The Mountain Laurel, Volume 52, Synapse

North

Greenville University

The Mountain Laurel Volume

52

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The Mountain Laurel Staff 2016 Managing Editor: Elizabeth Latzka Poetry Editors: Courtney Jerman, Melia Quinn Prose Editors: Joshua Springs Josiah E. Wright

Senior Art Editor: Tyler Casamassa Art Editor: Estelle Erdmann Art staff: Ashley Blue Liz Lytle Linnea Stevens

Literary staff: Caleb L. Brown Sarah Carlson Karley Conklin Kendra Freeman Derek Gahman Professional workshop consultants: Dr. Greg Bruce, NGU Chair of Interdisciplinary Studies Mrs. Marcia Moston, author, winner of Women of Faith writing contest (http://marciamoston.blogspot.com/2016/02/when-fixer-upper-is-beyond-fixing.html) Ms. Hayley Douglas, NGU Instructor of Fine Art (http://www.hayleyjeanette.com/) Faculty Advisers: Dr. Deborah DeCiantis (English department) Ms. Hayley Douglas (Art department)

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The Mountain Laurel North Greenville University P. O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC 29688 (864)-977-7000 Enrollment: 2691 (Fall 2015) www.ngu.edu ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com

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Table of Contents Lost on Purpose

Lost by Accident 5

Art

Dollies, Linnea Stevens 10 Leaving Mirkwood, Rachel Remington 11 *Wasting Away, Dusty Kennon 13 Tiny Tim, Estelle Erdmann 14 Journey, Heather Anne Edwards 16 Raw, Mackenzie Wray 17 Sails Up at Sunrise, Samantha Monteith 18 *Imperfect Art of Reflection, Rachel Remington 19 Tastes Like Summer, Samantha Monteith 19 Lighting the Shadows, Katherine S. Ellenburg 20 Look Up, Katelyn Galyean 21 The Bomber, Jordan Hurley 22 *Stairs in a Mosque in Mitrovice, Samantha Monteith 28 Morning Dew, Heather Anne Edwards 29

Fiction

Paradise Diminished, Josiah Wright 6-7 After the War, Julia Klukow 23 The Forgotten Case of the Phantom Lady, Victoria McNorrill 24-27

Non-Fiction

The Pit, Joshua Springs 14

Poetry

Coffee Grounds, Courtney Jerman 8 Station of Island Nations, Joshua Springs 9 2033, Courtney Jerman 10 All I Know Is, Courtney Jerman 11 The Looking Glass, Derek Gahman 12 Covenant, Melia Quinn 15 I am the Prodigal Son; Watch Me Run, Dante Wilcox 16 The Words, Anna Tribble 17 City of Light, Laura Dyer 18 Stay Inside, Blythe Whitley 28 The Grey, Alyson Queen 29

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Art

Restless, Melia Quinn 31 *Reaching Out, Katherine S. Ellenburg 32 Aslan, John-Taylor Stones 35 In Honor Of, Katelyn Galyean 37 *Grit & Grin, Samantha Monteith 39 Moon Leaves, Blair Meyer 43 The Beaten Path, Harrison Caldwell 44-45 I Cannot Love a Man Who Cannot Protect Me, Estelle Erdmann 48 Get My Good Side, Katelyn Galyean 49 Flowers in Prizren, Samantha Monteith 50 Broken Link, Samantha Monteith 51 Gazing, Katelyn Galyean 52 Curiosity, Kristin Clardy 52 Selah, Melia Quinn 53 Lunaria, Rachel Remington 54

Non-Fiction

The Music of Love, Joshua Springs *Reconciling the Summer, Ashley Silvey *I Am Not, D. (pseud.)

Poetry

36 46-47 48

Fade, Caleb Crittendon 31 People Are Talking, Dante Wilcox 32 Stillborn, Jenny Hitt 33 An Excruciatingly Long Season for Which We Were Not Prepared, Samantha Monteith 34 Centenarian, Samantha Monteith 35 A Walk in the Park, Alyson Queen 37 Going Home Feels Like Destiny, Dante Wilcox 38 The Fall of Babel, Samantha Monteith 40 Ripples, Caleb Crittendon 41 Riding the Glowworm, Samantha Monteith 42 The Ligbts, Joshua Springs 43 The Beaten Path, Tucker Barnes 45 *Beguiling Thief, Blythe Whitley 49 Butterfly Beauty, Karley Conklin 50 Die Now, Jenny Hitt 51 Same Sky, Joshua Springs 53 Fortress, Alyson Queen 54

Lost and Found Again

55

Art

Fresh Beginnings, Katelyn Galyean 56 Yukon, Savannah James 57 The Beginning of Life or the End of Death, Blair Meyer 58 Boo’s Musings, Katelyn Galyean 58 Just a Fairytale, Mackenzie Wray 59 *Mint Tea, Mackenzie Wray 61 Heaven’s Foreshadowing, Mackenzie Wray 63 Holding Hope, Katherine S. Ellenburg 64 Huddle, Katelyn Galyean 65 Aisle Walk, Mackenzie Wray 66 Innocence, Mackenzie Wray 68 Death Grip, Samantha Monteith 70 Precious is the Flow, Linnea Stevens 73 Oliver Twist, Estelle Erdmann 76 Italian Hands & Coffee Stands, Samantha Monteith 79 Dear Martin, Estelle Erdmann 80 Daddy’s Girl, Mackenzie Wray 81 Contentment, Linnea Stevens 84

*A Tuesday Afternoon in March, Courtney Jerman 68 Meet Rosalie, Gloria Biggers 69 Story of the Drum, Karley Conklin 70 A Writer’s Addiction, Julia Holmes 71 Sowing to Wind, Jenny Hitt 75 Fall Season, Hannah Miller 76 Moonlit Memories, Anastasia Gunter 77 Aikido, Samantha Monteith 78 Cafe Barista, Ashley Silvey 79 Dear Martin, Tyler Casamassa 80 The Cups, Joshua Springs 83 Contentment, Linnea Stevens 84

Miscellaneous

Index 85 Judge Biographies 86 Judging Results 87 Mission Statement/Selection Process 88

Fiction

Pottery, Alyson Queen 60-61 *Wedding Vows of 35-Year-Old Bride to Her Husband (Who Has Already Had Three Wives), Katelyn Galyean 66 *Who I May Have Been, Tyler Casamassa 72 *Memory, Elizabeth Latzka 82

Non-Fiction

Contentment, Elizabeth Latzka My Sector of the Hashemite Kingdom, Ashley Silvey

67 74

Poetry

Seed, Samantha Monteith 56 Cold Warmth, Karley Conklin 57 Marble Walls, Linnea Stevens 59 Baby Girl, Courtney Jerman 62 The Deep End, Tyler Casamassa 64 Sinking Down in Blue, Blythe Whitley 65

Entries marked with an asterisk (*) indicate that a judge’s award has been given. Please refer to page 87 for detailed results.

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Paradise Diminished

by Josiah Wright

It was the sound that made the island paradise. Crash.

Silence. Crash. Silence. A seagull call echoed off the rocks.

Sometimes I would walk to the edge, eyes closed. I know, it was dangerous, reckless; a two-hundred-foot drop in front pulling me downwards towards the rock and waves. I did it many times, however; I knew every lip and crevice of that precipice. I teetered on the edge of oblivion just so I could hear that sound, that heavenly sound.

If I was on the south side of the island, or what I assume is the south side based on the westward rising of the suns, I heard the rushing. The soft, clean whisper of azure waves caressing the sand. It was different. The cliffs and the crashing were chaos. The sand and whispers peace. Paradise, each on its own terms.

This island was the most beautiful of all things in the world. I was raised in the sky, in a small white room amidst the heavens. There they cared for me—the bronze men.

They raised me, showed me beautiful things, taught me how to live, survive, eat off the land. Yet, in all my years, in all my time staring at pristine images of chrysanthemums and deer and seabirds, there was nothing compared to the place itself. To the sweet, pure breeze, the crash of the star-studded ocean against the heavy stone, and the moons shining like heaven’s eyes. I could swear they watched me, watched as I teetered and reached and breathed salty spray.

And that was life. That was all there was—me, the animals, the trees, and the bronze men. They were heaven’s guardians, my parents, and they raised me in that white room when I was only a child. They brought me to the island, and they visited me when the sky did not beg their presence. One especially, Michael, came down in his chariot often and walked with me through the woods, his gleaming arm wrapped around my shoulder, teaching the wonders of the world. However, despite all the wonderment he laid before me, all the knowledge and the beauty, there was something, something like a missing piece in my soul. He could see it. See it eating away even as I felt joy. That is when she came. She too came from the heavens, but while I simply lived amongst the stars, she was born and molded by them.

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I was walking in the wood and there she was—leaning against the tree. She had long red hair dropping in rivulets past her waist, unearthly azure eyes that could see into a person’s future and spirit, and a laugh—the way you imagine Polaris would laugh—unearthly and bright.

Beneath her, two squirrels scurried across the leaf covered ground, grasping for an acorn. They were desperate creatures, too; whenever one grabbed the acorn and stuffed it in its mouth, the other yanked the poor thing’s tail and out popped the spoils. She was bent over laughing, gasping for sweet relief from the overwhelming joy and hilarity of it. I too chuckled, and she whirled to face me.

“Who are you?!” she shouted, almost incredulously.

“Oh, I . . . um . . . I was just walking, and . . . I saw you . . . um . . . I thought . . .” I answered, caught off guard and trying to explain my meager presence.

Her eyes changed, sparkling from the ocean irises. The scowl widened into a mercurial smile. She laughed, and every muscle and bone vibrated with the sound.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s funny –” “I was only joking. No need to be so serious. Michael told me all about you. You’re Edmund.”

“Yes, but –” “I’m Evangeline.”

She offered her hand, and I grasped it in return. I stared at it in wonder.

“They told me I was the last one.”

She leaned forward and whispered, “Now we’re the last two. Now are you going to show me around or should I just keep wandering like a total fool and fall off a cliff ?”

And that was it. A simple enough meeting. I showed her the crash and the whisper. She loved the crash. Even more than I did. She would always love it more. Sometimes, she stepped so close to the edge I swear a spirit held her from the brink of death, and I thanked it every time. The beauty of the world encapsulated her and she it, and full-well knowing it would happen, I fell in love (because things like this typically do, or so they told me).

I was in love with her that first night, but we didn’t kiss for two entire months, when we knew that it was something beyond mere desire that fades and wanes with time. From that day forward my life began. To wake and see her lying next to me, the cool morning light shining through her hair and turning everything scarlet, that was paradise; that was joy. We were one and the same, raised alone in rooms in the

sky, then brought together.

Then the stars fell.

“You have to tell me what happened.”

Michael sat next to me. His voice was deep, speaking as if from the depth of some hole where dark things creep. That was a strange thought. Our feet dangled over the precipice, over death. I looked up and all I saw was the flash of lights in the sky. Heaven’s war. Angels versus demons. Or so I was told.

The tears had stained my face. Dirt and blood had convalesced into a mask, behind which I hid. The previous me, the innocent one. The world was red, her red. The red light filtering through her hair. It was all I saw and all I wanted to see. I heaved and almost fell off the edge into oblivion.

Michael caught me with his bronze arms.

“Whoa there,” he said.

Sparkling, azure eyes. They had stared at me, called out through the haze and smoke. What was it that destined man to gain something only to lose it? I learned very little history, the bronze men thinking it would shatter my perception and infect me. But what had happened to me hadn’t felt new. It felt old, older than any part of me, or this island, or Michael.

“We . . . we were on the beach when we saw a chariot; it fell from the sky and crashed into the woods.”

We had run for it, and on arriving saw . . . a man, reaching from the cockpit. We pulled him out and built a fire, but were unable to communicate, as only strange words dripped from his tongue. He was wide-eyed and wild, but all we could think to do was help him. Evangeline was all for helping the poor man. I was jealous; she was the last woman, but I was no longer the last man. I went to find firewood. Then I heard the scream. I sprinted as hard as I could towards the campfire. He was after her, and all I felt was fire and rage. I slammed into his side, launching him towards a rocky cliff. I beat him until blood coated my hands as he fought back. He was too injured to do much, so he just lay there.

“Edmund, stop it!”

I did. Slowly. He was almost motionless, almost dead, almost dark. I turned, but he pulled a weapon—something gleaming like bronze, but it fired off light and death. Something akin to a piece of a sun shot through my shoulder and I gritted my teeth with pain. The next shot was for my heart, my raging, black, smoking heart, but it never came.

It was in slow motion—the large branch flying past my face.

I had been sharpening it by the fire to use in the making of

a lean-to. But the point that was meant for the earth met flesh instead, and he stumbled over the cliff face.

“We killed him.”

“Yes, you did,” Michael replied.

There was a pause. Odd the way he said it; like bitter acceptance or as if a point had been proven.

“Is that when they took her?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Chariots, larger than any I had seen, blackened the sky above us. I had . . . I had fallen to the ground, but Evangeline was standing and was snatched by some, some claw reaching out from one of them.”

I knew there was something that I should say, but I simply stared straight ahead. After all, there is nothing to say or to see when everything has been stained by blood. Michael reached up and removed his bronze helmet to reveal an old and weathered face. After that day I shouldn’t have been surprised, and I wasn’t as much as I would have been months ago, but still.

“You’re human,” I state.

“Yes.” He replied. “We wanted to create a paradise; we knew we could.”

This last statement was said with a twist of bitter irony discovered only with failure.

“And the people that took her?”

“They are the others. To put it simply, the ones who do not agree with us. There are always those who are opposed.”

“To what?”

“Everything.”

I thought for a second, making up my mind.

“You’re returning to the sky to fight them aren’t you?”

“Yes.” “Then I’m coming. To find her.”

He gave a solemn nod of assent.

We flew away in a chariot. I didn’t look back because paradise is only for the innocent, and I wasn’t there anymore.

But I still had a soul. I could feel it ache, so I knew it was there. I would hold on to it. Hold on to her, till the end or till I saw her again. I was leaping off the precipice, and all that was in my head was the crash and the silence.

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Coffee Grounds

by Courtney Jerman

Dark, aromatic, musky grit Clings to marbled fingertips, Each day jerking drooping lids Into convulsive fits.

Damp like April soil And bittersweet like love, These spoonfuls in the wastebin Are morning’s eager drug.

Creamer jugs and crisp, white cups Steam hot with sugared foam, And chocolate drizzles cross and end Like tire marks in snow.

The sweat from ground and scalded beans Shakes drowsy days awake, Yet lonely and forgotten rot The broken, black remains Wishing well the breakfast plateThe martyrs for your better day.

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Station of Island Nations

by Joshua Springs

Whistles, bells, and whispers, The empty station echoes it all.

The strangers are gathered, Not for the same destination, But for the same journey.

Squeaking shoes and bouncing feet Studying the number of dots in a tile Rather than the number of emotions in a face.

The rules say “Be an island nation, Sovereign and separate,�

No eye contact, no conversation, Just a nod, an acknowledgement of existence.

No more. No less.

The train comes, the cars loaded.

The seats fill, the poles grasped.

The movement starts.

All island nations on the same orbiting Earth Going together apart, Knowing each other is there But not that each other is human.

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2033

by Courtney Jerman We don’t wrap babies in blue or pink.

Stem cell serial numbers wear green, Like the ground used to be before We solved everything through science and technology.

Jacks are banned from toy stores For lack of Jills.

Finger-flips went still, and archaic expressions Gave way to who’s who and what’s next?

Ignorance is bliss until it births an action.

Apathetic eyeliner pencils and 30 day diets Keep quiet in exchange for attention while We keep wheelchairs in white-wall blocks like prisoners.

This is the end of the age.

Three rock skips from the sun, we cannot Stop this snowball progression of devaluing life By empowering pawns with board game money votes.

Dollies Linnea Stevens Graphite 12 x 18

Lake fires turn below the red-sole heel spikes And black suite, sports-car roads.

Feel free to mention me in your mad lib political remarks.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you; not all beliefs are equal.

For God so loved the world That [Like]s sterile, dark, and cold.

* The “[Like]s” in the last line is meant to mimic social media conventions.

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All I Know Is

by Courtney Jerman

In my hometown, Mary-go-rounds grow up to be doctors and lawyers and twenty-somethings with no direction who drink on Sunday mornings to the tune of their fathers’ disappointment, and I will be one of them.

It runs in my family.

It runs in my blood.

On Friday afternoons, my mother will sit in her kitchen and chatter about nothing of consequence with her book-club marionettes who all nod and shake their heads like they’re supposed to as she sharp-shrieks about me, as she cries about me (bitter, hateful tears).

Leaving Mirkwood Rachel Remington Digital Photograph

Father will be dialing numbers in some factory, checking mental-score sheet boxes for my irreparable flaws. He’ll be signing yellow paperwork with a cold-stone sneer, discontent that his name makes me his daughter.

I’ll never be better.

I’ll never be enough.

No, maybe I won’t drown at midnight in cheap, red wine and sideways glances. Maybe I’ll enact another form of living with heavy bass-lines and baritone brushstrokes, or maybe I won’t bloom at all, just a dry, wrinkled rosebud, I am dust before my time.

I am dust when I am ready.

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The Looking Glass

by Derek Gahman

Loneliness is a looking glass, it reflects the violent world – it constructs and destructs, convictions and convicts, castes and outcasts, wars and casualties. And then – I Step,

No I’m PUSHED Into the M M i i r r r r o o r r And I see that I am the latter-the O O u u t t c c a a s s t t Loneliness is cruel clarity.

An awareness of unaccepted difference.

Either I am wrong.

Or I am right.

And they are left.

I see the world behind me in the glass – an enviable party – I am the

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U n i n v i t e d

U n i n v i t e d

F o r g o t t e n

F o r g o t t e n

Loneliness is terrifying, A frozen state that must be melted From the outside.

But I can’t see anyone with a torch Or even a candle.

The world is forgetful – I am the

Loneliness is a looking glass In which we see the disparity between Ourselves and the world.

But I do all the despairing.

I grew weary of this terrible reflection And seized the mirror to smash it.

But the mirror belongs to them, and they Have made it indestructible – now I am

D D e e s s t t r r o o y y e e d d

* Wasting Away Dusty Kennon Digital Photo Manipulation

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The Pit *

by Joshua Springs

Like a trampoline, right when somebody comes down hard on it. Not the force of the landing, but the pull on the canvas. The stretching. The retching. Except there is no rebound. No force to fling the child high up in the air for the momentary thrill of flight. None of the joy. No rush. Instead, it pulls deeper and deeper in. Like a rubber band ready to snap or break, but the only thing that could break is your heart. Your soul.

Your spirit.

If only the release were as fast as a trampoline. When there is relief, it does not snap the trampoline back into place. Instead, it slowly wanes, like an elephant easing off a truck. The pull does not rapidly undo itself but slowly releases, still holding on to that little bit of string. It waits for its next opportunity to pull the trap, to catch you again when you don’t expect it. Whether you are by yourself or surrounded by people, it doesn’t matter. The trap is set. The trap will spring.

This is what loneliness feels like.

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Tiny Tim Estelle Erdmann Photograph 8” x 10”

Covenant

by Melia Quinn *

Our love was like eyes of fire, burning red, like the sea you seemed to part for me.

Chariots could not chase us down, running, Exodus from all I let myself be.

Our love was like an olive branch, white dove perched on the promise of never flooding.

Our hands had been a field, a hidden grove, stealing pockets of seeds, never budding.

Our love was like manna from the heavens; we ate and we lived and we melted down our golden altars with all our questions of what it would mean to be truly found.

Our love was never holy, it was just the sum of depravity, dust to dust.

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I am the Prodigal Son; Watch Me Run by Dante Wilcox I am the prodigal son; watch me run, Or barricade your eyes. Share this shame As these rivers rush from under the sun.

Though, condemned, I plod forth, leaving my gun; What use has it when there’s none left to maim?

I am the prodigal son; watch me run.

For fear of reprisal, I am undone While fear of God flickers – as dying flame; I am the prodigal son; watch me run.

Lend ear, O God, know these sins that I shun, I’m finished with swine with naught to their name As these rivers rush from under the sun.

While gold glitters around, what have I won?

Nothing! Not in the grip of fleeting fame As these rivers rush from under the sun.

Yet, far off, my Father comes for this one, Embracing my broken, shivering frame.

I am the prodigal son; watch me run As these rivers rush from under the sun.

Journey Heather Anne Edwards Digital Photograph

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The Words

by Anna Tribble

Missing you is like missing me, remembering what was forgotten in a life lived long ago, wanting, forsaken, and never ending.

Deprivation is as sure as the winds of a hurricane, No evidence of sure recovery, name her Katrina.

Bleeding feet are the cause of this torrid wasteland.

Having walked countless miles, I have searched for something to fill the hole you blew through me.

Tears well up like rain and spill over without constraint, as if the thunder clouds might just strike twice.

Then something disguised as peace comes, but only rests until it is realized that it is not the same.

It is a lull that transforms into desertion, destitution and desolation.

These are the words that cannot capture the feelings, feelings you cannot touch, and yet you are in them; something you cannot see, and yet you feel them.

They cut and sear, creating empty spaces like a body without a soul, devouring this mind.

There is a fire in the night.

Make it stop, breathe, restart.

Raw

Mackenzie Wray

Digital Photograph

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City of Light *

by Laura Dyer

Raindrops flit briskly from the sky, drilling chill into the summer air and everyone in it.

Clouds curtain the City of Light.

The Iron Lady holds her head high, grudgingly, in the low-hanging mist.

The Seine rolls wearily along in the afternoon drizzle.

Citizens and tourists alike scurry about, ducking out of the damp and into steamy shops and cramped cafés.

I have roamed your streets, you City of Light, and they glistened with kindness and peace, bursting with generations of love and laughter, welcoming all with generous smiles and open arms.

“Bienvenue à Paris!” you exclaimed to the world – and the world came.

With guns and with violence and with death it came, Its cruel murk snuffing out your twinkling splendor – and suddenly, in one splintering moment of chaos, you became the City of Night.

But as your lights flickered out in the terror and the screams, nations rose to join you, and your red, white, and blue gleamed steadily through the night.

Sails Up at Sunrise

Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

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Imperfect Art of Reflection * Rachel Remington Digital Photograph

Tastes Like Summer Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

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Lighting the Shadows Katherine S. Ellenburg Oil on Canvas 14” x 18”

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Look Up Katelyn Galyean Digital Photograph

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The Bomber Jordan Hurley Pyrograph (Wood-burning) 34” x 10”

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After the War

by Julia Klukow

He sits in a chair by the window, watching birds hunt worms in the garden. I sit in a chair by the table, watching his whiskery cheeks twitch every few seconds. The coffee in the mug in my hand has been sitting there undisturbed for at least half an hour. My fingers snuggle against the handle, but I barely feel it. He’s been here for three weeks. All he says to me is “good morning” during the day and “good evening” at night. That is all he’s said to me . . . for three weeks.

“Watch him,” they told me. I watch him.

He does not do much: he drinks. He cooks soup sometimes. He says “good morning” and “good evening.” Most of the time he sits and watches birds.

“Watch him.”

Approaching him directly would be indelicate. But I want to know what he sees when he looks at the birds. Does their hole-digging remind him of his own? He flinches as a woodpecker begins his work for the day. I flinch, too, remembering how quick he used to be . . . .

“What have you done?” The growl made me jump back.

I hid the hatchet behind my back and shook my head.

“I’m sorry.” I bit my lip to hold back tears – he did not like tears.

“What have you done?” He shoved me aside, marched to the tree stump, and reached out. The tiny body rested limply against his palm. Blood stained the sleeve of his hunting jacket.

“I’m sorry.” And the belt made me feel worse.

He’s not that fast now. His mind is too heavy with his own bloody matters. I killed for roast chicken. For what had he killed?

In his chair by the window, he leans forward, his gaze remaining on the feeding birds. The chair cries out in protest.

I take my first sip of the coffee. It’s black. It’s cold.

It’s horrible.

I set the mug on the table and put my chin on my palm.

A bird starts to croak. It’s seven o’clock.

The red and black checkered blanket around him is losing its stitching on the bottom edge. He seems to notice this the same time I do, and he pulls at a loose string, watching as the sewing unravels. I should tell him to stop. My mother made me that blanket as a wedding gift. But I stay quiet.

He seems to lose interest in the string and glances across the kitchen. Noticing me for the first time, he gives no sign of acknowledgement. I have grown used to that. The pattern of my mug is yellow flowers painted between wavy navy lines. I take great interest in the cup and pretend not to mind his stare.

If he were still fast, he’d probably come for me. But he is slow now.

Shady seems to have remembered his guard duties: his deep barks rile the marauders in the garden. They twist their feathered brains around, searching for him. He bounds into view and they scatter into the air, above his head, out of his reach. Excited by their fear, Shady prances through the garden, destroying the innocent vegetables he is supposed to protect. Looking up at the birds, he does not see the tomato vine – and crashes into it. Confused, he shakes his head as he gets up. The trampled vine lies under his paws. He nips at a wilted tomato, and its red juice spills down his jaw.

“Good morning.”

He is looking out the window again.

I take the mug to him and place it between his pale fingers. He quit hunting to become a tanner: his labor has turned his skin to leather. I turn to go, but he grasps my wrist.

“Good morning.”

I nod and swallow a pool of summoned saliva to wet my mouth. Then I say, “It’s evening, Papa.”

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The Forgotten Case of The Phantom Lady

by Victoria McNorrill

Doctor John Watson Writes: The Forgotten Case of Sherlock Holmes: The Phantom Lady INTRODUCTION

Of all the cases Sherlock has solved, perhaps none was more curious than the Phantom Lady. I had stepped into 221B Baker Street for tea after an afternoon of house calls in that part of London, when Sherlock received an invitation: Lady — requests the presence of the Consulting Detective and the Doctor at dinner, on Saturday, October twenty-first, at seven o’clock.

10 Tennyson Lane, London.

“I do believe we have a case, Watson.” Sherlock remarked, placing the card on the tray.

“Sherlock, it is a dinner invitation!” I cried as I read the card. I did not question how he deduced the dinner invitation as a plea for help. Sherlock’s skills were impeccable, but a long day had traded my curiosity for exhausted acceptance.

“Excellent, Watson, though I was looking for a bit more depth in your observation. This is an invitation to solve a murder of an unknown Lady, with several possible murderers as guests.” He jumped from his chair and stood in front of the window, hands folded underneath his chin.

“Brilliant. Brilliant!” he muttered. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“Sherlock, you said murders— possible murderers— are invited?”

“Yes, do keep up. I am to listen to each give their reasons for not murdering the Lady and then solve it. Pretty straightforward.”

I put down my cup, the tea cold. “Then how is it she sent the invitation?”

“What do you mean, Watson?”

“You said the Lady is dead?”

Sherlock nodded, still facing the window.

“Then, pray, tell me how a dead woman would be able to send a dinner party invitation?”

Sherlock turned to me and smirked, “Ah, well, perhaps our dear hostess is an apparition.” He picked up his violin and the bow danced across the strings.

So was the start of our case—I will skip to the dinner party

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itself. While Sherlock privately interviewed each subject on a couch in the back of the dining hall, I recorded short descriptions of the suspects and their testimonies.

TESTIMONIALS MANFRED, THE SELF-PROCLAIMED GENIUS Male. Haggard. Clothed in rags. Indignant and haughty. Carries on about his dealings with spirits and his superior intellect. Sits alone crouched in the darkest corner muttering, eyes darting above his head.

“I shall say it first thing and be over with it: I did not murder the Lady, whoever she may be. Ha! No one seems to know who the Lady is. Yet, I, of course, already know who she is, as I am more intelligent than anyone here could ever fathom. I am probably the greatest genius the world has ever known; my talents are wasted on…no…chained to my unwavering mortality. I am doomed to roam this earth as a restless, dying soul with restless, dying people. I have been suffering so long as to not care much about causing pain to anyone.

“For, you see, I have discovered what it is to live and be great, yet I have suffered much. I shall explain it to you as I explained it to a mewling spirit once: ‘Thou didst tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; I have not been thy dupe, nor am I thy prey— But I was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter…

The hand of death is on me—but not yours!’ (Byron 137-141) “For me to live is a burden, Mr. Holmes. To die? The afterlife offends me in its mediocrity. Though any of these imbecils could be the murderer, I could not spare death to another mortal, however ignorant.”

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL, MOTHER Female. From Carthage. Draped in decorated linens of gold and silver.

Hair plaited on top of her head. Skin dark and charred-looking as if once severely burned. Avoids the fireplace and the lanterns. Marlow and Mrs. Woolf are the only guests willing to talk with her.

“The Duke talks of traitors. He knows nothing of betrayal. He knows nothing of heroism. I have suffered under the hands of my husband. A man I thought I trusted. A man I started a family with. A governor should be noble, sacrificing all to protect his people. Yet, he made a deal with Romans to let them have the city in exchange for his life, deciding his survival was worth more than the lives of his people. The Romans might have taken our city, but my husband betrayed us all.

It was my duty to make him suffer. As his wife, I could not

allow him to be unscathed in his cowardice. I took our children to the roof for the world to see what his betrayal would cost him, and what I did that night was for justice and revenge. I believe a woman named Felicia Hemans captured my historic moment quite well with her words: ‘The flames were gathering round—intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor-light, But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate Mighter than death, untameable by fate.’ (Hemans 23-29) Mr. Holmes, I never act without purpose. My acts that night were horrible, yes, but he deserved it. The Lady…I do not know her. I have no purpose in murdering her. I see no purpose of my being here tonight.”

THE LADY OF SHALLOT, THE DREAMER AND WEAVER Female. Breathy voice. Very observant of the party, and awkward when addressed. Hands fidget as if practiced in a trade.

“I, the Lady of Shallot, have often captured moments such as these in my tapestries. Forever doomed to observation, I have often yearned to be a part of an occasion such as this. Therefore, I, the Lady of Shallot, cannot help but be forever grateful to our hostess, however serious the purpose for the visit may prove to be. The most joy, I, the Lady of Shallot, found in my life was when a young knight rode by my castle, and I left everything to go after him. Before I left my tower, I hastily created this tapestry to capture the knight as he and his horse made their way through Shallot. As the inscriptions are small in the border of my masterpiece, I, the Lady of Shallot, shall recite them for you, Mr. Holmes. It says, ‘The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down from Camelot…’ (Tennyson 82-86) It is my hope that one day my knight will come—or anyone who would know my work and then love me. My tower gets lonely after a lifetime of staring into a mirror and weaving my tapestries. I have only left my tower to see my knight and to attend this dinner party.”

GABRIEL, HUSBAND Male. Heavy Irish accent. Dressed in a grey waistcoat and a top hat.

Carries a cane. Has a habit of glancing away when directly addressed.

“My hostess tonight, though I do not know her, she has invited me here as a suspect for murder. Murder! How can one who is dead inside feel or see the need to kill another. As if the hole inside the chest might be filled with more emptiness!

“I will share with you, Mr. Holmes, my observation of snow on a lonely night after a party very unlike this one. I have it written here: ‘…the flakes, silver and dark, [fall] obliquely against the lamplight…It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. [My] soul swooned slowly as [I] heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead’ (Joyce 459).

“My point, Mr. Holmes, is: just as the snow covers the ground even now throughout my country, so curiosity and pain is placed over all of humankind. We are numbed with the comfort of death, but our curiosity for the unknown shall kill us one day. We are even faced with the disappointment of life at a party like the one tonight, our curiosity for the Lady will get the best of us.

As Psyche fell in love with her unknown lover, her curiosity won over and she lost him forever. The guests in attendance tonight are like Psyche, allowing curiosity to risk reputation. However, all we will face is disappointment—as the Lady has gone on to another life. Who am I to govern who dies when and where? As I have said before, I do not know the Lady. I am innocent of the Lady’s murder, and I hope she has found peace.”

VIRGINIA WOOLF, NOVELIST Female. Sad, intelligent eyes. Wearing simple chain necklace and a longsleeved dress. Mostly smokes and discusses politics with the men.

“Look at this room, so lavishly decorated in paintings and tapestries. I suppose it was here that the Lady died? It is obvious to me that the Lady who lived in these halls had time and wealth to spare in order to create such beautiful things. I wonder if she ever dined well or had a room of her own to create her art. I have often pondered the worth of having a room of my own—a room in which I could forget my responsibilities and simply write. My heart aches for such a gift! As I said, life demands much of me. All I desire is to be free to write, but I feel so confined to my duties.

“As for her murder, I weep over her death and regret I could never know her. Yet, it seems no one here tonight knew her.

Such is the cost of being a female artist; no one will ever know the artistic intellect of a woman so long as men dominate

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literature. In her honor, I shall recite from my novel: ‘Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman’ (Woolf 3.2).

“I ask, Mr. Holmes, that you deal with the murderer harshly, for no great woman ever deserves to die in this way—unknown to the world.”

Samuel Taylor Colridge, Poet and harp enthusiast Male. Wide-face. Wearing mid-eighteenth century grab—navy and grey.

Complains of a toothache and depends on “toothache drops” for the pain.

“The mind, Mr. Holmes, is filled with imagination and artistic ability, all that is required for those abilities and imagination to be tuned and played the right way. A stroke of genius, so to speak, could take every thought and every dream we could ever have and transform it into great art. To achieve the title of genius, Mr. Holmes, has been my life’s work. I have written poetry until I have bled ink. There is no agenda outside my art, you see. The Lady, this mysterious Lady, I have not met her in my life. Surely, surely, I would remember such elegance and genius. Her artwork is clearly displayed on the walls in these halls—no, do not argue! I know an artist, a true artist, when I see their works. As I observe her work tonight, it is obvious each thread in the tapestries hanging here was inspired and threaded with purpose.

“Even so, I believe you asked where I have been these past few weeks? Yes, I have only come to town for this dinner party.

Indeed, I have been at my cottage in the Lake District. Some friends came to visit me, and I had injured myself. For their entire visit, I sat, confined in the Garden-Bower. I wrote some verses out of my frustration—what good is the host if he cannot entertain his guests, after all—and came to the conclusion ‘’Tis well to be bereft of promised good, / That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate / With lively joy the joys we cannot share.’

(Coleridge 65-67) “What great sorrow I find here, in the Lady’s death. All have enjoyed her artistry tonight, and the joy her works have brought us, while such joy cannot be shared in her presence, is treasured more in her absence.”

MARLOW, THE SEAMAN Male. Wiry with a gaunt countenance. Simple dress coat. No watch. Seems uncomfortable in his shoes. Mainly stands by the window, overlooking the cloudy London skyline.

“Two years ago, I hardly imagined I would ever be considered part of such devious acts. Since I touched the soil of Africa, nothing could shock me anymore. These past few weeks I have

26

been journeying back to England on a mission for a Mr. Kurtz, of whom I became…ah…acquainted with during my trip to Africa. I was on mission to speak to his fiancé about his untimely death. When I received the invitation to this dinner party, I was in my room. In that room, I have remained since returning to England, only leaving to eat. In the blaring silence of my room, I have observed the Thames and recollected my unfortunate adventures on the Congo.

“I have come into an understanding of all human kind and will recite the words of a story I can easily relate: ‘I raised my head.

The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost end of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness’ (Conrad 3.88).

“I must concur with Mr. Manfred: we all are capable of murder. The darkness lingers still in our hearts. We think we can become greater than the evil inside us, but that’s just the point.

The moment we forget our darkness is the moment we allow evil into our hearts and into our actions. Ignorance permits blind chaos. Ignorance is a result of darkness. With ignorance, darkness—evil—reigns unchallenged.

“I have no answer for man’s problem—only that the solution must come from something greater than what is found in us.

As for the present problem, you must determine the solution tonight, is it not so Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock turned to me after Marlow’s interview. “I believe we have solved our case, Watson.”

“You think Marlow was the one?” I questioned. “He’s quite disturbed, to be sure, but there were others who have more motivation. The Duke, for example…”

“I never think, I know,” Sherlock remarked, hands folded underneath his chin. The dinner gong was struck, and we rose to take our seats with the other guests.

“Then you know who murdered the Lady?” I whispered. We took our places at the head of the table.

“All in good time,” Sherlock said. He then smiled and addressed the rest of the party, “Let us enjoy ourselves for now. I will reveal my conclusions after we have finished our meal.”

The guest murmured their discontent, but complied. Servants brought our plates. Conversation flowed and the guests ate. A draft disturbed the tapestries. They swung as if trembling.

CONCLUSION At last, our final course was brought out. Sherlock put down his fork and stood, his arms crossing his chest.

“This is a most unusual situation, and I suppose I had to expect

something of this nature to come along in my career. Yet, what is most intriguing about this case is not that those dining with me tonight are suspects of murder, but that no one seems to know our host—not in life or in death.

“Though we do not know our host, she seems to know us.

She knows every one of you would attend the investigation of her murder, even if it meant compromising your reputations, despite all your claims of innocence.

“In life the Lady observed us all without our knowledge. Then, she died without our noticing. There is hardly any connection between each of you, other than her attachment to you all.

Which forces me to consider, was her death truly a murder?

“No one at this table knows her, and this is the point I am trying to make: Our Lady died without proper recognition, and she invited us to her dinner party for that very purpose.

“So who is our Lady? Ah, she dines with us tonight. I watched her as she walked about the room. Our Lady flickers in the light as if not truly whole. I observed her as we all ate. Our Lady hardly raised her fork. Of the three ladies here, who has lived her entire life in a way which forces her to observe others? Who of the three ladies here has desired attention above all else? Not Virginia Woolf - she has been published and treasured in her works. Though the wife of Asdrubal has killed before, all she desired was revenge.

“The Lady of Shallot,” Sherlock declared. “You are our hostess this evening.” The Lady bowed her head as all heads turned to her. Shocked expressions were to be found on every other face. Gabriel’s fork clattered onto his plate.

“So how did you manage to die then?” Manfred spat, his voice distinct and harsh.

“No, no she did not simply die,” Sherlock said, impatient, “It is much more than that. She left her tower. She abandoned her art, knowing her curse. And for what, dear Lady?”

“For love. For my knight of Camelot!” the Lady cried.

“Love, ladies and gentlemen, the great motivator,” Sherlock clapped his hand together, “And what happened when our Juliet went after her Romeo?”

The Lady of Shallot flickered.

“What happened when you left your tower?” Sherlock huffed, hands folding under his chin.

“I climbed into a boat to float to my beloved. I carved my name into the wood, while my heart ached as never before, and my breath became short.” The Lady’s face was etched with pain.

“I died before I reached him, and he never knew me.”

Her voice crescendoed, “Just as you all, whom I have observed

through the years, never knew my name, nor knew my work, never once did anyone think I was the weaver of these tapestries on the walls!”

The draft disturbed the tapestries again.

“Yet, we see you now and recognize the sacrifice you have made,” Sherlock spoke quietly. “Be at peace.”

With that, the lights went out. An orb illuminated the chair in which the Lady had been sitting. A woman screamed. A man— upon reflection, I believe it was Manfred—laughed. Then, the lights returned as quickly as they had been put out. The orb was gone. No one spoke.

Each guest left soon after the incident, disappearing into the foggy London night. Sherlock and I found our way back to Baker Street, gratefully taking the tea Mrs. Hudson had prepared.

Works Cited All quotations are taken from The Longman Anthology of British Literature. Ed. David Damrosch and Kevin J. H. Dett mar. Vol. 2A 5th ed. Ed. Susan Wolfson and Peter Manning.

Vol. 2B. Ed. Heather Henderson and William Sharpe. Vol. 2C. Ed. Kevin J. H. Dettmar. Boston: Pearson, 2010. Print.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “This Lime Tree Bower My Prison.

Vol 2A. 629-630.

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. Vol 2C. 1954-2010.

Hemans, Felicia. “The Wife of Asdrubal.” Vol 2A. 932-934.

Joyce, James. “The Dead.” Vol 2C. 2229-2256.

Byron, George Gordon. Manfred. Vol 2A. 712-747.

Tennyson, Lord Alfred. “The Lady of Shallot.” Vol 2B. 1181-1185.

Woolf, Virginia. “A Room of One’s Own.” Vol 2C. 2443-2477.

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Stairs in a Mosque in Mitrovice * Samantha Monteith

Digital Photograph

Stay Inside

by Blythe Whitley

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Thunder roars across The darkened skies–I will choose Not to stay inside.

I will brave the world outside; Let the rain caress my skin–

Lightning tears across The writhing clouds–This will be My home now. Among The tempest and the gale, I Forever will soar and sail.

I’ll let the thunder Draw me in–coax me out from This place I call home.

I’ll let it lead me somewhere New–a land where I may roam.

The storm sends shivers Down my spine–My skin becomes Electrified. I Revel in the thunder’s roll– A symphony for my soul.

The Grey

by Alyson Queen

*In honor of Dr. Greg Bruce & the Interdisciplinary Studies Department*

We are complementary colors: luminaries of black and white – The Grey.

We pull strings to make violins, Tan our hides for homemade snare drums, taut leather across our chests, making rhythms from the inside out.

We aren’t the words of a poem, but the blocks between stanzas, subways from comma to comma.

There are no lines in our roads, just intersections in coffee grounds.

Confidence in caffeine.

Cream and sugar, please.

Everything matters.

We aren’t pious pipers, just people, unafraid to get our hands dirty and washed clean again; willing to lend our glasses despite being blind without them, so with our hands we must sign the color of love.

We are kaleidoscopes: Broken people-glass that came from giving and receiving a rib made from sand. Some call us strange, rebellious.

I call us home.

And that’s the beauty of it: moving one grain of what we’re made of can change everything.

Morning Dew Heather Anne Edwards Digital Photograph

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30

Fade

by Caleb Crittendon The wind whispers a farewell to the fading leaves.

I catch one under the shade of the stripping tree And wonder, who will take her place or even know she’s gone?

Once she falls can she ever return?

There is a mystery in the fleeting beauty Of Mother Nature’s ever-changing portrait.

Her figure, so unique but never obsolete.

I pity the delicacy of a shaded leaf, Catching the eye of many, until she crunches under feet.

Her beauty is noticed only when her life begins to fade.

I see myself in the withered skin and dried veins.

For I know that time flies as the leaves fall, And the wind of life is coming for us all.

Restless Melia Quinn

Digital Photograph

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People Are Talking

by Dante Wilcox

People are talking; I sense that they must To join at least something in the core of these plains For Words are not alarmed by we creatures of dust To hold at bay the ailment that reels through this rust While treading the winepress and threshing the grains People are talking; I sense that they must

* Reaching Out Katherine S. Ellenburg

Oil on Canvas 14” x 18”

But their clothes flung too far in what little wind gusts And their vanities imposed “Keep weighing your cranes For Words are not alarmed by we creatures of dust” Looking to each other the poor yearned to be just It was not to be, so they drunk dry their champagnes People are talking; I sense that they must Come faster darkling coveters, dispense with lust There was never safety behind profits and gains For Words are not alarmed by we creatures of dust Time to climb these iced steps; wrap what’s left and adjust We’ll huddle together to put use to our brains People are talking; I sense that they must For Words are not alarmed by we creatures of dust

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Stillborn

by Jenny Hitt

My warm fingers gently lower the cooling body into the earth.

The cold soil brushes my flesh, Waiting to suck what warmth remains out of the lifeless form cradled in my hands.

Carefully I position the tiny frame to look as though it sleeps, Resting only for a moment, its head against the soft earth, But it will never wake to see the sun.

The earth will swallow it whole and gradually drain away resemblance to life.

Soon it will become one with the dirt, For without the spark of life, that is all anything really is.

We are dirty creatures Made alive by the blood that flows through our beings And fills our dusty bodies with warmth—the only difference between us and the soil.

But our blood cannot chase away the chill of death forever.

One day, my heart will stop, And it will be my turn to kiss the cold, irreverent ground And to lie still, as though asleep but never waking, As my living warmth is sucked away.

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An Excruciatingly Long Season for Which We Were Not Prepared

by Samantha Monteith

Biting little Jabs, Winter’s coming Again.

At first You’d barely Even notice.

The wind loses Its warm embrace And instead, A smart slap Takes its place.

But that’s not So bad.

It’s normal, Just a passing fad.

The frost Seems lost Upon the Strong thick Greens, Yet day after day It wears away Bright life

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Like a Bitter fiend.

The soil Is hard now, And there Is no room Left for growth, No caretaker Waiting down Below.

The leaves Suddenly Realize that they’re dying, As if someone Had them Gripped by the Throat.

From emerald To gold to gray They shed their Dusty coat, Spiraling down, Realizing in A moment,

They wish they Had never let go.

So now the Earth is silent, Save for the Screeching wind, That cackles Marvelously As all is buried Deep in Suffocating pure Snow, Lost and fearful, Absorbed anew Into the cycle of rebirth, Crying icy tears, Pain- a cruel Yet crucial show, Desolate and bare, Darkness all that is known, Stunted and unaware, That you have to die, If you ever want to grow.

Centenarian

by Samantha Monteith

My clouded eyes swollen with time Slip and flip over days wasted with brandy and wine.

Sloshed in a red sea of emptiness, I peer through the sheer water wall.

I can’t escape myself.

Broken stick hands Bend and strain and crack With a false hope of self-rescue, Yet trapped inside this bubble, Aged, yet eternal - I rise and fall, Swathed in perceptions of yellowed memories.

Muffled murmurs march deliberately into my ears, Yet the message is lost in the dark rooms Of a mind given to wandering strange lands In search of certainty.

Faces outside fade through hues of lavender scattered, And roll tumultuously around the sphere of my protected existence.

Thick barriers devolve lucid windows into openings of stone.

Now alone in a placid place Void of humanity, I quietly roar and observe the passing of the passions, The crackling of scorched skin, The ripening of sad, salty stains that Obstinately refuse to fade . . . fade . . . fade . . . .

Blurred mouths wither and open wide Like dead flowers that refuse to hide.

The question is, why question at all?

Shawl over eyes, let me rest and hide.

The world is no longer mine.

Take it all and I will ride time, Who has taken its toll, Leaving wrinkled spots upon my soul That now ache and beg to be retold.

Yet the dancing, pretty lies in front of my eyes Deny and stab my once spring-green bones.

Lubricant lost. Life has cost, More than I can pay.

And so I sit, losing my wit, Waiting to drop and float away.

Aslan

John-Taylor Stones Colored Pencil 6” x 8”

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The Music of Love

by Joshua Springs

I met her on a Sunday afternoon. She was big band swing inside and out. Wild and tame. Large and personal. I was not. I was heavy metal. Loud and rough. Incomprehensible and deep. She was a relic of the past, and I was a shadow of the now. It really should not have worked, but she made it happen.

She put the needle on the record. She asked about living in the 90’s. I asked about being at Gatsby’s parties. She wanted to know about expressing pain. I wanted to know about ignoring discomfort. Our vinyl sleeves showed different pictures, but our message was the same.

We were two records on the same player, but that was the only similarity. Our melodies didn’t blend. Our harmonies caused cacophony. Too much swing from her. Too much moshing from me. Too much rise. Too little fall.

Our records were scratched. Then the repeating made it worse. We could never move forward. Nothing new.

Nothing exciting. No climax. No release.

The scratches got worse. No more words.

The scratches got worse. No more tune.

Then the record broke.

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In Honor Of Katelyn Galyean

Digital Photograph

A Walk in the Park

by Alyson Queen

I walked by a man sleeping on a bench in broad daylight, with a backpack for a pillow.

On the walk back, two policemen had woken him from his dreams of slated roofs and warm meals, having an alarm clock every Monday morning.

He met my eyes, and all I could mouth was “I’m sorry.”

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Going Home Feels Like Destiny

by Dante Wilcox

Going home feels like destiny, Even if hogs were fed to me with brine in their bellies; Goddesses and demigods, take your fill, For I shall dust off my shoes To make forward the march And set high these Greek sails.

Take one good look, and know without a doubt That I am Nobody, Not even my God is named in your halls.

I spent a young lifetime at war, And now time encompasses me again With a decade of brutal misery While I hide under sheep and bind myself with cords.

What can witches say that will hold me down?

I have begged for pardon from the lightning and the mountain; On my hands and knees I begged for mercy That I would not succumb to my defeated foe, Who makes himself a fool – forever bound To the stench of pigs’ flesh That rushes headlong into the sea, Plummeting and vaporized By the fire that is much more liquid than smoke.

Going home feels like destiny; I only hope where I’m going is home.

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* Grit & Grin Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

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Fall of Babel

by Samantha Monteith Mushy words Squishing in my throat, Dangling darlings, Reducing me to croak.

Formulas followed, Greedy fingers smacked, You ambitious fool, Who are you to act!?

Infantile status, Grasping at the wind, Empty hands, Held down-pinned.

Humbled child, Piling bright neon blocks, Square into square, Lost ability to even talk.

Helpless white babe, Innocent yet wrinkled, Brow burrowed in a frown, Understanding sprinkled ‌

Jibber jabber, Dibble dabble, All solidarity lost, My mind the tower of babel.

Upon a cake, Burnt brown, Fists clenched, Unable to decline a noun.

Slipping from reason, Inability to communicate, Choppy, sloppy words, Sounding down in a sorry state.

Echo of a thought Ringing in still air, Met with patronizing laughs And empty blank stares.

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Ripples

by Caleb Crittendon Boats mean ripples.

Boats mean men that cast their rods And wait – Anxiously patient, Reeling in ambition and nothing else.

Two hours in the same spot, And only reddened skin to show for it.

Maybe they know something that I don’t.

Maybe there’s something to their lures and lines.

Why doesn’t the water share her secrets with me?

Poets lure aesthetic ears and glean fine lines from such a muse.

But like the strange men on the boat My nets are empty, And I’m still waiting for the bobber to sink.

My pen, so full of ink, leaves empty lines.

Their hooks, so hidden in bait, return naked For one more worm lost in the deep, One more barb that never caught a lip.

I can feel their frustration Through the ripples they send my way As they glide towards the cove.

These strangers make my hammock sway.

They caught one!

Maybe I should change docks, Or lakes …

I’m not sure if it was The right place or the right time.

Give it a few more minutes, A few more ripples.

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Riding the Glowworm *

by Samantha Monteith

Swallowed whole, going down for a ride, Squished and squashed with the other Wriggling, giggling guts – Smiling big cracked smiles with alive, Electric eyes.

We tip and toss, seeming to float Inside this rippling neon sphere of Cold and cloudy space.

Empty, yet full we giddy up and go, Chasing the village stars set up Like blazing, broken chandeliers Dashing through yet another violet, Frozen night.

Outside the quiet is smashed by our Violent trip with blaring beats To which we all obediently dance and sway, Commanded by the sticky sweet sweat That can only mean life is being Fully embraced against winter’s chilled grip We slip through in the glowworm, Bright pumping, bodies mixed, black entrails With splashes of lime, lemon, fuchsia, and blue.

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Strangers in a stranger land bumping and bustling, Through the peace, vibrant eyes fixed on the Black diamond that sparkles inside With a natural mysterious glow, Enchanting the world, bouncing light Around, catching and throwing shade.

Cool and collected, the spineless worm Full of its worldly entertainments Spews its soul out into the night, Right on time.

All entrails surrendered we watch, Slightly stunned though we know Its death only means more life later.

Party on with the memories of tomorrow Held tightly in store, grab it close And come back to be absorbed again – Another chance to feel the wake of the world Crashing all around as the glowworm spins its Magic, wild dose of pop silk through the Dead center of a wandering life lost.

The Lights

by Josh Springs

A thousand lights hang above Each beautiful and glowing Accompanied by an unadulterated soundtrack The small creaks and groans of the world.

A thousand lights hang above Or at least I think they still do The lower, less brilliant lights obstruct them The harsh shine of ten blocks times ten thousand A thousand lights hang above At least that is what the old say No one has seen them for years now Not since progress has blocked them from view

Moon Leaves Blair Meyer

Digital Photograph

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44

The Beaten Path Poem by Tucker Barnes

So many of them running through the city streets.

They look lost, Confused, but in a hurry.

Where are they going? What should they bring?

Their noses are buried in the latest thing.

They follow the path, follow the crowd Because where else could they go?

The walls are built up guiding them one way.

There’s no use fighting it at the end of the day.

This place will be great, or so they’ve been told.

There’s a new field on which lots of land will be sold.

Plenty of rest and plenty of time That will make up for all of this standing in line.

But where is the food? Where is the water?

They don’t realize they’re just cows Being led to the slaughter.

Digital Photograph by Harrison Caldwell

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Reconciling the Summer *

by Ashley Silvey It’s all real.

Every aspect, facet, and ache is authentic and tangible, and yet, with the proper amount of effort, can be disguised.

I had heard it talked about in movies, in books, in the broken sobs of friends.

A brief period of mourning ensues at sun-up after a fitful night of restless slumber.

The morning caters a shallow sense of refreshment, but even the frayed filaments of light rays prove insufficient to exfoliate the darkness abiding in my spirit, weighing it down with confusion and chaos.

I don’t like to talk about feelings, so please don’t ask. I’ve never been the most apt at explaining myself or expressing just what kind of war is being waged in my heart and just how deep the cut has managed to penetrate. I have watched the scars grimly rising, their sickly, pale pink visages overextending their already unwelcome stay.

Not many can see the wounds. I make certain of that. Cover them with smiles – some sincere, others forced – and don a mask of heroism, though I know with certainty that I am a coward, fearful of admitting I am still a fragile little girl.

I had convinced myself I was invincible, Superwoman without the weakness or hindrance of fanciful emotion.

I had not traveled with the expectation of experience, but life happened, and somewhere along

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the line, I forgot myself. I knew my reflection before and still knew it after, but somehow I had changed. More than that, I had grown.

It started with an unexpected dinner arrival, or perhaps even before, in an airy room with reclining people drinking cups of tea, the intoxicating aura of San Pedro noches and the euphonic mingling of languages buzzing, captivating, lulling.

I was caught off guard with a single glance over the shoulder. I could have continued in laughter and communication, hot tea never turning cold. I could have, had things not happened differently.

Had he never paused in his perusal of electronic pages.

Away with the hypotheses, I remind myself. It did happen.

Arrival of a trio, an addition to two tables. Rain fell, puddles formed, a pool filled. With sleepy eyes and a desire for warmth, I retreated to the sanctuary afforded by pen and paper. “I’m going to bed,” my roommate told me. I would have to take my writing elsewhere. I discovered a welllit spot hooded by an awning with access to a star-studded firmament.

Near an empty seat beside me, an individual questions “May I join you?”

Talks of hobbits and the Ring, of Sam and of Frodo, of rugby and “Let it Go.” Words exchanged, a bond developed, the die was cast, and my fortresses were dismantling.

They had been erected for a purpose; but by 1:30a.m., after merriment and tête-à-tête, my mind failed to recall every reason I had ever feared, reasons why I had chosen to take refuge behind an immense, opaque citadel.

I was me, and he was him. And that was all.

The lake, beachside chats, Spanish on the dock,

mountains to the left and clear blue up above.

Perfect day.

Afternoon turned cool as evening approached.

You couldn’t come; your boat was going one way and mine another. We shook hands, hugged, made memories.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Thursday. The message I had wished for but doubted would ever come finally arrived, with a promise of your prompt appearance.

We hiked to the cross to take photos, enjoyed coffee while continuing rich dialogue. First day ended, the second was anticipated.

You asked about my Jesus. I asked about your schooling.

We ordered smoothies, visited ruins, and talked, managing to cover a lifetime of topics in a timespan of hours. You bought a bus ticket and said you were leaving.

I fooled with the fire of the candle while darkness engulfed you and tears obscured me.

You wanted me to smile, to pretend all was right.

Cheesecake and Sinatra contributed to a lightening of the mood. Near the fountain you asked me to dance. Though we were separate in our awful one-two-step, you evoked a cheer in me.

Now it was you who felt depressed and I who found “New York, New York” a comedic choice of song.

I didn’t know how to let go then, and I still struggle with why you told me you were back seven days later. Back where? I should have bought my own ticket off this painful process I had not foreseen.

Summer ended, and fall began.

Contacts and discussions inflicted damage.

Though a connection remained, the communication dissolved, the wound renewed, and the ache returned.

One day, perhaps, the photo long clung to will reflect my sentiments once again, but with an emotional distance and a peaceful deliverance. For now, however, even in a place of sun and beauty, my smile does not, and I believe will not, reemerge as it did on that roof top.

He has moved on to October.

I, on the other hand, remain helplessly in May.

47

I Am Not *

by D. (pseud.)

They say I am my DNA: a culmination of how I was born and my life experience. They say that I am not truly more than what I feel. What I deal with. Where I come from. They say that where I am going can be mapped and predicted based on my background. My family is my destiny.

Everything about me is written in the stars, that I follow their patterns and their molds, and that they do not expect much of me because of where my roots began.

had to gather the pieces of myself from the Four Winds to find myself. To define myself.

I think some pieces are still missing, so please be gracious to me as I put what I have together and search for the few remaining. I am more than the parts that make me, and I know the One who can make me truly whole.

They were wrong.

I am not my DNA. I am more than the culmination of my genes. There is more to me than my skin color.

I am not defined by my terrible metabolism, albeit I might be defined by my terrible diet.

I am not defined by lack of height, stature, or my crooked feet that Brazilian children made fun of.

I am not and will not be defined by this.

I am not my family.

I am not the adulteress who left me. I am not the abuser who destroyed me. I am not the father who failed to protect me. I am not defined by the ripped roots that litter my past. I am not the nomad I used to have to be. I am not the heartache of begging for charity to get by.

I am not and will not be defined by this.

I am not my struggle.

I was the emptiness that I felt. The blackness that became all of me. The darkness that almost ended me. The whirlwind that was my heart, carrying me to and fro. My undesired desire navigating, falsely promising me rest.

I was it, and it was me.

But I am not that now.

I am all of these things and none of them. My background shattered me, and my heart blew the pieces away. I

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I Cannot Love a Man Who Cannot Protect Me Estelle Erdmann

Photograph 8� x 10�

Beguiling Thief *

by Blythe Whitley

Thou sayst I have no heart, and thou art correct, for thou hast stolen it. Villain, I say!

Thief! Whilst thy pleasant lips and sweet words did Capture mine eyes and beguile my wits, Thy thieving hand didst creep unto my breast And rip my vital organ from its casing.

Even now, as I say these things, I feel a hollow ache behind my ribs – A hole thou left when thou didst steal mine heart: Whole and complete. ‘Tis thou who hast no heart, Despite the double thou shouldst possess.

Since thou shant part with thine own, My being shall ache from hollowness.

Get My Good Side Katelyn Galyean Digital Photograph

49

Butterfly Beauty

by Karley Conklin

Just as the butterfly can’t see The beauty of its wings, So my friend can’t see what we see, The traits that we adore.

Can’t see the kindness we perceive Can’t know the joy she brings.

Can’t feel the warmth that we receive, How when she’s near we soar.

Oh how I wish that she could know, Could know how much she means.

How I wish to show this butterfly The beauty of her wings.

Flowers in Prizren Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

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Die Now

by Jenny Hitt

Listen to the leaves…

Curled brown bodies uttering rattling whispers As they shudder together against the frigid breath of indifference.

Listen to them…

Shells of what once was vibrant and green, fresh and young, Now dead and lifeless as forms swaying gently from the gallows.

In their dying, there was splendor, As passions and dreams collided, gathering strength, flaming alive, A sudden resurrection in the face of death.

They were but a brief candle held to a sun —brilliant nonetheless— Though wasted in their dying.

Do not wait until the winds of culture change To stir what has always been within you.

Do not wait for the fowl to fly, The fields to ripen, Or the shadows to grow long.

Do not wait to die until there is no more time left to live And no one to notice, Die now While light is strong And world winds are warm and welcoming.

Die now While living eyes still dare to look up.

Die now While your death will be taken into account, Before you too will hang —lifeless and crumpled— As others die around you, Wishing they had seen the colors sooner.

Die now, And in dying, You will live.

Broken Link Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

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Gazing Katelyn Galyean Digital Photograph

Curiosity Kristin Clardy Digital Photograph

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Selah Melia Quinn Digital Photograph

Same Sky

by Joshua Springs We both sit under the same sky.

Same sun. Same moon. Same stars.

But we sit thousands of miles apart.

I sit in the dark, while you still have light.

Our rhythms no longer seem to work.

We both sit under the same sky.

Same color. Same clouds. Same rain.

But here everything has a different name.

Everyone here treats them not how we do.

It’s not wrong, but it makes me want to be next to you.

We both sit under the same sky.

Same height. Same width. Same pressure.

But we are thousands of miles apart.

It’s not the same as being near home.

We both sit under the same sky.

And I feel the same pain as back home.

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Lunaria

Fortress

by Alyson Queen

Rachel Remington

I’ll take every shot until you carry me home and cut me off.

I can’t ever let you leave.

My blood was the color with which you painted the walls protecting the boy that chose to love me but didn’t realize spending every moment tangled in tongues, in and out of tune, enforced the walls from which I fell after fighting to see the view.

You’ve grown a garden of patience in my heart, and while I waited, I found my fingers fumbling over petals of “He loves me,” “He loves me not.”

But now the Christmas lights have come down and I’m afraid you’ve outgrown me.

I’m just the girl that loved the you you couldn’t see.

You are music to me.

A face made of pure, white parchment paper, softened in the sun, speckled with Americana and sliding whiskey down the bars beside your eyes.

I slept inside myself and loved the most the half of me that was gone.

Yet, you were alive and killing me with calculated measure in every song.

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Digital Photograph

55

Seed

by Samantha Monteith Tender seed, Shell so silky soft, A delicate controversy Spinning down Leaving ripples in the air, And sighs of gentle sound.

Sweet almond eyes Flowing and fluttering.

Nutmeg tendrils Reaching, grasping.

With sleight of hand And twist of fate She floats to earth, Given over to dusty descent, Scared yet somehow content, Brown and bowing To gravity’s stern intent That she returns to the dirt.

Fallen angel, oh precious one, Though you think your life over, It’s really just begun.

Fresh Beginnings Katelyn Galyean

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Digital Photograph

Cold Warmth

by Karley Conklin

I sit on a frosted bench and stare at sparkling grass.

Puffs of white in the air, I see my breath.

Mist rises and surrounds the mountains, I guess the ground sees its breath, too.

Breath, light, life.

I’m praying, and while I’m praying, I’m staring, watching, waiting, hoping, trusting.

Cold air doesn’t touch me; my flannel keeps me warm.

The sun makes me warmer.

From my bubble of warmth, I see;

Yukon Savannah James Oil on Canvas

Trees still clutch leaves, grass still holds onto life, the cold blankets, reaches, touches, but can’t penetrate.

Somehow there is beauty in a cold morning.

Somehow there is hope beneath the frost.

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The Beginning of Life or the End of Death Blair Meyer Digital Photograph

Boo’s Musings Katelyn Galyean Digital Photograph

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Marble Walls

by Linnea Stevens My heart is like a fragile flow’r Guarded by thorns Locked up in my castle tow’rs My trumpets always warn

I’m fleeing from this royal dance But not because it’s midnight It’s that the concept of romance Fills me with so much fright

“There’s danger here and you’re not safe You’re right to fear so hide away The dragon’s here and here to stay”

But I’ll let down my golden hair If you can earn my trust By proving to me that you care Enough to slay your lust

Can you be my gallant knight Slicing through the briars?

And are you up to the fight Of facing dragon fires?

I’m deep inside these marble walls Under lock and key The only thing, these dungeon halls Are all inside of me My fear is like a witch’s spell Impossible to break I’ve tried so many wishing wells But none of them would take

Then you can scale my marble walls And I’ll give you the key Then we’ll escape these dungeon halls I’ll finally be free.

Just a Fairytale Mackenzie Wray Digital Photograph

I just want out of this masquerade I long to shout “My smile is fake” I’ve had about all I can take!

Can you see behind my mask To my eyes of tears?

And are you up to the task Of challenging my fears?

I’m deep inside these marble walls Under lock and key The only thing, these dungeon halls Are all inside of me

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Pottery

by Alyson Queen Mary grasped the steaming mug tighter in her numbed hands, her fingers chapped from the wet and cold. It was barely winter, which Mary preferred. She didn’t like the in-between seasons – they were too unpredictable, and she admittedly liked to be in control. Either you should be sun-kissed and swimsuit-clad, or able to find some human limbs beneath 80 layers of clothing. None of this shorts and a sweater business. Or socks with sandals, but that was a different, more sacred law of the universe.

Andrew was her roommate – no, technically housemate.

He sat across the table, nursing his own coffee from the mouth of a beautifully crafted artisan pottery mug; made by one of his many artist friends, no doubt. And that was perfectly all right. Mary was an artist herself. She liked to draw flowers and people and sometimes people made of flowers. She found something intriguingly sad and beautiful in the idea that flowers are born to bloom and then bloom to perish.

Mary and Andrew had been friends for a few years; always hearing of each other, but their social circles never quite becoming the Venn diagram. Now, her life was divided into two parts: a time when she’d known Andrew and when she hadn’t, which was weird in itself because it didn’t really seem there was a time she’d never known him. Mary always joked that she and Andrew were twins, separated by three years at birth.

“How are you feeling today?” Andrew asked, clicking his phone screen to black.

“Done snapchatting so soon?” she taunted him. Mary loathed snapchat. Why have a fully-present conversation when you can send poorly lit, unattractive photos of yourself to everyone else?

“Now, don’t you start,” he retorted, shaking his recently upgraded, calculator-sized iPhone at her. She shrugged, coming back to the first question, trying to create a worthy but truthful answer. She stared down into the dark coffee; it stared back at her. She examined the mug that was holding the strong, bitter darkness; it came from Colorado: copper and gold and silver, purposefully tarnished and oxidized to be a rainbow of metallics. Mary’s friend Katie had gone out

60

West to find herself, and that was the souvenir she’d returned with; that and a person Mary wasn’t sure she knew to be Katie. She sighed at the thought, just another problem to turn into a Rubik’s cube in her mind and play with on the drive to work or just before bed. She looked over at Andrew’s hands, at his mug.

“You don’t have to try to answer that if you don’t want to,” Andrew chided her. She looked up at him, his glasses reflecting the bright kitchen lights.

“You know how they always refer to God as the Potter?” she asked.

“Yes, obviously.”

“I don’t know that I like that metaphor.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, I understand the imagery. He’s making us into something beautiful; he puts us under heat and pressure, aka the trials of life. We’re delicate, easily shaped. But I don’t think that’s completely accurate.”

“What do you think is wrong with it then?”

“The original metaphor leads us to believe that we are only ever one thing – a plate, a mug, a pot – if that’s even true, since we’re technically considered wet clay. Essentially, we’d finally be a pot when we made it to heaven.”

“Yeahhhh man. I want to be a heaven pot. Make some heavenly pot pasta,” Andrew said laughing. Mary rolled her eyes to keep from laughing. She started again.

“All right, all right. But listen, I think that we may start out as a plate, and then God shrugs and smashes us on the ground because He isn’t satisfied. No artist stops editing until the piece is perfect, which we clearly never are. And let’s be real, when it comes to pottery, a bowl is much prettier than a plate, and a mug much prettier than a bowl.”

“But can a bowl make a pot of heavenly pasta?” Andrew teased, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before hiding his laugh in the face of his coffee mug. Mary shook her head in disbelief.

“So, anyway, in Japan, they have a process called Kintsugi.”

“I think I’ve heard of that. It’s when pottery is broken and the pieces are rejoined with gold.”

“Correct. Two points to huffle-pot over here.”

“All right, I deserved that, but the pun was a stretch. Anyway, Kintsugi. I’ve heard that used as a metaphor similar to the God-as-a-potter one.”

“Well, I don’t like that one either.”

“What? Why? That one’s at least better.” Andrew threw up

his hands in mild frustration.

“It is better, and maybe it’s even right for some people, but just not for me. Look at my mug. If God were to throw this on the ground, it’s not going to break.”

“Well, I mean, it might. This is God we’re talking about here. I think he could shatter a metal mug if he really wanted to.” Mary gave him a look. “All right, I get what you’re saying. If Jesus slammed your mug instead of God, the human element would keep him from obliterating it.”

“So, if Jesus slams this mug, aka me, on the floor, worst case scenario is I’m going to scratch or dent, but not break.

And no matter how many times He slams me on the floor, I’ll still be a mug.”

“Maybe not a very functional one, but still a mug,” Andrew thought out loud.

“That’s true. That happens to a lot of people-mugs.

They’re slammed so many times they don’t seem to be very functional anymore.”

“So far I like this analogy better, but I’m not sure what the take away is here,” Andrew said, leaning his head on the palm of his hand.

“When you make a plate,” Mary started, “it cannot be anything but a plate. When you break a plate, it cannot be anything but a broken plate … or a reconstructed plate with gold scars. Now consider this,” she said, holding up her mixed-metal mug, again, for dramatic effect, “this can be remade. A metalsmith can melt this puppy down and it can become almost anything. A knife. Jewelry. A frame for glasses. A vase.”

“A small pot,” Andrew interjected, “But those changes would be highly intentional. You don’t just melt a beautiful mug down for the heck of it. You would either know exactly what you’d be making or else you’d be at risk for wasting a lot of precious metal,” Andrew said, thinking out loud. Mary smiled and nodded.

“So when we’re put under the hottest of heats, we either change to show more color, becoming more unique, or we’re melted down to be made into something different, but we never lose our substance.”

“We aren’t clay,” Andrew said, nodding in agreement.

“We are copper and gold and silver,” Mary answered. “You know how hard this year has been for me. And it’s been hard for you, too. It’s beaten almost everyone I know down to a pulp. But for me in particular, I don’t know if I’m happy or okay or even hopeful, but I do know that I’m a mug.”

“You’re the freaking strongest mug I know,” Andrew said, reaching across the table for Mary’s hand. “So that’s how you are, huh?”

“That’s how I am.” Mary answered, returning his grasp, “And that’s good enough for me right now.”

“Well,” he said, raising the remainder of his coffee, “I’ll cheers to that.”

They safely clinked their sides, downing the remaining black, bitter liquid, leaving the mugs resting empty on the table.

* Mint Tea Mackenzie Wray Ceramic

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Baby Girl

by Courtney Jerman

No more than a powder-puff aspiration, You spray like rose-petal perfume across the axons Of my mind.

Your father’s a branch of my flesh As you shall become by the night, Cloaked in sapphire musk and deep red kisses.

Should I say that I’m afraid of it: The viper strike and swelling bite of honey-laden diamonds?

You’ll be nine long heartbeats from sunlight.

I’ll be shaking in the sky. I’ll be cracking in white light Before your storm breaks and gives way To cotton-candy cradles and bubble-gum paint.

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Heaven’s Foreshadowing Mackenzie Wray Digital Photograph

63

The Deep End

by Tyler Casamassa

I stood at the deep end.

Before me was a foreign world.

My toes curled over its edge.

Fists clenched and heart wrenched, I stood befuddled as my lids puddled.

I looked about.

Many were in, void of an out.

None were calling, yet I was beckoned by the dryness of my skin to the water therein.

Knees bent and reason spent, so I went for my leap.

Then just in time, the hand of Thine through a friend to stop me, to save me, from the deep end.

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Holding Hope Katherine S. Ellenburg Oil on Canvas 14� x 18�

Sinking Down in Blue

by Blythe Whitley

Sin-soaked souls dressed in stark-white sheets Drift down to river’s edge with doubtful hearts.

Songs ring ’round the circles saved-ones make.

Heads are held– hands clasped– hearts humbled down under the water-weight.

Sinners shuffle in stark-white sheets toward salvation, redemption, submersion– Suddenly sinking down in blue, eyes filled with light and you, they see Glory.

Shooting up and shouting out, newly-saved join the singing crowd.

Huddle Katelyn Galyean Digital Photograph

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Wedding Vows of a 35-Year-Old, First-Time Bride to Her Husband (Who Has Already Had Three Wives) *

by Katelyn Galyean My Dearest Bob., When I was little, I used to dream of my wedding day.

It took longer to get here than I thought it would. I’m so glad I waited, though. You are the man of my dreams. I promise you that I won’t kick off the sheets at night when I’m hot like that horrible first wife of yours did. What an awful habit! I’m not sure how you bore it. You are so very patient– just one of your many admirable qualities! I also promise to not wash the dishes with lavender scented soap as did the dreadful second woman you had the unfortunate circumstance to be wed to. I don’t like the smell either.

What dreadful things you have gone through! I hesitate to even mention the third promise in everyone’s company, but it is part of my commitment. I do promise never, ever to leave the toilet seat down like the third beast you were married to. How incredibly un-thoughtful! I know I’m marrying a wonderful man just because you dealt with that for four whole months! And last– a promise based on my own experience. I do, ever so seriously, promise never to leave you alone. I know the severe dreadfulness of loneliness and I cannot stand the thought of letting you feel that. When you wake up, I will be there. When you go to sleep, I will be there. When you go to work, I’ll follow.

When you are watching television, I’ll watch you. If you get a snack, I’ll go to the pantry with you. You will never be alone. That is my soul’s desire for you. I love you, Bob.

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Aisle Walk Mackenzie Wray Digital Photograph

Contentment

by Elizabeth Latzka

The June weather is hot and humid as I sit on the scorching asphalt parking lot. I am sweaty and grimy and have worn the same jeans for three days; they smell like sweat and have smudges of grime, sidewalk-chalk, and bubble liquid all over them. My hot feet ache from running around as the sweat drips down the back of my neck and beads across my forehead. Exhausted from late nights and early mornings, I should be miserable but am not. As I sit Indian-style on the asphalt, two little girls are sitting on my lap. I am completely content.

For my Kentucky VBS group, our days begin at a small, country church nestled in the hills of Kentucky. Except for the occasional hyperactive child, the kids at this first church are fairly tame. The majority are churched and well-behaved. But I am always most excited when it is time for VBS at our evening church.

This second church is located in a flat, valley sort of area. It, too, is a small church; however, instead of being surrounded by picturesque, green hills, it is located in the middle of a trailer park. Broken-down houses and a couple of shabby apartment buildings are scattered throughout the neighborhood.

My group and I begin VBS by setting out toys in the parking lot. Brightly colored, giant foam Frisbees, containers of pastel chalk, child-sized jump ropes, mini-footballs, and hula hoops are placed here-and-there around the parking lot. A boy about ten years old rides into the parking lot on his bike. “What’s all this?” he asks. “It’s for VBS,” I answer. “Do you want to come?” He shrugs his shoulders and begins playing football with one of my group members. Soon, our white, fifteen-passenger van arrives, bringing what seems like a hundred kids. Some of them dash out smiling and start playing; others are timid and unsure of what to do. I walk up to a little girl who is about three or four; she looks away from me and to the ground as I approach. I kneel down next to her and ask, “Hi, what’s your name?” She mumbles something incoherent, and I ask her if she wants to play with some sidewalk chalk. She nods, and our friendship begins.

The parking lot is busy after the van arrives with the first wave of children. With the second, the church parking lot is absolute mayhem. About fifty children are running around shouting, laughing, and sometimes fighting with one another. By now, my fellow artists and I have greatly improved the aesthetics of the parking lot with our pastel drawings. Bubbles are floating in

the air, frisbees and footballs are whirling overhead, and I can hear Double-Dutch rhymes being chanted a few yards away. Someone yells from the church’s front door that it is time to come into the sanctuary. As we walk into the cool, air-conditioned building, one of my little buddies expresses intense excitement before entering the sanctuary. “I wanna see what’s in there,” he says. “I’ve never been inside a church before. I don’t know what churches look like on the inside.”

We all sit down on the red cushioned pews. The blasting air-conditioning is refreshing after our outside play. We pray, and now it is time to sing. As the music starts, we all look like drunken monkeys trying to balance on rickety unicycles as we sing and dance. After the singing, two of my group members and I lead the fourth through sixth graders to their classroom for the lesson and crafttime. Our classroom is a cramped room which the air conditioning never seems to reach. Because the preschoolers are in the room right outside of ours, we do not have the luxury of opening the door to let in the cooler air. The first kids to arrive crowd around two tables that have been pushed together while the late-comers sit in metal folding chairs lined against the wall. At least one kid (one year we had three) always likes to be disruptive and troublesome.

Despite these discomforts, I always enjoy our lessons in this hot, stuffy, cramped room with disruptive sixth graders better than in the calm atmosphere of our morning church.

After we finish the lesson and craft time, it is time to go outside again to play. The kids file out, collect their snack from the little-old-lady church-members, and walk to the parking lot to eat and play. By the time we arrive outside, a preschooler has already spilled something, generally apple juice or chocolate milk. Bits of cheese-puffs and sandwich bread are scattered about the parking lot. A couple of my fifth graders ask me to jump rope with them.

I last for about half of the rhyme until my feet become caught in the hot-pink rope. Another of my kids asks me to “swing him.” I pick up the little guy from behind his arms and twirl him around as he screams and laughs. “Again, again!” he shouts. I hear a voice behind me saying, “Me, too! Swing me next!”

Heat, humidity, sweat, sticky hands, and dirty clothes certainly do not sound like they would bring any sort of enjoyment; yet my week in Kentucky is one of my favorite weeks out of the year.

67

A Tuesday Afternoon in March *

by Courtney Jerman

The sky hovers lazily above our frenzied splatter of noise.

It yawns in flat blue pigments like acrylic paint, And its clouds stick like wet plaster, Fresh from the spackling knife, to its face.

The sun grins, blaringly bright, and shrieks in high C. How tenderly that note reverberates throughout the ether, Ringing before its red sting leaves pinch marks on pale-white cheeks.

Innocence Mackenzie Wray Digital Photography

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Meet Rosalie

by Gloria Biggers

Meet Rosalie– she is nine.

She loves to pretend.

This morning she has decided to be a mermaid.

A mermaid whose home is a lagoon nestled in the mountains.

An itty-bitty pool of crystal-clear water surrounded by trees.

Trees whose leaves are a million shades of blue and green.

The little kingdom called the Cove.

The Sun has woken from her nap and has come to say hello to her favorite mermaid.

As the rays of sunlight skip across the mountain peaks, Rosalie with her ruddy cheeks gives the Sun an approving smile.

A day full of underwater adventures awaits her.

In the shallows of the lagoon she collects reeds and shells for her crown.

She is preparing a solo for her forest creature friends who dwell near the Cove.

“Beautiful humming, Rosalie,” said Fox. “Thank you, Fox.” Rosalie is not afraid of the dark depths of the lagoon.

That is where the most stunning pearls are hidden.

Her jellyfish companions light her path as she swims.

She asks her firefly friends to make the lagoon twinkle for her evening performance.

The Stars and Moon turn their gaze towards the gleaming lagoon.

Bears, fawns, wolves, and field mice start to encircle the edges of the water in anticipation.

Rosalie places herself on her favorite rock behind a majestic waterfall.

The fish blow translucent bubbles that encircle Rosalie.

All the animals lean forward as Rosalie breathes in.

A single note escapes her thick pink mouth.

The note transforms into a thousand colors romping across the water . . . .

“Sweetie, it’s time to go,” says Rosalie’s mom.

“One moment, Mom!” Rosalie waves goodbye to her little kingdom called the Cove.

“I’ll visit tomorrow.”

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Story of the Drum

by Karley Conklin

Crystal stream, a babbling brook twisting down the mountain.

Full emerald trees shiver on a clear blue day.

A beautiful day.

A perfect day.

The kind of day when fairies dance and sprites sing in the trees.

A rumble shakes through the midst of the beauty.

A growl, a roar breaks through the air.

Chased, hunted, suddenly running for your life.

Speed builds, speed fades, speed is renewed at the sound of approaching footfalls.

You can run no further.

You stop, listen.

Silence.

Silence too sweet to be true.

Quiet, creeping, tip-toeing through the woods.

Where did it go?

Look around– light is fading.

No path to be found.

Stepping through the woods, all is quiet. Nothing familiar, yet all looks the same.

‘Crack!’

Branches break and noise surrounds. Slips closer.

It’s back.

‘Crack!’

More of them, all around.

Trapped, nowhere to hide, Lost, no one to call for help.

No escape.

‘Crack!’

Closer still.

Another rumble.

Another growl.

Another roar.

You rush to a tree, race to hide in its branches.

Climb, climb, and climb higher still.

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At the top, looking down, there they are, circling the trunk of the tree.

Creatures, snarling, vicious beasts.

Hungry.

They jump.

They miss.

They can’t climb.

They can’t reach you.

You can’t get down.

You can’t leave.

Temporary safety, Trapped in a standstill.

Stuck.

Death Grip Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

A Writer’s Addiction

by Julia Holmes

Sometimes You just want to write a poem With nothing and everything In it.

Like Anne Sexton– (that dear heart who wrote like me– [and felt like me.])

Just let it all flow out– let the words write themselves.

Stop thinking about Meaning or meter Timing and Rhyming Or all those intellectual holds That siphoned me At the left artery Of creativity.

Just let the wordswriterrightthemselves.

All over the page– just make up a new Alphabet That doesn’t let My pen get in the way Again.

Just let it all flow out– the way she did.

And get a room by yourself!

Alone With– it.

To stop thinking and Thinking– and thinking and talkthinking.

Just get– it.

And slit your wrist with a pen Jab your chest with it Again and again Gulp down a fifth of ink Patch up your wrist (Once the cherrycheery red lets out) And think.

Then– let the drink digest into blood– The stream won’t slow, No. When you cut again, this time it’s a paper-cut– on your fingerprint damn’d And on your wrist and your leg and your heart And lay down on a bed with paper sheets And somehow– that’s art.

The bloodinkblood drifts out into bed– Circles around your head.

And what’s made– is creation What’s bled– is poetry Destruction? No destruction is Creation.

You’ve let it all out– all the poetry in your veins (Direct pipeline to the heart– Bypass surgery of the thinktalking brain.)

Inkbloodink doesn’t thin.

Just drown the sorrows in whiskey pens.

Violets are red Roses are blue My blood runs red My blood runs true My blood bleeds blue– And so are you.

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Who I May Have Been *

by Tyler Casamassa

There was something I heard once, like advice, on how to interact with a person like myself. How people like me would always be around regardless of the times. And a certain man had much to say about caring for one in a state such as mine. I understand that people forget, or even fear to practice that advice. All I ask for me, and those like myself, is that you please do not ignore. But, I have no place to complain; I am guilty of “the shoulder” in my past. I never thought I would come to be on the other side of it. But it’s strange, there always seems to be enough to make it through the day. That is what I thought as I finished my last cold boardwalk fry, logged in malt vinegar. It was one of the better meals I had found this side of Broadway. Bench 22 off of 13th Avenue; I will have to remember that.

I braced myself on the scantily painted guardrail and took a long look down towards the pier. The old Pepsi clock, four minutes slow, read 7:28. In a few minutes the sunset would peek through the pier beams to make that beautiful mirrored array of barnacled wood. I could stay to watch once again, or I could try to make it to 58th before nightfall. If it’s anything like last week, the surfers should be out late. I like to watch them, you know. I guess in their lingo, you can say that I have this place “totally dialed.” See, at 58th, if you take off within fifty feet of the jetty you can get a great left break for about one-hundred feet until the sandbar closes out the rest of the wave.

There are times where I want to go out there, but I’d better stay on shore and keep my clothes dry, especially with the shore breeze at night. I know that they have seen me watching before. And not just with the intent of admiration, but more like a vicarious inspection of what I would do if I was out there. I

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appreciate when they take time to talk with me, like one fellow has done these past few weeks. When I gave him advice on his bottom turn, it was hard not to smile at his surprised expression. I guess it’s not too far-fetched with my long hair and beard and accompanying leathery suntan…typical surfer. At times, I even forget that I have grown up.

From my youth, it was my dream to live at the beach. I guess you can affirm that half of my dream came true. I am, in fact, as close to the beach as one could get. But living…I can’t say that with full confidence. The reality of my youth was that I had it made.

I had family, friends, and provision. But, with time, I guess you could say that I gave “the shoulder” to these as well.

As I watched the shrinking lineup at the 58th jetty, I pondered the past. I can remember exactly how I came to be what I call houseless. I identify as that, and not homeless, because I can faintly remember that same righteous man talking of a home that he is going to prepare for me. I can only hope that one day my memory will recall his name. Then I could maybe find him somewhere with the home he’s made for me. I watched the same young man that I had talked to last week come out of a sharp bottom turn with a gleeful yelp. Maybe he had taken my advice. As he stepped out of the darkening water, he walked straight toward me. He did not ignore me, but approached me like a friend as he had in the past. But today, he looked as though he really had something to say. As I looked him in the eye, my soul seemed to beckon, “Please remind me of his name. Please remind me of that righteous man’s name.”

Precious is the Flow Linnea Stevens Graphite and Ink

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My Sector of the Hashemite Kingdom

by Ashley Silvey The hush that accompanies the early morning hours is disrupted by the punctual boast of the rooster. The familiar golden halo that rests atop the neighboring mountains begins his gradual ascent into the paling indigo skies, submissively observing the unspoken agreement to harmonize his grand entrance with the tune of the bird. I slump further back on the dampened metal bench whose years of exposure to the versatile weather of Ajloun is seen in the innumerable scuffs of olive green paint that run the length of the bench.

Droplets of dew settle into the folds of my rain jacket and reflect the wave of dim light as it reaches from window to window. I compare the awakening of the town to the lighting of a Christmas tree and watch in silent admiration as the tenants of the concrete buildings execute their morning routine with a rhythmic fluidity native to the Middle East.

Head tipped backwards, I consider that this section of the Hashemite Kingdom must be the Creator’s choice canvas. Various shades of blue, gold, and rose streak across the firmament while a foreboding assortment of silvery clouds threatens to extinguish its bright predecessor. The cock has long since retired, determining within himself to postpone all further addresses to the human population until the next morning. My ears have hence been filled with an exceedingly eerie strain—this melody which possesses the unparalleled ability to simultaneously mesmerize and haunt its listener: the Islamic call to prayer. The geographic features of Ajloun, with its numerous hills and mountains, seem to furnish the ideal acoustic setting for an unobstructed projection of the chilling song. The slight breeze that tugs at my hair and the mist that has accumulated around the Baptist Convention Center where I am stationed can no longer be perceived as amiable counterparts. I am now under the impression that their allegiance has transferred, and their goal is no longer to entertain me but is to further the hypnotic voice of the muadhan. As a parting gift, a final petition for amicability between us, a wind carries

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the pleasing aroma of fresh ground Ethiopian coffee from my apartment, and I know that my time on the olive throne has come to an end for the present.

The steaming coffee sloshes around in its lidless container and spills over the brim, burning my already scalded hand.

Second to being in the Ajloun Baptist School teaching English, I am most joyful in the dining hall of the Convention Center. Upon walking through the woodframed door and entering the simple building, I am consistently met with the smiling faces of the fellow residents as well as the intoxicating aroma of orange marmalade. In descending the two sets of narrow tile steps, I breathe in the divine combination of homemade apricot jam, baked pita bread, chai nana, and fresh hummus. Upon entering the modest dining area, I delight less at the prospect of satisfying my hunger with the rich Mediterranean breakfast, and more at the chance of basking in the sweet fellowship of my brothers and sisters in Christ. The exquisite copper skin and dark features of the cooks glow as we compliment their brilliance in the culinary arts. They brew more chai nana, and I no longer feel the sting from the scorching coffee on my hand. Instead, I feel the warmth in my heart and the unsurpassable elation of being in community with the people and in the nation that I love.

Outside the kitchen, laughter and cheer erupt as natives sing praises to God for sending the refreshing rain during a season of drought. Tears gather in the corner of my eyes as I raise the steaming cup of chai to my lips, and my best friend snaps a photo of me sipping my favorite beverage. While some may look at the still of me and see only the pale gray, long-sleeved shirt I wear or the white teacup in my hands, I see, I smell, I hear, I feel, I taste Ajloun, Jordan: my darling sector of the Hashemite Kingdom.

Sowing to Wind

by Jenny Hitt

Sowing to wind reaps whirlwinds of destruction That come suddenly and out of nowhere With a bent from hell.

Subtly their soil receives nourishment As we bow our bellies low to earth, Scattering seeds of idolatry in our bends.

Fountains from our flattering lips Flow forth like curses against the God of heaven, Watering our tender saviors.

We, the cursed, With our own lips birth more curses That strip us bare in the sight of God. The blessing of idols Is but chaff which utterly dissolves Beneath the breath of Yahweh.

Still, we run to them.

We say, “God is not our healer.”

We trust in men.

He hates our sin Yet how His heart rends for us.

His wells of mercy are churned and He calls to us, “Return.

Return from barren wastelands, Deserts of desolation, and shameful pits of willful sin.

Sow righteousness, reap mercy.

Come back to Bethel; So be restored.”

We love His words but idols die hard.

Hot air whips round us And our whirlwinds grow.

Hearing His promise, denying its power, We pursue lusts under every green tree.

We are a purposeless people; Backsliders before God. “Who will save us in the day of our destruction?

For we have tested our Maker.

His jealousy swells as He delivers us

To our demons.

Will now our Gods reach out to us?

Shall they cease the whirlwinds with their words?

No. For the whirlwinds have become our Gods.”

Into darkness we fall.

In darkness we will remain Until the righteous roar Thunder from the mouth of mighty lion, Rolls across the hills, And rushes in like rays of dawn Lighting dismal skies.

“RETURN.” We look up And see the passion burning in His eyes.

We tremble As love, not fury, floods our fragile beings.

We cease our petty play in worthless dust And rise, To meet Him in the sky.

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Fall Season

by Hannah Miller It hurts, I know it does.

I’ve been there too.

That moment when you’ve woken up at the bottom, and you don’t know why you ever took the first step.

But I can promise you this: It’s okay, because sometimes, we feel pain.

It hurts. And this pain lets us know we were once brave enough to take the leap in the first place.

It is a wound, but it will heal, just like all the others.

One day you will look at this scar, and say, “I lived.”

In the future, you will fall, and be caught.

Oliver Twist Estelle Erdmann

Photograph 8” x 10”

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But not this time.

No, this time it hurt.

Heal, then forgive, then Dare to love again.

Moonlit Memories

by Anastasia Gunter

As the sky swallows the sun, the moon is revealed.

Your absence is a wound that never fully healed.

Foggy nights, by the swamp is where I dwell.

Haunting memories torture me still.

You lie beneath the earth, just beyond my grasp, The soul detached from the body at last.

After a week, I found you as a flower Resting peacefully, every day, every hour.

For years, sorrow crept up my spine, But now, I can see you are with the divine.

A part of my heart will never be gained.

I gave it to you. I cannot sell it again.

Keep in mind, you are tucked away in my heart.

I have kept you there from the very start.

Yes, one day we will reunite in the sky.

Until that time, fly high my love, fly high.

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Aikido

by Samantha Monteith Marble stones, smooth to the skin’s soft touch, Lie gently upon the even floor.

Round and quietly proud, They silently fight an inner war.

Forever set, a tone of endless grace, Standing for the rights of all, Their own included, Truth– given a face.

Wronged yin and yang won’t flee, They buckle down, Life lost and found, Balance corrected, All is as it ought to be.

Redirection of the heart, Pain thrown over, To guard the budding start, Offering themselves freely, Strong boulders of Defense to the dueling parties, Both offense and defense.

In shades of emerald and navy The soul dost give and grow.

Harmonic stones singing stoic, Suffering, soaring melodies of hope.

Their mantra repeated– aikido. Aikido.

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Café Barista

by Ashley Silvey

Italian Hands & Coffee Stands Samantha Monteith Digital Photograph

Circle and Square, Wooden tables all around, Dark, tall chairs mold to The seats of their occupants.

Earthy fragrance Tingles my nose As the barista brews an Americano café.

Candle light flickers In the center of each table top; Menus with colored pictures Lie immoveable beside them.

White glass cup Holds the fresh brown coffee.

“Careful,” she warns. “Es caliente.”

The cup is set down, the voices rise up.

Talking, music, and chatter Fill the air, soft like the smooth coffee I drink to the very last Drop. This is home.

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Poem by Tyler Casamassa Dear Martin,

Dear Martin Estelle Erdmann

Graphite 9” x 12”

It’s been almost seven years, I think.

I blinked like they told me not to, and sure enough, time flew.

They say I’m just like you, right down to the hair.

I think that’s fair, but believe it’s farther than skin deep.

I keep finding myself at a point where I’ve said our characters are tied of a similar thread.

You left me a mitt, my first catch, my first hit.

You left me a harp, how sweet the sharp bends and riffs.

You left me the Book, and it took a while, but I soon found why.

As far as I know it, you too were an amateur poet.

I won’t quickly forget what these gifts have meant.

So I’ll send them on to the next line of thread.

Hope to see you soon with the Word on our hearts, playing new harps for the original Poet.

P.S. I’ve still been dodging the raindrops.

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Daddy’s Girl Mackenzie Wray Digital Photograph

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Memory *

by Elizabeth Latzka

It’s all so blurry now. My memory is fading. I step into the old dance hall and it is abandoned, cold, dusty, and lifeless. My faltering steps echo across the floor. I am alone. I close my eyes and my mind travels back.

It is a sultry summer night, and the band can be heard outside the dance hall. I step inside with my friends. The humid summer night is cool compared to the temperature of the dance hall.

The smell of sweat is prevalent as is the warmth of dozens of bodies dancing to the tune of the live band. A smiling young man walks up to me and takes my hand and we begin to dance.

“Right, left, rock, step,” I repeat to myself internally.

Everyone is smiling, floral skirts are twirling, and lithe figures are being dipped by young men in uniforms. The trumpets create an atmosphere of warmth; it’s as if the color of honey is being poured forth from them. I can feel the sweat begin to bead above my lip and on the back of my neck. “Right, left, rock, step.” For a moment, dancing, music, and smiles are all there is to life. There is no war, no death, no pain, no loss. The uniforms become a symbol of romanticism rather than reality.

I am brought back to the present by the smack of my cane against the wooden dance floor. I gingerly bend my stiff body and pick it back up. As I hobble out of the old dance hall, I pause to look at my left hand as I have so many times before.

On my fourth finger is a small diamond set in a thin gold band.

Just an engagement ring, no wedding band. My smiling young man never returned.

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The Cups

by Joshua Springs

My cup runneth over . . . with tears All the time together could not prepare me for your leaving, Always wishing to have more time, One more conversation, One more joke, One more smile, The anticipation is hard, but the leaving will definitely be worse.

My cup runneth . . . dry.

The emptiness of your being gone, Of losing what feels like home.

Barrenness spreads, taking water from other sources Trying to quench itself but failing every time.

My cup runneth over . . . with memories.

Every joke, every compliment, all of it Pushing towards better things, While staying founded in the past, Going back for the wisdom Or just to feel at home again.

My cup runneth over . . . with laughter, The loudest song that we have.

All of us together, Never letting a moment pass But wanting to fill all of them together.

My cup runneth over . . . with hope Beyond the here and now.

There is the promise of seeing each other again.

Until then, with the foundation of memories and cup of laughter, I will empty my cup of tears And fill it with something more precious.

My cup runneth over . . . with joy, And it will never run out.

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Contentment Haiku and Digital Photograph

by Linnea Stevens

He watches the rain Content to stay in the house Of his kind master.

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Index Barnes, Tucker - 45, Outdoor Leadership, Junior Biggers, Gloria - 69, Literature/Print Media, Junior Caldwell, Harrison - 45, Outdoor Leadership, Junior Casamassa, Tyler - 64, 72, 80, Studio Art, Senior Clardy, Kristin - 52, Studio Art, Sophomore Conklin, Karley - 50, 57, 70, Interdisciplinary Studies, Freshman Crittendon, Caleb - 31, 41, Secondary Education ELA, Senior D. (pseud.) - 48 Dyer, Laura - 18, English, Junior Edwards, Heather Anne - 16, 29, Studio Art, Junior Ellenburg, Katherine S. - 20, 32, 64, Studio Art, Senior Erdmann, Estelle - 14, 48, 76, 80, Studio Art, Junior Gahman, Derek - 12, Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore Galyean, Katelyn - 21, 37, 49, 52, 56, 58, 65, 66, Media Ministry, Junior Gunter, Anastasia - 77, Biology, Freshman Hitt, Jenny - 33, 51, 75, Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Holmes, Julia - 71, Musical Theatre, Freshman Hurley, Jordan - 22, Studio Art, Freshman James, Savannah - 57, Elementary Education, Freshman Jerman, Courtney - 8, 10, 11, 62, 68, Secondary Education ELA, Junior Kennon, Dusty - 13, Christian Studies, Senior Klukow, Julia - 23, English, Junior Latzka, Elizabeth - 67, 82, English, Senior McNorrill, Victoria - 24-27, Print Media, Junior Meyer, Blair - 43, 58, Christian Studies, Junior Miller, Hannah - 76, Elementary Education, Freshman Monteith, Samantha - 18, 19, 28, 34, 35, 39, 40, 42, 50, 51, 56, 70, 78, 79, 2015 Graduate Queen, Alyson - 29, 37, 54, 60-61, Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Quinn, Melia - 15, 31, 53, Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Remington, Rachel - 11, 19, 54, Biology, Senior Silvey, Ashley - 46-47, 74, 79, Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Springs, Joshua - 9, 14, 36, 43, 53, 83, Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Stevens, Linnea - 10, 59, 73, 84, Studio Art, Sophomore Stones, John-Taylor - 35, Studio Art, Senior Tribble, Anna - 17, Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Whitley, Blythe - 28, 49, 65, Theatre, Senior Wilcox, Dante - 16, 32, 38, 2015 Graduate Wray, Mackenzie - 17, 59, 61, 63, 66, 68, 81, Studio Art, Senior Wright, Josiah - 6-7, English, Sophomore

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2016 Judge Biographies Art Carolyn Ford currently lives in Gaffney, South Carolina where she is the Chair of the Art Department at Limestone College. She teaches drawing, ceramics, sculpture, crafts, art history, etc. While at Limestone, the majority of her work has been donated to charitable causes although she has exhibited internationally and regionally. Some of her pieces are in the collection of Motlow College in Lynchburg, TN. Ford attended Middle Tennessee State University where she earned her BFA with an emphasis in Ceramics, Drawing, and Painting. There she studied abroad and exhibited in Italy.

She then earned her MFA from Washington State University in Ceramics and Drawing where she studied under Ann Christenson and Patrick Siler.

Poetry Melissa W. Baker was the 2011 Editor-in-chief of The Mountain Laurel, in which you can read her poetry and nonfiction. Her work has also appeared in The James Dickey Review. She graduated from Converse College with an MFA in Poetry and is currently residing in Pensacola, Florida with her husband and their two dogs. She is a nerd for almost every fantasy and sci-fi production out there. Matt Smith is her favorite Doctor.

Fiction and Nonfiction Yvonne Mason teaches high school in Greenville County and is the author of Reading, Learning, Teaching: Clyde Edgerton, a volume of literary criticism and teaching strategies for the works of Southern author Clyde Edgerton. She has been published in the English Journal, South Carolina Teachers of English journal, Huffington Post, and the New York Times.

Ms. Mason holds a B.A. in English from St. Andrews College in North Carolina and a Master’s degree in English from Furman University.

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2016 Judging Results Pieces honored with 1st, 2nd, 3rd place, or Honorable Mention were evaluated by judges without current North Greenville University affiliation. Knowledgeable in their respective field (art, poetry, fiction, nonfiction), judges selected works for recognition. Judges received coded literary or visual art files devoid of artist names and judged according to their own established standards.

Poetry 1st: “Beguiling Thief ” by Blythe Whitley 2nd: “Ode to ‘We can’t do this anymore’” by Melia Quinn (unpublished) 3rd: “Riding the Glowworm” by Samantha Monteith Honorable Mention: “A Tuesday Afternoon in March” by Courtney Jerman Honorable Mention: “City of Light” by Laura Dyer Fiction 1st:“Memory” by Elizabeth Latzka 2nd: - “Who I May Have Been” by Tyler Casamassa Honorable Mention: “Wedding Vows of a 35-Year Old, First-Time Bride to Her Husband (Who Has Already Had Three Wives)” by Katelyn Galyean Nonfiction 1st: “Reconciling the Summer” by Ashley Silvey 2nd: “I Am Not” by D. (pseud.)*** Honorable Mention: “The Pit” by Joshua Springs Art 1st: Reaching Out by Katherine S. Ellenburg 2nd: Wasting Away Dusty Kennon 3rd: Imperfect Art of Reflection by Rachel Remington Honorable mention: Mint Tea by Mackenzie Wray Honorable mention: Stairs in a Mosque in Mitrovice by Samantha Monteith Honorable mention: Grit & Grin by Samantha Monteith

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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 human experience and conveying the truths of Christianity honestly, whether implicitly or explicitly. To do so, the artist must represent not only beauties, but also 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 concepts of a moral universe, struggle between right and wrong, and the flawed nature of both good and evil characters in need of redemption. Imbedded within these concepts are moments of grace where a character within the work of art can choose to accept 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.

Selection Process 2016

The Mountain Laurel student editors and staff evaluated each selection, using a blind judging process in accordance with 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/viewing all submissions, student editors and staff rated each 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 improvement needed. Selections published are those that received the best marks and required few essential changes.

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Sponsors: Art department, North Greenville University English department, North Greenville University College of Communication, North Greenville University (Vision 48 TV, WNGR Radio 95.5, The Vibe, The Vision Online, The Vision Magazine) Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, 300 N. Pleasantburg Drive Greenville, SC 864-232-8250 Moe’s Southwest Grill, 6005A Wade Hampton Blvd.

Taylors, SC 29687 864-848-2885 Colophon: Font: Dawning of a New Day 13 pt, 18 pt, 35 pt, 60 pt; Garamond 10 pt, 11 pt, 12 pt, 14 pt, 16 pt, 26 pt, 30 pt Garamond Bold 11 pt; Garamond Italic 10 pt, 12 pt; Impact Label Reversed 12 pt; Rough Typewriter 16 pt; Rough Typewriter Bold 48 pt Pages: 8.5 by 8.5 88 pages: 56 1/1 80# House Matte, 32 4/4 80# House Gloss Cover Stock: 100# Classic Crest Solar White Cover: Plus Silk Finish and Matte Varnish Overlay Binding: Perfect Bind Cover Art: Graphite drawing with Photoshop manipulation by Tyler Casamassa Adobe Photoshop CS6 Divider Page Art: Lost on Purpose- Photograph by Ashley Blue Lost by Accident- Photograph by Mackenzie Wray Lost and Found Again- Photograph by Tyler Casamassa Idex Page Art: Graphite drawing with Photoshop manipulation by Linnea Stevens Layout: Adobe InDesign CS6 Printing: Jostens Copyright 2016 by North Greenville University All rights reserved by the individual authors and artists

North Greenville University is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of North Greenville University.

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