The Mill Literary Magazine Autumn 2018

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THE MILL UNIVERSITY OF TOLEDO'S LITERARY MAGAZINE

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Letter from the Editor Why do we read? Some may answer entertainment. But, how often would we read something that is hollow entertainment? If we do not gain some greater understanding, would it continue to be as entertaining the second or third reading? I theorize that we read to learn something.

New realizations are what draws some of us to return to the same works year after year for ten, twenty, or forty years. What is a work that changes the meaning? I would say, and I hear some professors cringing, that the matter of a work is what it matters to you.

We do not always understand the authors thought behind the work.

And, while it can be enlightening, interesting and entertaining to puzzle, the intentions of the author I believe there is a far more direct and arguably greater or more pivotal reason to a work in the way in which it affects you personally. Every experience leaves an impression and influences our paths even as we are unaware.

The works in this issue of The Mill were all submitted without theme requests. Regardless, the issue is divided in its togetherness of four themes connecting life to hope to love to death and returning to life once more. Every work says something, even if it has not said it directly or explicitly. The question is, what is it saying to you?

Best Regards, Ara E. Orden Publishing Editor

The views and opinions herein are the literary expressions of their creators. There may be political, emotional or psychological content within the literary works which could be considered controversial or triggering. We hope you will appreciate the works for their literary aesthetics. ................................................................................................................................................................

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Interview with Elaine Treharne

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Jessica Aberl English, MA Class of 2019 ................................................................................................................................................................

The City

New Sunrise, Yawning, Beginnings.

Being on time.

Driving fast with The windows down, Living in the moment.

Walking around alone in a big city, Being lost but somehow in the right place.

The steadiness of the earth, The fear of the unknown, I am a part of something.

Cities built on ruins, Running on dust.

A jungle of us, The future.

It’s old News.

Adele Bowling Spanish Class of 2020 ................................................................................................................................................................

My Mother is a Flower My mother is a flower Mistaken as a weed by the people Who should have watered her.

Cut down and run over day after day Never allowed to stay long With her eyes open.

The world says nothing of her destruction.

She’s another weed.

She’s another wife.

She’s another woman The world knows nothing about.

We call women like my mother weeds Because they pop up all the time and No one is every truly surprised By her existence.

They’ve always been around.

They’ve always been the problem.

Instead of pulling them out of the dirt, Helping them dust off who they once were, And reminding them they are flowers Who are beautiful and worthy of clear water.

We watch as they are thrown Laundry and dishes and words and fists And act confused when the flower withers.

Rita Harper English Women's & Gender Studies Class of 2020

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bodies

Teresa Northcraft English Class of 2019 ................................................................................................................................................................

Joy For the fat-weight tube around my gut & legs that wobble stupid out of bed, I created Lily:

a lesbian with mismatched eyes who practices bloodletting in a liberal utopia.

We’re grinding now.

The thunder-thigh Walmart woman printing sepias of babygirl, I had my lips painted coral,

waited cross-armed in Clarks, guilting fast over barefoot Haitian children.

Feet are not the problem.

Let’s scatter notecards & glue & thirteen packets of fiction written to blindfold us

into something like bravery, or just to blind. It’s just their feet.

We can fix that, we can

U-Haul Nike’s.

Wallace’s hippie photo, black-pen hysterical realism

& wonder at the always-amicable lilac explosion that paints this room like insomnia. Lily wouldn’t like it here. ................................................................................................................................................................

She wouldn’t like my home, or me, or her character’s nonexistent backstory.

Feeling is rope.

Feeling is the heat that blossoms from three plastic cups of sour Merlot, & the bad poetry that follows.

When it’s not night yet, but all your friends have stopped talking, together, all at once, what do you think?

Are your hands yours?

Or two ugly stars, stitched slowly together by nucleotides, waves, chance, sex? If I ever lift my body’s weight again, & it’s Christmastime someplace better, I will decorate only with letters: JOY hanging from the window

in a thread of blood-lights.

Teresa Northcraft English Class of 2019 ................................................................................................................................................................

Caleb Luthman Mechanical Engineering Class of 2021 ................................................................................................................................................................

The Wings

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Anna Hunyadi Communications Class of 2020 ................................................................................................................................................................

My New Life

Words ruined my whole world in my hometown, Being called a “Jude” makes life turn darker, Having a yellow star to show around, It became a symbol or marker.

Dark clouds surround our city life each day, More soldiers march within the town limits, Posting propagandas on Jews’ cafes, And not allowing for travel tickets.

Then one day, they came after everyone, We were told to board these trains for refuge, A soldier pushed me to that very one, And I realized his own subterfuge.

I never got to see my old childhood, Still wishing now and everyday I could.

Sophie Alper Mechanical Engineering Class of 2022 ................................................................................................................................................................

Oh the Gull

I am the depths of the great vast sea And do you seek the western shore?

Do you think to find The gods awaiting, ambrosia in hand?

Can you be a rock to be eroded upon?

Will you let the waves caress you?

To wear at your surface, finding The smoother skin beneath?

Or will you spread wing And take to your skies Barely grazing the surface?

April Schultz English Class of 2020 Image Caption: Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland

Alaina Coote Visual Arts Class of 2022 ................................................................................................................................................................

Supernova Article by Anastasia Michalak Art by Alaina Coote

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Anastasia Michalak Asian Studies Class of 2018 ................................................................................................................................................................

A Starry Night

Image Caption: The night sky at Mount Rainier National Park

Sean Wilkinson Undeclared Class of 2021 ................................................................................................................................................................

hush

is this right? are the trees supposed to stomp

the walls at me, orange turned jail-black, legs cold? three years ago,

I learned that this space was mine. that what else you wanted could just

tidy itself, could just bend neatly & heavy-fold away the air.

— in the morning,

we’ll be slow again & yes

that’ll be enough

Teresa Northcraft English Class of 2019

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Mr. Dandelion Hello! I’m Mr. Dandelion, I resembled the sun at noon, But springtime came too early And I shot my seeds to soon

I’m just like other dandelions In common floral frame, Sometimes I dream that I’m unique Thought we all look the same

I was a piece of foliage She wore behind her ear, But when she did, her mother said, We don’t want weeds in here

But words don’t cause concern in me, A tongue-tied peasant sprout, I trust I’ll catch a gust of luck Before the season’s out

Christopher McCormick English Class of 2021

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Mini Giant

Teena Pinckney English Class of 2019

I’m a big, bold grizzly bear.

A ferocious beast!

I like to pee on posts.

My mates fear me.

Strangers are not welcome here.

I give my monster roar!

I am a brown-eyed buzz saw.

Watch me chomp on your ankles!

I protect my people and home.

My lady says “hush,” as I bay.

I am a macho man.

A one-man army.

You can call me a feisty fellow because I will kick your ass!

Come at me, bro!

If I don’t get my way, beware.

I’ll lift my leg in protest.

Don’t you underestimate me.

I will bite your face off!

I am the ruler of my land.

The king of this castle.

Who’s the boss?

It’s me!

I’m a big, bold grizzly bear.

A ferocious beast!

I am Chihuahua.

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Juanita A crochet shawl, loosely curled Across a round brown shoulder I kissed, I can still feel her skin On my lips.

We were so closely wound A magnetic drawing fire And when I saw her face How could I resist?

To peck her lips and cheek Again, and once more later To settle into embrace With an arm across her shoulders

And make silent apology With my eyes, for her concern, Not to reveal us to the ways Of those who sat near.

So we lived in the heaven withinTwo hearts bonded, resurrected For a time.

She could never hit their mark And suffering, withdrew.

Even from herself.

April Schultz English Class of 2020

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Hannah Myers English Education Class of 2022

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possession crack my bones & stitch me back whole again. with every kiss on my forehead, a part of my porcelain face shatters; only ever your little doll.

Can you hear how it feels?

the echo of every man rushing back, with their snark remarks, eyes like a snake, teeth grinning like a rabid fox. you could not understand, not born with the nipples that cause static stares, piercing your skin, shame rising crimson to your cheeks and temples.

how could you? it all belongs to you, my small body, a peeled clementine in your brass palms.

crack my bones & stitch me back whole again. with every kiss on my forehead, a part of my porcelain face shatters; only ever your little doll.

Can you hear how it feels?

the echo of every man rushing back, with their snark remarks, eyes like a snake, teeth grinning like a rabid fox. you could not understand, not born with the nipples that cause static stares, piercing your skin, shame rising crimson to your cheeks and temples.

how could you? it all belongs to you, my small body, a peeled clementine in your brass palms.

Ryleigh Wann English Class of 2019

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Ryleigh Wann English Class of 2019

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Ryan Hieber Theatre Class of 2019

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She says

“I like to experiment” she says, So, I operate, empiricize, Testing my weight against The gravity of her thighs

“Honestly, fuck you” she says, So, I expedite, leave home behind, Corrupting my body To better resemble my mind

“I’m not your puppy-dog” she says, So, I let the leash, I euthanize My baying heart And try to avoid her eyes

“Why are you stuck on me” she says, But she knew the reason, I was a field of capsicum Yielding fruit in any season

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Even Even the way that spring rolls in Is anything but delicate, Even as my eyes Regretfully let in light, I resign myself to being The furthest thing From your thoughts tonight

Even in the drain, the summer rain Sounds anything but temperate, Even as dusky skies betray their blue From time to time I remind myself I have no right to think of you

Even in the night, the autumn might Draw strange shadows on the wall Even as the season’s fruits Are harvested from where they grew, By all accounts And forged amounts I have no right to think of you

Even today the winter is shamed By springtime’s argument.

Even as my branches cleave To where they blew As perennials bloom And songs renew I’d give these roots to grow with you.

Christopher McCormick English Class of 2021

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Caleb Luthman Mechanical Engineering Class of 2021

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Careful Careful you don’t end up a victim, A casualty of happenstance, Careful friend, you could get caught In harpie’s jaws by happy chance

Careful you don’t end up a villain In foreign and familiar lands, A wretch without a proper place To catch his breath or wring his hands

Careful you don’t become a martyr, An apostle, saint or pharisee, Who breaks their back to build a world They’ll never live to see

Make sure you never wander far, Your struts can stumble in a flash, The more you ramble busy roads The better the chance you’ll crash

And don’t take any part in love, It’s pleasures or it’s pageantry, A drowsy, half-remembered dream For which you’ll wait a century Christopher McCormick English Class of 2021

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The Heart

My love for thee beats a thousands seasons, For thine eyes shine brightly more than the stars, Thy lips speak truth through million reasons, And hands that hold my world above any high bars.

Heart filled with the purest gold lights my world, Through the shadow of the darkest times, Makes our love fill an entire dreamworld, And thy sweet never partakes in rhymes.

You shall not return what you stole from me, The heart cannot belong to anyone else, I not cower before the endless sea, And not before our whole world melts.

For thy love holds through all of my writ, It does not seem that I wrote in sanskrit.

Sophie Alper Mechanical Engineering Class of 2022

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Hannah Myers English Education Class of 2022

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Summit Street Mansion

There was this great mansion that rested on Summit Street, Gilded in gold and home to all those who had truly found their way; Life and soul would anyone trade to have a day there in god’s seat, “Oh, how happy they must be,” all the commoners would say;

I dared to venture to meet those gods, to find out what made them tick, I had hopes and dreams and envies too, and a fiery passion that burned true; I imagined power, fame, and fortune, and the end of poverty’s sick, I would be the one to meet those gods, and make them sing my tune;

So there in the mansion on Summit Street I learned that no god exists, For there in the dust and soot, I found all those that lie; Corpses now, food for worms, those gods found their exit, Now king of rot and death, divinity from the grave, and so my soul had died.

Aaron Harder Economics Class of 2020

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I'm not good at this poetry thing.

Poem by Madeline Rose Photo by Sam Ponke

Sam Ponke English Class of 2019

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I’ve been trying to write a poem about death for 2 weeks and now I only think about killing myself with the pen that has betrayed me. Following the final click, I’ll shove it into my neck, preferably directly into the jugular. My curiosity begs to know if I sneeze and stab at the same time, will I die immediately from the pressure or will the pen bullet across the room, making abstract art out of my blood & unused ink on the wall because I want this room to drip with evidence that I tried. If it’s the latter, I’ll lay upside down and drain myself to sleep.

Madeline Rose English Class of 2020

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What We Will Be Remembered By

Poem by How we will be remembered is something humans are Noah Hadedorn Photo by Sam Ponke

constantly thinking about. We strive to be great people, someone that will make people think and remember us. Humans are never content with just existing then passing on to whatever is next we want to be heard, written down, make an impact on someone before we leave. How can we do that with all the noise that goes on around us? We have to constantly scream and shout and do the unthinkable, just to get five seconds on tv. And even then, will anyone remember you after that short time on a screen?

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We keep growing we keep Moving up and on to bigger and Better things as we fly higher into The sky we see our future far Off Then someday our plane Lands and all that will be left Is the smoke trails we left behind and That is what we will be remembered By

Noah Hagedorn Small Business Management Class of 2022

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The Life of Death Poem by Sophie Alper Photo by Ryan Hieber

Death never sleeps so silently, For His soul must always be awake, Catching the others from their paradises, So that each soul lives on for eternity.

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Reasoning

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Chandler Leeka German Class of 2022

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The End of All

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Aaron Harder Economics Class of 2020

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Jaylan Carter Film and Video Studies Class of 2022

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