The Mountain Laurel, Vol. 56, Oracle by The Mountain Laurel

Letter From the Editors Our lives are defined by narrative. At times, the nature of that narrative is prescribed by an outside force, an Oracle of sorts. This Oracle lays bare our destiny, defines the expectations set for us, and proclaims the end results of our efforts when they have yet to come to fruition. Yet, even when such lofty openness and clarity lie outside our grasp, the reality of an existent and unchanging purpose remains undeniable. In this year’s edition of The Mountain Laurel, we sought to capture the fateful essence of the Oracle and our response to it. All tales begin with a Revelation. The Revelation provides a vision which beckons the hero into the world of adventure and drives him through the hardships to come. The Voyage is marked by both joy and adversity. The hero is exposed to new experiences and new sorrows, no matter how many miles he travels. Every quest is a journey, a Voyage filled with sea monsters, tempests, and ornery shipmates, whether figurative or literal. Finally, the prophecy is brought to Fulfillment. The hero has his homecoming, the villain is defeated, the allies bury their dead. The dust clears, a new day dawns, the old passes away. No matter the source of Revelation, the course of the Voyage, nor the nature of Fulfillment, it all begins with the Oracle. Justin Oates, Managing Editor Elizabeth Lee Williams, Prose Editor Davis Lisk, Poetry Editor

Art Adviser’s Note Oracles often have many interpretations, so the artwork for Oracle needs to be adaptable to each viewer. It offers multiple viewpoints at once. This choice of art style is characteristic of Analytical Cubism, an early 20th century art movement which sought to analyze and perceive multiple perspectives at once. The imagery has been broken down into flat angular planes, all uniquely shaped and layered together to create a semblance of a recognizable image. This approach can then lend itself to the individual viewer and their unique situation. While slightly ambiguous, there is a distinct progression in the relationship of the sections and their introductory images. Seemingly in the middle of the night, there is a sudden bursting forth—a message, an idea, a Revelation—and once it is heard, it prompts the next step. This leads to a departure—a setting out into the vast unknown in the bright light of day onto a Voyage. Once the journey has ended, all progressions and tribulations come to an end, and one finds the Fulfillment in the vibrant colors of dusk. Hayley De González, Art Adviser

The Mountain Laurel Volume 56

oracle North Greenville University 2020

P.O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC29688 (864) 977-7000 www.ngu.edu issuu.com/themountainlaurel 3

table of contents

Revelation

Miscellaneous Mission Statement Selection Process Staff Credits Judging Results Judge Biographies Index

4 5 5 6 7 88

Art *Seek Peace and Pursue It, Anne Zimmerman Stairway to Heaven, Brianna Williamson *Flower, Tyran L. Tribble *A Diverse View, Kara Davidson Home of Silk, Anne Zimmerman Scapes, Allison Gardner Untitled, Brittany Jordan Untitled, Brittany Jordan The River Runs Through, Alec Vardas Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Winding Road, Alec Vardas The Idleness of Midnight, Anne Zimmerman Lengthening Shadows, Anne Zimmerman *Je suis seule, Anne Zimmerman Fiction Snakes, Michael Thomas City of Light & Learning, Justin Oates The Flame Keeper, Justin Oates An Exhortation to College Students Preparing for Exams, Elizabeth Lee Williams *Leaf Burning, Samuel Heard Nonfiction Her Eyes, Rachel Henderson The Superbrother with the tattoos, Taylor Elliott

Entries marked with an asterisk (*) indicate that a judgeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s award has been given. Please refer to page 6 for detailed results.

Poetry Amoretti, or Love Notes to God, Jennifer Palmer The Hyacinth Canticle, Davis Lisk The Hard Way, Justin Oates The Lakehouse, Mary Anna Case Awesome Terribly, Ziaul Moid Khan *The Valley of Vision, Michael Thomas Today I Scaled up Mountains, Jonah Losh To the Worms Between Here and There, Rachel Henderson Dream, Michael Thomas The Search for God, Samuel Heard

11 13 15 16 19 21 25 29 30-31 32 34 36 41 17 20-21 22-24 35 38-39 14 26-28 10 12 12 16 18 25 32 33 37 40

Fulfillment

Voyage Art World War, Abigail Moore Overlooking Jocassee, Morgan Dickerson Mountain Stream, Brianna Williamson Untitled, Ariel Norris Ethiopian, Ariel Norris Autumn Stairway, Abigail Moore Spidle, Jessica Lee Rascio Ruin, Caleb Pepper Letting Go, Faith Yeargin

45 48 51 54 57 58 60 63 67

Fiction Perspective Fun, Hannah McCall Mr. Elbert Charles Buys a Car, Emily Steadman The Search, Elizabeth Lee Williams King Tom, Davis Lisk *From Sehri to Iftar, Sara Williams

46-47 49-51 52-54 55-56 59-60

Nonfiction *A Loaf of Bread, Samuel Heard The Grocery Store, Hannah McCall

62-63 65-66

Poetry Diurnal Course, Jada Barr Shrink-ing, Taylor Elliott Leaves, Jada Barr Peter Pan, Mary Anna Case What Lies Ahead, Nicolas Garzone Heal All Your Sons, Adelaide Dickens Ducks Out of Row, Karson Harsey Nightingale #2, Michael Thomas Our Lady, Michael Thomas Five Unmarried Brothers, Ziaul Moid Khan Coming of Age, Elizabeth Lee Williams

44 48 48 57 58 61 63 64 64 64 66

Art *Heading Homeward, Marissa Nelson Reflet de Moi, Anne Zimmerman Gate, Caleb Pepper Old Salt, Ariel Norris The Secret Garden, Brianna Williamson Untitled, Ariel Norris *Broken Hearted, Austin McAvoy Flower Mug, Marissa Nelson

70 76 78 81 82 83 85 86

Fiction The Tale of the Imploding Man, Samuel Heard White Unicorn, Red Hart, Davis Lisk Forgiveness, Justin Oates

74-75 80 84

Nonfiction *Bahama Sands, Rachel Henderson Mother, Leslie Meyers

72-73 77

Poetry Easter Song, Jonah Losh *Sprouting, Karissa Garzony *Joy Finding, Audrey Clement *A Song of Chick-fil-A, Elizabeth Lee Williams Breathing Exercise, Sara Williams For Japheth, Adelaide Dickens Man of War, Hanna Burick He, Snowy-headed, Davis Lisk *Summer Snow, Davis Lisk Kalendarium Christi, Davis Lisk Hope Set Aside, Karley Conklin *Resurrection Blues, Samuel Heard

71 72 76 77 78 79 82 82 83 85 86 87

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. Embedded 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 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, 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 from 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.

Staff and Credits Editors Managing Editor: Justin Oates Poetry Editor: Davis Lisk Prose Editor: Elizabeth Lee Williams Faculty Advisors Hayley De González (Art) Rachel Roberts (Literature) Faculty Consultant Dr. Cheryl Collier

The Mountain Laurel Staff Jada Barr Kara Davidson Taylor Elliott Sara Eubanks Charissa Garcia Karissa Garzony Kyle Jackson Hannah McCall Marissa Nelson Abby Nix Kimberly Rhyne Zachary Senter Michael Thomas Anne Zimmerman

TML 2020 Judging Results

Pieces honored with 1st, 2nd, 3rd place or Honorable Mentions were selected for special recognition by judges knowledgeable in their respective fields (photography, traditional media art, poetry, prose). Judges received coded literary or visual art files devoid of artist names and judged according to their own established standards. Award-winning pieces will be denoted with an asterisk (*) within the book.

Art: 1st place: Broken Hearted by Austin McAvoy 2nd place: Flower by Tyran Tribble 3rd place: Seek Peace and Pursue It by Anne Zimmerman Honorable Mentions: A Diverse View by Kara Davidson Je suis suele by Anne Zimmerman Heading Homeward by Marissa Nelson

Literature: Poetry

1st place: “Resurrection Blues” by Samuel Heard 2nd place: “The Valley of Vision” by Michael Thomas 3rd place: “Sprouting” by Karissa Garzony Honorable Mentions: “Joy Finding” by Audrey Clement “Summer Snow” by Davis Lisk “A Song of Chick-fil-A” by Elizabeth Lee Williams

Prose

1st place: “Leaf Burning” by Samuel Heard 2nd place: “Bahama Sands” by Rachel Henderson 3rd place: “From Sehri to Iftar” by Sara Williams Honorable Mention: “A Loaf of Bread” by Samuel Heard

Judge Biographies Literature Prose | Sarah Bailey serves as an English Instructor at North Greenville University, teaching both Freshmen Composition and American Literature courses. She has also served as the Faculty Adviser to The Mountain Laurel from 2017-2019 and enjoys the creative chaos of student publication. A native South Carolinian, Bailey lives in Taylors, SC with her husband and son. In her free time, she can be found taking walks and baking cookies. Poetry | Elizabeth Fredericks is an assistant professor of English at Hillsdale College in Michigan, where she teaches Great Books and nineteenth and twentieth century British literature. She is working on a book about regional British and Irish literature and is particularly interested in the intersection of religion and literature. When she isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reading contemporary poetry or retellings of classic literary texts, she is often baking or walking her dog.

Art Joann Benzingerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s use of photography as a means of expression began with film and has journeyed to include digital and alternative methods. Her work has roots in more traditional media but has expanded to include unusual print surfaces such as vellum with gold leaf, aluminum cans and image transfers to wood. Joann shares her work at local art shows, galleries and personal exhibits. She teaches classes at Greenville Center for Creative Arts, Spartanburg Art Museum and Wild Hare Gallery, as well as gives private lessons in photography, iPhonography, digital processing including Adobe Photoshop and Lightroom, and alternative processes such as image transfers and cyanotypes.

Amoretti, or Love Notes to God By Jennifer Palmer

It seemed to me for the longest time that You were just a name, Your being just a fleeting fantasy. The concrete under my feet and the salt on my face were ever more real than a word in a book. The trees outside, their leaves spoke greater truths than I could find in Your words. The moon itself shone with more illumination. But words can only say so much, and the brightest star is still surrounded by darkness. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a shove nor push nor a thrust. It was Your gentle finger, pointing at the obscure realities standing blatant around me. The concrete I tread upon, every day, every hour, was only a thin covering of fertile ground beneath, The salt on my cheeks, the seasoning for revival.

The words whispered by a thousand trees spoke only of one thing: the One who gave the leaves their voice. The One who formed each papery word by His own voice, stronger than the undying winds. The moon, that lovely maiden in the sky, was a mere reflection of something much brighter. And even that ball of light was bestowed its powers by the One who shined brighter than all. A Being, not just the creator of light, but Light itself. Not just definition, but unspoken Meaning. Not just reality, but Truth. And it echoes, that wordless Truth, silent, but ever there. Yes, stars may be but pinpoints of light in a fallen sky. Yet even so, each star speaks a timeless message requiring no excuse nor reason but that it is and that He is. All it takes is a moment of looking up, a moment of wonder as the stars reflect across your eyes and relay a message you have always known.

Seek Peace and Pursue It* Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9” x 6”

The Hyacinth Canticle By Davis Lisk

Tall-mounting bearskins cap With rich red, pale blue, Blushing pink, and honey sap, Adorn a guard, smart in queue, Wearing green and standing still In a garden thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s courted by a wind of weak will And renderĂ¨d silent by the Faerie Queen Mab, Fair princess-goddess of unseeable realms, Pierced by some glad dagger-stab, Kept fast by the guards of pied helms. Love for the lady, the Queen of the Moon, Sultana of bright summer night, Keeps close each heart with her boon Of beauty raining bright starlight Upon their heads like a glorious christening, Laving, anointing, purging, harrowing, Till, fair chance, they are new And clean-faced shine with her At the gates where the frost of the moon rides like dew On the grass under star while the crickets do purr.

The Hard Way

By Justin Oates

I sacrificed the skies to gain the ground, And, now that the foundation is shaken, I see that it was no foundation at all; Merely a superstructure of tenuous bonds, Vacuous commitments, silken half-truths, Which have all fallen by the wayside.

Stairway To Heaven Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

Her Eyes

By Rachel Henderson

The crisp mountain air of Millinocket, Maine, in the dead of winter was more than I could bear, clad in four layers of clothing as I was. So, I snuck away from the adults, who were smoking in the open two-car garage, to defrost my blue hands around a mug of piping black coffee. I clunked up the creaky wooden stairs, each step worn dark and dipping in the middle from ages of wear. Following my ascent, I waddled into the kitchen, relieved to peel off my parka, jacket, sweatshirt, and thermal long-sleeve, the boa constrictors of apparel. The coffee, thick as olive oil, cascaded slowly into my mug. As I poured the mud-like beverage, I noticed the soft glimmer of the fading daylight twinkling through the kitchen window. It glinted gracefully off of my grandmother’s antique collection of forks which hung like a mobile over the faucet. The aged kitchen utensils circled around each other, dangling just above the sink, carried only by a tiny sliver of freezing air which was invited in by an aperture in the window. I waltzed over and tickled the décor my grandmother had hung from the ceiling. It sang the perturbed songs of clanking metal which were suddenly chime-like to my ears. The warmth of the sun demanded a smile amid the quiet sadness of her passing. White paint, beige from time’s wearing effects, was chipping away from the trim bordering the window. She had stood right here, even while that paint was still the purest of white, washing dishes and whistling to classical tunes, I assumed. On the windowsill stood four Russian nesting dolls, each removed from her larger twin. The vibrant shades of yellow and red stood in stark contrast to the window trim and the pale blue sky in the background. I picked up the smallest of the dolls to admire the intricate details of its hand-painted body. The miniature matron stared back at me, and I felt that I was standing in my grandmother’s size six shoes admiring the bowling pin shaped figurine for the very first time. Outside, the white willow bark trees gave a stifled salute, unbothered by the slight breeze. I couldn’t help but think that she used to look out at these trees when they were barely knee-high, admiring the fragile branches of their adolescence. Grown and slightly wilted under the burdensome weight of snow, they stood like a slumped

honor guard at a funeral procession, commemorating their fallen leader. I whispered to them, “I miss her, too,” and, for their sake and mine, I said a quick prayer that the sun would retreat so that we could mourn under the mask of the night. I knew that her trees wouldn’t cry with an audience, a sentiment with which I could sympathize. The sun listened and lowered slightly to be shielded from my vision by a picture taped to the upper left pane. This photograph housed the sound of laughter, but, to the emotionally untrained eye, it was simply a picture of two elderly people sitting on a bench, smiling. To me, this was a vision—a work of art, an adumbration of love. My grandparents sat on a thin cedarwood bench, handmade by my grandfather and placed right outside of their cabin by Togus Pond. From where they sat, they could peer out into the water through a thin mass of pines, pines which served as the photograph’s frame. My grandmother was wearing a brilliant yellow shawl, indicative of spring. My grandfather, as usual, sported gray. Behind their winestained smiles, I heard her laughter clearing the air around the pond and silencing the animals that hid in the trees who marveled at the sound of such beauty. I shivered. The latches, which locked the window shut, were guilty of allowing a gap at the base of the window. I couldn’t blame them for faltering, as these latches were tortured from autumn days that turned too quickly into brutal nights. Opened and shut, opened and shut. With one deep breath, I inhaled the burnt aroma of cigarette smoke slithering up from below. Talk of funeral arrangements and the will crept in as well. I wanted to tell them that chain smoking wouldn’t help their stress any more than lighting a tea candle two rooms over would, but the smell of American Spirit brought the memory of her back to me. The sweet florals of her perfume blending with the smell of ashes were unforgettable, or so I thought. In my teens, I bummed cigarettes from strangers for the sake of nostalgia. I didn’t realize until much later that it wasn’t the smell of tobacco and daisies, but the person—standing in her kitchen, hanging forks from the ceiling, placing dolls along the windowsill, and living among the trees—who endured. But, now she was gone, and I stood in her place.

Flower*

Tyran L. Tribble Welded Sculpture 25” x 12”

The Lakehouse

By Mary Anna Case The waves lap on the muddy shore, Slowly rocking the dock at the bottom of the hill. A boat shifts against its bumpers, Gently tapping the sides with the rhythm of the water. Birds flap across the sky As the sun rises slowly above the island across the way. Waking up for the day in this place is easy, And though there will be exciting chaos in no time The gentle lull of the morning lasts forever.

A Diverse View*

Kara Davidson Drawing 8â&#x20AC;? x 10â&#x20AC;?

Snakes

By Michael Thomas I was driving the other day when I had a bit of car trouble. The car was hissing. Thinking it might be snakes, I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot. Nice place, McDonald’s. Health Department gave it an A. That stands for “Almost No Snakes.” So I turned the car off. It was still hissing, so I popped the hood open. Everything looked fine. No more snakes than usual. I reached inside and felt for the serpent belt. It bit me. That’s a good sign. An angry serpent belt helps the car run smoother. I put a bandaid on my finger because that’s where the serpent belt bit me, and it was bleeding. My finger, not the snake. I got down and peeked underneath the car. Lots of snakes. Absolutely covered in snakes, in fact. Obviously, that’s not good. You only need one or two snakes in your car, and if you have more than that, you’re an absolute prig. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Naturally, I was more than a little embarrassed, so I went inside McDonald’s and asked to speak with the manager. They brought him out. He was a mountain lion. Weird thing about him was he was eating a Whopper from Burger King. I didn’t believe anything he said. “How can I help you?” he asked. “Well, my car seems to be having some snake trouble,” I said. He continued eating his Whopper for fifteen minutes. He ate very slowly. When he finished he swallowed the paper wrapper with a big gulp and said, “So, you said you’re having some snake trouble with your car?” “Yeah, my car seems to be having some snake trouble,” I said. The manager sat down on the counter and slowly pushed an iced tea off the edge. That made the cashiers upset. He was a mountain lion. “Well, as you know, here at McDonald’s we don’t have any issues with snakes. No, sir. No snakes here. But you’re in luck, because at the Manager’s Training Seminar in Addis Ababa we spent a whole six week training session dedicated exclusively to snakes. Every day, before we were allowed to eat dinner, we had to find five snakes in the conference room. Wasn’t so bad, except after a few days we started running out of snakes. A couple of people couldn’t get dinner. They starved. We

had to put them down.” “That’s interesting,” I said. It wasn’t interesting. “Come look at my car.” I showed him my car. “That’s a nice car,” he said. “Thanks, but right now it has some snake trouble,” I said. “All right then, let’s take a look,” he said. He crawled underneath the car with a flashlight. Five and a half minutes later he crawled out, covered with snake bites. “Well, you definitely have some snake trouble.” “Thanks,” I said, “How do I fix it?” He yanked one of the snakes out from underneath the car and casually gnawed at its head. He was a mountain lion. “There’s nothing wrong with having a few snakes in your car, especially around the serpent belt. Makes the whole car run smoother. But, I see what you mean. Snakes can be a real pest. I remember the Virginia Snake Scare of 1973. Snakes everywhere. Covered the whole state. Nothing but snakes. Harrison Ford still won’t go near Virginia. Snakes, you know.” “That’s nice,” I said. It wasn’t nice. “So, is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked. “But my car is still hissing,” I said. “Yeah. You’ve got snake trouble,” he said. “Well, how do I fix it?” I asked. The manager went inside and got some of the workers to haul out a big barrel full of cooking oil. They opened the barrel and poured it over my car. “That’s to attract the snakes,” he said. It worked. None of the snakes left the car, and some more snakes even came from inside McDonald’s to get in my car. The manager lit a match and threw it on the cooking-oil-drenched car. It exploded. No more snakes. I went inside and ordered a Whopper off the menu.

Awesome Terribly By Ziaul Moid Khan

“A flower so simple and faultless, A bower so pure and dauntless; A life so sweetly fragrant, A girl fully un-malignant; How to praise this black beauty! On me has been bestowed this duty! All that she beholds: Becomes beautiful so suddenly, Simply awesome is she terribly…”

Home of Silk

Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9” x 6”

City of Light & Learning By Justin Oates

To the south of the continent, just over a short stretch of gleaming blue sea, lie the Delphine Islands, a verdant paradise under the sun. The crown jewel of these islands is Galstrom, their capital, a city which has stood the test of time like a sentinel surveying the southern coast, adorned with beauty unlike anything imaginable to an outsider. My time here is short, so I must set down on paper each detail which I can hope to capture about this magical city. The port of Galstrom is its liveliest district. Merchant barges from near and far pass frequently, bringing some meager wares of their own but departing with the material and magical wealth of the island. Sailors’ bronzed faces gasp in toothless awe as their gazes are humbled by the quality of Delphine craftsmanship, the likes of which they’ve never seen before. Multicolored sails bathe the bay in alternating rainbows of color as the clear southern sky makes way for shimmering waves and soft-blowing winds. The varied hues are matched only by the variety of languages spoken among the sojourners. Tracing the sturdy wooden ships’ masts and soft rolling hills upward through a series of onyx gates, one then arrives at the marketplace and commons. This locale provides the best glimpse of Delphine citizens. They bustle happily about in simple shades which stand in sharp contrast to the port. Market stalls are squat but wide, a variety of wares spread out over soft linen tablecloths as proud shopkeepers look on, searching for someone whose day they can improve. To them, each purchase is mutually beneficial, and thus they seek to ensure that both parties are contented by a transaction. Outside this central hub are the homes of the commoners. They are bleached white stone, all soft lines and rolling edges, but their construction is nonetheless hearty and resilient against siege and storm, though nei-

ther are frequent visitors to Galstrom. Open hearths stand ready to blaze when the sun falls. Quaint rooftop gardens adorn homes. Small pools carven in abstract shapes are interspersed among the byways, providing relief from the warmth of the day. The commotion here is softer, surer, and more intentional. Rather than become inoculated to the graces of the city, its inhabitants grow into it, traversing gentle slopes and rolling valleys with measured steps, as if to match the refined poise of their home. Farther uphill stands the scientific and service quarter. Many residents of Galstrom find employment here, serving as researchers of delicate sciences, assistants to those researchers, and fetchers of necessary materials. The buildings here are far from uniform, each bearing the individual stamp of its creator. The philosophy of the scientist weaves itself indelibly into the architecture, resulting in such spectacles as an herbologist’s shop with bioluminescent walls or a shipbuilder’s office which opens immediately into an artificial pond used to test scaleddown versions of new designs. The attire here varies as well, each scientist clad in whatever style seems least restrictive and most conducive to his or her creative process. Some wear colored bandanas indicating their fields of study while others are hidden among thick gloves and protective wear to guard against any explosive mishaps. Such mishaps happen on occasion and are the primary reason that the fire brigade’s main station is situated in this district. Through a final set of gates, one which is guarded firmly but lovingly by guards in carefully maintained uniforms, is the administrative and diplomatic district. Here lies the nucleus of Galstrom’s society, the place of origin for its many public endeavors and the source of funding for its flourishing intellectual community. The assorted Ministries chart the development of the city, provide advice and constructive criticism to its inventors, and main-

tain a careful eye upon the embassies of foreign powers. These embassies are curious in and of themselves, careful mixes of Delphine architectural style intermingled with the Varnayan, the Holstian, or whichever nation is housed within them. Yet, these secondary influences are just that: secondary. All visitors are well aware that the buildings belong to Galstrom, their outside cultural influences muted beneath the splendor of the local style. At the center of this district is the Delacroix Manse, ornate and distinct. Its construction is unique; the softer stone of the lower districts is here replaced with something grayer and more metallic. The exterior is adorned with the untarnished white and jet black of the Delacroix banner, with its golden accents utilized strategically as a motif as well. It stands tall, all graceful arches and elegant lines, like some grand cathedral. Less traffic passes through here than in the rest of the district. Those who do have the privilege of entry into the Manse leave as if forever changed, somehow struck by something seemingly beyond their understanding. Oftentimes, this peculiar change is attributed to the Marquise, who, despite her relative youth, is said to be a cautious and compassionate ruler, no matter how aloof she may seem. Her praise is sung by her every visitor, and her wisdom is great beyond her years. On occasion, she is said to wander the highest balcony of the Manse, observing her fair city with loving eye and devoted heart, renewing her commitment to serve it and its people. This letter contains but a glimpse of Galstrom’s wonders; the city has more to explore than one man could ever hope to experience on his own. Each voyage into the city must naturally be different from the one before; even walking the same paths results always in new discoveries. It is ethereal, beyond the grasp of my mortal mind, yet being there creates a resolve in me to investigate and enjoy it so thoroughly as I am able.

Scapes

Allison Gardner Wood Sculpture 11” x 11” x 8”

out to take hold of it once more, but to no avail. She stumbled yet again, her fingers inches away from the thing she was sworn to protect with her life. I may yet fulfill that duty, she chuckled to herself mirthlessly, for my life seems as if it’s about to leave me. It didn’t, not yet, but where life remained, consciousness took flight, dropping the Flame Keeper into an inky void of nothingness.

The Flame Keeper By Justin Oates

Her steps faltered in the deep snow drifts. Feet haphazardly found purchase wherever they may. The oppressive blizzard piled misery upon misery, the traveler’s weariness mounting as each gentle flake clung to her like some web of winter, intent upon dragging her down into the mire. The sun had long since fallen, leaving her with only her luminous charge for warmth and fellowship. The silver lantern’s cobalt flame burned low, brought to near extinction by the merciless season. She gripped the handle tightly, no longer certain whether due to her own intent or the heavy tax laid upon her fingers by the frost, exacting its due despite her thick woolen gloves. Shivers wracked her body. Tears streamed down her youthful cheeks with trepidation, seldom making more than an inch’s progress before succumbing to the frost. She dared not bring the lantern close enough to thaw them, lest her icy breath extinguish its sputtering embers. I cannot falter here, she resolved, barely able to hear her own thoughts over the howling winds. I haven’t trudged through this white abyss for so long only to die now. She felt like a candle whose wax dissipated and collapsed in on itself after long and wearisome use. Still, she marched onward with all the strength she could muster. Time had no meaning amidst the storm. Whether it were ages or mere minutes later, the Flame Keeper couldn’t tell, but nevertheless her feet finally gave way, unable to continue supporting her weight within their unsteady state. She smacked the ground hard, her fall mercifully broken by the deep snow drift. The lantern, extricated from her hands by the surprise of her collapse, landed a few feet away, sputtering even more weakly than it had previously. Her eyes locked onto that single point of light with tenacity as she struggled back to her feet, reaching

“Petra.” The young woman stirred at the sound of an unknown voice. She opened her eyes slowly, still weak from her ordeal. The cold rushed in again, stronger than before, chilling her to the bone. She must have been asleep for a while; snow covered her back, seeping through her woolen coat and tunic. Her whole body felt numb, dead like the surrounding landscape. “Petra,” the voice rang out once more. Her senses returning, she started, unsure of what could possibly be calling her name in such a bleak place as where she now lay. “Am I dreaming?” she asked aloud. “No, you aren’t. Now, get up, Petra. We’ll both die if you don’t.” Finally able to locate the speaker, her eyes tracked to the silver lantern she had dropped earlier, the one she was responsible for shepherding and keeping alight during her trek northward. The flame sputtered like before, but something was decidedly different in its visual quality, a certain resilience which she had not noted previously. The impossibility of a flame’s appearing resilient, a decidedly human trait, was not lost on her. “Who are you, and how are you speaking to me?” “I am Coramon, the fire you were just wondering at. Yes, I suppose I am resilient, but so are you, seeing as how you’re still alive despite all this. I need you to take hold of the lantern now; my ability to speak outside of it is limited.” Without further options on the table, Petra elected to try for the lantern once more. Despite the flame’s perilous state, it had managed to burn away the falling snow which had accumulated in sheets upon Petra’s back. She crawled forward, her knees unwieldy but still more trustworthy than her feet, until the lantern was comfortably within range of her grasp. Her fingers closed around

its handle once more. A heavy veil parted within her, wiping away any remaining cobwebs from her frost-addled mind and restoring it to full alertness. Her joints began to thaw, providing her with enough confidence and substance to rise to her feet carefully but assuredly. Coramon began to speak in earnest. “Good work, Flame Keeper. I’m happy to see you return to your former self, though I’m afraid I can’t help you with the cold for much longer. We need to find shelter if we hope to survive this.” “Yes, I was thinking the same thing,” answered the young woman. “As much as I’d love to learn more about what exactly you are, I think that discussion is worth tabling until we know that we’ll both live long enough for that knowledge to matter. What do you say to that?” “You are wise beyond your years, young one.” A peculiar feeling washed over Petra like some sort of invisible glow that was decidedly yellow and hopeful, almost as if she could feel Coramon smiling proudly at her within his metallic abode. “How far are we from Norhaven? Is it still the closest town, or are we too far off track?” “Not to worry; your navigation skills were impeccable despite the whiteout. We aren’t far now.” The curious pair resumed their journey, the Flame Keeper’s resolve restored by the welcome company of her unusual companion, no matter how unbelievable he was. If this is a mirage, at least it’s a helpful one, she thought. “Why, thank you. I’d assure you that I’m no mirage, but, then, that’s exactly what I’d expect a mirage to say.” “You can read my thoughts.” “Yes, within reason. Knowing that, I believe it best if you would stop talking; the wind will freeze your lungs otherwise.” Right. Will do. The abyssal plain before her began to widen and deepen into a shallow valley fringed with rolling edges and soft hills. The storm subsided gradually, finally tapering off into a lighter and less oppressive snowfall without the accompanying gale-force gusts which had previously threatened to blow out Coramon’s flame and tear the Flame Keeper’s coat away from her. Visibility improved, distant shapes resolving themselves first into monstrous blobs of shadow, then into the outlines of a quaint north-

ern village, windows closed, and doors barred to weather the winter onslaught. Some of these finally opened, tentatively at first, building steadily into a remarkable bustle as residents began to scurry about, rectifying damages and disruptions about their property. Not even a moment’s waste was acceptable in a locale where storms swallowed up entire families within their homes without more than a few minutes’ warning. Completing their repairs, the townspeople finally looked up from their respective tasks and took notice of the traveler with her curious charge. A group of small children ran to her at once, awed by the chance to witness something new and different in a town where everything was always the same. Petra smiled, attempting to answer as many of their questions as she could before they were promptly shooed away by an elderly gentleman in a gargantuan overcoat. He bowed respectfully before her, a gesture which she returned with practiced grace and deference. “Greetings, Flame Keeper, and welcome to Norhaven. I am Mayor Grant Turnbull. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His speech was eloquent, unaffected by the country accent Petra had grown to expect when dealing with folk from the Northern Reaches. His voice was rich and full, as if it were tasting each syllable that passed his stony lips and rugged beard. “Thank you, Mayor Turnbull. I am Flame Keeper Petra.” The mayor looked her up and down, taking in her soaked clothing and frostbitten cheeks. “You seem to have been through quite the ordeal, marching in here after a storm like that. We’ll get you taken care of at once. Follow me.” Turnbull performed an abrupt about-face, trotting away down the main road, shouting out stern commands like “Start a fire in the Hall at once” and “Get this woman something to eat,” which the party in question dropped everything at once to comply with. Petra was mesmerized; no ordinary mayor would have so much sway over his people. Coramon spoke up again, his flame burning a bit more steadily now. “Seems like he’s ex-military.” Petra was startled by the voice initially, but quickly deduced that it must only have been audible to her, as Mayor Turnbull stepped on, unaffected by the peculiar third voice in his party. She nodded. “Don’t do that; you look strange nodding when

no one is talking to you,” Coramon observed. The Flame Keeper’s cheeks blushed a momentary red which faded once she regained her composure. Yes, I already draw enough attention as things are. I’d rather not add to the mix by coming off like a lunatic. “Well said.” The group reached the end of the main street of Norhaven. Before them stood a squat shack, slightly wider and less squat than those which made up the rest of the town. Mayor Turnbull pushed open the door with a bear-sized hand and they entered. Petra gasped surprisedly aloud, unprepared for the sensation of warmth which pervaded the cramped antechamber due to a lit hearth against one wall. The floor and walls were paneled with stout, coarse wood. A red rug, faded from its frequent assault by muddy boots, was one of two sources of color in the room; the other was a white snow lily, preserved in a cream-colored vase which stood on a spindly-legged side table. Two worn armchairs huddled by the fire. Mayor Turnbull motioned to them and the pair sat. Unsure of what to do with the lantern, Petra placed it on the ground between her feet. “That’ll do,” Coramon reassured her. A serving girl entered, toting a dish of smoked elk and fresh rolls on a tray. She grinned at the two sitters, handed the tray delicately to Petra, and bowed. “Thank you, Suzanne.” Mayor Turnbull’s honeyed tone reached eager ears, and Suzanne departed at once. Petra sat patiently, acutely aware of the rumbling within her stomach and unable to remove her eyes from the tray before her. Turnbull smiled. “Please, eat. I’m not the one who just survived a trek through a whiteout. I’ve no right to delay you.” The Flame Keeper tore into her meal at once, as gracefully as she was able to. Mayor Turnbull left her in peace, sitting contentedly as she ate and smiling in good humor as she cleaned up the last few morsels. “I suspect you’re rather worn out by the day’s events, are you not, Flame Keeper Petra?” asked her host. “Yes, sir, that is most certainly true.” “I thought as much. Might I show you to your quarters here? We can converse more in the morning, when you’re feeling up to it.”

“That would be excellent. Thank you, sir.” They rose from their seats, the mayor leading her from the antechamber through a large banquet hall, past his own office, and up a sturdy staircase into a loft with doors on either side, each marked “Guest.” The mayor gestured to the one on the left. “This is where I’ll take my leave. Do call if you need anything. I’d offer you a candle, but I believe your lantern will be more than sufficient.” Petra flashed a grin. Thank you, sir, for your excellent hospitality. I look forward to meeting with you in the morning.” The mayor tipped his hat and descended the stairs while Petra retreated into her lodgings for the night, which were modestly furnished with a simple bed and straw mattress, a worn old table, and a chair of questionable sturdiness. She placed the lantern on the table and sat down. “Alright, Coramon, let’s talk. This is the first I’ve heard of a spirit being contained within the lantern.” She could sense a wry grin emanating from the flame. “Yes, I suppose I do owe you an explanation, especially since you’re going to be stuck in the middle of all this for quite some time. First, though, I believe that I should show you something. Cover your eyes a moment.” She complied, and a bright blue flash illuminated the room.

The Valley of Vision* by Michael Thomas

When the semi-trucks were at my back I had a vision: I-40’s parched lips Opened into a highway, narrow and endless Like the last song sung before the world ends. I was surrounded by oaks holding burnt-out torches, Weaving in and out of space and time. One petrified thought, burning bold and clear In the mind’s unlit hallway Like a lighthouse, slowly tore in two. When I approached, all the minutes of my life Came rushing out of a quivering foghorn. A lily, profoundly blinding as lightning, Split open the sky. There the vision ended. Crickets chirped from Newton’s cradle. I breathed dew, stranded in ringing crabgrass Contemplating my death.

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Brittany Jordan Film Photography 9” x 6”

The Superbrother with the tattoos by Taylor Elliott

It was late and I was sleepy, sneezing and rubbing my eyes because I was allergic to dogs. My parents came to pick me up from my grandmother’s house. Time to go, sweetie. One of them led me to the car in the dark while the wind stung my eyes. They said, your brother is really sick, okay? We need to get home and you need to go to bed so we can talk. My brother was asleep in the backseat, and I was almost there too. I remember a few weeks before they’d taken him for a checkup. My brother came back telling everyone at church that he had to have surgery. My mom told me the “procedure” was just a prick to check the bumps on his neck. I remembered how much he hated shots; I could picture my mom and the nurse holding him down during his flu shot while I just sat there and stared as she jabbed the needle in. I thought about this while I sang to myself in the backseat, trying to keep myself awake so I could listen and see if AJ would get to skip school, and if I was still going to have to sit through his basketball game Saturday. I heard words like lymphoma and lymph nodes and I pictured cough syrup and tonsils. I’d gotten my tonsils out when I was four, so maybe it was his turn, even though he was eight now. I read my novel at his basketball game (we ended up going) and my mom kept telling me I should be paying attention to the game. I didn’t listen to her. After the game, we all filed downstairs and I felt scared, suffocated, on the narrow staircase, but my parents were busy whispering to each other and looking back at me with big eyes. My dad grabbed my hand when I was walking too slowly, but then he started ignoring me again. I started to pout, and they bought me a granola bar from the concession stand while they walked into the little room where the team usually gathered after the game. My brother was getting his little green felt star for Defense, and I made a mental note to ask my mom if I could be the one to iron it on his jersey later. His coach, a round, stout, shiny bald man was holding a gift in his hand. My brother’s birthday was two months ago, and I wondered why he always got more presents than I did. It was a coffee thermos that said, those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength, and fly on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk

and not be faint. I’d heard that one many times before, in VBS songs and on journals in Lifeway. I thought it looked like a cup my mother would buy for my grandma. I wondered why they didn’t just give him a water bottle with superheroes on it, or a basketball. I wondered why they gave him a coffee cup-- he hated coffee. I was a little jealous. My cousin Brayden came up to me out of his team room. Is AJ sick? He asked me. His brown eyes were the exact same color as his freckles and his curls. Yeah, I said, and then I just walked away. My grandma was there with him and she gave me a hug, and tears hung in the back of her blue eyes. I could see them and I knew she just got sad sometimes, so I didn’t think anything of it. She had beautiful blue eyes, like my brother, and the two of them always made me self-conscious of my brown ones. I thought of this while everyone came to hug my mom after the game; this must be the last game of the year and they are going to miss us, because AJ is nice and we always bring good snacks. I was secretly glad to be done, because I hated the sound of the buzzer, and all of the people made me want to sit down and close my eyes. I wasn’t worried about my brother, he always got sick twice a year just like I always got sick once. I was sure, with medicine, his sickness would go away soon, since he came to the game, and he didn’t even stay home from school that Friday. He wasn’t even coughing, or hoarse, so it couldn’t have been that bad. Two months later, I sat on the couch with a blanket over my head, plugging my ears so tight it hurt. I could see the maroon and white quilt tented over me, almost transparent in the sunlight, but in my mind all I could see was my brother sitting in a chair with his head in the trash can, shirtless and bony, his pale body almost yellow. I didn’t want to see it but I couldn’t breathe under there but if I couldn’t see it I couldn’t hear it but I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand to hear the sound of retching, every day over and over for months. All I had eaten in the past two days was cheerios, and the last time we ate like that was when my parents couldn’t go shopping because we all caught the stomach flu. My parents never answered when I asked them questions about him, or when I asked them why they kept visiting Greenville without me. They just came back from a weekend stay and kissed me on the cheek and disappeared-- but I always found them quietly, beside my brother on the couch, or in his room, or talking softly in the kitchen. I also wasn’t allowed to ask why AJ was allowed to wear a hat with his school uniform. So I

just kept quiet, hidden, and I assumed he had the flu really bad this year. I had no other explanations anyway, and then, I wasn’t always pining for reasons. Two months after that, my brother sat on the couch yelling at me, his bare head accentuating his furrowed brow, asking me if he could play with my clay. I was confused at why he was so mad at me; only hours earlier we had been laughing in the backseat about the way we could just pull his hair out in tufts. His medicine must have been too strong, I thought. We’d made a mess but hidden it from Mom, and it was always fun to do stuff like that together. It’s funny how when we disobeyed together, it wasn’t scary, and I never felt sad afterwards. Now, though, he wouldn’t stop yelling and I kept asking my dad to stop him. But he was half asleep in the recliner. My brother started to cry and saying he was going to tell on me, and I couldn’t shake the sight of my father’s belt gleaming on his waist. I was supposed to be the good example, they always told me. My father would be furious. I couldn’t let that happen; in aggressive reaction, my hands threw the clay ball at my brother, and it hit him square in the chest. I hit him only a few centimeters away from the blue port glimmering like sea glass through his translucent skin, under the neckline of his dinosaur tee shirt. That port connects to all his veins, I remember my dad saying. It connects right to his heart. He can’t play soccer anymore because a ball to the chest could kill him. Even more than those days I hid under the quilt, I couldn’t breathe. My brother screamed and started to sob. I killed my brother I killed my brother I killed-- I got off the couch and ran outside, down the street, somewhere new where I could understand things. But I didn’t know where I lived, even then, so there was no hope navigating the streets around. I walked to a playground in a churchyard down the street, but I couldn’t remember what lay beyond that corner of my street. But for two hours I tried to remember, until my Dad’s red truck came to get me and he said it was okay, and gave me a spanking for being so mean to my brother. That truck is broken down now. Two months more and I was still confused. I sat in the waiting room while my mom played games on her phone, and she was so worried that she didn’t even notice I had been reading copies of Cosmopolitan for two hours. Maybe she did know and it saved her from giving me “the talk,” thinking about it now. So I just read and jumped on

the couch and asked too many questions, until, eventually, they rolled my brother out on a blue cart-type bed. He had a big bandage over his chest, where his port used to be. But through the drugs, he was smiling. My dad told him he was brave. Later, we watched Superman on a VCR tape in his room. Every day for the next month, my grandma picked him up at exactly 10 am, and he went to get his radiation done, all the way in Greenville, and every morning my Papa bought him a biscuit from Bojangles. This was when I finally started to understand why his hair had fallen out, why he threw up all the time, and why I was always alone. I didn’t mind anymore that he got so many gifts, and that he got Bojangles while I ate Cheerios. He even let me borrow his MP3 player once, because he knew I liked to listen to Taylor Swift, and he showed me new rock songs that we danced to. I would sit on the couch home alone all summer while he did his treatment, watching our favorite shows. Everytime something funny would happen, I would look, from my usual spot cross-legged on the floor, to his usual spot on the couch, looking back to laugh with him. But I think by the time he had returned to his usual spot on the couch, it was too late. I was gone by then. I had gotten in the habit of sitting in my room instead, closing my door just enough so that at night, a trickle of light would come in from the hall; I closed the door just enough so I couldn’t see my dad’s belt, hanging on the nail in the hall, and so I couldn’t hear my parents talking at night, in their room. I stayed in my room because the couch became dad’s bed, and in the mornings I would get in trouble if I tried to watch a movie. I don’t think I could bear the sounds and the dust of the living room anymore, and I couldn’t bear the crushing guilt of wishing my brother would just get better, and knowing that maybe I only wanted his healing so I wouldn’t have to be alone. When he was done with radiation, they let him keep the cotton face cage they would use to protect him. He kept it beside the port they had taken out of his chest, on top of our bookshelf. It reminded me of a superhero mask, and the port was like a battery to supercharge him, but I never told him that. The dots drawn on the white gauze aligned perfectly with the new freckles on his skin, and the little black dots they drew; he showed them to me and I marveled at how he had tattoos and he was only nine years old. His skin was flaking too, kind of like a sun-

burn but not as ugly and red. I noticed he wouldn’t take his shirt off when we went swimming at my best friend’s house, or his cap. And I teased him for it then but I think I just didn’t understand why he would cover up what made him so cool to me. But maybe I was trying to dwell in the novelty of the sickness that I never had to feel, and that he wanted to leave; maybe that’s why I seemed like the mean big sister all that time. Maybe that’s why I became her, eventually, when he got better, but I felt nothing ever changed. I noticed last year at a youth group pool party that he had his shirt off, running around, hitting people with pool noodles. And I still kept my towel draped around me to hide myself and all the things I was ashamed of. Maybe it was the scars from the hard year before, or maybe the realization that I was showing more skin than they were, and I had more of it to show. Maybe because you could see their ribs but not mine. Because I thought all these nice, soft Christian girls would judge me, and I felt they had a right to. I think I finally started to realize he had gotten better, but I never knew that I had gotten worse. Every single year I blurred even more at the edges. And I noticed he took no hesitation to speak to the other students at FCA when I had denied my opportunity to over and over again, because I felt like I would have nothing to say. But he told everyone about his anxiety, his bitterness towards God, he spotlighted the scars on his neck and the things he was afraid of… and the reasons not to be afraid. I sat there alone in the corner in my black sweater, proud of him and scared of me. I still haven’t shown my family any of my scars, inside and out. Maybe because they saw his coming, but mine are a big slap in the face to all that they ever hoped for me. Maybe I haven’t shown them because now we have two houses, I have a car and a GPS, and like when I thought I was a murderer 10 years ago, I still don’t really know what to call home; but I can’t find a reason why now. And maybe I’m so angry all the time because I feel like he has scars that matter, that he didn’t ask for, his scars are respectable. And every time I go to the place where my father lives, my superbrother is still in his usual spot on the recliner. But I don’t look back anymore when I watch television, because I’m used to empty chairs now. And I can’t stay in my room for longer than ten minutes without losing my mind. My scars are my enemy; a handiwork that I am

ashamed of. My body is a place that I abuse and I use and I hate, like a shirt that you wear only to paint in, showing all the times you didn’t aim correctly, or every time you dipped your brush in too much, and it made a mess. And I have spent most of my time trying to figure out how to take my painting shirt off. I wonder if it’s different for him; if his body is like the sky. Because when he looks at it, he sees something rising, clearing, something that cycles and changes instead of falling apart. He sees something alive when he looks in the mirror. And I see something meant for use until it’s useless. Something worn down. We don’t talk much anymore, my superbrother and I. I think I have let him down too many times; I think when I used to live in that house I would try to pull him under my raincloud for company, but skies cannot dwell under skies and I should have known that. I should have known what chaos would ensue if I treated the laws of nature as if they didn’t exist. And not to pull a seven-year pity party living in the darkness when I’m the one who turned off the light and let myself shrink so much I couldn’t reach it to turn it back on again. And I understand why that was wrong, now. I can only hope that I will let the light in, like he did; that I will let the scars heal because that’s the way injuries are supposed to go. That I will take off my sweatshirt when July comes, and tell everyone else how skin is supposed to heal from what I learned in myself. I know his scars are scientific, and mine are foolish. But while I read magazines that I was too young to understand in the cold waiting room, the Lord took his herniated heart and put it back inside, and it works fine now. Meanwhile mine is tearproof and withered with sandbags around it that I am too weak and too slow to carry. My brother is learning to speak his scars beautifully so they are not ugly reminders of what we have seen. I am learning to look at myself in the mirror, at these reminders of what I saw in myself, and the hope I sucked out of the world, but maybe someday I can speak beauty from the ugliness I made. He is two years younger than me but it feels like he has aged and healed more than any part of me could ever be. I’m trying to learn from him, learn my own powers, even though he’ll never know that he has them at all.

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Brittany Jordan Film Photography 9” x 6”

The River Runs Through Alec Vardas Film Photography 9” x 6”

Today I Scaled up Mountains by Jonah Losh

Today I scaled up mountains, and the mountains sang to me; they sang of a Creator, Author of land and sea. And like a sea carved in granite, they crested and cajoled, rolled falling to the piedmont plain: all pitching in their purple hues, not one to another the same. Today while picking berries beneath the mountain sun, I very nearly touched the sky as butterflies ate, drank, and were merry. How short their lives but strong their wills, beauty artfully placed as on thinning window sills. How great Beauty is to spend so much so much on lives of these few breaths that on fading flow’rs depend. What is beauty if one can find a trinket like gold or a wrinkle in time? Short-lived’s the feast for eyes like the calming down of autumn skies but these are moments shortly lasting in triumph’s grasping.

Life’s Winding Road Alec Vardas Film Photography 9” x 6”

To the Worms Between Here and There by Rachel Henderson

Twelve worms Between Main and Christian And, by deviation, I avoid each one, Careful not To step on their Shriveled bodies, Squirming in the sweltering Sun. I could bring them to the soil, But I dare Not touch Their slippery, slimy bodies For fear I might get dirty. They are harmless. As a kid I used to play with them, Follow them around, Just as I would A butterfly or ladybug. At what point did I lose my humanity? Somewhere between Main and Christian I forgot that these Worms Were still living.

Twelve people Between Me, a Christian, And my destination. I avoid each one Careful To step over their Shriveled bodies, Sweating in the sweltering Sun. I could bring them to my soul, But I dare Not touch Their greedy, greasy hands For fear I might get dirty. They are harmless. As a kid I used to stop, speak to them. Now, they follow me around, Just as I would An impossible dream. At what point did I lose my humanity? Somewhere between Me and Christians We forget that these People Are still living.

The Idleness of Midnight Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9” x 6”

An Exhortation to College Students Preparing for Exams by Elizabeth Lee Williams Exam week loomed on the horizon. Weary students labored in last-minute study sessions, trying vainly to learn a semester’s worth of material in the meager hours remaining to them. The library was overflowing with those who had only just realized the only thing standing between them and failure was a good grade on their final exams. The group study area in the library was draped in tension. Every face was taut with stress. Hands trembled from either exhaustion, excess caffeine, or both. The strain deepened as the evening wore on, until it felt like it could be cut with a knife. Suddenly, the clock in the tower across the green chimed midnight. Time seemed to stand still as the gong echoed through the library. As the last notes faded, a pencil snapped. It was the sound of a student’s spirit breaking. A chair flew backwards as the defeated student stood. He cried, “I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t! Even if I study every day until exams, there’s no way I’ll be able to pass my classes! I’m doomed! I’m going to spend the rest of my life working the drive-through window at Waffle House!” One of his friends looked puzzled and then said, “I don’t think Waffle House has a drive-through.” “It doesn’t!” The first student wailed. “I’m completely and utterly doomed!” His friends tried to console him (“You could become a Waffle House manager!”), but the feeling of hopelessness was spreading. Soon, students throughout the library were weeping bitter tears and bowing their heads in defeat. However, one student was not so easily overcome.

In his despair, he was reminded of the speech Aragorn gave in The Return of the King, and desiring to inspire his fellow undergraduates in the same way, he leapt onto a table, crying out, “Fellow students united in suffering! “I see in your eyes the same stress that would overwhelm the heart of me! “A day may come when the computers of students fail, when we forsake our classes, and forget to study, but it is not this day! “An hour of failed exams and forgotten assignments, when the chance of graduation comes crashing down, but it is not this day! “This day we succeed! “For your sake, and the sake of your parents who don’t want you to live in their basements, I bid you succeed and pass your exams!” A great cheer went up throughout the library. Undergraduates jumped onto tables and chairs, waving textbooks and study guides. The student whose spirit seemed broken joined his friends in dancing on their table. Even the normally stern librarian hid a smile and did nothing to silence the revelry. That semester, more students passed their exams than ever had before. So many were successful that an article was written about it in the local newspaper. The student who gave the speech became known as “Aragorn” and had a bench dedicated in his honor. And to this day, every semester before exam week, the school still celebrates that triumphant event by having a particularly inspiring student stand on a table in the library and reenact the legendary speech.

Lengthening Shadows Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9” x 6”

Dream

by Michael Thomas Tonight, please Dream of the Monarch Butterflies, Like you dreamt Of your grandmother, The rainforest, The smiling old man On the front porch of your adolescence. Tomorrow morning We may dream of sunflowers, Sullen children in black suits, The gravel parking lot In our bathroom mirror, Dreaming Until we only dream About ourselves.

Leaf Burning* by Samuel Heard

Every year, in the dull days of November, just before the snow plummets to the earth, my father gets the idea to burn fallen leaves that have intruded into our backyard. I don’t know why he does it, and I figure he doesn’t know either. But I can always tell when he gets the idea in his head. Every year is the same: I wander down the stairs to find him staring out the window, mouth slightly agape, holding a soon-to-be-lit cigarette in his hand. He turns to me, says, “Looks like it’s time to start burning,” and outside we go. This scene has not changed for twenty years, at least as I recall. But this time, when I ventured down the steps, I found my father with his mouth more open than usual. “Lots of leaves this year?” I asked. “Yes sir. Looks like it’s time to start burning,” he responded. He was right. The trees, naked and dead, had shed more leaves than I had ever seen before. They blanketed the earth, decorating the ground with colors of rust and gold. And for the next several hours, we transformed that blanket into a single pile next to a silver burn barrel. Once we were done (or, once my father said he was done), we built a fire. He always did it the same way: first, toss the leaves into the barrel; then, light a fire; then, light a cigarette to celebrate our accomplishment. He would then make some comment about what he was stewing over as we gathered the pile together. This year

was no different. “You know, things just aren’t the way they used to be,” he said, his cigarette smoke covering his face. “And soon, things won’t be the way they are.” I tried to see him through the smoke. “Did you think of that?” “Sure did.” “Sounds nice,” I coughed. “I never did mind that.” “Mind what?” “Things changing all the time.” “I have.” He tossed his cigarette into the fire. “The older I get, the more the world forgets about me. It moves too fast.” He chuckled. “Things just aren’t the way they used to be.” We stood still for a few minutes, listening to the fire as it continued to pop. It looked as if it were trying to escape the barrel, moving back and forth with the sway of the wind, evaporating into smoke. For some reason, I could not look away from it. The restlessness, the movement—it reminded me of a flag flapping in the wind. My father was looking at the pile of leaves on the ground. “Help me put more of this into the fire,” he told me. He bent down, and at that moment I noticed that his hair was the same color as the barrel. It hadn’t always been that way. “Yes sir, soon, things won’t be the way they are,” he uttered under his breath as we reached for more fuel. He looked at me and smirked.

I crumbled some leaves in my hand. “Quit saying that.” Still, he continued to gather from the pile, and the smirk did not leave his face. “Why not?” he asked. I examined the leaves I crumbled. “Somebody’s told you, haven’t they?” He arched his back up. “Told me what?” “Who could’ve told you? Who was it?” He threw more leaves into the fire. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You know, don’t you? And now you’re just trying to make me feel bad.” The fire grew larger. “Why else would you be saying those things?” “I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m just telling you what I’ve been stewing over.” He turned to me. “You’re scaring me. What would someone need to tell me?” I stared into the fire. The wind turned, and the smoke attacked my face and made my eyes water. Brushing the smoke away, I walked to the opposite side of the barrel, across from my father. “I’m leaving, Dad. I’ve packed my bags, and I have a flight tomorrow. Friend’s giving me a ride to the airport. Don’t follow me when he comes.” Squinting his eyes, he began to study me as if I were one of the many rodents he had captured in his life. “Where you going?” He let his mouth hang open. “Not sure. Anywhere. I’m buying the ticket once I get there.”

“Were you planning on telling me?” “I don’t know. Were you planning on asking me?” He looked down at the leaves again. “I guess things really won’t be the way they are.” “Stop saying that.” “I’m just saying how I feel. Can’t a man tell his own son how he feels?” “Not the way you do it.” “I’ll say what I want. You can’t go. You hear me? You can’t go moving like this. You have no right.” In that moment, I looked at my hand and realized I was still holding the leaves I crumbled. Opening up my fist, I noticed the powdered remains were a shadowy brown, the same color my father’s hair used to be. I tossed it all into the fire. “Why can’t you let things stay the way they are? Why do you feel the need to change things?” He began to cough. “Why can’t things be the way they used to be?” I grabbed the barrel in front of me. Avoiding the fire, I tipped the silver bucket onto its side and allowed it to roll onto the ground. The fire, seeking out its nearest prey, found the pile of leaves we had placed nearby and caused it all to combust. A pillar of smoke evaporated into the hazy air above as I ventured out of that dull land. As I walked away, out of the forest we called our backyard, I turned back to look at my father one last time. His face had turned white, the color of ash and dust.

The Search for God by Samuel Heard A Prelude: Not all beginnings come with a bang. Some things start in silence, In whispering words within our heads. They appear in empty rooms, upon our beds; We find them as we stare into the light Of melting candles that dance like Scourged minstrels. (They dance, But who knows how long they will dance?) On our beds we sit, like scourged minstrels: See, our eyes are twitching, Our fingers are trembling, our hair Is rising like smoke upon a frostbitten sky. We cannot shake our muted question: Shall we search for our ignition, Or wait for the fire to die? Not all beginnings come with a bang. And not all endings end in whimpers, Or dreaded whispers, for we like to think That we will not be put out like candles When the end arrives. “No, I shall go out like A shock, a lightning spark, and leave my mark.” (But who ignites the candle? And who provides the spark? And why should it matter if I leave my mark?) But as we say, “The end of all things must come.” (But should we not say, That the beginning of all things must end?)

For as we watch the wax drip by the wick, And see the smoke escape the empty room, We feel our wrinkled faces and know That the last look at our candle Comes too soon. (But on that day What color will the candle be? The faded orange of a burning wick, Will the fire look like sunset? Or will it look like sunrise?) These words are whispered in our ears; Murmuring voices fill this empty room. They beckon us to act, remind us of their rule: Not all beginnings come with a bang. So here we sit, Watching the flicker of the candlelight. Together, you and I, We must begin our journey. For the fire will soon be out. For the fire will soon be out.

Je suis seule*

Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9” x 6”

Diurnal Course by Jada Barr

Humble daybreak comes— It’s slow at first. You stretch your legs, You fashion thoughts out of feelings, You accept the birth of something new. Zenith materializes before your eyes. It’s a dance. You reel and spiral and it’s as if you Just. Can’t. Stop. With zenith’s impassioned departure, You begin to grow weary. The weight of a life well lived encumbers you. Before you can blink, Eventide surrounds you. As you reflect on daybreak’s simplicity And zenith’s wrath, You become overwhelmed with gratitude And satisfaction. Then you fall into the sweet embrace Of sleep.

World War

Abigail Moore Welded Sculpture 48” x 14”

Perspective Fun by Hannah McCall

“This is going to be awesome!” Merry shrieked. “Wild Ride is supposed to be the fastest roller coaster in the park!” James was far less excited than his older sister as he stared up at the grotesque, metal track. The rails contorted violently in the open air, twisting around themselves, forming loops that seemed to be staring straight into James’ soul. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he said, wringing his t-shirt between his fingers. Merry’s cheeks flushed bright red, and her eyes shone with an adrenaline-induced, wild light. “Oh, come on! Don’t be such a baby. It’s going to be great; you’ll see.” James looked doubtful as they moved closer to the front of the line. The two had been waiting for well over an hour and their clothes were almost soaked through with sweat. Unfortunately for James, the sweltering, humid heat of the day was unable to dampen his sister’s enthusiasm. Knots formed in James’ stomach as he heard the rush of the coaster racing by overhead. As they inched closer and closer to the front, James could only pray he was too short for the ride. Suddenly, they were there. The attendant, an acne-scarred teen with better places to be, had James stand beside a cut-out of a well-dressed giraffe to measure his height. “It’s a close one,” the teen said. James felt a weight lift off of his shoulders and broke into a huge smile. He let out a sigh of relief and turned to tell Merry

he would wait safely on the ground. Before he managed to get two words out, the attendant interrupted. “Eh, I think you’ll be fine. You’re just tall enough to ride.” He spoke as if it was good news instead of a death sentence. James walked to the gate in a daze. The taste of freedom he had momentarily grasped vanished faster than a cool breeze in a crowd. The animated animals taped around the platform taunted him with their unmoving eyes and sinister smiles. The roar of the coaster and the screams of the passengers grew louder as they neared the station. James’ sweaty palms left dark trails where he kept wiping them off on his shorts. The next train that came through would be theirs. With a great rush and the grinding of metal scraping metal, the coaster pulled into the station. Merry bounced from one foot to the other. She pushed at the gate as if that would make it unlatch any quicker. The passengers got off the coaster, winded and laughing. James knew they, too, mocked him; they laughed at his fear. With a loud clang, twelve identical gates swung open. James felt his heart thundering in his chest as a wave of pure panic crashed over him. Merry grabbed his hand and pulled him into their car. She latched their harnesses in place before pulling down their safety bar. It rattled as it clicked into place. James furiously rubbed his palms against his shorts to dry them and grabbed onto the cushioned piece of metal as tightly as he could. It and the harness were the only things between him and

death. An attendant came by to check that the lock was fastened and gave the conductor the all-clear. With a sickening lurch, the coaster began to inch forward. Merry cheered along with the other passengers as the machine slowly made its way up a steep incline. James squeezed his eyes shut. At the top, everything seemed to pause for a moment. James dared peak out for half a second and felt his stomach jump into his throat when the train tipped forward to begin rushing toward the first set of loops. James gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into the worn-out foam cover on his safety bar. One. Two. Three. James counted to himself. He knew how many loops to expect and if he kept track of them he could distract himself from the sharp jerks and rapid descents the coaster took. He could faintly hear Merry screaming beside him over the roar of the wind and, as the track straightened out for a moment, he risked a glance at her. Her arms stretched high above her head and her face was split in a wide smile. She wasn’t scared at all. Her fingers danced in the wind as her body was jerked around in time with the sharp jolts of the metal beast. James loosened his hold on the bar one finger at a time and held one hand up just a little to feel the wind too. He started to smile as the coaster rushed on. The cars jerked and began their final climb up one of the steepest drops on the ride. They reached the peak and James’ hand darted back to the bar, but before he could latch on, Merry snatched up his free hand in her own. He

tried to twist out of her grasp, but she was stronger. She grabbed his left hand in her right and lifted them both above his head. He looked over at her for a moment as the ride continued to speed up, but she wasn’t paying him any attention. The coaster dropped. James squeezed his eyes shut as the ground seemed to fall out from under him again. But this time, he could feel Merry’s hand in his own. Their fingers reached up into the wind and he enjoyed it. James slowly pried his other hand off the bar and raised it above his head. They were approaching the final loop, but he didn’t mind. They flipped upside down, suspended for a moment in the air before completing the circle. Near the end, camera flashes went off capturing wide smiles on both children’s faces. The coaster slowed down to re-enter the station and jerked to a halt exactly where they had boarded not three minutes earlier. James cheered right along with everyone else. Merry and James hopped off of the coaster, the latter in a flurry of excitement. “We have to do that again,” he yelled. Merry laughed as he pulled her over to get back in line for the ride. “I told you so,” she said. James just grinned and pulled Merry to the back of the line.

Shrink-ing

by Taylor Elliott A few weeks in and I’ve decided I want to live On the floor of my therapist’s office. Coffee is free and no one ever talks to me (Unless I want them to) And they pick the music for you. No risk— But I guess this isn’t what they mean By progress

Overlooking Jocassee

Morgan Dickerson Digital Photography

Leaves

by Jada Barr The leaves change colors With winter’s initial sigh. I wonder to myself, “Will I be this beautiful When I come to die?”

Mr. Elbert Charles Buys a Car by Emily Steadman

Today, Mr. Elbert Charles was very excited. Today, he was going to buy a brand new car! Mr. Elbert Charles imagined all kinds of cars that he could buy. Maybe a fast, red car with two doors. Or a big, blue truck that could carry heavy things like elephants. What if he got a shiny, black limousine instead? That would look great with his shiny, black sunglasses. As Mr. Elbert Charles took the bus to the car lot, he imagined his new car driving down country roads, highways, and downtown streets. The bus finally arrived at the car lot. Mr. Elbert Charles eagerly climbed out of his seat and down the steps of the bus. Straight ahead, Mr. Elbert Charles saw a huge, worn sign that said “Haney’s Heaps”. “What an encouraging sign,” Mr. Elbert Charles thought. Suddenly a man appeared. “Howdy! I’m Mr. Haney! Welcome to Haney’s Heaps!” He was a round man with a frumpy purple suit, a nice tan hat, and a very big smile. “Why hello, Mr. Haney. My name is Mr. Elbert Charles. I’m here to buy a car,” Mr. Elbert Charles explained. “My favorite thing to do is sell cars! And make omelets, but that’s besides the point,” Mr. Haney answered. “Would you like a purple minivan? Or a mustard yellow moving truck? Maybe a magenta ice cream truck?” Mr. Haney continued. “Well,” Mr. Elbert Charles said hesitantly, “I was thinking about buying a more practical car.” “Practical? We have tons of practical cars!” Mr. Haney said excitedly. He began walking away quickly then turned around. “What does practical mean?” “Practical means something is effective in helping one achieve one’s goal without being inconvenient” Mr. Elbert Charles explained. He loved memorizing words and their definitions from dictionaries. Why just the other day he learned the word “epanalepsis” which is the repetition of the same word at the beginning and end of the sentence, why. “Oh yes! I knew that,” Mr. Haney said, walking quickly again. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe a shiny, black limo. It’ll match my sunglasses,” Mr. Elbert Charles said, thinking his answer was practical for fashion. “Sorry, we only have a rusty, orange limo that is missing a tire,” Mr. Haney said, pointing to the limo section that held the only limo on the lot. “Okay, what about a big, blue truck? One that could move heavy things, like 2,000 pizzas?” Mr. Elbert Charles asked, believing his request was practical for moving heavy things. “Hmmm, well we have a big, pink truck, but the weight limit is only 1,500 pounds. That means it could only hold less than half of the amount of pizzas you want it to hold,” Mr. Haney explained. “But it could hold a nice group of band members with lightweight instruments.” “Rats! What about a fast, red car with two doors? Then I can get everywhere faster,” Mr. Elbert Charles said, trusting his plan was practical for getting places on time and quickly. “Oh! We have that, except it’s a fast, lime green car that’s missing two doors,” Mr. Haney answered excitedly. “What if I fall out?” Mr. Elbert Charles asked with a worried glance towards the car. “That’s why you wear your seatbelt” Mr. Haney explained. “Granted, the seatbelts come unbuckled if you hit a bump on the road,” he mumbled to himself. “I don’t think that’s the car for me,” Mr. Elbert Charles said in a disappointed tone. He thought car buying would be fun, but now he felt defeated. Mr. Haney patted Mr. Elbert Charles on the back. “Would you like to see some other cars? Maybe you will find one that you didn’t know you wanted.” Mr. Elbert Charles hadn’t considered this before. “That’s an interesting concept,” he said aloud. “Isn’t it?” Mr. Haney said, laughing. After a brief pause, he asked, “What’s a concept?” “A concept is an idea or notion,” Mr. Elbert Charles said, feeling a little better after defining a word. “Oh, it definitely is,” said Mr. Haney. “Let’s take a walk around the lot,” he suggested to Mr. Elbert Charles. The two looked at a periwinkle convertible, a fire-red school bus, a teal SUV, a sparkly white four-door car, and a car that looked exactly like a basket of fruit. Still they

found nothing. As Mr. Elbert Charles was about to give up all hope, he spotted something very interesting. In the far left corner of the lot, there was a small, slightly round, yellow car. “What about that car?” Mr. Elbert Charles asked. “Oh, that one has been there for years,” Mr. Haney explained. “Whoever owned it just left it here one night next to a giant tarp-thing. The tarp probably covered the car until the wind blew it off,” Mr. Haney hypothesized. “Can I look at it? It seems very practical,” Mr. Elbert Charles said. “Of course! I’ll get the keys!” Mr. Haney yelled to him as he ran to his office to grab the car’s keys. Mr. Haney returned quickly and opened the door. It had two doors, four seats that were bright blue, and seven cup holders according to the paper attached to the car’s window. Mr. Elbert Charles got into the car and felt the bright blue leather on the seats. He could reach the pedals perfectly. The driver’s side door closed quietly. He got out and tested both doors to be sure they wouldn’t fall off. He looked at the tires to make sure the car had all four. Lastly, he checked the weight limit. 5,000 pounds! Just enough for a man and an elephant. Mr. Elbert Charles looked at the passenger seat. For some reason, there was a blue helmet there. “Does the helmet come with the car?” Mr. Elbert Charles asked. “I don’t see why not. I have no use for a helmet,” Mr. Haney answered. Mr. Elbert Charles made a mental note. The car was very practical for safety. “I’ll take it!” Mr. Elbert Charles proclaimed. “It’s practical and the perfect size. I also love the blue seats,” he stated. “You haven’t driven it yet, Mr. Elbert Charles.” “That’s alright,” Mr. Elbert Charles said. “I know that this is the right car for me. I can feel it!” “Well I should warn you,” Mr. Haney began, “there was a note on the car when I found it.” “Really? What did it say?” Mr. Elbert Charles inquired. “It said ‘DO NOT PRESS THE RED BUTTON’ which makes sense given the large, red button it has,” Mr. Haney said, pointing to the car’s ceiling.

For the first time, Mr. Elbert Charles looked up on the ceiling and saw the biggest red button he’d ever seen. He was surprised he hadn’t seen it before. “What does it do?” Mr. Elbert Charles asked. “I’m not sure. I just always listen to requests that have to do with cars. After all, I do love cars, as I’ve told you. I also really love flossing, but that’s not the point,” Mr. Haney answered. “Well, I’m still interested in the car,” Mr. Elbert Charles said without giving the button another thought. The two men worked out the money and paperwork, and Mr. Elbert Charles was on his way with his brand new car. As he drove home in his new, yellow car with bright blue seats, Mr. Elbert Charles couldn’t help but think about the large red button above him. Occasionally, he would look at it at a stop sign or red light. He thought and thought about that button. He really wanted to press it. What would happen? Would the wheels fall off the car? Would the roof roll down like a convertible? Would the seats change colors? Mr. Elbert Charles had heard the expression “curiosity killed the cat,” which means that one could get hurt being too curious. However, Mr. Elbert Charles didn’t have a cat. With no cat, being curious couldn’t be that bad! Before he could stop himself, Mr. Elbert Charles was pushing the big red button. He froze with both hands on the wheel. Nothing was happening. Mr. Elbert Charles laughed. It was silly that he had been so nervous. That note was probably just a funny joke. Mr. Elbert Charles laughed again and continued driving. He looked out the window and saw a low flying bird beside him. He waved to the bird and continued driving. He went around a big, fluffy cloud. “That poor cloud must be lost!” thought Mr. Elbert Charles. As he thought about the cloud, he stopped to let a plane cross in front of him. Mr. Elbert Charles froze. “Wait, that bird isn’t flying low!” said Mr. Elbert Charles. “And that cloud isn’t lost!” Mr. Elbert Charles looked down and realized his new car was flying! “AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” Mr. Elbert Charles screamed. He looked around frantically. His hands grabbed the steering wheel tighter. Sweat began to run down his face. How could he be flying? Was it the large, red but-

ton? Why did he press that button?! Mr. Elbert Charles began to look around for another button, preferably one that was labeled “How Mr. Elbert Charles can land his car safely on the ground.” He looked and looked but found nothing. He began frantically pressing all the buttons in the car. Nothing happened. He rolled down the window and began waving for help, but no one was in the air with him. Finally, Mr. Elbert Charles looked up at the big, red button. Did he dare press it again? What if he went higher? He looked around desperately. He saw nothing else. He closed his eyes and pressed the button. The car lurched forward with fire shooting from the back tail pipes. Great! He’d turned his flying car into a rocket car! Mr. Elbert Charles frantically put on the helmet he’d found in the passenger seat. Now he understood why the old owner had left his or her helmet, but how had he or she landed? Mr. Elbert Charles looked around again. When he returned his gaze to his windshield, he noticed the sky was green. “Wait, that’s not the sky,” he said. “That’s the ground!” He looked at his gas gauge and noticed the car had run out of gas. “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Mr. Elbert Charles let out another scream. As he screamed, he began to crawl into the back seat of the car. Still screaming, Mr. Elbert Charles buckled into the seat. He closed his eyes and, when he opened them, he saw a bright light. “I must be dying!” Mr. Elbert Charles cried. But as his eyes came back into focus, he saw that he wasn’t dying. A button was glowing on the back of the driver’s seat headrest. Mr. Elbert Charles desperately hit the button and closed his eyes again, this time covering his eyes with his hands. He braced himself for the crash. He waited. And waited. And waited. There was no loud crash. No painful landing. No person screaming because Mr. Elbert Charles had landed on top of their house. Mr. Elbert Charles peeked through his fingers. He was still falling but very slowly. He looked around. Through the back window, he saw a huge tarp that was making him and the car fall slowly. “A parachute!” Mr. Elbert Charles cried with relief.

“Mr. Haney didn’t find a tarp by the car. He found a parachute!” Mr. Elbert Charles crawled back into the driver’s seat, still wearing his helmet just in case. Before long, the car landed gently in a cow field. Mr. Elbert Charles was so happy that he leapt from his car and hugged the nearest cow around the neck. After a long talk with the farmer, Mr. Elbert Charles began driving home. He had managed to buy the world’s most practical car. After all, he’d never have to go to the airport again.

Mountain Stream

Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

The Search

by Elizabeth Lee Williams Mereg lay low over his mount’s neck, eyes straining to see beyond the edge of the road into the swiftly passing forest. Though it was only mid-afternoon, an eerie twilight hung over the land, wrought by the chill rain that had long ago soaked beneath Mereg’s cloak and armor. This land was supposed to be safe, but little more than an hour ago Queen Gisella and her two youngest children had arrived at the gates of Denvorn Castle after a harrowing flight through the forest. According to the Queen and the handful of Kingsguard that had escaped with her, the royal convoy had been attacked by a band of goblins and mountain trolls. Upon hearing this news, Lord Giradin of Denvorn had wasted no time in raising a company of fifty men to ride at once to the aid of those Kingsguard and soldiers who had remained behind to secure the Queen’s escape. Mereg and his Rangers now rode with Lord Giradin and his elite guard, making all haste to the Vornawyn Crossing where the Queen’s convoy had been waylaid. On the surface, it seemed unfathomable that the Kingsguard could be so thoroughly routed. But Mereg, who served as a Ranger on the Northern border, had seen far more of death and battle than suited him, and his experience warned him that if the reports about the number of attackers were accurate, it was unlikely they would find any survivors, Kingsguard or not. To Mereg, whose friend was Sir Altarion, commander of the Queen’s convoy, this was a woeful thought. They had been riding hard for nearly a quarter of an hour, when suddenly Lord Giradin called for a halt. Though the company was now close to the Vornawyn River, there was still about a mile to go. Nudging his horse forward, Mereg rode to the front of the company, wanting to know why they had stopped. As he came near, Mereg saw that Lord Giradin, flanked by his officers, was conversing with several scouts who had been sent ahead to reconnoiter around the Crossing. One of the scouts was speaking as Mereg drew close.

“We saw no sign of the enemy, save for those already dead. We tried to track them, but the rain has washed away all trails, though from the little we could tell it appears they were headed north-east. I sent Sabin and Raul to follow as best they could, but I fear we will simply have to wait until the weather clears and send out tracking hawks to accurately find them.” Lord Giradin swiped a hand over his face, knocking off rainwater. “And what of the Queen’s convoy—the servants and the Kingsguard—did you see any survivors?” An expression of sorrow passed over the scout’s face. “I fear we saw no sign of life. It appears that most were slain in the battle, and that afterwards the goblins searched among the fallen for those not yet dead and killed them.” Briefly, Mereg shut his eyes as a pang of grief pierced him. But only for a moment. Lord Giradin was now giving orders to the company. “We are nearing the river. It appears that the enemy has already fled, but keep your weapons ready: we know not what may yet linger there.” Mereg rode back to the two dozen Rangers under his command. Soon they were off again, the twilight land racing past. The already somber mood among the riders soured further. Not long after, the road began to slope upwards, the company suddenly cresting the top of a hill. Immediately, Lord Giradin commanded another halt, for running swiftly at the base of the hill was the Vornawyn River. Spanning the rain-swollen waters was the Bridge, an old, yet sturdy stone structure that connected the northern and southern parts of the road. Even in the dim light, the company could make out the remnants of a battle that had spilled onto both sides of the River. After several watchful moments, without seeing any movement below, Lord Giradin turned to the captain of the Denvorn castle guard and said, “Captain Raulin, you and your men

cross to the southern side of the river and search for survivors.” Then to Mereg he said, “You and your Rangers search this side of the river for any that may yet live. But stay alert and close to the road; enemies may still lurk nearby.” Quickly, the riders obeyed, dismounting and beginning to search the road and the surrounding forest. It was rough going, since the heavy deluge had turned any solid ground around the road to slick mud. But even the rain could not wash away the scent of death that hung in the air. The searchers worked tirelessly, but on both sides of the river their looking only uncovered the dead. Strewn about were many goblin corpses rent with the bright blades of the Kingsguard and filled with their white-fletched arrows; and lying in lesser numbers were the mauled bodies of the Kingsguard, their shining helms and deep blue tunics broken and shorn. Also lying dead were many foot soldiers and servants who had been part of the Queen’s company, their bodies ravaged nearly beyond recognition. It was clear the convoy had been sorely outnumbered, and though the Kingsguard and soldiers had fought valiantly, they had eventually been overwhelmed. Grimly, Mereg wove through the carnage, helping his men carry the dead to a clear area beside the road. It was heart-numbing work, gently moving the mangled bodies and wrapping the fallen in the tattered remains of their cloaks. Once the weather allowed, a mound would be erected over the dead, and songs would be sung in their honor. Now, Mereg’s only hope was to find Altarion and see that he was placed beside his comrades in the mound. However, many of the bodies had been brutally hewn by the goblins even after they had fallen, rendering many unrecognizable, and no small few had been completely decapitated, leaving the searchers the grisly task of trying to locate the missing heads. The pile of bodies in the clearing grew, and the searchers began gathering the corpses of the goblins into a pile to burn once the weather cleared. But Mereg had yet to find Altarion. As he helped another soldier dump a goblin body on the heap, two of Mereg’s Rangers struggled past, carrying an unusually large goblin torso between them. “Where did that come from?” Mereg asked. One of the Rangers jerked his chin to the right. “In a clearing ’bout fifteen paces in the tree-line, sir. There’s

several more large ones like this and a mountain troll. We could use some help movin’ em’, if you could spare us a hand.” Mereg nodded wearily and trudged in the direction the Ranger had motioned to. Sure enough, the trees opened to reveal a clearing strewn with unusually large goblins. But what immediately drew Mereg’s attention was the mountain troll lying face down in the mud. Once the goblin corpses had been removed, one of the Rangers asked, “Should we try to move the troll, sir?” Looking at the massive troll, Mereg shook his head. “It’s not worth the effort, Hodge. It can lie there to the end of days for all I care.” Hodge looked relieved. “I was hoping you’d say that, sir!” Making a face, Hodge bent over the troll’s head, which was turned partially to the side, revealing part of its face. “It sure is an ugly thing, ain’t it?” Rolling his eyes, Mereg clapped Hodge on the back. “Come on, Ranger, if you look at that ugly mug much longer its looks will wear off on you.” Hodge laughed, but he straightened rather quickly and began walking back to the road. “I think we’ve about finished clearing things, Cap’n. Maybe we can start back to Denvorn soon….Cap’n?” Mereg was crouched on the ground near the troll, intently examining something. Hodge finally asked, “What is it?” Mereg was silent for several more moments, then he barked, “Hodge, get as many men as you can find. We have to move this troll. It’s lyin’ on top of somebody!” Hodge darted off. He returned quickly with a dozen men. With much grunting and struggling, the troll’s body was slowly rolled to the side, exposing the prone figure of a Kingsguard underneath. Mereg knelt and tilted the man’s face towards him, brushing back blonde hair and mud. He inhaled sharply. It was Altarion. His armor was damaged and in some places had been pierced; his shield-arm lay at an unnatural angle. As Mereg searched for a pulse he was nearly overwhelmed by the surge of fear and hope in his breast. But after several tense moments, he sagged. There was nothing. As the brief flicker of hope died in his chest,

Mereg rested a gentle hand on Altarion’s cold face. After a fleeting moment, Mereg prepared to stand and carry his friend’s body to be lain with the other fallen. But then he paused. A small puff of mist had appeared on his metal gauntlet. Hardly daring to believe his eyes, Mereg wiped his wrist-guard dry and held it under Altarion’s nose and mouth. There it was again! A small, almost unnoticeable fog appeared once more on the gauntlet. Breath. It was breath. Which meant… Altarion was alive. Struggling to find his voice, Mereg ordered hoarsely, “Hodge, find Tibs and Brom! The three of you must ride at once for Denvorn. Sir Altarion yet lives and may be saved!” Staggering to his feet under the weight of his friend, Mereg strode towards the road. His men acted swiftly. By the time Mereg had reached the edge of the tree line, the three Rangers were mounted, their horses anxious to be off. Gently passing Altarion to Brom, his fastest rider, Mereg commanded his Rangers, “Ride with all speed and keep alert! Do not stop for anything!” With that, Mereg slapped the flank of Brom’s horse, sending the three Rangers galloping into the dusk. He could only pray they were not too late.

Untitled

Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 11” x 11”

King Tom

by Davis Lisk I found that I had lost my companions, which is not a very nice thing to find. It was all very distressing, and twilight had begun to fall alongside heavy raindrops. The wind grew blustery and cold. Around this time, I discovered that I had gone off without my map. I tried to retrace my steps, but the same inhibition which necessitated carrying about a map also resulted in the fruitlessness of this new endeavor. I had been blindly navigating the seemingly endless mess of trees when I first heard the singing. I swirled around in a sweeping circle in the hopes that I had stumbled upon my old company, but I saw no one, and yet the singing went on. I began to search for the song’s origin until I came upon a gigantic live oak, ancient and crooked. The song seemed to find its beginning there. I approached the tree and circled round it. This was no small undertaking, as the oak seemed to grow even larger the more I travelled about its girth. It was then that I tripped and found myself in a bed of dark, thorny bushes. The song subsided at the epoch of a peal of rapturous, roaring laughter. I flipped over on my back in shock and looked up into the web of tangled limbs obscuring a sky of billowing grey and rain. I then leapt onto my feet and beheld him. He was sitting down against the trunk of the Great Living Oak (which, as I later learned, was its proper name), and his knees, upon which his elbows rested, were pulled up beside his ears. He was exceedingly lean and arrayed in nothing but an apron of leaves, and, atop his head, a crown of all kinds of flora; all fashion of flowers, leaves, fruits, and weeds were numbered amidst the throng. His face was covered in deep creases over his raucous reals of guffawing, but his eyes remained open, eyes that were wildly pale, blue, and piercing. I went to step backwards, but then I remembered the bush of thorns that I had fallen into and became aware that several of the barbs had lodged themselves into my body. I frantically began to pluck them out while trying to think of some place to run. “What larks!” shouted the man, “Oh ho, what larks! The devil it hurt when you tripped over me, too, sir!” “Are you mad?” I asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s all mad, if you ask the birds. Name’s Thomas Bethlehem, but you may call me King Tom, King Tom of the Wood, and I would you would call me King Tom or just Tom or even King Tom the Just if you fancy!” “You are quite mad,” I said, as much in pity as scorn. “Well, it figures, doesn’t it.” With that, the man jumped to his feet and, with something of a jocular call or laugh, yelled out to me, “Come, come, enough talk, good sir!” It may be an area of consternation amongst the readers of this tale that I ran after the man as quickly as I could, but one needs understand my position as a rather helpless one, and this “King Tom” was the only one who may have even some half-cocked idea of how to get around the place. I raced through the moanings and groanings of the maelstrom in what now was the onset of night, desperately trying to keep my eye on the mad man I found myself company to, and discovered, many times, that I had lost him, only to have him reappear shortly after. (Later on, I learned that he had been waiting up for me, and perhaps I needn’t have run so furiously). At last, after the rain had lightened to a gentle spray as from an ocean and then fell into nonexistence once more, I reached the place where the man had stopped. It was a glade filled with thousands of fireflies. In the middle was a stump, what the mad man referred to as his throne. Behind it was a cot of knitted ivy vines knotted between two sturdy live oaks, but not nearly as adamantine as the Great Living Oak in the midst of the thickest part of the forest. “Come,” said the man, “sit here and talk with me.” I did so and set my conversation to finding my way back to Sheffield Crossing where I began my journey earlier that day. The mad man was, however, quite circumfluent. The talk was always diverted, and I grew to be rather upset. “Look here,” I said, firmly yet with a semblance of grace, “All this talk, well, yes, it has been pleasant, but I really must be going.” “No,” said the man with a laugh, “look there.” He pointed a long, gaunt finger from each hand out to the glade filled with fireflies. “Look out, not in. See the

nighttime air on fire with the flame of life, the flame of the Outer. See the faeries in bloom. Look out, not in. This is my kingdom, and the Wild is my subject. Look out, not in. Here is a demesne of wonder, and here—” At this, he showed me a long straight stick with a crook in it that I took to be the dislodged wooden handle of an umbrella. “Here is my magic wand. With it is the Magic If. Shall I show you?” “Will you show me out if I do?” “If you let me enchant you too.” “Needs must when the devil drives.” “Beautiful, simply beautiful!” The man took out his wand and, with a flick of his wrist and the pronouncement of “poof,” began to make a flying motion and skip amongst the fireflies. In the interest of self-preservation, I, too, began to flit in this manner. After a while, the man jumped into the air and, waving his umbrella handle wildly back and forth, announced a proclamation of “un-poof” and fell in a heap on the ground. I did likewise. After I brushed the leaves and dirt from my person and arose with a throbbing shoulder blade, the man, materializing by my side as if by magic, handed me the umbrella handle. “Now it’s your turn to have a go at it,” he said with a laugh. “Perhaps after you’ve done it another time or two,” I replied. At this response the man’s face grew very grave. “Look out, not in.” “And I suppose without looking out, I’ll be staying in, yes?” “You’re a clever ’un, ain’t you?” “So my mother tells me.” “You’re mum’s a gent and a scholar; she’s the looking out type, for sure.” I took the handle from the man’s hand and twirled it about in the air for a while in a pitiful attempt to affect a semblance of wizardry and ended the motion with the magical declaration of “poof.” After a brief hesitation, which the man patiently endured, I began to hop around an imaginary spider web that laced the forest floor, treating it as a tightrope as I feigned an ever-tottering balance which involved many doublings-over and near-death landings as I made my way to the web’s core. Tom played the game with the skill, lightness, and

precision of a Russian ballerino, full of agility and acrobatic prowess, and yet, upon my pronouncement of “unpoof,” he clumsily toppled over a root and landed head first into a small bed of dandelions. We both smiled and laughed at this act of tomfoolery. “Tom,” I said, beginning somewhat hesitantly, “may I have another go of it?” King Tom, continuing to grin ear to ear, nodded his head. This game went on for several more rounds in which we swam, sailed on a teetering ship, took the Normans by surprise at Hastings and Pevensey, and ventured many other outlandish endeavours. “Well,” King Tom said eventually, “It has been a lark! But now to take you home. Here, before you leave, a draught of something strengthening.” The King proceeded to pour some rich red liquid from a crude pitcher into an equally crude wooden mug. “Cheers to the King!” he proclaimed, “Cheers to King Tom, King Tom the Just!” “Yes,” I said with a smile, “Cheers to the King!” I have no recollection after that moment; the King had managed, within his knowledge of woodland herbalism, to drug me beyond consciousness. I awoke at the entrance of my inn in Sheffield Crossing. My old company had all been quite worried and were on the verge of ringing the police. I told them that, while battered, I was all right, but said nothing else except for a rather glib “Oh, I found my way out eventually.” However, a really singular experience such as mine cannot be locked up in a human mind or heart; it must be told to someone, and you, my dear Aunt Martha (and doubtless the rest of your Saturday afternoon knitting circle) are most likely, if not to believe, then to at least appreciate the joke. Send my love to Viv and Jim, the little ones about the house, and tell them that their uncle has a new game he would like to show them, and would they mind finding a solid yet happily amputated umbrella handle to help with it.

Peter Pan

by Mary Anna Case When Disney movies and unattainable dreams fill your mind And your only fears are the dark And the monsters under your bed You are a child. Then there are the in between years. When you still love those movies And still hope for those dreams But you start to realize your time is limited. Some people love that feeling They can’t wait to be grown up And to forget their childhood years They have logical dreams: Requiring no risk And no passion.

Ethiopian

Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 7” x 11”

But then there are the people Like me. Who hate the feeling of time Speeding past And they still hold on to those dreams That everyone else would say Were unattainable And they still leave their windows open at night Just in case a lost boy decides to drop in And take them away to neverland Where there is no time. Yes They too Will grow up As hard as they try not to But their hearts will stay young And they will still dream Those “unattainable” dreams.

What Lies Ahead by Nicolas Garzone When will I know it’s real? I’ve met with Time, hearing She’s got power to heal, But her hands were empty, No balm nor signet seal. When will I know that I know? Will I ever prove this heart? How much longer can I go? Will I trust in Who Thou art? The end of the race will show. So I lay aside my weights, And I lay aside my sins. Lord, grant me Thy running pace To endure until the end For I long to see Thy face, Oh my King and my close Friend!

Autumn Stairway

Abigail Moore Aluminum Casting on Wood 5” x 7”

From Sehri to Iftar* by Sara Williams

Author’s Note: This piece was written for Dr. Becky Thompson’s Fiction Writing class (Fall 2019). The assignment was to write “from the perspective of someone radically different from yourself.”

Peering out my window, I can barely make out the outline of other houses in our neighborhood under the streetlamps. The sun isn’t scheduled to come up for another two hours, so there is plenty of time to eat our Sehri and possibly sneak in a nap before morning prayer and getting ready for school: our usual routine for the past couple of weeks. This is the first Ramadan that Mama said I was old enough to participate in, since I’m not a child anymore, but she said I still have to go to school and keep up with my chores just like her and Baba still work. “It won’t be easy, binti, but fasting helps us focus on following Allah and studying the teachings of Muhammed. It is a very special time.” She’d said this to me just a few days before the full moon started our holy month. I was excited to experience Ramadan with my family but nervously anticipated awkward stares and questions, more than the usual. I tie my shoes right after wrapping my hijab around my face; I like how the navy-blue chiffon matched the galaxy pattern on my Converse. Girls who don’t wear a hijab are really missing out on the accessorizing opportunities, I laugh to myself. After my last efforts of primping, I grab my bookbag and head to the bus stop at the corner of my street, my stomach still full of boiled eggs and lentil soup that I had stuffed myself with earlier that morning. At school, I feel fine during first and second period, but heading to Geometry is usually when I start to get a little woozy from not having eaten for awhile. It doesn’t help that the class is incredibly boring, and Mrs. Wright ends up venting about her oblivious husband, so my mind is more likely to wander to the condition of

my stomach. Only two more weeks. In the first few days of Ramadan, I would envision all of the amazing food Mama would make for Iftar later that night that we would partake in with some of our Muslim neighbors, but I soon learned that extravagant thoughts of delicious meals do not help when you’re fasting. Trust me. The lunch bell finally rings, signaling Mrs. Wright to frantically remind us about upcoming assignments due as our class rushes to get our stuff together and head to the cafeteria. We’re not allowed to leave the cafeteria until after fifteen minutes into lunch time, so I avoid my normal table of friends that I sit with and find an empty bench in the corner of the room, working on my English paper and trying to ignore the smell of fries. My non-Muslim friends were understanding when I told them about Ramadan and explained that I wasn’t avoiding them, just the temptation of their food. I could tell they thought it was strange, though. I mean, we’re a pretty eclectic group of people anyways: Amy has that contemplative artsy vibe like a character straight out of a John Green novel, but this was a different kind of weird: the one part of my life that they would never relate to. After I finish my paper, I finally get permission to go into the school library, a sanctuary from the chaos of 200 freshman consuming their burgers and Yoo-hoos. There is a row of bookshelves that no one ever browses through, containing yards of dusty anthologies, encyclopedias, and thesauruses. It also happens to face east, like it was made for Muslim high schoolers who needed a place to pray during their lunch period. Nenek said that when she was a little girl in Indonesia, her family used to pray among hundreds of other friends and neighbors at the local mosque in Jakarta. Well, it’s just me here in this library, but I still feel connected to the countless other faithful Muslims across the world that I am experiencing Ramadan with. I finish my prayers just in time as the bell rings, and I head to English class.

One of my favorite parts of this time every year is the big meals we have with everyone after the sun goes down. We celebrate that another day of Ramadan has passed and listen to the Imam recite parts of the Qu’ran by heart. I recognize some of the chapters that Baba has read aloud ever since I could remember, though I still don’t know exactly what they mean. Obviously, I know the prayers though, and can pronounce all the Arabic words correctly, which was enough to satisfy Mama when she taught me. I always enjoy getting to catch up with my friend Sarah during Iftar. We don’t get to see each other as much after being zoned for different high schools, so it’s a treat for us to spend almost every evening of the month talking about our new crushes at school or the mounds of homework we still need to get done that night. Her father is the Imam of our mosque, and it is her first time fasting during Ramadan this year, too. Our parents struggle to pull us apart when it’s time to go home, but Sarah promises to update me on the guy who sits behind her in Biology.

Spidle

Jessica Lee Rascio Digital Photography

Before heading up to my room, Mama pulls me aside and tells me how proud she and Baba are of how good I’ve been this month and how pleased Allah is with my faithfulness. I beam going up the stairs, relieved to hear that she thought I was being a good Muslim daughter. I never know if I’ve done enough, which has caused me a fair share of anxiety, especially this past year, but even Nenek told me that she doubted if she had upheld her faith the best she could, yet she trusts that Allah is good and powerful. While unwrapping my hijab, I feel thankful for the food I waited all day to eat and for this holy month that I get to celebrate with my family. I hope Allah is pleased with me like Mama said. I do my best, what else could be required of me? I try and shake this mounting question from my mind. I crawl into bed and breathe a sigh of relief at the end of a long yet fulfilling day. My friends at school may not understand the significance of this side of my life, but who knows, maybe they will someday.

Heal All Your Sons by Adelaide Dickens

Dear Father, Your sons are being infected, Consumed by an awful disease. It starts in their eyes then spreads to their brains, Eventually leaving them paralyzed, Unable to experience real pleasure. It robs them of their joy. It steals their true love. It cripples them, Takes from them their manhood, Either reducing men to boys Or stunting boysâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; growth so they never become men. Father, this disease, It distorts Your image, Warping and twisting the imago Dei within the boys As they forfeit their rule to be ruled instead by wicked lusts and passions. And this disease, Abba, It abuses the imago Dei of your daughters, Stripping it away. In the vicious cycle of this sickness, Your own sons abuse Your own daughters, Their own sisters. Father, heal him, The boy fallen ill. Restore feeling to his numb heart, The heart paralyzed by porn. Free him, Father,

From his slavery to sin, From being bound to the lusts of the flesh. Show him Your glory! Let him experience the pleasure of Your beauty, True beauty. Let his passion burn for You above all else. Let him delight in You, Realizing that cheap thrills cannot compare To the pleasures You have prepared. Renew him. Redeem his story. Restore his relationships with Your daughters. Dear Father, Let his heart know the true joy Which only You can bring. Then let him, once again, Take up the imago Dei, Ruling this time, In the right way, Caring for Your creation. Let him also delight in Your creation, That which You called good. And let his heart be full and encouraged With living hope, Hope for the reconciliation of heaven and earth, The restoration of all things. And in this way, Father, In Your will, Heal all Your sons.

A Loaf of Bread* by Samuel Heard

In Central Asian culture, a loaf of bread always means more than a loaf of bread. It represents the lifeblood of a meal: the dish may pass from host to guest, and the tea may pour out like a faucet, but bread is the foundation of supper. When I give you a loaf, I am giving you the essence of my home on a single platter. “To neglect the bread is to neglect the guest,” I was told. My parents seemed to understand this concept on an instinctive level because whenever we walked the streets of Shymkent, my childhood home, they always carried bread in their hands. They called it non, and it was shaped like a frisbee. They passed it out like a frisbee, too. One evening, just before sunset, my parents approached me and my brother with the usual announcement: “Let’s go for a walk.” My brother, looking down at whatever had been occupying him the previous moment, merely shrugged and ran towards my parents. I wasn’t so confident. Eyeing them with the suspicion typical of a five-year-old, I gripped the toy in my hand until I saw them putting on their shoes. A walk it is, then. We set out through our neighborhood, passing ornate fences and half-built houses. Shymkent had a rusted feel to it, as if half the city had corroded under Soviet mismanagement while the other half was waiting in line. Concrete apartments splattered the town, all built to the same height and painted the same smoggy color. Dust and gravel pervaded where grass should have been. Walking to the end of our street, we crossed a stream via a bridge made of wooden planks and scrap metal. The occasional beer can littered the side of the road as we continued into a park. As we walked, I noticed my father carrying a plastic bag in his right hand. Tugging at his left, I looked up at him and asked, “What’s in the bag?” He looked down at me and grasped my hand. “It’s a gift.” He smiled. He must have known his answer would spark my imagination, as it would any kid my age. So, I spent the next several minutes wondering what could be in that bag. A gift? What’s the gift? Who is it for? Is it a toy? Why are we walking with it? Are we

gonna give it to someone? Too many questions wandered in and out of my mind as we continued on our path. Those questions would soon be answered. Turning a corner in the park, we came face to face with a metal dumpster, which looked to be twice my height. I scanned the area surrounding it, looking for a path that would take us around the obstacle. But my dad continued to grip my hand. He walked towards the garbage. Trailing behind him, I followed his steps until he released my hand. My mother came up beside me. Why is he walking towards the trash? I thought. Is he going to throw away the gift? The smell of rotting produce hit me. I would take no more steps. My dad, with his long strides, walked up to the dumpster and tapped it as if knocking on a door. What is he doing? A face appeared from out of the dumpster and looked down at my father. My dad, holding up the bag, spoke to him in a language I didn’t understand. As he talked, the man, still staring directly at him, began climbing out of the dumpster. He was wearing a grey shirt covered with stains, and his hair seemed to be falling out in patches. He held onto something I couldn’t recognize. Then, I saw three other faces appear from behind the first man. One was an older woman, wearing a simple dress and a headscarf. Another was a young man, dressed in newer clothes, but he had scrapes across his arms and legs. One was a child—about the same age as I. As my dad continued speaking, I noticed the older man look down at what he was holding. After a few seconds, my father paused for a breath, and the man began distributing the items in his hands to the woman and the child. My dad interrupted, pulling out non from his plastic bag. He gave it to the older man. They exchanged more words in the unrecognizable language, and, within a few seconds, my dad pulled out his wallet and handed him a bill. I’m not sure how much it was. When my dad came back to us, we started our journey home. I avoided touching his hand. “What did you tell the man?” I asked him as we

walked. “I told him not to waste it,” he replied. At that point, I thought he was talking about the money. Looking back now, I’m not sure he was. *

A few weeks later, we went on another evening walk. My parents continued to bring non with them, keeping their eyes fixed for a potential recipient of their gift. But it was my brother who spotted the next receiver. “Look over there!” He pointed. Across the oneway street, a man slouched against the side of a small building. His eyes were barely open, but he held a copper bowl full of spare change from sympathetic passersby. He was sitting on damp newspapers. After crossing the street, we stood several paces away from him. My dad squatted down to meet my brother’s eye level. “Do you want to give the bread to him?” He handed him the non. My brother paused for a second, then nodded in reply. Looking at the beggar, he wobbled towards him with all the might a four-year-old could muster. He ran, placed the bread on his lap, then retreated, grinning with pride. He grabbed my father’s hand. “Next week, it will be your turn,” my dad said to me. I don’t remember whom I gave bread to the following week. Were they hiding in some shadowy corner, or were they digging through a dumpster in plain sight? My memory fails me. My guess is, though, I struggled to give the non away. I’m still working on that.

Ruin

Caleb Pepper Aluminum Casting on Wood 4” x 4”

Ducks Out of Row by Karson Harsey

The ducks can’t stay in a row Or the waters will turn to stone, I know. They must wander and twirl and travel, To stir up the waters to allow some flow; Let them unravel. Sure, one must stop them from beaching In muddy banks where predators prowl; I’ve heard the beseeching. Just let them go.

Our Lady

Nightingale #2

by Michael Thomas Nightingale Give me song My voice was bold But I was wrong I want to hear My song again I can’t bear The way it ends Please forget Everything I’ve ever said And let me sing

by Michael Thomas

On the tall, cold spire in the darkening day The flame ignited, like the fading eye Gazing with bitter age before it dies, In judgment on the stillness and decay, Until it saw no more. The people sang The mass divine and damned, the bride despised But loved, if only for the tears she cried, Falling like yellow ribbons on the Seine. Our Lady hung her head beneath the sky A still, cool moment and disappeared, Rolling back the shadow of her wrongs While we preserved her beauty with our tears. Oh Seine, flow soft and sweet. You bear our song Into the blameless tribute of the years.

I had so much I had to prove I had a heart I couldn’t move I need to play My song again I have to change The way it ends Nightingale Please talk to me You know me well You know I’m weak Nightingale Please talk to me You know me well Let me speak

Five Unmarried Brothers by Ziaul Moid Khan

Five unmarried brothers, Today I tell their tale: Tall, stout and handsome, Worldly wise in fashion, Two of them well-versed, Rest of them are cursed, Two of them chain smokers, Only one a good worker, He, being a good farmer, Two others just bed warmers, A book worm is the eldest one, The youngest is a great chum, They’ve a sweet sister of them, She too is unmarried, how?

The Grocery Store by Hannah McCall

Once upon a time, in a magicless, middle-of-nowhere town, there was a grocery store. It was not special; it was not important. It was a strange place full of even stranger people, though they wouldn’t consider themselves to be strangers. Everyone was always in each other’s business. The grocery store was normally either crammed full of bustling people or so silent that tumbleweed could have dramatically rolled between rows of canned drinks and no one would have thought a thing of it. It was the silent times cashiers had to watch out for. When the store was busy, everything ran as smoothly as could be expected. Customers lined the aisles and registers from ten in the morning until eight at night. The steady “beep” of registers was an ignored accompaniment to the outdated, overplayed music squeaking through the speakers. Managers were in their positions—always ready to help—and cashiers stood at attention with ready smiles hiding their back-pain and hatred of annoying customers. The clock ticked on under the employees’ watchful gazes. When the store was quiet, the cashiers turned into zombies and the managers disappeared into their tiny offices to coo over baby pictures and trade recipes for the newest zucchini-based entrée. It was during these times that cashiers either died of boredom or feared for their lives as the crazies came out of their hiding places. Early one morning, a lone cashier stood at attention near the end of her register reading the covers of gossip magazines for the umpteenth time. She paced and yawned. It wasn’t even eight a.m.; the silence was deafening. The cashier’s eyes glazed over and sleep began to pull at her more and more steadily. Her eyelids drooped and her head bobbed. All of a sudden, she was snapped out of her daze by the sound of rapid shuffling behind her. The cashier jerked around, gasped, and slapped a hand over her eyes. A half-clothed man streaked past her, struggling to keep his jeans up while running as if Cerberus himself was on his heels.

The cashier was stunned at the debacle she had just witnessed. Once the violent rustling of jeans ceased and she heard the automatic doors click shut, her hand moved down to cover her gaping mouth. The cashier’s eyes darted around the otherwise-empty store as she tried to figure out exactly what had happened. Seconds later, another, much older man--the manager--came darting around the corner, giving chase. His cheeks were flushed bright red as they rapidly puffed in and out. “Which…way…did he go?” the manager demanded through halting gasps. The cashier pointed out the glass doors and watched the older man yank at the sparse few hairs on his balding head as he ground his teeth. The manager growled and stormed off in the most realistic recreation of an Elmer Fudd huff the cashier had ever seen. She could see his fists clenching and unclenching and almost expected some situationally-stereotypical “I’ll get him” remark muttered under his breath. Now fully alert, as she had never before been that early in the day, the cashier set about to do what any good cashier would have done in that situation: find out exactly what had happened so she could exaggerate every miniscule detail in her retelling of the events to her coworkers. After some investigation, the cashier discovered that the man had stolen a box of donuts and a case of beer. He had taken his newly-acquired treasures to the bathroom and proceeded to make quite a morning for himself. Unfortunately for him, the cleaning crew came through and caught him enjoying his meager spoils from his perch atop the stall’s single porcelain throne. The crew notified the manager-on-duty who proceeded to give chase in a most elaborate fashion around the back half of the store. One hobbled along due to his more advanced years, while the other desperately waddled away like a panicked duck as he tried to pull his pants back up. True to form, the cashier recreated the event several times for her coworkers as they trickled in for their shifts. She told the tale with flailing arms and mad expressions that grew more and more theatrical with each retelling. The afternoon rush began and the store picked up pace as shoppers trickled in.

Three o’clock rolled around and the cashier was preparing to clock out when she heard a huge ruckus from one of the aisles. Curiosity piqued, she walked over and was astonished at the sight that greeted her. There, in the middle of the baking aisle, the donut thief from before sat mounted on a bright yellow MartKart. He charged, jaw gritted in concentration, at speeds barely upwards of two miles per hour towards confused customers. The man was armed with a tiki torch and he wasn’t afraid to use it. He dared customers to joust with him and yelled angrily when no one rose to meet his challenge. The man ripped open packages of cookies and scarfed them down mid-roar as his perceived opponents refused to pick up his imaginary gauntlet. But aside from swerving to miss the swing of the tiki torch as they reached for paper muffin cups, the customers ignored him. Most were mothers who had just picked their kids up from school. They had seen, and dealt with, far worse. The manager arrived on the scene at a full run with the gleam of victory in his eyes. He attempted to capture the jouster under threats of calling the police, and the man, as any worthy opponent would, tried to escape. He revved the Kart up to its max, three-point-seven mile-perhour speed, but he was no Bugs Bunny, capable of making a great escape in the nick of time. This Fudd had caught his wabbit. The manager threw the thief out and stood guard over the automatic doors, tiki torch in hand, as his shirt fluttered in the air conditioner breeze. Now armed with a new story, the cashier clocked out and drove home to regale her family with tales from the grocery store. Apparently it wasn’t just the quiet times she had to watch out for.

Coming of Age

by Elizabeth Lee Williams

I’m packing my things, I’m loading the car, It’s time to say goodbye. There’re tears in your eyes as you help me, Because my time has come to fly. You watch me worriedly, Your faces frown, As I perch at the edge of the nest. But please don’t worry, You’ve trained me well, I know you did your best.

Letting Go

Faith Yeargin Acrylic and Ink 9” x 12”

Heading Homeward* Marissa Nelson Watercolor and Gouache 5â&#x20AC;? x 7â&#x20AC;?

Easter Song by Jonah Losh

The raising stars now kiss the sky as nature lets a stilling sigh recalls Time’s darkest grimmest night: the Christ—entombed. The lights were dimmed the Heavens silent no angel could sing, no bird would wing. all was lost the hope the Son was slain. Yet death forgot Whom it swallowed the whale’s stomach churned the grave to be hollowed. How looked the tomb’s dark inside as a horrific roar gave in the light tomb’s lock unstable death’s seal in shift the shoulders of angels shove sin’s great stone lungs heave Heart beats. He stands and breathes emerging from the man-dug hole what Glory for us now to behold The Son of Man—our risen King— the Holder of every key now death and devil are ones to weep.

Sprouting*

by Karissa Garzony Simple sapling, stiff in soil, Lifts lacy leaves Toward the sapphire sky. Coaxing clouds and roaring raindrops Taunt the tiny, tender tree. Even trolloped flowers flourish, Parading petals pompously. Blissful birds baffle as they Dare to dance on the disappearing dawn. “Clearly,” calls the small sapling, “The creatures on high are happier than I.” Dismal dirt leaves the leafling longing. Satisfaction seems so sparse. The sorrowful sprig wants not for water While the world overflows with wonder. Perhaps all poor, paltry plants pine For a future fostering newfound feathers. To rip out ratty roots, embrace the ecstatic expanse, Soar into the sinking scarlet sky, And fly.

Bahama Sands*

by Rachel Henderson My grandmother was married twice. She was first married to my grandfather, and, after they divorced, she later married Ken. Ken was a tiny man, always grumpy, and genuinely horrible to my grandma, Betty. Truthfully, he wasn’t very kind to anyone in our family, always swearing and demeaning his stepchildren and grandchildren. Due to a severe smoking problem, Ken met an early demise when I was just ten years old, leaving my grandmother in a big house all alone. Betty’s new-found loneliness drove her to a shopping addiction; she became a hoarder. Grandma Betty collected everything from baby food to tacky home décor. After Ken’s passing, I would go visit my grandma every Wednesday after school, and each week I watched as her house transformed into a storehouse of clutter. So, by the time I was fifteen, my weekly visits to keep her company became weekly cleaning projects. It was a dark, rainy Wednesday, ominous, when I set out to clean Betty’s closet. I opened the closet door and was immediately greeted by a mountain of shoes, none of which were Betty’s size. The mixed assortment of heels and sneakers came crashing down on me. The distinct aroma of mold and mildew filled my nostrils, and the clean-freak in me both screamed in terror at the sight of the mess and

jumped for joy that I got to clean it. I decided that I would need to remove everything from the closet first, after which I could organize the items, deep clean the floors, walls, and shelves, and then put all of her things neatly back in the closet. The closet was mostly full of clothes and shoes, but Betty had also stored food, pictures, lawn ornaments, and a couple of very dead plants. One by one, I removed each item from the closet, sorting everything into three categories: trash, donate, and what-the-heck-is-this. After several hours of sorting, I climbed onto a stool to clean the upper shelf of her closet, my very last endeavor before the job would be done. I came across a large candlestick holder. The menorah-like piece was heavy and had been sitting on the shelf for so long that it practically stuck to it. With much effort, I finally pried the enormous candlestick holder from off of the shelf, and behind it were two tiny Ziploc bags full of sand. The sand was pure white; I assumed it was something Betty had collected from a trip to the Bahamas she had taken several years ago with her late husband. Humorously, though, it looked like my elderly grandmother was stashing a massive amount of cocaine in her cluttered closet. I called her into the room to pick on her a bit. “Grandma!” I hollered loudly, “You have some serious explaining to do!” She came waltzing into the room, her fat feet silent on the hardwood floor. I smiled down at her from the stool I was positioned on. “What is this, young lady?” I questioned, laughing. Her wrinkled smile broadened as she held her hands up to take the two sand-filled bags from me. “Oh, that’s just your grandfather,” she said nonchalantly. I stopped laughing. My face turned as pale as the dead ashes in Betty’s hands. “Grandma,” I managed to stammer out, “You sent Ken’s ashes down the London River. Remember? That was his dying wish. You took a trip all the way to London just to do that for him!” “ Well, I just couldn’t part with all of him,” she replied. Following what I now refer to as “the incident,” I sat down in the kitchen for a bit to sip some water and

bring the color back to my face while I questioned Betty’s sanity. I had held a piece of Ken. I had held a dead man. Grandma Betty joined me, still holding the two bags in her hands. She had purchased a three-hundred-dollar urn to store his ashes before she was to send him down the London River, yet after cleaning out everything in her closet, no urn had been found, and tiny portions of his remains were in plastic bags. “I have an idea!” Betty exclaimed, “I will send one of these bags to his daughter, Heather, in Canada! She’ll love it.” I gulped. “Grandma, you can’t do that. They’ll think you’re smuggling drugs across the Canadian border.” She danced back out of the room, returning moments later with a large conch shell, which I had put in the “what-the-heck-is-this” pile, a box, and some bubble wrap. “Here,” Betty said, handing me the conch shell and one of the bags of ashes, “Shove this in the shell for me, dear.” I obeyed. I shoved the tiny bag of contraband into the large shell. Then, Betty wrapped the shell in three layers of bubble wrap, set it gently in the box she had, and later sent it to Canada. To my knowledge, Ken made it safely to his daughter, who was very likely mortified. Last year, Betty passed away. My mother and I spent weeks after her passing cleaning out her house one last time. We laughed at the many things that Betty kept— the dead plants she hid in various places, the trinkets she had purchased from QVC, and the countless family photo albums. Mom and I made four piles for her things: trash, donate, what-the-heck-is-this, and keep. While cleaning out my grandmother’s armoire, my mother stumbled upon a tiny Ziploc bag full of white sand. “I wonder what this is,” my mom said, as she held it up to me. “Oh, probably just some sand she kept from her trip to the Bahamas,” I replied. Upon which my mother tossed Ken into the trash pile.

The Tale of the Imploding Man by Samuel Heard

I often get dizzy when I’m in my house. Don’t know why. Must have something to do with the carpet. It smells like a coffin. Arlene says I spend too much time looking at the carpet these days. I say who cares what Arlene says. What does she know, anyhow. Maybe I like staring at carpets. They come in different colors: red, yellow, blue, orange. Have you ever seen an orange carpet before? My buddy down the road has one. It sits in his smoke-room. We’ve had quite a few good smokes in that room over the years. Staring at carpets and whatnot. TickTockTickTockTickTock That’s the funny thing about friends. You can sit in a room with them your entire life, not having to say a word, when suddenly they’ll stick a knife in your back and ask you to move. I don’t get it. Dead men don’t move. TickTockTickTockTickTock I think Arlene wants to speak to me. The air’s gone still again. TV seems louder. She’s rustling in her armchair. What is it, woman? Can’t you see I’m busy looking at the carpet? “Ain’t no man worse than a lying man. Am I right, Robert?” she says. “Mmhmm,” I say. I hate it when she uses that word. Ain’t. “See that man on the TV, Robert? He’s a lying man.” She starts to snicker. “I see him lying on our TV all the time. Lying on stage, lying on chairs, lying on the floor. I bet you when he’s at home, he’s lying with his wife. They’re probably both liars.” TickTockTickTock I look up at her. Arlene likes to have a stupid grin on her face. As if she had something to be proud of. The only thing you should be proud of, Arlene, is that I haven’t

left the sofa yet. What a rotten sofa we have. It’s rotten and it smells like oranges. Stop smiling. I look down at the floor again. “Did you like the joke, Robert?” she says. “What joke?” I say. “The ‘lying’ joke. The one about the liars,” she says. “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I suppose.” You shouldn’t joke about liars, Arlene. There’s nothing funny about a liar. Liars are the ones who try to smoke you while you hang upon a stick. I should know. have one sitting in my house. Trying to make me laugh. TickTockTickTockTickTock “Is something wrong, dear?” Arlene says. Funny. I really am a dear, aren’t I? “No, no. Why’d you ask?” I say. “Because something’s wrong.” “I just told you nothing’s wrong. You think I’m lying to you, Arlene?” “I don’t think you’re lying to me. I just think you’re upset.” “I ain’t upset.” My buddy often says that friends should be treated like cigarettes. Hold them close for a little while, let them intoxicate you, then stomp them out once they’ve gotten stale. He’s a good guy. Knows his way around his business. I should pay him a visit sometime. Maybe we’ll get a chance to sit in his smoke-room again and stare at his carpet. It’s too bad dead guys don’t move. I wouldn’t mind getting out of this sofa. TickTockTickTock I think Arlene’s crying again. She’s making a horrible whimpering noise like a cat that wants too much attention. Well, she’ll have to try a little harder if she wants my attention. Best way to treat a cat is pretend it isn’t there. It gives up eventually. TickTock This woman won’t quit. Fine. You win this time, Ar-

lene. Only because I’m a dead man, and dead men don’t move. I look at Arlene. She’s covering her face with her hands. I wonder what’s wrong with her. Maybe she hates our carpet. I’m not fond of it either, Arlene. But who’s fault is that? Not mine. Remember that, Arlene? You remember when we were choosing which carpet to order? You said let’s go with the cream-colored one. No, I said, that will stain too easily. It’ll be just fine, you said. But there are so many other nice-colored ones, I said. Like blue or red or even orange if we’re feeling good. You said we are getting the cream-colored one. I said alright, even though it wasn’t alright. Now we’re stuck with a stained carpet that smells like the grave. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask Arlene. She gets out of her chair and sits next to me on the sofa. Tears are running down her face, and now her makeup is ruined. “Why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” she says. “Nothing’s bothering me. Why’d you keep asking? I told you to stop asking.” “Because a few minutes ago was the first time you’d spoken all day. You’ve done absolutely nothing since you woke up this morning. All you’ve done is get up, sit on the couch, and stare at the floor. I tried to put the TV on for you, but you haven’t even paid attention to that. Anytime I try and speak to you, you just mumble ‘mmhmm’ and say nothing else. What’s the matter with you, Robert? You look like you’re dying. I can’t let you be this way.” TickTockTickTock I’m starting to get dizzy again. This stupid house. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking. What, do you expect me to talk to you all day?” “No . . . and yes . . . I don’t know,” she replies. “I am your wife, Robert. I would think you’d at least talk to me a little.” “I have nothing to say to you.”

TickTickTickTickTick She’s putting her head in her hands again. Whimpering. As if I ought to put her out of her misery. “I’m so alone,” she cries. “You make me feel so alone.” I do wonder how my buddy down the street is doing. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from him. I tried calling him a few weeks ago. No response. It’s a shame. He and I go way back. I remember when I shared my first cigarette with him. Neither of us knew how to smoke, so we spent ten minutes trying to light the things and another ten minutes coughing. We figured it out, eventually. TickTickTockTickTickTock I think Arlene’s getting up now. Her makeup stained the sofa. Where is she going? Well, alright then. I suppose we’ll need to find a new couch. And that’s a good thing, too, because this one is rotten. TickTockTockTick It’s pretty uncomfortable, too. I guess dead men don’t choose their own graves. TickTock I feel dizzy. Tick

Joy Finding*

by Audrey Clement The road ends here, and so I watch snowfall on dust-red cedars. I was just passing through. A harvest, buried in silver snow, is like joy enveloped and sung to silent slumber. The road has melted off, but I will wait for rain and the familiar frozen fire in my toes (my soul, and in my soul). The trees are frost-white; all the snow is sticking, and I cannot see an arm or leg or feel or find where I have written down forever all my pain, fully written lines (and my soul). The snow breathes; how they rattle the bones. These Elysian fields are dying, amber dust in the cold and old and old and old, this breath I have breathed (and my soul).

Reflet de Moi

Anne Zimmerman Film Photography 9â&#x20AC;? x 6â&#x20AC;?

A Song of Chick-fil-A* by Elizabeth Lee Williams

When the salad stuff is old, and the veggies look suspicious, When the meat is undercooked, and the pizza’s not delicious, When the pasta freaks me out, and the stir-fry’s colored grey, Then bless the Lord, O my soul; thank God for Chick-fil-A!

Mother

by Leslie Meyers

The single most beautiful word in the English dictionary is “Mother.” What makes it so is not the sound of it spoken aloud, or the way it feels rolling off your tongue, but rather the power contained in this one insignificant word. It has the power to make you smile or cry, to make you long for someone, to make you feel at home, to take you back to your childhood, and to make you work hard in the present. It is the word chosen long ago to represent the most beloved person in your life: the woman who gave you life. She is the one who loves you unfailingly and sacrificially, who always has your back, who always has a ready ear and open arms, forever be happy to see you and glad to impart her wisdom to you. She is the one person who will forever symbolize home. That is why this word is so powerful and stunning: the person it represents.

Breathing Exercise by Sara Williams

*Breathe in* I’ve grown fond of the old familiar places, Grown close to the new and familiar faces. But I keep thinking; “What ifs” flow into my mind like water in a boat, sinking. What if I end up old and lonely? Stop it; don’t go down that way. What if I can’t afford another degree? This dread is building and is here to say: What if the ones I leave behind forget me? My tormented mind a prison cell, thoughts locked inside with no sight of a key. *Shaky breath out* God, You are faithful to sustain Even in this seemingly endless stage of stress. You shelter and embrace us in the rain and whisper “I will never forsake you. Cease your restlessness.” “But Lord, I am so inadequate to do what You’ve called me to do.” “Yes, my love. That’s why I was cut, so that you could focus not on what but Who.” Whose will are you eternally in? By Whose breath did yours begin? Who holds dearly every tear in His hand? Who makes this stormy water like solid land? *Stronger breath in* moved by old Truth that had settled To the bottom of my soul. My mind renewed, a sweet release by looking beyond myself to the One Who gives me *Breathe out* peace.

Gate

Caleb Pepper Ceramic 7.5” x 5.5” x 11”

For Japheth

by Adelaide Dickens I look at your face and I’m taken back to former days, a forgotten place. In that place there was pain though it had not yet sunk into you. But now it has. I see it weighing down the corners of your mouth. I watch as the burden drags your posture down. I see the emptiness your eyes drift into to avoid the pain. I see your skeleton, and it scares me. My heart breaks for you. I know that you’ve been broken and I can’t fix you. I look down at my hands, emptiness. I call on my strength, powerless. I look at us both, helpless. I look up. Father, I call out, help us! I’m reminded that He gives me love, and that is what I have to offer. I give you the love that I receive. This love doesn’t fix things, but it’s present, holds steady. So may this love hold you steady, may it draw you close, close to the Father, Because He won’t fix things, But He will redeem your story.

White Unicorn, Red Hart By Davis Lisk

Sir Lothgrammaine sat atop his roan mare and surveyed the spindly trees that surrounded him. The leaves were now a blending of red, orange, and deep green and dusted with a thin layer of snowflakes indicating a bitterly cold late autumn. Sir Lothgrammaine was arrayed in a streaming cassock of rich red with embroidered circular crosses of great size running down it on both sides of the buttoning. His knightly surplice was of finest bodice lace. Upon this quest, he wished to look his very best as he approached the fabled Unicorn. He dismounted and silently crossed over to the nearest tree. He licked it. Cinnamon and spice. Yea, the beast was nigh. He went to his pack and drew forth a small ivory cache. From it he pulled out a small pair of scissors and trimmed the edges of his moustache. He returned the scissors thither and proceeded to curl the ends of his moustache with scented oil. He put the ivory cache away once more and drew forth his sword, the French one with the twirly hilt. Next, he climbed up the tree and waited… and waited…and ate a bite of Turkish delight he brought back from his involvement in the Children’s Crusade…and waited. Eventually, he spotted it, a glint of white in the rose bushes underneath him to his left, the fabled Unicorn. Sir Lothgrammaine lifted himself up into a standing position and, brandishing his steel, leapt onto the beast. A cloud of rose and briar rocketed into the air. A violent whinny rang forth. A snort and then a hoof butting a sternum bone echoed throughout the forest. A voice shouted, “The power of Christ compels you!” Metal clanked with ivory. Someone spat. A squirrel fell to the ground and perished. Finally, Sir Lothgrammaine emerged upright dragging behind him the Unicorn, strung up and flailing wildly. “How now, good my Unicorn,” said the knight, “I have thee! Make quit unto this foppery.” The unicorn stilled and let out a final snort of resignation. “Alas, good my knight, good sir, ye has me right well encapsulated in this devilish rope! I would wager it were hemp how sturdy it be. What wishes thou by my capture?”

“For assistance in the apprehension of the fabled Red Hart, which is the most fantastical beast in the Magic Wood.” “What? The Red Hart? Ye soughts me out and buckles me o’er the horn to aid in the capturing of another faerie creature? Am I not faerie enough? Saints preserve us! I’m as faerie as one gets for being not a faerie! Red Hart, my horse! Now am I offended. What plans ye to do with me once the ruddy deer is caught?” “Release thee, good sirrah, to be free and bless the Magic Wood for ourselves and our children’s chil—” “What? Ye is just going to let me go? Ye doesn’t care enough to bind me up and take me back to King Arthur and the Great Menagerie of Caerleon?” The Unicorn, broken inside began to weep. “What is Unicorn? What is so special about being a horse with a horn? What use are magical powers without appreciation should follow it? Oh! If this is life, then strike me down! I am nothing. Nothing belongs to nothing, so strike, man, strike! Oh, my very dear trees, Sebastien, Emily, Merrimore—” “Thou nam’st the trees?” asked Sir Lothgrammaine. “Oh, ye mocks me!” “Nay, I do not. I merely wish to understand you better, Unicorn, noblest of the forest.” “Noblest?” “Why, yay, noblest! I had ne’er seen it aforehand, but now, in thy commitment total and complete to honour as your creed I call you king o’ the wood. Nay, I cannot claim you!” The Unicorn raised its head. “Thou really meanest it?” he asked, his eyes brightening. “How could I to the contrary?” Sir Lothgrammaine unbound the Unicorn. He embraced the beast’s neck, and they wept till the sun hung low in the sky, and then, in the twilight of the world, Sir Lothgrammaine, his hand in a mane of purest white, led the Unicorn back to the Great Menagerie at Caerleon.

Old Salt

Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 6” x 9”

Man of War

By Hanna Burick He is a man of war He lives, he thinks, he fights He’s neither rich nor poor His wealth is weighed in light His mind is made of metal His soul is laid in grass The rose’s final petal Has turned his heart to glass Once filled with golden love His heart begins to wane And with a quaking crack It shatters into pain.

He, Snowy-headed By Davis Lisk

The raven is doubly present On moonlit fields of silver Lined with spear-slain bodies. Black and brown and blue-faced bodies Bleeding lakes of precious silver Make too rich a raven’s present. Red reems and battered temples, Bloody altar, bloody wimples. Sorrow, like a crown of roses, Pours out thorns in crooked poses. Where is north? Where is south? East or west is the river’s mouth? If life be dead, the lions May shake off winter’s flowers (Snowflakes) and pinch the lamb twixt teeth, And with their deep pale ivory teeth Detach the tender limbs a lamb flowers And leave his flesh for other lions.

The Secret Garden Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

Untitled

Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 11” x 11”

Summer Snow* By Davis Lisk

In a flower-flood yield all the fullness of spring At the crack of the summer’s sweet dawn. Lo, the fanciful nature of life in this lawn Where the songbirds of summer do rhapsody sing For the love of the light and the joy of the thing! Yet a strange sight is hanging in the clear summer’s breath. In a boat from above is the laid of a king, Of the hoary king in the winterbound hall Where the banner is charcoal, the black rose of death Interlaid twixt the teeth of a skeleton’s call, Twixt the teeth of the maw of a poor fellow’s head, What a sombre-wrought standard for living and dead. Let them loose, let them loose, loose the noose and let fall A flurry of snowflakes from winterbound hall, Let it fall, let it fall, let it cover it all In a blanket of white like a daffodil field For by flowers of youth groves of snowfall does yield.

Forgiveness

By Justin Oates Waves lap softly at the feet of two souls, each coming and going in only a moment, imparting traces of their existence upon the two observers. They look outward beyond the setting sun, where the stars commence their customary orchestra of lights, each shining brightly and resiliently, with the daytime soloist’s act drawing to a close. The man brushes his hair back with his hand as it is tousled in the soft sea breeze. “I kept it, you know.” He breaks the silence, finally glancing over to the woman at his side. He slides his hand into his breast pocket and removes a small golden band. “Even after everything that happened?” she questions him. He nods. “Even after all of it. Goodness knows I didn’t always want to. I tried to pawn it several times, but I’d always back out as soon as it left my hand to be appraised. I just gave up after a while.” “I-I’m so sorry,” her voice quavers, a barely audible whisper. Tears stream down her face, shimmering opposite the waves. She summons her strength, trying to say more, to enumerate her many sins against him, but whenever she feels confident that another word is ready to surface, only choked sobs emerge instead. He wraps his arm around her, but she wriggles free. “No!” she yells, then, “No,” again, more softly this time. “There must be something I can do, something I must do. I can’t just fall into your arms again, and you can’t let me. I’ll just end up hurting you, over and over, just like before.” His eyes finally meet hers, piercing her to the core with the depth of thought and heart contained within, the very same depth that first drew her to him, the very same depth that drove her away from him when she first saw

how her actions had hurt him all those years ago. He clears his throat. “You’re sorry, aren’t you?” he asks, gentle yet firm, just how she remembers his voice from back then. “Yes,” she responds, and quickly adds, “but that doesn’t mean anything at all.” He ignores the latter half of her remark, and presses on: “Could you ever do any of it again?” “No, I could never.” “Well, then give me your hand.” He reaches out to her, but she pulls away yet again. “But what if I do?!” she argues vehemently, “What if I go and ruin it all again? What if I betray you and break your heart and abandon you all over again?” “I don’t think you will,” he answers, and in anticipation of her protest, he adds, “but if you do, then I’ll keep this ring until you come back again.” “Why would you do that for me?” she asks with a shudder, on the verge of another breakdown. He takes her hand once more, and this time she doesn’t resist. As he slides her wedding band back onto her finger, he gives his succinct response: “Because you’re my wife. And that’s all that matters.” She buries her head in his chest, and as the two sit by the waves, a new chapter of their story begins.

Kalendarium Christi by Davis Lisk

Sweet smoke in spindles riseth Skyward, birthed in silver censers. With the passing of my days I come To find—though, perchance it surpriseth— To long forgotten questions answers, And gathering both truth and grace the sum Is something first so strange—and then To find in unknown face a home, In unknown halls a hidden friend That led through kith and kin to ken— Through bush and briar’d roses comb— Of what, truly, now to mend, Is the quality Sublime, from Lion’s face To tender Lamb and glory mixed with grace.

Broken Hearted*

Austin McAvoy Aluminum Cast on Wood 5” x 4”

Hope Set Aside by Karley Conklin

Lost. Wandering through the desert, Dry. Emptied of everything, Trapped. Surrounded by endless sands, Time Passing without measure, Never Progressing, Ends. Without a word.

Sleeping Unwilling to open heavy eyes. Heart, Beating faintly; dry lips burn. Awaken. Quickly the dream is shattered. Mirage, An escape merely imagined. Broken. Still stuck in wanderings. Light Is fading quickly; darkness Triumphs. The night offers no sign of Peace And the gnawing thought Prevails: How long shall I dwell in deserts? For Eternity.

Thirst. Where is water? Desire. To never thirst again. Struggle. Feet sinking and slipping. Direction A sense totally gone, Still Alone, my fate is Unknown. My prayer remains unheard. Hope. Drink. Rest. Joy Will Come.

An oasis; here is water. Knees collapsing. Safe beneath the shade. Finally shows its face, This moment please not end? Remain in this place.

Flower Mug

Marissa Nelson Ceramic 3â&#x20AC;? x 4â&#x20AC;?

Resurrection Blues* by Samuel Heard

Shoulda hadda better time yessir Shoulda hadda shoulda hadda Hear their echo in the streets drag across the pavement It trails settles on the concrete like morning dew whispering wails But the good times are gone yessir the good times are gone Sunlight’s hid behind the moon We shiver cos the sunlight’s gone too soon Shattered shards their voices can’t seem to hold together But who am I to judge I’m not much better than a broken drum a songless melody and sunlight makes me shiver Oh but wait But better times is coming the words spill out like anointing oil consecrating Yessir the better is coming it’s coming the good Lord says so the good Lord knows so the good Lord’s done so yessir

Hear them sweep the streets with sanctifying lamentation Watch them step on beat every second And I know I know I was built to last like clockwork be rewound Yessir the good Lord knows the time Good Lord please take your time I try keeping up but my legs stutter Forgive me of my sins oh Lord I march to an irregular rhythm And there is no peace no peace without the breaking No joy no joy without the morning No rest without the waiting the good Lord knows the time Retune me Lord I am a man of unclean lips And in the end we all will be made new The sun will melt the morning dew and we will dance forever Yessir

Index

Barr, Jada—English Language Arts Secondary Education, Junior Burick, Hanna—Dual-Enrollment Case, Mary Anna—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Clement, Audrey—English, Sophomore Conklin, Karley—Alumna Davidson, Kara—Health Science, Sophomore Dickens, Adelaide—Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore Dickerson, Morgan—Business Administration, Freshman Elliott, Taylor Rose—Psychology, Sophomore Gardner, Allison—Studio Art, Senior Garzone, Nicolas—Mathematics, Senior Garzony, Karissa— English Language Arts Secondary Education, Junior Harsey, Karson—Digital Media, Freshman Heard, Samuel—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior Henderson, Rachel—English, Senior Jordan, Brittany—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Khan, Ziaul Moid—Guest Contributor Lisk, Davis—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Losh, Jonah—Piano Performance, Junior McAvoy, Austin—Studio Art, Junior McCall, Hannah—English & Criminal Justice and Legal Studies, Senior Meyers, Leslie—Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore Moore, Abigail—Studio Art, Junior Nelson, Marissa—Studio Art, Sophomore Norris, Ariel—History, Senior Oates, Justin—English, Senior Palmer, Jennifer—Guest Contributor (NGU Staff) Pepper, Caleb—Studio Art, Senior Rascio, Jessica Lee—Marketing, Senior Steadman, Emily— English Language Arts Secondary Education, Junior Thomas, Michael—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Tribble, Tyran L.—Studio Art, Senior Vardas, Alec—Studio Art, Sophomore Williams, Elizabeth Lee—History, Senior Williams, Sara—English Language Arts Secondary Education, Senior Williamson, Brianna—Social Studies Secondary Education, Freshman Yeargin, Faith—Psychology, Junior Zimmerman, Anne—Criminal Justice and Legal Studies, Senior

44, 48 82 16, 57 76 86 16 61, 79 48 26-28 21 58 72 63 38-39, 40, 62-63, 74-75, 87 14, 33, 72-73 25, 29 18, 64 12, 55-57, 80, 82, 83, 85 32, 71 85 46-47, 65-66 77 45, 58 71, 86 54, 57, 81, 83 12, 20-21, 22-24, 84 10 63, 78 60 49-51 17, 25, 37, 64 15 30-31, 32 35, 52-54, 66, 77 59-60, 78 13, 51, 82 67 11, 19, 34, 36, 41, 76

The Mountain Laurel 2020 Sponsors: College of Communication and Fine Arts, Art Department, North Greenville University College of Humanities and Sciences, English Department, North Greenville University

Krispy Kreme Doughnuts

300 North Pleasantburg Dr. Greenville, SC 29607, 864-232-8250

Moe’s Southwest Grill

6005 A Wade Hampton Blvd. Taylors, SC 29687, 864-848-2885 (Steven D. Overman, Owner)

Colophon: Fonts: Century Gothic 150 pt, 72 pt, 36 pt, 24 pt, 12 pt; Avenir 8 pt, 10 pt, 12 pt Pages: 8.5” by 8.5” 88 pages: 48 4/4 80# matte, 40 1/1 80# matte Cover Stock: 100# Sterling ultra matte Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover: 5/1 + Dry Trap Matte Varnish & Dry Tap Gloss Varnish Cover art: Digital Design (Adobe Illustrator CC) by Hayley De González Divider Page Art: Revelation - Digital Design by Hayley De González Voyage - Digital Design by Hayley De González Fulﬁllment- Digital Design by Hayley De González Printing: Jostens Commercial Printing, Clarksville, TN Copyright 2020 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.