shut tight and trap him in a slick dark prison. The nameless conqueror unsheathes his silver sword As the sandy tongue of Chronos begins to rumble.
The warrior holds strong against waves of rushing saliva, Sinks his blade into thick flesh like an ice pick and Crawls to His inner wall of chipped boulder teeth. He thrusts the sword into the slimy black gum tissue Beneath Chronos' lower left canine His tongue reels back
With a swift leap, he flips over the charging Tongue, lands with grace, then rides as it Recoils from pushing the sword deeper into the nerve. Chronos howls and fires him into space in a geyser Of spit and blood; now the first cosmonaut, satellite of Gods.
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Allfather’s Toothache by C. T. Arbor
A flash of light caught her eye, and she turned her head, mouth gaping at the sight. Glinting in the sunlight, another golden apple dropped to the ground like a fallen star. She did not think twice before diving after it. The second apple, she tucked beside the first in her chiton. Joy thrummed in her heart as she whirled and flew onward.
A golden apple, from the Garden of the Hesperides.
Ahead of her, Hippomenes soared over the grassy plains. He shot straight for the finish line like one of Apollo’s arrows, his aim straight and true. Atalanta did not fear. She dug her feet deep into the ground and raced after him. He had the lead, but she had her strength and fleet footedness. No man could best her in this of all things. Not even the obstinate youth who hadn’t shied away from her mortal wager.
Atalanta checked her speed, heels digging into the worn ground as she dipped low. Her fingers closed around the smooth apple, and she tucked it into her chiton. Her opponent let out a laugh as he raced by, long legs widening the gap between them. She grimaced and hurtled onwards.
If she just kept running.
The finish line loomed ahead, her father, King Schoeneus of Boeotia, scowling beside the bloody demarcation. She would cross that line and Hippomenes’ life would be forfeit, like the many who came before him.
Equal in Weight
And with the golden apple, her future could be more than endless races, constant scowls from Schoeneus. No longer would she need to defend her honor, to keep from marrying a stranger she did not love, did not care for. Atalanta would be free to roam the world.
An apple glistened on the beaten path ahead, bobbing with every loping stride Atalanta took. The hue shimmered too bright, too iridescent for it to have been of this earth. Her breath caught in her chest when she realized what it was.
by Victoria Kochan
Atalanta nodded to him as she met his stride. Their legs pumped in unison for a moment. Then Atalanta pulled away, savoring the crisp breeze that blew toward her with cries of victory.
Well, the wolves had indeed taken her in, had taught her to fight tooth and claw for what she wanted. And right now, it was victory.
Footsteps thundered behind her, and she pushed all dreams of freedom from her mind. Atalanta became the wild cub of her youth, all human distractions fading in the face of this animalistic challenge.
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Victory and certain death for her opponent.
Two apples. She could escape from Schoeneus and buy a ship of her own. No longer would she be a credit to Schoeneus’s house, a marriageable piece of flesh for the man who had cast her out when she was no more than a babe. The man who had left her on the slopes of Mount Parnassus for the wolves to take.
His curls danced in the wind as he ran. Wild youth limned his frame, that surety that no woman could best him radiated out like sunbeams Closer she drew, until she could make out his smirk, until she had passed him by entirely
Men liked to trap wild things. To keep them in cages and whip them until the fight went out of them. To hand feed them morsels of meat, let them drink from their palms. Never imagining how the animal wished to bite and scratch and claw, believing only this semblance of obedience.
Illusions. They had been nothing more than illusions, meant to distract her.
She would not mourn him anymore than she had the last boy, nor the one before that. It was their own folly that drove them to accept her challenge. From the moment she returned to Schoeneus’s home to prove his unwanted daughter was more than equal in weight to any son, her life had become an endless string of race after race for her hand
After all this time, Schoeneus had decided to fulfill his duty in marrying off his only child. The irony stung at night, when Atalanta nursed her sore muscles and wished to run away. He had not cared for duty when he abandoned her. When he deemed her worthless. Atalanta had never been given a name. She had earned it. She was a lioness, the Argonaut who had drawn first blood in the Calydonian Boar Hunt, who fought alongside and in front of the names of history. Now, she would be free again.
After all Atalanta had endured, she deserved this.
It was too late.
But whatever god or goddess saw fit to tempt Atalanta was not through. A third golden apple toppled to the ground, rolling farther than the first or second. It twinkled once before disappearing beneath a snarling bush.
He wanted to break her. That much was obvious, written in the way he sized her up, searching for chinks in her armor.
5
Turning, victory staining her cheeks, she watched as Hippomenes slowed to a jog. He neared the finish line as she hurtled after him, closing the distance.
Hippomenes grinned as he sauntered over the line meant to be his death. The line she had failed to cross first. She staggered after him, loss throbbing in her chest as she dropped to her knees. Her golden apples tumbled to the ground from her chiton. They made no sound as they hit the ground and dissolved into a thin mist.
Two apples were a fortune. A third would mean more than riches. A third would be the trophy Atalanta was starved for. Not the Calydonian boar pelt given out of love instead of respect. Not a grudging mutter of congratulations from Jason. This would be her final reward, her greatest treasure.
“I am not your wife ”
As she threw herself after the prize, Hippomenes let out a wheezing laugh. The apple had rolled farther than she thought. She drew farther and farther away from the finish line. It did not matter; she could still win the race if only she ran fast enough She drove her hand through gnashing branches of the bush, thorns drawing her blood in gushing wells. The third apple she kept in her hand, ravaged fingers wrapped tight.
The third apple, as bloody as though it were her eviscerated heart, fell from her limp hand. It did not disappear. Instead, the mocking prize rolled until it struck Hippomenes’ foot. She looked up at the man who was to be her husband, eyes narrowed. “Is this how my life is to go?” Her voice cracked on those words, those treacherously weak words.
He grinned, a savage gnash of teeth. “Not yet.”
Hippomenes stooped down and grasped her trophy. “I know not what you are referring to, wife,” he said, tossing the apple as though it were a mere toy
The ritual began, Hippomenes fidgeting with the apple beside her. It was her trophy, her blood still staining its perfect surface. The apple seemed too heavy for him, like he couldn’t bear its weight Atalanta smiled It would be hers soon, when she exacted her revenge
And speaking of stalwart men As they quaff red cups of milk. They laugh and embrace In the firelight, the sparks crack around them like the embers of Hrothgar’s Hall
Around the fire bastardly literates Pine for love, Joking of tragedies
Christmas Break by Noah Wing
Atalanta did not fight against him. She refused to dignify him in such a manner. He had won her, married her on grass fed by his predecessors, those foolish boys. The agreement was simple and Atalanta would respect it. Her scruples would allow no oath breaking. Hippomenes won her hand But there would be no wild animal for him to tame Everything she did and said would live up to her given name She would be domesticated, tame, a lioness given a leash and a pretty collar. She would spite Hippomenes, rob him of satisfaction. Yes, she would be his taste of danger to trot out before visitors. See how nicely she smiles? She would let him say, bearing that slight. Her fangs filed down, claws clipped away. What a savage wonder she once was. How you would have feared her before! A terrible woman, with hard eyes and a harder figure. Only I could guide her, turning her from the famous Atalanta into just my wife. Hippomenes could brag all he liked. The truth would be for them and them only. An earworm of a thought, one that would make prideful words taste like ash in his mouth.
She was Atalanta, daughter of wolves, the forgotten Argonaut, and she was no stranger to playing the long game.
As Schoeneus led them to the waiting priestess, as he patted her arm consolingly, she resisted the urge to scream, to rant, to fight. Her life would not always be this way, victory forever within her reach yet always outside her grasp. The odds were stacked against her. But she would always be braver and faster and stronger. One day, Schoeneus and Hippomenes would come to regret this day as much as she did.
As each one of them declares the legends of conquerors And lore of kings slaying Ferocious beasts and armies of old.
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In December they go home. Afraid to see their fallen heroes, they begin to lose themselves in pages.
Icarus by Morgan Sharpe
I am met by a stranger of the expansive sky, Assuring me that he knows the way, I take his hand. And it is only as the smell of putrid smoke fills my nostrils That I notice his wings.
I climb aboard and wait For my cousin to send me soaring. Giddy with excitement I feel my senses prepare for my journey. The pushes come like a Locomotive, preparing to depart.
As I ascend, higher than I’ve gone before The sights around me pour in. The roof of the old, red barn. The lazy river, just past the tree line. And the warm faces of my family, Walking the winding dirt road ahead.
Sprinting to the oak tree, The ancient tree that has seen this charade before Time and time again, generations of children Learning and growing, Finding their place in this world.
On an end of summer’s day, as slow as molasses And lost in time. My cousin and I run, flailing Out of the murky, blue green water. The pond that we know Like a husband knows the curves of his wife’s body.
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“Higher! Higher!” I shout to my cousin, But below, my safe homestead fades.
I approach the grand trunk, Glancing to our magic carpet That hangs from a weathered arm. Knowing the rules, I shoot a smug glance to my companion “Loser has to push the winner first ”
My father moves like a soldier Shoulders back, eyes forward, a war always on the edge of his lips. His voice is full of violence every word is a grenade And when the dust settles, I’m the one patching up the wall or the door or the nose that kissed his war torn fist for the third time this week
(Untitled)
One day I’ll move like a traitor away from enemy lines, try to find asylum somewhere, anywhere Maybe I’m too soft for this I don’t grit my teeth and spit out the blood in my mouth to make room for the bullets that he taught me to keep on the tip of my tongue “You should be grateful!” my father yells at his deserter, “I made you what you are! I made you strong!” Maybe that’s why the shrapnel of his last explosion only grazes my back as I walk away, Or maybe it's because I'm so soft it doesn't stick
War at Home
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by Madison Taylor
I don’t walk fast, talk My feet stomp at hard ground like the beat of a drum. Legs too long, can’t dance, can’t quite figure out how to sit. Mom put me in ballet, mom put me in tap, mom put me in all of it. Supposed to follow rhythm, follow magazines; not allowed to throw a fit. Now go on and perform; follow thick words on a script. Thick words stick to your tongue then to your stomach in a pit. Now walk fast, talk
by Skyler Myers
small , walk past, talk quick, small , walk past, talk quick,
I was raised to move like the enemy Shoulders hunched, feet silent, avoiding land mines with every step In my house, his territory, anything could set him off, or set the room on fire. He taught me how to be a man, swallow feelings dry like lumps of sand, no water Hope that the fire inside will crystallize them until they shatter like the broken plates I sweep up off the kitchen floor
by Skyler Myers
I don’t want to act straight at Thanksgiving this year.
I don’t want to act straight at Thanksgiving this year.
My [REDACTED] hates it when I say this because he doesn’t want my love to make everyone uncomfortable. My cousin sits at the end of the table with wide eyes and ears willing to listen; he’s not allowed to know what ‘gay people’ means. Bright minds are like blank pages and ‘we don’t want his covered in black ink’. To educate the young would be to arm them with abilities to understand one another.
I don’t want to act straight at Thanksgiving this year
Lip creases filled with rose colored, bitter tasting poison.
My tongue slips quick like small bodies running with untied shoes I recoil fast the speech that escapes my lips being brought back like the strong end of a yo yo. ‘Her and I love our new apartment’ turns into ‘thank God we got two bedrooms.’ after furrowed brows and mouths tugging downward at the floor.
Staff Favorite 9
Warm soft bread split by wrinkled fingers and doused in sizzling buttery liquid. Red seasoned wine poured like a waterfall strung from the mouth of jagged rocks.
I don’t want to act straight at Thanksgiving this year.
(Untitled)
Somewhere on a mountainside off Newfound Gap Road Is where I poured his ashes. I’m not sure where all he ended up, But I pray he is content. I hope a part of him blew East so he could finally see the Atlantic. He loved to watch old naval movies Of the times “when wars were wars.” If a part of him went North, I hope he’s back on the family farm He worked that dirt for 50 years, So what better place to rest. I hope he made it West To Tombstone, Arizona. The ghost town coined “Too tough to die”, Just like I thought of him. If a part of him went South, I hope it was in Dahlonega Where the Georgia Gold Rush first began. Lucky tourists will pan for more than gold At the bottom of the Tesnatee River.
Photo by Kenyata Stevenson
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My Grandfather Was Scattered in Gatlinburg
by Hunter Klickman
Our Lady of the Interstate stands alone fully realized in the form of a three-foot statue with her arms spread wide, palms out, and heart open to the field across her highway. She has no congregation; cars rush past her turned back, taking no notice of the effigy And yet she prays
But most of all, she prays for the tired teenager en route to his graveyard shift at McDonald’s, who took notice of the twitching deer and pulled over to find that it was still breathing.
She prays as the boy grabs the crowbar from his trunk, tears streaming down his freckled face as he delivers his act of cruel mercy without a soul to witness it. No one but the patron saint of the highway her disembodied head laying on the blacktop, with the blood of the innocent deer running down her marble cheeks.
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She prays for the hunter in the nearby trees, who startled a deer with the crack of a branch and won’t feed his family tonight. She prays for the deer racing through the field, who tripped on the railing along I 75, and knocked her to the unforgiving asphalt. She prays for the truck driver with no insurance who hit the brakes one second too late and slammed into the fleeing deer.
Cruel Mercy by Madison Taylor
My neighbor to the left lost his leg in ’99. Early retirement from the railroad Introduced him to Jim Beam. One house to the North I thought there lived a witch. She died in the house With not a family member to care.
North of there you’ll find the place of my very first babysitter. He was in the Navy and taught me what Star Wars was.
To her left is the house where my friend got ran over by the mower.
Later on I was one of few to attend his funeral when he died an alcoholic.
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To his right I first learned about cancer when they lost their only son. I think about that everyday And how I never saw them again at church.
County Road Reminders
by Hunter Klickman
To his right is where my family farm resided for over 100 years. The barns still remain but another man farms the fields.
I don’t know how it happened yet I still think about that scar Head North one more house is where I found my childhood best friend. We still talk to this day, and he’s the one I still have left.
A battalion of brown ants raid an open bag of Over seasoned Cajun cashews on a dusty glass desk. Flattened under my thumb, they burst with nauseating Pheromones, sour and loud like fresh paint thinner.
Trudging through stacks of Mom’s outdated gossip Mags and tearing garbage bags on carpet washed with cat piss. Crusted dishes bathe in murky sink water as her greasy counter Covered in pungent food scraps give feast to fuzzy blue mold.
Staff Favorite 13
Olfactory Memory
Key metal carries a deceitfully sickening scent That fills my lungs to burst. I can’t resist another Deep drag even if the migraine pains urge me To stop seeking its cold, hard sweetness.
by C. T. Arbor
Diesel oranges and skunky ape breath, It's sticky sugar cakes to the fingertip. Every Bud packs a different punch, but rots with ignition; The stinking ghost flies high. I am dank smoked jerky.
Alcohol lingers behind a modern plague. Nose hairs curl up to block my nostrils from chemical spice. 62% purity, 99.9% effective. When every hand and surface is Drenched, there’s nothing left to kill but my head.
I discover the smell of wet death 45 meters away from the Blood stained grass in which he lay The carcass of an old spoiled soul Decays in a park under the spring sun which peeks from behind dark Storm clouds. Vermillion spider webbing burst from his sliced hairy belly I close in, intoxicated by the stench of intestines in fresh bloom.
Pilgrimage
Photo by Hannah Myers
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Carefully unfold the tiny sheet of tin recovered from discarded jeans on black bed sheets. Lick the four piece square of rainbow dotted blotter at dawn and smoke a cig or three. Undergo a dizzy come up. Ignore the gurn and hands of leather valleys and sunset fingernails. Step outside instead and smell the bucolic noon Water the grass with drool until he arrives Trail the hairless naked shaman into the pine forest; wiggle in line with the trees in a conga. Escorting the acid melted mind through groves of poison ivy vines and slithering roots Ridges will wrinkle across his quickly aging skin until collapsing into a boneless bag of Folded flesh, like soft rolling hills turfed with the ghostly remains of thin white hair.
Under afternoon heat beams and lattered pine branches, his body will melt into Carrion. His decay will fuel an instant explosion of neon flowers and jolly mushrooms. Kneel in the undergrowth, let petals brush the face. Relax. Sink deep into the soft soil bed.
by C. T. Arbor
A taker of curtains and chairs
There is so much sweetness in the bow of eyelashes in a meadow, swept by long hair and jumbling flowers, bouncing, waiting. I do not know where she came from or why the prayer is being whispered between sets of lips only inches apart. It is something about princely surprise and chivalry. Where has it gone?
Burning down the walls that made you safe Leaving every ounce of pride you had left on the ground where you came from and where one day you’ll return
Stealing your memories of family photos Killing your beloved television
There is so much vigor in the tightness of eyebrows in the plains, held in place by rough armor and a sword, shimmer, waiting. I do not know why he was found alone or why his eyes cast alarm into her noise for something more primitive It is something about princessly generosity and mercy. La belle dame sans.
Inspiration
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On sale coffee maker caught on fire burning the house down to the motif of your son crying Volatile flames scorching the cultured marble it sits upon More than a giver of energy
by Hunter Klickman
Raging your bedroom, your clothes, your sister’s clothes Nobodies clothed
Collect the ashes from the home as you filter them and ponder Dirt cheap brings new meaning when your house is in ruins.
A demon darker than the coffee it makes Pour from it no more the grinds
Engendered based on “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by Frank Dicksee by Hannah Myers
A Simple Storm of Thought
Such expansive desolation like Earth atrophied at the end of time. How could such decay amass in an empty mind? Pacing the narrow tunnel As a lost prisoner hypnotized by color, unaware of far Jupiter’s swirling beauty. Descend into the basement Pick up a broom Hum a tune Sweep up the desert. Brush away the webs It will take time and presence It will take a sharper mind But, it can revive into luminescent sand dunes and kaleidoscope clouds
Deep, Dark, Tunnel Vision, A rotating tube of rainbow tissue paper. Low light seeps through my stained glass domain, Malignant with memories relived through drawings on the walls. Experience Effort Sudden Ruin Short Breaths Gasping as I Crawl Rumination Rumination Rumination
A tempest gathers, a tornados edge cuts the Delicate tunnel to ribbons. I slip through the strips Of torn paper, fall into a great gray expanse, and land In a mound of ash It dusts my eyes and brittle lips, Coats my teeth and dry gums with an ugly bitterness. I barely choke it down to swallow without saliva.
Paper petals flutter down like confetti from the Sagging remains of the tranquilizing prismatic tube. Its split ends hang from a vast overcast sky of interlaced cobwebs; A single cut power line in a netting of millions. I’m already devoured, Lost among the tall drifts of dust which undulate in every direction. The wasteland is silent except for the echoes of aimless wind.
by C. T. Arbor
what good is a disease without a host charcoal drawings run along yellowed pages teaching us about the torrents of human cages and other fluids: choler, blood, and phlegm black bile overflowing the lungs, condemn ing a melancholic into an ivory ghost
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Pity Party by Hannah Myers
Sand still holding you back, As you feel yourself sinking back in Unable to move, Until the water grabs you again. The sunny beach you once knew is no longer sunny, When it will return is unknown.
A sunny beach. You are walking in the sand, But it slows you down as you slowly sink. You run to the water, Looking for some peace and relief. Next thing you know you are floating, Further and further out.
Clouds start to form, A fog gathers a top the water, You are now unable to see.
Fog covering the same beach, Unsure of what is ahead, Or where you came from. All you can feel is the sand on your feet The same sand, But something is different. No more storm. The beach is calm, But lonely.
You wake up.
The Beach by Keira Jefferis
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Staff Favorite
A storm starts, Caught in the rapids, No clue what you are doing, Being pushed and pulled by the ocean, No way to stop. Until, It’s over.
Clay-Word Landscapes
Photo by Kenyata Stevenson
Is a state of poetry. We both take similar short hops across Careful stanza structures in Content isolation. But, only you, faceless phantom Can unravel my moments of Image imprisonment. This is our symbiosis A one way mirror
Like when land begins to peel back and curl over itself And the trees interlock in a tight toothy grin, There’s always room in your head to give my energy form. A ballpoint pen carves inky smooth Ravines into a sheet of coffee stained loose leaf, Jagged nails hammer a keyboard like Tack... tack... tack(s) rupturing my Cortical gray matter.
Here is where spiral garden topiaries twist and Bounce on low hanging clouds like springs, Where golden orchids bob from side to side And glassy fountain water flows upward, Smearing tree bark into runny mud. You can always return to my Tailored porcelain courtyard Where we stroll together.
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Solitude
by C. T. Arbor
Even if lost in a constricted street crowd, Voices babbling in a chaotic choir, You can still focus your minds eye On my painted perceptions and impossible fiction to Escape the pressure of bumping bodies and sour sweat.
Black streams ooze from Every orifice in my skull and Drips from pin pricks in the fingers Until every line is streaked with midnight.
The city spills over into the ocean and gives birth to a new tumor. The trading posts. There are treasures to be brought up from the deep, from the city. Trail a net through the sea, and it’ll come up full. Full of plastic. The river is dangerous and swollen with toxic waste. It snakes through the city, and trash crawls into it from the dry land. This dilutes into the ocean, an almost manageable level of poison. There’s a steep drop, right from the coast, and that’s where my grounds lie. The land ends in a cliff, one that continues down under the surface. Waste collects on its face in pockmarks. The ones who built the city mined from it, hundreds of years ago. Now, the ocean has reclaimed its land, and the builder’s marks stay there. Divers travel down, to hunt for the materials that collect in the caves. I am solitary, but packs move through the cliffs, so avoiding them is the best choice. I can hold my own ground well enough, but the odds aren’t good against a group. The cliff dips down, and then drops. The Deep. A solid rock wall that extends further down than anyone goes. The undercurrent is too strong for most divers, so it stays barren. I search here. I am at an advantage, as I am of an aquatic species. The cliff holds pockets, places to breathe. They’re hidden well, but I know these lands. I can withstand the pressure four leagues down. I haven’t tried to go further. The water starts to clear past five hundred feet, and monsters survive the deep. Away from polluting cities, they grow in darkness. I’ve heard stories of creatures one hundred feet long, washing up on the beaches of the south, filled with waste. Immortalized in fear, reality is worse than mystery.When the sun comes up, the cliff face under the surface turns to diamond. Plastic embedded into the walls by the waves catches sunlight, and lets it go. The tide batters the cliff face, and smooths over the pockmarks left by scavengers, pulling the trash out of the walls. It doesn’t sell for much, other than a pretty trinket to a traveler, come to see the city encased in a shell of its own making. The ocean stretches towards heaven and encases the creatures of hell. A black monster, never smooth. Choked with churning grey foam and islands of garbage. It’s dotted with fires, sparked when a storm rolls up from the meeting of sea and sky, dripping with acid and smoke. Lightning strikes down, screaming its revenge on those who sharpen it. The sky is calm today.
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Sunlight On Plastic Waters by Isabelle Porter
I’ve not been as careful as I should have been, but they don’t usually come up this far. Thankfully, I’m still in my pocket of air, so I’m safe if it doesn’t see me here. I have my light, which might scare it off, but that will alert it to my presence. Hopefully, it leaves soon, and I can ascend. It’s up to three hundred feet, when monsters usually stay towards five, if not eight hundred. That means it’s lost or starving, both of which make it dangerous.
The waves rage against the stone, pushing and dragging dirty foam with them. My weight packs anchor me to the rock. I step forward, careful not to let my paddles catch on the cliff face. A popular launching area, sure, but no one likes to dive at night. Especially when they can use the sunlight to see. Pollution fog rises from the sea, choking those who breathe above the surface. Waist deep, the waves push and tug at me with stronger arms. I’ve never seen snow come down any other color than grey. Sometimes I hear stories of the north, with its white snow, and frozen lakes. I hear stories about the west, with golden fields reaching for the stars, and clear lakes surrounded by stacked cities. Up to my chest, I overcome gravity. I have never seen this side of my world, so I know the stories are lies. I take a final, deep breath, more than an hour’s worth, and submerge.
A swaying movement, through a cloud. I dip into the cave to rest and turn to see it. Rhythmic undulating pierces the oil, moving slowly. Something long and dark follows it, as the cloud clears. That isn’t plastic.
I start my climb in the air, feet first, descending. Once I reach the ocean, the sky will be at my feet, and the earth will turn. I will be climbing upwards, into the depths. The turning of the earth is important, it fools the body that seeks air. I must climb upwards to go down. To ascend, I climb towards the ground. Descending is easier, ascending kills. Decompression sickness takes many, but the most careful divers can avoid it. To descend requires a pull greater than that of the sky. Rocks aid some, until weight packs can be traded for. These allow controlled descension.
It’s bigger than me, three feet longer, with a sinuous tail and two arms. I can make out the rippling of its fins as the water pushes it. It’s floating still, completely still. I hope it stays oblivious to my presence. I can stay in this pocket for a while, but I’ll have to go back up eventually, if not to sleep, then to eat or drink. I won’t last more than a few days in the cave.
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It floats motionless. I do too. It will have to leave soon, the water is too polluted for it to breathe, if that’s what it even does. I anchor myself to the rock face and wait. I’ve never seen a creature from the deep this close before. Its fins gently trail through the water, moving when the creature is motionless. Mimicking the strings of plastic that float at the surface. It’s beautiful, in a way. Its eyes face away from me, but it’s hearing must be better. Dark blue scales are hard to spot in the almost-darkness. The sun should be coming up now, on the surface. Other divers might swim this way. It’ll catch one of them, and I can go free.
Vanity runs from the wells of most pens Clenching our necks as if a fox does spring To rile a coop of corn ridden hens Whose plumpened breasts prevent their outstretched wings From shooting through the dug up, frayed wire mesh. A predator of prey, this pen will seek To gorge upon this crimson feathered flesh. Yet is there an ink within wells unique? For in this world of fox and mangled prey Winds by the road a creek of cool, fresh ink Where thirsty trav’lers drink while on their way For can the Sodom wretches take our lives, While ink feeds souls, tired of running from lies?
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The rock walls are slippery, oil tends to collect towards three hundred feet. I’m losing my grip and adjust it without thinking. The creature turns. I freeze, detached from the wall. Black eyes look at me, into me, and the current starts to pull me out of the cave. A split-second decision. I pull out my light and set it to high. The creature explodes in a burst of shining scales, and dives. I need to move quickly. I push out of the cave and start to ascend. I have enough air to make it to the next pocket, but I can’t swim this quickly upwards. Oil chokes my vision as I hit the wall, climbing in a panic. My joints are starting to burn. That’s not good. Decompression sickness kills. I skim the wall until I slow down. The creature is nowhere to be seen, but the clouds of oil obscure my vision. I have no way of knowing if it’s turned around until it’s on me. I start my climb again, slowly. The world rests in motion. An endless circle of life and death, as effortless as living, and dying. I escaped that day, from something that came from a world unknown. I will continue to escape, until I can't. This is the way the world works. We live to live and then we die. I want to see the world. Somewhere, I believe the stories are true. Golden fields, icy skies. Somewhere, the world runs clean. Away from the cities. Away from polluting creatures. Somewhere, that plastic-filled monster roams free, in the open ocean. Somewhere, I believe, I am happy. And so is the earth.
Cool, Fresh Ink by Noah Wing
We’ve All Got Coffins to build. I want mine to be dogwood, The kind that Jesus was nailed to. I want it to be Vantablack because it’s illegal. I won’t add any fine detailed work, I don’t think I’m worth any extra time. A toe pincher will suffice. Bury it in Buford, Wyoming, Next to that tree that grows out of a rock But is really between a few boulders
I like the idea of people stopping to waste their time
Letter to an Unborn Son by Noah Wing
Those who visit will complain there’s no bathrooms, But just pee around me if you must. I want it buried at 7 feet so if someone digs me up, They’ll have to dig a little harder. Imagine being dug deeper than Neil Armstrong or John Lennon for no reason other than To give people something to talk about Along I 80 headed East or West.
My son, I write with bleeding ink. Some clouds Have rolled over my page, and I can’t see The thoughts I prepared below this shroud. What words could penetrate to you? No key Could gain my way to depths of your chambers. To see your bloody hand outstretched to me Upon the day of birth, will give to her The joy she waited for, but I am weak. I think upon the stalwart man who passed The torch to me and how the sins in store With which I have come to inherit last For generations, but blessings do more. Excuse these blots of words, my ink is blue. We’ll talk at last when you’re in crimson hue.
To feel connected to something they thought was Bigger than them.
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It Ain’t Much, but It’s Cool to See by Hunter Klickman
Myers Isabelle Porter Morgan Sharpe Kenyata Stevenson Madison Taylor Noah Wing
Hunter
Keira
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C. T. Arbor Jefferis Kochan Klickman Skyler
Hannah Myers
Contributing Authors and Artists
Victoria
The Mill Staff
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M. Pasztor O. Manias J. Tienvieri
We would like to take this opportunity to thank you, the readers, for making The Mill possible. Following our publishing hiatus and amidst concerns about the COVID-19 pandemic, the making of this issue was not without its difficulties, but the support of the literary community at the University of Toledo continually encourages us to make this magazine flourish. We are proud to serve as the literary publication for the University of Toledo’s student body. As we look ahead, we are excited to face challenges the new semester will bring us, and to welcome new faces and new works into our community. We hope to expand The Mill to showcase even more students in the coming issues, and we eagerly anticipate sharing the work you create.
A Letter from the Editors
Photo by Kenyata Stevenson
Sponsored by The University of Toledo English Department and The Edward Shapiro Fund for English Composition II
