The Mountain Laurel Staff 2014 Editors-in-Chief C. Brooke Petersen Hannah K. Smith Art Editor Jennifer M. Melton Business Manager Emily H. Clark The Mountain Laurel Staff Heather Bodine Blaire Copeland Corinn David Karen Hall (Fall 2013) Jonathan M. King Naomi King Elizabeth Latzka Alyson Queen (Spring 2014) Faculty Advisers Art – Ms. Biljana Kroll Literature – Dr. Deborah DeCiantis Faculty/professional workshop consultants Dr. Greg Bruce Dr. Cheryl Collier Dr. Becky Thompson Art workshop consultant Tiffany M. Johnson North Greenville University is accredited by the Commission of Colleges of the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools to award Associate Degrees, Baccalaureate Degrees, and Master Degrees. Contact the Commision on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of North Greenville University.
Via The Mountain Laurel North Greenville University P.O. Box 1892 7801 North Tigerville Road Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 www.ngu.edu Enrollment 2300 http://ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com
Letter From the Editor Brooke Petersen 4 Selection Process 4 Descend 5 Labyrinth Ella Snyder 6 Slash and Burn Logan Galloway 7 Maneater Blaire Copland 8 A Stranger’s Ransom Hannah Reynolds 9-10 Spectrum Emily Younginer 11 An Extrovert’s Tale Michaela Reynolds 12 How I Live Logan Galloway 13 No Flowers Courtney Jerman 14 Why I Was Late Melia Quinn 15 Psalm 119 Emily Younginer 15 Why Chelsea Ferguson 16 Triumph-Summer Ends Naomi King 16 Drop Blaire Copland 17 Untitled Brynna Stevens 18 Sanctification Will Donovan 18 Flower Jessica Schell 19 Nature of Which We Are a Part Will Donovan 20 Far Brooke Petersen 21 Lookout Mountain Kathryn Cochran 21 She Understands the Implications... Ella Snyder 22 Shadowed Porcelain Emily Younginer 23 Misty Morning on Pisgah Kathryn Cochran 24 Acid Rain Joshua Stephens 25 Death Among Life Joshua Stephens 25 Picture Interference Mason Nations 26 Eye of Jupiter Will Donovan 27 Flight Rachel Remington 28 Dwell 29 Fragility and Stability Joshua Stephens 30 Later Love Jonathan Scruggs 31 The Nature of the City Hannah Reynolds 32 Broadway Blair Meyer 32 A Conversation Mason Nations 33 The Dress Brooke Petersen 34 Waves Brandy Maynor 34 Michigan I Ella Snyder 35 Michigan II Ella Snyder 35 We, Like Horses Brynna Stevens 36 Education Michaela Reynolds 37-38 Chess Pieces Jessica Schell 37 Legend of Some Bloke... Jonathan King 39-41 Sheep May Safely Graze Linnea Stevens 40 I Am Eighteen Linnea Stevens 42 10-6-13 Blaire Copland 43 2
Table of Contents
Long Distance Ella Snyder 44 Serenity Cameron Budove 45 Memorial Brooke Petersen 46 Necropolis Ella Snyder 47 Elegy Jennifer Melton 47 Hope of Winter Logan Galloway 48 Ascend 49 Psalm of the Other Brooke Petersen 50 Sparrow Rachel Remington 51 Silverware Jessica Schell 52 My Own Oceans Ella Snyder 53 Ember Brynna Stevens 54 Firedance Blaire Copland 55 Blessed Courtney Jerman 56 Adaptation Naomi King 57 Redemption Sharon Burke 58 Cupful of Light Rachel Remington 59 Counting Sheep Jonathan King 60 A Kiss Zachary Whitworth 61 Rita’s Will Donovan 62 In Praise of Morning Coffee Chelsea Ferguson 63 Walking Paris Brooke Petersen 64 Journey Tiffany Johnson 65 Brooklyn Bridge Blair Meyer 66 Statue Blair Meyer 66 St. Basil’s Cathedral Jessica Schell 67 Blue Fields of Cotton Linnea Stevens 68 I Feel the Breeze Eric Spivey 69 Emerald Isle Jonathan King 70 Sunlight Jonathan King 71 Quilting Hands Mason Nations 72 Lending a Paw Linnea Stevens 73 Summer Lights Joshua Stephens 74 Light and Life Rachel Remington 75 Curiosity Rachel Remington 76 Linnea Brynna Stevens 77 Winged Beauty Sarah Bisson 77 Unveiled Hannah Reynolds 78 Jesus Saves Blair Meyer 79 Someplace Better Naomi King 80 Flourish Jennifer Melton 81 The Dance Cory Cromer 82 The Point of Winter’s Tooth Zachary Whitworth 83 On a Warm Winter’s Night Brynna Stevens 84 Carry On Emily Younginer 85 Judges 86 Mission Statement 87 Index 88
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Letter from the Editor
Traveling has long been advised for those in need of change. Those who feel they have lost themselves, lost hold of what they believe, or lost heart, but choose to engage in some sort of movement, often return refreshed and reassured. They enter a new environment, and come back to their own with new eyes to regard their surroundings. They gain a new voice to speak into their world. A voice is an identity, and traveling teaches us to speak. We find our voice by encountering new language, or new expressions in our own language, and making them our own. Yet in order to speak, we must first hear. When we travel, we encounter diversity. Our surroundings, from the language spoken to the streets we navigate, are not what we are used to. To learn how to coexist with difference, we must listen. Listen to directions, to conversations. Listen to the customs of the culture, to the music of the streets. Outward, physical journeys have much in common with interior ones, journeys of the self. Saint Augustine compared the world to a book which is read by travel, and in much the same way, reading is itself a type of travel for the mind. It presents difference. It requires listening. It develops the voice. As you travel via this book, as you step onto the Via here laid out (far less clear and straight than a Roman highway, yet not a wilderness without trails), I ask you to listen. In the falling and the dwelling and the rising: listen. In reading, in regarding: listen. Travel through the artistic voices of others.
Selection Process 2014
The Mountain Laurel student editors and staff evaluated each selection, using a blind judging process in accordance with certain specific criteria. For literary submissions, staff members looked for creativity, diversity, continuity, appropriate use of grammar, prowess in the work’s genre (poetry, fiction, nonfiction), and the writer’s command of the English language. For visual art submissions, staff members not only looked for creativity and diversity but also for the artist’s expertise in capturing an image, the appealing use of color and design, and inner meaning beyond the viewer’s first impression. With all submissions, staff members determined whether the work was suitable according to the standards of North Greenville University. After reading or viewing every submission, student editors and staff rated each work on a scale of 1 to 3; pieces marked 1 portrayed the best qualities of each genre, while pieces marked 2 or 3 exhibited varying degrees of necessary improvement. Selections in this year’s publication are those that received the best marks and required few essential changes. In the judging process, first, second, and third places from each genre were selected by outside judges knowledgeable in their respective field (art, poetry, fiction, nonfiction). Judges received coded literary or visual art files, which were devoid of artist names, and judged according to their own established standards. 4
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Labyrinth I walk in memories of you the marble pillars in piles infested with ivy
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I walk by rushlight in unbearable blackness as sun’s hands shrink
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I walk solitary, soundless joy extirpated from my eyes this aberration happens all too often
by Ella Snyder
Slash and Burn by Logan Galloway
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You were all mint sprig atop meringue. You had the ever-igniting softness. A flammable foam. Webbing from radiant light spiders for blood course. I loved to see you process the world like a recipe. Take on all the hate like you were dusting the china cabinet. Throwing blades to kill like a mother blows kisses. I caught them all. I bled for your tenderness. And now you’re playing. You’re hiding. You’re joking. While all the time I’m diving into pools of teeth. I know. It’s cruel what a prophet I’ve been. But it’s crueler still that you spin faster. You are a vortex. And though I’ll still die for nothing, I can’t die for anything. And you’ll burn at the bottom of the sea forever now. Only your eyes will be left uncharred. They named you ashes. They call me the forest.
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by Blaire Copeland
Maneater
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It sucks. Having a craving. Being hungry for someone. (I’m not a cannibal). Someone else is hungry for me. (A couple of someones, actually). They’ve been surprising me. Call here, and talk for a few hours. Text there, really? Wow. Okay. Catch up, like normal. As if any of us could pull off normal. Which is what? Has that been defined yet? We haven’t defined us yet. We tried, long ago, and have yet to succeed. Are the labels necessary? Sometimes. No. I don’t know anymore. If I did to begin with. I thought I did, but then, I always think I do. Outwardly, anyway. What do I do? Think too much. Feel too much. Understand too much and too little all at once. I still don’t know what to do with any of it. Missing part of the past, trying to make up for the loss with the present but there’s not enough there. Not from the individuals. From the many, there is too much. If they could combine into— No, no. That’s a terrible idea. That solution would only bring a monstrous number of greater problems and they suffer enough apart. Torn asunder before it can be electrified. I’m fairly sure I’m not monstrous enough to have a match made anyway. At least I keep my pillaging confined to pen and paper. The future? Well. We all know how that goes. Unbeknownst.
A Stranger’s Ransom
by Hannah Reynolds
1st Fiction
Leo swiped his debit card and hastily punched in his PIN. As he waited for his order, he scanned the crowded space. “Drat,” he muttered. “No empty tables.” He had just spied an empty seat across from a pretty young woman when the frazzled barista thrust his coffee at him. Biting back a curse as the hot liquid scalded his hand, Leo sidestepped his way over to the open chair. “Do you mind if I join you?” The girl shrugged and nodded, so he slid into the seat. “I’m Leo.” “Isa.” The girl was looking down at the table. “Sorry to disturb your solitude,” Leo added, crinkling his napkin. “Oh, it’s all right.” A pause. “Are you a student, too?” “Guilty. NYU—engineering. What about you?” “I’m at NYU, too. Photography.” Her eyes were trained on some point in the distance. “Hey, maybe we’ve seen each other around before.” A slight smile tinged Isa’s taut features. “Maybe so.” “What year are you?” “I’m a senior.” “So am I. Huh. It’s weird, isn’t it?” “What?” Isa demanded. Leo’s eyebrows rose. “Not knowing each other. We’ll be graduating soon, and this is the first time in four years we’ve ever spoken.” “Well,” Isa said, smiling again, “we do go to a pretty big school.” Her responses were polite, but she had yet to look at his face. She kept her eyes trained on the table, on her hands, on the door—anywhere but at him. Her gaze was so
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She’d seen him before, but she’d wager he hadn’t noticed her. They both went to NYU, and they’d even been in a giant lecture class together. Like her, he was of Italian descent. She’d noticed him from afar, and she was sure other girls had, too. He was tall, dark, handsome, polite. But Isa had no idea why they wanted her to talk to him. She swallowed hard and hoped no one could see how nervous she was. Especially not the man seated four tables away with his gun trained on her. One false move, one wrong word, and she was dead. Taking a sip of coffee, Isa glanced at her watch, which read 7:27. According to them, Leo stopped by this Starbucks every morning at 7:30 to drink his venti coffee—black—before heading to classes. Her job was simple: make conversation for a while and drop her first name in there somewhere. Not knowing what they would do with him, or her, after their encounter frightened her more than she liked to think about, but to refuse to continue would result in instantaneous death. Maybe that would be better, she mused, fingering the cardboard sleeve on her cup. She wasn’t afraid of death. But there were things worse than death. And she had no right to endanger the boy. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw him enter. Her blood rushed hot through her veins, and pinpricks of sweat dotted her back. It was time.
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blank and unfocused that, for a fleeting moment, he wondered if she were blind. Leo glanced at his watch. “Darn. I’m running late for class.” He stood. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Isa.” For the first time, the girl looked at him, and he saw sheer terror in her wide, dark eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked. Her eyelids fluttered, and she seemed to come out of a daze. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine.” The nervous smile she offered did nothing to convince him. “Well, maybe we’ll see each other around, now. Have a good day.” Her dark, fear-filled eyes haunted him all the way to campus. But after four back-to-back classes and lunch with friends, he had all but forgotten Isa. A lengthy shift at the university bookstore was enough to put her from his mind completely. “See ya, Erin!” Leo called over his shoulder to his co-worker as they he started on their separate ways home. All he could think about was getting to his apartment, warming up some leftover pizza, and crashing in front of a Netflixed Numb3rs marathon. After climbing the six flights of stairs, he dug his key from his pocket and stuck it in the door. But the door wasn’t locked. “Weird,” he muttered. He hesitantly pushed the kitchen door open. Before turning on the lights, he quietly set his bag on the floor and reached into the top kitchen drawer to pull out his pistol. Silently, he made a quick search of the apartment—which didn’t take long, since it consisted of one living space and a claustrophobic bathroom. Only once he had locked himself in did he breathe easily. He flicked on the light. He’d been very lucky this time. He must’ve been in much too much of a hurry this— His breath caught and he staggered toward the breakfast table. There, stuck into the wood with a steak knife, was a picture of the girl from the coffee shop—Isa. There was also a note: REMEMBER HER? IF YOU WANT HER TO LIVE, COME TO THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT. ALONE. His heart threatened to stop as he sank into a chair. Someone was trying to scare him. And whoever it was had succeeded. They knew where he lived and had entered his apartment with ease. And they had Isa. He had never seen the girl before this morning. Even so, he felt responsible for her. Was this why she had been so frightened? But surely this wasn’t a routine kidnapping. He had no more than twelve hundred dollars to his name. And they hadn’t asked for money. No, there was something bigger at play here. And he was stuck in the middle of it, whether he wanted to be or not. The clock on his microwave read 10:13. If he left soon, he’d have just enough time to get there. He stood and strode to his makeshift closet, grabbing a black jacket and slipping it on. Sticking his pistol in the inside pocket, he took one final glance around his apartment. His eyes fell on his mother’s picture. “Be careful, Leo,” her eyes seemed to say. There was worry—but also pride. “I will, Mama,” he whispered, flipping the light switch and closing the door behind him.
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Spectrum
by Emily Younginer
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An Extrovert’s Tale
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by Michaela Reynolds
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Read faces See the lines of Laughter. Hurt. Wisdom. Perception Is a gift— And a curse. For what I See I cannot Block. Everyone flocks To me. To get a piece of My peace. As if A huge sticky note Rests on my forehead— Reading “talk to me.” Never ceasing are the secrets People feel Compelled to tell My honest face. Burdened am I By their struggles, But yet Drawn to their sides. Each problem. Each pain. A difference Deeper than the moment. A break through. A change.
A job never done— Addicted to the results To be there for them Through it all, To see them shining In the end. As I’m there Again and again For them. And what am I left with? Users and abusers Words that cut I try and try to make things right, But when the tide is turned Where do I go? So lonely. No one knows my heart But I. Dare I tell of weaknesses? Always pushed back To make room for bigger pains I’ve no cane To lean on. Keeper of all secrets, Giver of none My optimism is far Too sunny for some. Encouraging spirit Faded by harsh realities. Guess there is no where To go but down… Down, down, down On my knees To seek the one Who maketh my cup overflow.
by Logan Galloway
How I Live
Descend
I keep a golden baseball bat behind the backboard of my bed. Each day my alarm tells me to shake myself out of myself and focus on what I usually want. So lately, I listen to it with a groan and pick up a worn-out leather book and sit up at my desk and play dress-up with Jesus. And unless it’s been too long since I last slept well I go through with a thorough and purposeful morning routine that looks nothing like me except for the excessive coffee, and prep my threes for the people I’ll meet. I’m a horrible hack and a goofy child. But I really mean it even when I get hit, or dropped, or bit. It’s just hard to make sense sometimes with a mouth full of blood and a light head and while time-traveling constantly. So my friends and I sew me up every now and then so I can get beat up again. And I usually do pretty quick, unless I get hooked on some remedy. And so each day goes on with the stars and the sun and an angularly chaotic ray of the sweet sound going about the atmosphere. The hidden truth and the Godly frequent lie. It’s so obvious that there is no love, but yet it’s there. I am trying. I am trying. I won’t stop.
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No Flowers Descend
I saw myself, a songbird, until her wings were clipped and passers pointed, laughing, harsh at every time she tripped. The songbird always wanted to fly away, on high, but every time her wings were spread, she fell down from the sky. I saw myself, a white vase, all painted with the past, so pretty that a passer might stick in their dainty hands to pull out some sweet flower or glittering, gold mass, but what will find the passer’s hand? A jar of broken glass.
I saw myself, a time bomb that slowly ticked away with thoughts of pills and dripping red, where songbirds pass away, and at my cold reception, the ground would surely weep; for in my vase all broken, no flowers are to keep.
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by Courtney Jerman
by Melia Quinn
What it feels like to be confined to a park bench or a restaurant booth on Sunday night. Four girls, three boys. Guess who gets pushed against the wall, studying Splenda, Sweet ‘n Low, and Sugar in the Raw.
by Emily Younginer
Write this down.
Psalm 119
Why I Was Late
The only thing I remember about 4th grade is prepositional phrases and underlining words and Laura Ingalls Wilder. Now my German professor shakes his head because I can’t tell him what a direct object is. (do they even have direct objects in Bavaria?) I’m sorry. I spent 5th grade not looking out windows, 9th wearing long sleeves, and 11th staring at purple nail beds, budgeting 500, and making lists of things I could control.
I’ll be sure to have that rough draft emailed to you by midnight.
Honorable Mention Poetry
Write down 8th through 12th grade in a history book, a page in the chapter on Emo Kids and Hipsters of the 21st Century. There would be a facet on ADDERALL and Prozac and how good Christian boys and girls abused it, on black-painted eyes and fingers down throats. About how we never learned to multiply eight and seven.
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Drop
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by Blaire Copeland
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I am hanging by something not unlike a rope or a chain or bit of barbed wire; I think it started as a ribbon. Whatever it is is leaving me breathless, cutting where it binds. Some spots are softened where they touch my skin, though even these spots hurt. I am caught. I am snared. I can’t remember anymore if I fell and became tangled or climbed down on my own and got stuck. I can’t climb up, regardless. I could cut it, but below me I see nothing but my own reflection in the dark pool of something. I can’t tell what’s in it, what may be hiding in the black besides, apparently, me looking back up. I will drown somehow, be it by the blood I’m starting to cough up or in the depths at which I stare down. What scares me most? The trap, The plunge, The landing, Or the deep?
Why
by Chelsea Ferguson He's gone. He's not coming for you, You sit and you cry, and cry, Then you stop and lie on the cold floor, You are alone. You wonder why. The clock in the corner chimes once, chimes twice, Three times the hour rings in your ears. And then it stops and silence begins, Memories flood you with tears.
by Naomi King
Triumph- Summer Ends
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When all the confetti stops falling, And all of the music fades When the bright lights stop shimmering, The silence around you invades.
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2ndArt
Sanctification Untitled Haiku
by Brynna Stevens From the wheel, the vase falls; seeking to crack itself, rolls from the Potter. 18
by Will Donovan
Honorable MentionPoetry
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Flower
by Jessica Schell 19
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Nature of Which We Are a Part by Will Donovan 20
And it’s far from my home that I bed down tonight And it’s long that I’ll lie up to weep at the stars And it’s hard my heart grows in the absence of light.
I must hide from the sky, the stars. Even the sight Of this world which is now in my heart (pressed in) mars. And it’s far from my home that I bed down tonight And it’s hard my heart grows in the absence of light.
by Brooke Petersen
Descend
Deathly empty the world seems in all of its might Bleakly, blankly I mountain-gaze through thought-steel bars. And it’s far from my home that I bed down tonight;
Lookout Mountain
My books lost my prayers dead my bonds too firm to fight. I alone am my home; mine’s the faith that was ours, And it’s hard my heart grows in the absence of light.
by Kathryn Lee Cochran
Far: A Villanelle of Exile
I’m enslaved by unknowings and sinking in fright. As the memories leave bruises and loneliness scars And it’s hard my heart grows in the absence of light, It is long that I’ll lie up to weep as I write. For the strangeness, the coldness of worldmates harsh, jars— And it’s far from my home that I bed down tonight,
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She Understands the Implications of Damaged Goods
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by Ella Snyder
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Hearing the news was like holding forks in electrical sockets. It took me three days, seven hours, and twenty-two minutes to realize There will always be elevator doors closing. There will always be bruised produce. There will always be parts of me held together with zipties, super glue, and duct tape.
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Shadowed Porcelain by Emily Younginer
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Misty Morning on Pisgah by Kathryn Lee Cochran
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3rdArt
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Effects of Acid Rain by Josh Stephens
Death Among Life
by Josh Stephens 25
Picture Interference
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by Mason Nations
The willow in the park weeps for him. He sits there on the merry-go-round Spinning, slowly. A moment before, the motion flashed scenes from dashed dreams like silent films, playing on T.V. screens. Mom the cops are coming The rain begins to fall one, two, three, four drops Spattering on pavement long dry, mingling with the tears, as heaven cries. Mom the cops are coming Blood-pumping games of soccer and kickball, but Those instances of freedom are now shrouded, Fuzzled.
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Losing the picture, he continues to sit. A deflated balloon lies next to a trash can, popped in some accident, Forgotten. Mom, they’re taking me away Crushed vials and needles scattered across the kitchen floor, soulless vacuums. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a flash of shattered light streaks above the buildings, crack-popping like radio snow. The neon lights of the orphanage flicker A lady and her husband look out the door. The child looks up and knows it’s time. Mom I’m going home
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Eye of Jupiter by Will Donovan 27
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Flight by Rachel Remington 28
Dwell
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by Josh Stephens
Fragility and Stability
Dwell
Later Love
1stPoetry
by Jonathan Scruggs
We watch the embers flash out on the dark. The ashes blow across papery graves. Stay here, if only as a moment’s spark. The green fish freeze in the pond in the park. Nearby, a barrel is reduced to staves. We watch the embers flash out on the dark.
We’ve felt our friends and homes and time depart; We’ve watched our season fade to others’ days. We watch the embers flash out on the dark.
Dwell
Our children have gone, have left their white marks, paths on your flesh. Your breasts still bear their names. Stay here, if only as a gentle spark.
We’ve suffered much. Our love has grown warm bark that wraps us up against this life’s wrong rage. Stay here, if only as a gentle spark. I want to have, to keep your gentle mark: Must life’s good gifts come and leave like waves? We watch the embers flash out on the dark: Stay here, if only as a moment’s spark.
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by Hannah Reynolds
The Nature of the City
Dwell
Broadway
by Blair Meyer
32
the city short. quick. abrupt all business. go. go. GO! rush rush rush in and out of skyscrapers, stations bright lights warm coffee covering of steel. constraint ambition shiftless wanderlust. startlingly yellow wet cabs inching under bright red lights. short sprints not-so-brilliant stars hot exhaust. twitter-ing updates facebook never enough time or money or peace. 100 stories above the earth deceiving myself about the part I play in this crazy game called life.
nature long, leisurely, languid. all pleasure. wait. wait. wait. pause, slow down, breathe in and out of shade and shadow bright sun, warm breeze, canopy of trees. freedom, aimlessness, restless wanderlust. dazzlingly green wet leaves gleaming against slick black trunks. long walks, brilliant stars, cool air. twittering birdsong, face in a book, nothing but time, and leisure, and peace. close to the earth, aware of myself, of the part I play in this wild mystery called life.
A Conversation by Mason Nations
Overstuffed leather chairs pressing their warmth into our sides. Here. Here, between the interplay of words, images, sounds teeming with their tinklings of humanity We have a home.
Dwell
You spoke, and the pressures of machines and merchandise subsided, lifting off the cloak of reason. Here. Here, within the dialogue of millennia breathing with its lungfulls of life We can rest. We spoke for what seemed like hours but was merely wonderful minutes Rather. Rather than other you into the cold We sit here with our coffee and talk.
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The Dress
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by Brandy Maynor
I clothe myself in memories—the cold salt of the other side of the Atlantic, and the climb up steep, near-endless stairs of stone. I wrap the oldness around me. I drape the fabric of joy over my body. Sparkling threads of gold excitement are woven into the main cloth, a rich teal sense of belonging. When I wear this dress, I am wearing compliments which he was not sure how to give and which I was not sure how to respond to. “I like your dress; it’s very…” “…thank you.” But at the same time, I am wearing our closeness. Our laughter. His comments on my poems. The songs we shared. I am wearing last summer. I am clothed in a time that is gone.
Waves
Dwell
by Brooke Petersen
1st Nonfiction
Michigan I by Ella Snyder I can’t bring myself to wash the smoke out of my hair. Or wash the Lake Erie off of my skin. There is too much in this world that is easily forgotten. The forest-picked wildflowers. The first firefly of summer. The maze of my hair in the wind. I don’t want to rinse it off, no matter how reluctantly. I hope I remember every droplet, every vapor as I sit on the edge of my tub, sick to my stomach.
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Honorable Mention Poetry
Michigan II
by Ella Snyder
Some things are not supposed to be documented or photographed. They are only to be captured and laid away in our minds, time capsules only to be opened on days when the air smells like clay and silt and it is thick with you. Recollecting sitting on balconies, running fingertips over the damp and rust red brick walls. The mortar between grown green with moss. Until clouds fade into the darkness. Until the songbirds sleep.
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by Brynna Stevens
We, Like Horses
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We, like horses drawing carts, carry our stables, seeking stability, along the city street. Extending our extended necks to grab gold hay ahead: trit-trots for sugar, carrots. Black blinders ignoring. Tramping and trampling
amid city soot.
Education
by Michaela Reynolds
1st Art
Chess Pieces
by Jessica Schell
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Education: The legalese That’s drip, drip, dripping. School is all there is. Six to seven hours, Watching the clock Tick, tick, ticking. Skills drilling. Walk down the hall Cookie cutter projects Line the walls. The finished product “Oh so cute...” While the child Wonders why He couldn’t mix his paints. “Be who you are,” They say. “Follow your heart.” But oh no. My body is glued To my chair, my desk As my teacher Puts perfect Laminations up. My imagination Dream, dream, dreaming Of a place far from here Where I can run, jump, PLAY! but she says, “Quiet Johnny.” You will have your chance for that someday (cont. page 38)
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Education, continued
38
Far, far away. But for the next thirteen years Perhaps even more I must sit, sit, sit. Write, write, write. Coloring in the lines Of pre-printed pictures With crayons and markers Of ridiculous hues. I look out the window See the sun shining down. That wondrous world Out there. I wish I could roll in the grass, Collect the bugs, And build a twig hut. RRRRRing... Recess bell A false cry of freedom Mulch, mulch, mulch Gets stuck in my shoes Wire fence in stark contrast To the red, yellow, blue Slides that shock all the way down; Metal that burns my little hands. Kickball…perhaps I’ll kick it High, high, higher. Aim for the grass The soft, soft grass Right outside our prison. “Twrillll! Let’s go!” The whistle blows.
2nd Fiction The Legend of Some Bloke I Passed on the Street
by Jonathan King
Dwell
There were terrible troubles in Ireland. There were also bonfires and shootings and bombings and prejudice and hatred and fear and a general lack of playing nice. But none of these compared to the specter that haunted the fields of the North. The Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine. This nightmarish ewe had fangs like daggers of the Red Branch Warriors, hooves like the stones of the Giant’s Causeway, and wool like the jumpers Mrs. Flaherty knits for her husband, God rest his soul. Every day at dawn she would prowl, seeking to gobble up fair maidens and the odd fish supper. It was even said that once she got the scent of your blood, she would hunt you down and rip you to pieces, even if it took a hundred years. Once upon a time, about eight in the morning, David Mallory was out to buy an egg and cress sandwich when he was approached by one of the town patriarchs, Tom O’Neill. Tom O’Neill was a fat man, always out of breath. He was honest in everyday word and deed, but he was famous for fantastic stories about his life as an IRA man, not one of which was true. On an ordinary morning, he would have already helped himself to his flask of whiskey. But today was not an ordinary day. “David Mallory!” he shouted, puffing along with arms raised. “Hi, David Mallory!” “What are you on about, Tom O’Neill?” said David Mallory. “Me daughter’s being eaten, y’know, David Mallory!” said Tom O’Neill. “Me daughter’s being eaten by the WolfSheep of Coleraine!” “Go home, Tom,” said David Mallory. “You’re drunk.” “No, David Mallory, it’s not drunk I am at all. Me daughter’s being eaten by the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine!” “What, this minute?” “No, not this minute, David Mallory! At least, I don’t think so. When I left them, y’know, the beast was still chasing her.” “And you just left her?” asked David Mallory. “Sure they’re both faster than I, David Mallory,” said Tom O’Neill. “I couldn’t have very well caught them, y’know. I was going for the police when I saw you, David Mallory, and I thought, y’know, he’ll do.” “What d’you mean?” asked David Mallory. “You want me to kill the beast? You’re mad, Tom.” “But did you not kill the terrible Hound-Fiend of Coleraine, David Mallory?” “Sure the lass who owned the wee pup cried for three weeks after I ran him over.” “Ah, but it was a terror nonetheless, y’know, David Mallory. Did you see what he did to Mrs. Flaherty’s geraniums? Not to mention Mr. Flaherty’s bean poles, God rest his soul, y’know. So I was thinking, y’know, maybe you could get in your car and, y’know, run this one over as well.” “It’ll take more than that t’kill the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine,” said David Mallory. “I don’t think I know your daughter. This Wolf-Sheep only eats fair maidens and fish suppers. Is your daughter fair, or did she just happen to be carrying a fried cod at the moment?”
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“Oh, she’s fair enough, David Mallory,” said Tom O’Neill. “Not great, mind you, just fair. And come to think of it, she did smell a bit of cod this morning, y’know.” “Not very pretty, then?” said David Mallory, his face falling. “Well, she must at least be intelligent.” “Well, y’know, she did just graduate secondary school after fourteen years, David Mallory.” “I suppose she has a wonderful personality?” “Boring as a stump, y’know, really.” “Right. Why am I rescuing her again?” “Because if you don’t, y’know, I’ll take me shillelagh to your backside.” “Where can I find her?” asked David Mallory. And so David Mallory drove out to the fields, and there he found the decent-enough daughter of Tom O’Neill fleeing as fast as her legs could take her, which, since she took after her father, wasn’t very fast at all. And behind her was the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine. The Wolf-Sheep’s eyes glowed red, her jaws dripped foam, and her shrieks were the screams of a goat on YouTube. The sight made David Mallory pale, mainly because of Tom O’Neill’s puffing daughter. But wanting to keep his posterior clear of Tom O’Neill’s shillelagh, he leaped out of his Volkswagen and waved his arms and shouted at the top of his voice, “Hi! You over there! Stop doing that!” The daughter of Tom O’Neill heard David Mallory’s words and plopped obediently down where she was. In one pounce, the Wolf-Sheep was on top of her. Seeing that his plan had backfired, David Mallory did the next most logical thing. In order to distract the beast, he picked up a rock from the field and bashed it against the side of his head until the blood ran down. In retrospect, he found this to be a horrible idea, as it made him quite dizzy. However, the distraction worked perfectly; the Wolf-Sheep smelled David Mallory’s blood and turned to her new prey. Tom O’Neill’s daughter saw this and made her escape. The trouble was that her path of escape led her over a cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork was shocked to see a
Sheep May Safely Graze
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by Linnea Stevens
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decent-enough woman splashing and spluttering and puffing past him on her way to the open ocean. “Now I’ve got the scent of your blood, David Mallory,” shrieked the Wolf-Sheep. “Now I will hunt you down and rip you to pieces, even if it takes a hundred years! Baa!” “Now you expect me to run screaming like a wee lass, is that it?” asked David Mallory. Then the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine flashed her teeth and clacked her hooves and raised her wool so that it stood on end. That wool would make some lovely jumpers, David Mallory thought as he ran screaming like a wee lass. He raced toward his car, but the Wolf-Sheep was there first. She took it in her jaws and with one flick of her head she tossed it over the cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork was equally shocked to see a Volkswagen bobbing along after Tom O’Neill’s daughter on its way to the open ocean. “Baa! Now I have you, David Mallory!” the Wolf-Sheep screamed, and she lunged at her victim’s throat. But David Mallory was having none of it, and since he was feeling especially cranky from lack of an egg and cress sandwich, he grabbed the wool on the top of the Wolf-Sheep’s head and pulled it low over her face. And thus the phrase “pulling the wool over her eyes” would have been born, had it not previously existed. Indeed, the wool came so low over the WolfSheep’s eyes that it came off completely, and David Mallory tossed it away over the cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork pulled a white fuzzy jumper out of the water, dried it out, and wore it to Mass that Sunday. David Mallory looked around, but he did not see the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine. Instead, all he saw was a beautiful maiden, far fairer than any the beast had ever gobbled up. “Excuse me,” he asked, “but wasn’t there a horrifying monster here not a moment ago?” “I am that horrifying monster,” said the fair maiden. “I was put under a curse by my solicitor, but you have freed me from it. Now I am eternally yours, David Mallory!” “So you’re the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine?” asked David Mallory. “Yes.” “And I freed you from your spell?” “Yes.” “And now I’m supposed to marry you?” “Yes.” “Why on earth would I want to?” asked David Mallory. “You tried to kill me!” “I was under a spell,” said the Wolf-Sheep-Woman. “I had no control over my actions.” “The attempted murder of my person by yourself,” said David Mallory. “You could not wish for a more beautiful wife, nor one more true,” said the Wolf-Sheep-Woman. “You would have sunk your teeth into my body and drunk my blood.” “Only a complete eejit would pass up this opportunity.” “‘I’ll hunt you down and rip you limb from limb’ were your exact words, I believe.” “Are you going to marry me or not?” asked the Wolf-Sheep-Woman. “No,” said David Mallory, and he started walking back to town. “Fine!” the Wolf-Sheep-Woman called after him. “I’ll just stay here then, will I?” To herself she said, “I wonder how long it’ll take for someone to come by with a fish supper.”
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I Am Eighteen
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by Linnea Stevens
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I am eighteen years old. Wow. Up to this point, it’s the age you look forward to your whole life. Why? I’m not exactly sure. There are a lot of freedoms I have now that I didn’t have before, but honestly, I might as well be seventeen if you consider how much I’ll use them. Old enough to smoke. Nah, I’m good. Old enough to go into a bar. I’ll pass. Old enough to see NC-17 movies legally. NOPE. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Old enough to go to war. This girl? No. Old enough to vote. It's a bit of a moot point, considering I’ll be twenty-one by the time of the next election. Old enough to buy a lottery ticket. Not interested. Old enough to get a credit card. Ha. Ha ha. Ha. Old enough to buy things off TV. No, I’m pretty broke and none of that junk is worth getting. (Although, I’ll admit, when I was little this privilege was esteemed divine). And finally, old enough to go to prison instead of juvie. I think… I’m good. Yeah, I’m good. I guess the good part is how I have the freedom to get a job pretty much anywhere, and spend money how I wish. Not that I’ll be spending a fortune any time soon, but it’s nice to be able to buy Christmas presents on eBay without going through both parents (so they don’t see their gifts). They say with great power comes great responsibility. What if I never use the power?
10-6-13
by Blaire Copeland
Dwell
You know the feeling of brushing against something, No matter how baby-skin-friendly, soft and fluffy it is, Still hurts as bad as hot steel wool When it brushes against a deep scrape? The feeling I get being in the same room with you. Wanting to be so much closer, But still so stinging, achingly raw That the friendliest, most loving touch hurts so bad I could scream And you know I don’t scream at all, but I have been internally. I need someone older, for I am wiser, Though in your beautiful boyish face I have seen your age In flux, like our insides when we think about each other. I have seen you the way you see you, And one of my greatest wishes is to show you The way I see you. I want to make you smile the way you’ve made me smile. I want to make you understand that I understand, That you don’t have to worry when others don’t, Because even if I can’t say anything to make you feel better, I’m still here. And I get you. And you’ve told me so, which surprised me. And I want to again, if you’ll let me. Even though I know we’ve scraped each other, Let our blood flow and mix again, To rebuild what we once were. When bodies repair themselves, they become stronger than they were before having broken. I don’t want to break. I don’t want to break you. I just want us to fix us. I think we can help each other heal; If you’re willing to try, then so am I.
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Long Distance by Ella Snyder
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God, I wish I could just call you Pick up a tin can hanging from the sky, pull it taut, and talk to you. I guess your voice would probably sound like fireflies And frosted grass And things too sacred to speak of. But I guess I’m roaming and you don’t want to pay for long distance, so I mumble under my breath Hoping you can hear me Amongst the six billion other people on this planet. I whisper About things my hands are powerless to touch I have to shut up I have to sit I have to be still Have you ever had to be still, God? Were you ever forced to wait, God? Your guts broiling into jelly. Your heart melting like candles Lit for people you can’t save Or change Or love less Do you ever wish you could love less?
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Serenity
by Cameron Bodove
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by Brooke Petersen
Memorial
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We build memorials of stone, Castles churches monuments and streets. They say: we lived. They sometimes say: we died. We were—and, in these stones, still are. Across the centuries of mist and light and noise We are humanity. We last like stone. We make of paper our memorial Letters and books, newspapers, banners bright. Some pages say: we died But each page shouts: we live! The shot, the starved, surviving in these fragile leaves— Down through the centuries of love and fear and heart We are humanity. We write. We last. On the paper and stone we will spill out our blood For the paper and stone we will give our hearts’ blood For the paper and stone, They are our hearts’ blood We last in both paper and stone.
Necropolis
by Ella Snyder
Stay alive today; This is the secret of waiting. Stand in marble corridors Hold your breath. Forget everything; Hell is a place of memories Living. You loved me once But your throat became a Tomb. Forgetting everything; Waiting.
Elegy
by Jennifer Melton
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I have yet to forgive you.
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Hope of Winter by Logan Galloway And here is where I address my lie: This world moves in reverse, but in winter it stops. You can see it when the earth's diorama stops spinning. The frost is fresh. When you feel its sting on your skin you forget what's within you. And so, each winter I would sleep in the snow. Numbness giving birth to murder. Stillness in the eyes of humanity. The hero surely must die.
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So I fill the crystal vessel. Giving form to the ice. And breaking myself in the process. It all stops and I can see it. I can feel you. I hear everything in the stillness of winter. Now. I'm your friendly neighborhood heating device. I'm your hot bowl of broth with oyster crackers. I'm your last book of matches. Burn them all if you need. Because now I love the winter anew. I feel the cold and I draw it in. It reminds me that I am nothing. You shiver. You need. But you are brilliant and precious. Let my skin be your coat. Let us waste our time together. Because I now see that you are all worth loving. Now I will die for everyone.
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Psalm of the Other Although wary and fearful they speak up at last Although brave and defiant they’re silent. Hold fast To your memories; cleave, wounded hands, to your past.
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And this is the psalm of the other An anthem for the unhomed Forgotten, alone Clinging and loosing, losing and lost And paying the cost Of their lives, just to live. To go on in the dark They must give up their light But they go (or they cling) So we sing Sing this psalm of the other. And they run from their exile facing down death Or they stay and sing hymns to their last ragged breath If they go, or they sing, we will honor them yet. And this is the psalm of the other An anthem for the enslaved Those no one saved Who clung and who loosed and who lost Paying the cost Of their lives, just to live. To flee in the dark They must give up their song But they hold the tune or They escape. With or for We’ll sing anthems and psalms of the other. May they find that despite grief and hate they can pray. May they find that the moon, like the sun, has its rays. May they find or else make through the world a new way, Singing the psalm of the other. 50
by Brooke Petersen
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Sparrow by Rachel Remington
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Silverware
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by Jessica Schell
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My Own Oceans
by Ella Snyder
I take salt shakers to the water spigot and I make my own oceans. Tide lines have eroded themselves into my waist I know all of the sea monsters by name I don’t want to submarine again I don’t want to grow seaweed in my lungs again There are cyclones I have made with my red and pruned toes because I make what I am. I scratch at my skin Clammy and white I peel off layers
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I am only trying to baptize myself again I am only trying to baptize myself again Salty and stinging my eyes I am only trying to clean myself off again I am only trying to clean myself off again Sitting in my own oceans
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Ember
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Amid the ashes, black, hidden-away ember. Prodded – then, it bursts.
by Brynna Stevens
Firedance by Blaire Copeland
Honorable Mention Poetry
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It is a dark time in which we live, the gloom broken by bouts of flame. I can’t see in the dark, in the garnet-glow of the fires. I hear my friends calling for help; My eyes adjust. The dancing flames are no match for the light I carry, Cannot hold a candle. I don’t need the path I lost. Impervious to the fire, I make the flaming ground my stage. I dance through snapping-orange tongues, and remain unscathed. I sweat, but will not burn despite the efforts of the flames licking at my heels. I skip, jump, spin, leap on and guide the others to the light. Though I can’t see well, I can feel— but there are no burns to be felt. I am a different sort of flame, all my own.
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Blessed
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She was born to us In the age of grace, A challenge and a curse; With rebar bones And leather skin And fogged glass eyes, Cracked and peeling at the pupils, She played, Oblivious to our dismay At her inexcusable wretchedness.
by Courtney Jerman
She was a child, The same as any we had known Aside from her loathsome, gnarled form; In threadbare, moth-eaten slips And disheveled rat’s-nest hair And worn, old tar-black shoes, Coming to pieces at the seams, She collected bright flowers beside the bubbling brook, Humming the tune of songbirds in spring In her innocent melody. She was destined to die, of course, As a martyr for all those like her, Women born without delicate beauty; Without porcelain skin And rose-petal lips And an accumulation of finery, Draped in a cloak of vanity about their elegant shoulders Who can expect forgiveness or mercy from nothing Besides the divinity of God And the warm brown earth of the grave.
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Adaptation by Naomi King
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by Sharon Burke
Redemption
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The Breath of Life with soft caress expands With artful grace the mass of molten glass. Like sheets billowed lifelike in the wind, A bottle born of fire and sand and trimmed With clarity unrivaled, radiance rare, Springs of the youthful fountain can’t compare. Pristine, unmarred, like roses yet unseen; Upon a shelf it casts a prism’s sheen. Supposing that the sun’s fondling rays Were not the source of elevated praise, Forsaking all, on brink of depths extreme, The bottle tips and tumbles, flips, careens, And shatters. Shards like arrows stab the breeze And scramble senselessly to find reprieve. Plucked with greedy hands the priceless vase Is bound with twine and used for baser things. Shattered glass dangles from a tree, Translucent skeleton shards instead of leaves. Clinking melancholy in the wind, In vain attempts to come to life again. No one dare approach that ashen tree, With fruit that tears and scrapes and makes you bleed. Sun, snow, rain, and fog the glass remains, Swinging there, a symphony of grays. Brokenness, like light, cannot retract, But must endure along its lonesome path Until the unscarred hands dare grasp the glass And crush and grind the heartache and the past. They melt away like the retreating tide, The remnants are recycled, blown, designed To serve a King, a vessel to be filled, And, like a fountain overflowing, spill.
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Cupful of Light
by Rachel Remington
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Counting Sheep
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by Jonathan King
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He is the shadow in the corner of my eye. He is the tingling on my shoulder. He waits for me each night, calling to me with a nauseating lullaby of cackles, and I cannot resist. Black as fear and towering as the unknown, the creature of the demonic smile visits death upon me once more. I am ten years old, and I toss in bed, eyes wide open, cowering from sleep’s embrace. Will tonight be the night he returns? How can I enjoy my dreams when he slips among them, entering at will? But soon, I find my eyelids sinking, drawn closed by his fingers. Those same fingers that reach for me, wiggling in time with his giggling, until they clutch at my shoulders and chest, sending tremors through my lungs, driving the breath from my body. I first encountered this monster when I was a baby. My parents were letting me watch a harmless television program. Psalty the Singing Songbook and his young friends smiled and sang about the B-I-B-L-E and how it was the book for them. And then he appeared. I still remember him sauntering down the stairs, scouring my soul with his eyes, and screeching out gibberish with a hellish laugh. I reached out, trying to push him away, blot him out, but it was too late. What I had seen could not be unseen; the demon was at home within me. I never knew his name, or even his species. Was he a rat? A black sheep? Some unnamable monster? Whatever the case, I knew no dream was safe. No matter how I ran, I would always be too slow. No matter how hard I fought, my fists would never obey me. And no matter whom I trusted, the moment I looked away, the person I loved would undergo the gruesome metamorphosis into my tormentor. Over and over, he would find me. Over and over, he would kill me. Over and over, his laugh would echo in the chambers of my heart long after he forced me awake. Tonight will be no different. Or maybe it will . . . As the beast approaches me, gibbering nonsense, the words of my father echo at the back of my brain: “You control your thoughts. You let things in, and with God’s help, you can keep them out. But you have to choose.” I tense my body and mind, focusing on lucid thought. I don’t want to dream about you tonight. I’m going to wake up now. The monster takes another step closer, but the giggling seems muffled now. I squeeze my eyes tighter shut. I’m going to wake up now! Go away! Without so much as a parting howl, the torturer fades into white light. I open my eyes and take a deep, soul-cleansing breath. The darkness doesn’t seem as black tonight. I smile and snuggle into my sheets once more.
A Kiss
by Zachary Whitworth
A Kiss, and this to be the last, The first to come of things to pass. From here we two must go alone, And all that we have done disown. A Kiss and then to step away, For close at hand is end of day.
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What was, no more will be my plight, So let it fade into the night. A Kiss just once to see the world, End its path and cease its twirl, For how at all can life go on, When we have seen the final dawn? A Kiss to hold what was in hand, And measure all that it once spanned. The world in a love may lie;
A Kiss and then we let it die.
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Rita’s
by Will Donovan
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In Praise of Morning Coffee by Chelsea Ferguson 2nd Poetry
Each morning the smell hits my nose, The persistent drip, drip, drip, calls, Senses wake, sleep comes to a close.
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Light illuminates bland walls. Silence creeps in, filling up ears. Quiet pervades up and down halls. Tossing, turning, trapped in night's fears, Gone now. Dismissed with soothing sound All is right. All is well. So here's A cup of water, and coffee ground. Fingers embrace cup’s welcoming hug, The day is new as warmth is downed.
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by Brooke Petersen
Walking Paris
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Walking Paris is like studying literary theory because you might think you know your way but really be more lost than ever‌because just when you are most lost you may be closest to finding your way. Because some things have been set in stone for five hundred years, yet teenagers still sit on the steps of monuments and play rock music. Because poems are in unexpected places. Because tears of frustration and tears of joy may be separated by mere moments. Because you see things. You see the city, yet you struggle to see the City. The streets are full of newness and wonder and people and thought, but they are coincÊs, closed in on themselves. Perhaps the Eiffel Tower is a traditional part of a trip to Paris not because it is famous, but because it lends perspective.
Journey by Tiffany Johnson
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Brooklyn Bridge Ascend
by Blair Meyer
The Statue of Liberty by Blair Meyer
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St. Basil’s Cathedral by Jessica Schell
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by Linnea Stevens
Blue Fields of Cotton
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I Feel the Breeze by Erick Spivey
I feel the breeze‌. It’s gentle The grass beneath me The blue sky And spots of white I feel the breeze
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The views of the mountain Strong and proud Mystery Magnitude The span of the stars I feel the breeze Trees with their arms Praising the sky Pointing up Showing the way They understand I feel the breeze The Sun glistens on my face And I wear a smile And in me there is comfort I feel the breeze
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70
by Jonathan King
Emerald Isle
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Sunlight by Jonathan King
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Quilting Hands by Mason Nations Tattered rags upon the floor, stitched with cotton thread, vast across seem the gaps but brought near
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by the steady hand of my Grandmother, whose knuckles were filled with arthritis, from the time she worked in the light-bulb factory, twisting filaments that fell apart when roughly touched: a touch, now perfected, that she softly applied to her quiet needle movements, gently forming the quilt methodically.
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Honorable MentionPoetry
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Lending a Paw by Linnea Stevens
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74
by Josh Stephens
Summer Lights
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Light and Life by Rachel Remington 75
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Curiosity
by Rachel Remington 76
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Winged Beauty
by Sarah Bisson
Linnea by Brynna Stevens A hummingbird falls. Girl holds it, crying. It wakes, Rises, and flies on.
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Unveiled by Hannah Reynolds
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In the beginning perfect harmony. Two hearts, one God, unfathomable unity... then four scaly legs, one forked tongue. One lie swallowed with a bite of fruit. Guilt, agony, despair. What is this vile thing? Sin—sprung from a serpent’s hiss. Centuries of struggle, of toil, of strife. Separation from Him, the source of life. Daily sacrifices from Aaronite priests spilling animals’ thin blood— at once a reminder of sin and a promise of atonement to come. Judges, kings, prophets, few paid any heed. Four hundred years of painful silence. A virgin-born babe in David’s city, a Galilean carpenter, a humble servant sometimes praised, sometimes ignored, often scoffed. Healing the sick, sharing the Word, wandering the roads. Hosanna! Hosanna! A kiss of betrayal from the lips of a friend. Torn skin, bruised body, warm blood, agony. And, with a shuddering breath: It. Is. Finished. Dark sky, torn veil, a world upside down. Quiet vigil, frightened tears, celestial light. Empty grave, risen rabbi, victorious Messiah. 78
Generations of saints living in a veiled world with hooded eyes and laden backs—bought for a price higher than they could ever know. The Spirit’s light pierces self-inflicted blindness: the veil is no more. The once-for-all sacrifice grants a wicked people access to the Holy One. Life can be lived beyond the veil, at the foot of the gracious throne. Sufferings, too deep for words, but not more than we can bear. The bride will soon stand before her groom, gleaming in spotless white. And in a flash she will behold His glory— unveiled.
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Jesus Saves by Blair Meyer
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Someplace Better by Naomi King 80
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Flourish
by Jennifer Melton
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by Cory Cromer
The Dance
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Light steps commence at sun’s first ray, And thus begins the dance today. Your presence beckons me from sleep In perfect step I try to keep. And though you lead me, soft and slow, My every misstep begins to show The little lie, the lustful glance Such are stumbles in our dance. And though I trip with every fall You keep me spinning through it all My flaws now lost in rhythmic pace For all are hid in perfect grace.
Honorable Mention Poetry
The Point of The point of Winter’s tooth, Clear like rounded glass beneath the black and rusted iron.
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The seat, unused, now hangs ornaments of ice like bright caverns, And plays the tinkling of sun-squeezed drops.
Winter’s Tooth by Zachary Whitworth
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On a Warm Winter’s Night
by Brynna Stevens
On a warm winter’s night,
under balconied branches,
we sit amid the quiet.
The silence sings,
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Wordlessly speaking.
A beauty: so still,
so alive.
Silhouettes of trees,
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soon to awaken,
closer-farther shifting
against a sapphire backdrop
filled with lights,
dancing in their rainbowed parade.
3rd Poetry
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Carry On
by Emily Younginer
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Judges Art Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Molly Sawyer received a Studio Art degree in 1995 from Guilford College in Greensboro, North Carolina. She continued with ceramic sculpture, exploring abstract organic form until her return to Atlanta in 1998. She subsequently explored the figure in clay, then studied from human models at both the New York Studio School and the Art Students League of New York. By 2005 her focus moved to the horse; this study evolved into a series of equine works. Sawyer’s abstracted work resulted in a series of sculpture entitled “Migration.” The impetus for this work is overpowering instinct to move forward regardless of obstacles and to find a balance in life. Sawyer’s latest exploration investigates the creation of nurturing forms and spaces, collecting in her studio found objects from the natural world and combining these with other abstract forms. Her sculptures can be found in both private and corporate collections throughout the East Coast including the New York Mandarin Oriental Hotel, Mohegan Sun Casino, and the Ritz-Carlton Boston collections. Sawyer’s studio is currently located in Asheville, NC. http://mlsawyer.com/ Poetry Dr. Gaynell Gavin (http://gaynellgavin.com/ ) is the author of Attorney-at-Large: A Novella and Intersections, a poetry chapbook, both published by Main Street Rag Publishing. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, including The Bellevue Literary Review, Big Muddy: A Journal of the Mississippi River Valley, Fourth Genre, North Dakota Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. Gavin was a finalist in the 2012 Solstice Nonfiction Contest and for the 2011 Zone 3 Press Creative Nonfiction Book Award as well as the recipient of a 2009 Notable Essay citation in Best American Essays. “Blue Hour,” her short story, was a 2013 Seán Ó Faoláin International Short Story Competition runner-up and appears in Southword Journal. A graduate of Principia College and Washington University Law, she received her graduate English education from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Gavin practiced law in Colorado. Currently, she is Associate Professor at Claflin University, where she teaches English and Politics and Justice Studies. Fiction Sonja Condit, author of a newly released novel, Starter House, is principal bassoon of the Hendersonville Symphony Orchestra, and teaches at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities and at North Greenville University. Her short fiction has appeared in Shenandoah, spillinginkreview.com, outwardlink.net, weirdyear.com, and etopia-press.net. With her husband, Dr. Brent Coppenbarger, she wrote and performed on the CD Reeding Time, available on cdbaby.com. A recent graduate of the MFA in Creative Writing program at Converse College, she lives and works in Greenville, South Carolina. http://www.sonjacondit.com/ Nonfiction Kyler S. Campbell, a graduate of North Greenville University and of the MFA program at Converse College, is Adjunct Professor of English at Charleston Southern University. He has also taught English as an adjunct at ITT and Trident Technical College. His work has appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, Gadfly Online, and other publications. Campbell formerly served as Prose Editor for the magazine www.south85journal.com .He lives in Charleston, South Carolina with his wife and their cat.
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Mission Statement The purpose of The Mountain Laurel is to produce a collection of prose, poetry and visual art that is both technically sound in craftsmanship and creative in content. In pursuing this purpose, the goal of The Mountain Laurel is to reflect the creativity of God by exhibiting works that capture universal human experience. The first act of God recorded is the act of creation; The Mountain Laurel strives to demonstrate the creative power with which God has endowed humans. In creating, the Christian artist faces the difficulty of portraying the human experience and conveying the truths of Christianity honestly, whether implicitly or explicitly. In doing so, the artist must represent not only the beauties, but also the consequences of the fallen world, including evil actions and behaviors, because evil is part of reality. In the same way, the artist must be consistent with the moral truths of scripture, which include the concepts of a moral universe, the struggle between right and wrong, and the flawed nature of both good and evil characters in need of redemption. Imbedded within these concepts are the moments of grace where the character within the piece of art can choose to accept the redemption offered, delight in truth and beauty, or empathize with those experiencing suffering and pain. By utilizing these concepts, the artist is able to mirror such stories and poetry as the book of Job, The Psalms, and The Song of Solomon. In short, Christian art is not Christian because it refers to the Bible and teaches morality; it is Christian because it faithfully communicates through artistic media the nature of God, His creation, and the experience of humanity in a world it was not made for. It is this art that we offer to readers of The Mountain Laurel, with our prayer that God will use this publication to encourage, inspire, and restore.
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Bisson, Sarah - 77, Sophomore, Early Childhood Education Budove, Cameron - 45, Junior, Studio Art Burke, Sharon - 58, 59, Junior, Elementary Education Cochran, Kathryn L. - 21, 24, Freshman, Undecided Copeland, Blaire - 8, 16, 43, 55, Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Cromer, Cory - 82, Senior, Youth Ministry Donovan, Will - 18, 20, 62, Senior, Studio Art Ferguson, Chelsea - 17, 63, Senior, English Galloway, Logan - 7, 13, 48, 61, Senior, Marketing Jerman, Courtney - 14, 56, Freshman, Secondary English Education Johnson, Tiffany - 65, Senior, Studio Art King, Jonathan - 39, 40, 41, 60, 70, 71, Senior, English King, Naomi - 16, 57, 80, Junior, Studio Art Maynor, Brandy - 34, Sophomore, Studio Art Melton, Jennifer - 5, 29, 47, 49, 81, Senior, Studio Art Meyer, Blair - 32, 66, 79, Freshman, Intercultural Studies Nations, Mason - 26, 27, 33, 72, Senior, English Petersen, Brooke - 21, 34, 46, 50, 64, Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Quinn, Melia - 15, Sophomore, Interdisciplinary Studies Remington, Rachel - 28, 51, 59, 75, 76, Sophomore, Biology Reynolds, Hannah - 9, 10, 32, 78, 79, Graduate 2013, English Reynolds, Michaela - 12, 37, 38, Junior, Early Childhood Education Schell, Jessica - 19, 21, 37, 52, 67, Freshman, Studio Art Scruggs, Jonathan - 31, Senior, English Snyder, Ella - 6, 22, 35, 44, 47, 53, Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Spivey, Eric - 69, Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Stephens, Joshua - 25, 30, 74, Graduate 2013, Studio Art Stevens, Brynna - 18, 36, 54, 77, 84, Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Stevens, Linnea - 40, 42, 68, 73, Dual Enrollment Whitworth, Zachary - 61, 83, Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Younginer, Emily - 11, 15, 23, 85, Junior, Psychology
Index
Design Credit Naomi King - 1-16 Jennifer Melton - 17-32, 65-80 Corinn David - 33-48, 81-88 Heather Bodine - 49-64
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The Mountain Laurel 2014 Sponsors Art Department, North Greenville University English Department, North Greenville University King Consulting: QuickBooks ProAdvisor and Computer Consulting Mark@KingConsultingSC.com 864-304-5638 Mass Communications Department, North Greenville University (Video, TV Vision 48, WNGR Radio 95.5, The Vibe, The Skyliner, The Aurora) Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, 300 North Pleasantburg Dr. Greenville, SC 864-232-8250 Moe’s Southwest Grill, 6005 Wade Hampton Blvd. Taylors, SC Dr. David Haynie (Professor of Christian Studies)
Colophon Font: Face of Yesterday 120 pt, 200pt; Day Roman 18 pt, 30 pt; Garamond 10.5 pt, 11pt; Garamond Bold 18pt, 48 pt, 70 pt; Garamond Italic 30 pt, 48 pt, 75 pt Pages: 8 by 8 88 pages: 56 1/1 80# matte, 32 4/4 80# glossy Cover Stock: 100# Sterling ultra matte Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover: 1/1 + flood matte varnish overlay Cover art: digital design by Jennifer Melton Adobe Illustrator CC, Adobe Photoshop CC Layout: Adobe InDesign CC and CS 6 Printing: Jostens Copyright 2014 by North Greenville University All rights reserved by the individual authors and artists