The Mountain Laurel, Vol. 58, Uncharted Territory by The Mountain Laurel

Uncharted Territory Volume 58

Letter from the Editors Uncharted Territory Every individual experiences a layered existence, within, throughout, and outside themselves. This is evident in the glory of the Sublime, the multiplicity of the Depths, the potential of the Expanse, and the immensity of the Elsewhere. This collection of works is a compilation of the consciousness of humanity- that which we observe in the world around us- and the human capacity for the abstract. From the literary and artistic to the scientific and analytical, there is always uncharted territory. The Sublime The Sublime is a reflection of the natural world that swells within the soul. It represents everything that is beautiful, mythical, and transcendent about the human condition, and the closest that we can get to a heavenly experience on earth. As defined by Edmund Burke, the Sublime is the strongest emotion that the mind is capable of feeling. It is tangibly transcendental, extending beyond any definitive human emotion and delving into the vast minuteness of consciousness. The Depths The Depths represents delving into the unconscious mind and the multiplicity of meaning that can be found in art. The mysterious nature of the ocean involves that which is both malicious and benevolent, and that which is unknown. Appearances, or the tip of the iceberg, only show a part of all that comprises reality, or what lies beneath the depths. Beneath the surface of each piece lies a multitude of implications, thoughts, and emotions, some complementing one another and others clashing. This series of artistic expression explores the unmarked path of that which lies below the surface.

Art Advisor’s Note When given the topic of “Uncharted Territory,” I immediately thought of observation and exploration. There is vastness in God’s Creation but we can begin to understand if we know the formula. This is why I chose to incorporate the Golden Mean, or the Golden Ratio, into my designs. It can be observed in almost anything – plants, animals, the environment, the cosmos, and even the human body. This ratio is even tied into the proportions used in the Old Testament, such as the Ark of the Covenant. The proportions and patterns in the Golden Mean serve as blueprints for God’s Design. The Sublime The sublime refers to a greatness beyond human comprehension. A sweeping cumulonimbus cloud became the image I chose for this section. This raging storm completely dwarfs and engulfs the field, and there is nothing that can stop this force.

The Expanse There is infinite capacity charged with meaning around us. This is the Expanse. It is the world of real and imagined space in which the heavens revolve, the stars explode, and the sense of retrograde resides. There is both expanding possibility and postmodern relativity. This space represents the infinities that can be found in human consciousness, and the limitless potential of our minds. The Elsewhere Where do you go when you dream? Where does the idle mind reside? A term originally coined by Bachelard, the Elsewhere has to do with spaciality and “immensity,” defining what we usually think of as daydreaming as an entirely new place, a totally different state of being. Imagination and cognition flow infinitely inwards to a deeply personal place, where your identity can be freely explored or shed to contemplate consciousness. Baudelaire calls this state of mind “fertile laziness” in which the immensity within is charged with possibility. When going to the Elsewhere, we come away with a renewed sense of creativity, originality, and an expanded sense of self. Taylor Rose Elliott, Managing Editor Caemon Ashworth, Poetry Editor Karson Harsey, Prose Editor

The Depths Ocean life hosts one of the most famous organic examples of the Golden Mean, the nautilus. The sea is home to many a creature, some not even discovered. The vastness of the ocean can be overwhelming, seemingly as wide as it is deep. A wide-angle view of the ocean’s surface hides the mysteries of its depths. The Expanse In the beginning, our Creator spoke us into existence. Forever expanding outward, the cosmos continue to expand further and further beyond our comprehension. Oh what a joy it is to be a creation of the same God that orchestrated such a beautiful and wondrous thing! The Elsewhere Imagination, the beginning point of Creation, as well as the ubiquitous, omnipotent presence of God covers all areas not included in the prior three categories. The Elsewhere explores the metaphysical aspects of uncharted territory. Hayley De González, Art Advisor

The Mountain Laurel Volume 58

Uncharted Territory

North Greenville University 2022

P.O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 www.ngu.edu issuu.com/themountainlaurel

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, the 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 on only looked for creativity and diversity but also for the artist’s expertise in capturing an image, the appealing use of color and design, and inner meaning beyond the viewer’s first impression. With all submissions, staff members determined whether the work was suitable according to the standards of North Greenville University. After reading or viewing 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 Faculty Advisors Hayley De González (Art) Rachel Roberts (Literature) Editors Taylor Rose Elliott, Managing Editor Caemon Ashworth, Poetry Editor Karson Harsey, Prose Editor The Mountain Laurel Staff Kyle Jackson Aubrianna Nelson Zachary Senter Micah Stevens Claire Stratton

JUDGING 2022 Results Pieces honored with first, second, and third place 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 are denoted with an asterisk in the Table of Contents. Art First Place: Baby in a Manger Flower by Tayler Brooks Second Place: Windy Day by Leah Buffalino Third Place: Irish Farm by Brianna Williamson Poetry First place: “No Longer Any Sea (Revelation 21:1)” by SarahAnn Morgan Second place: “Great King Worm” by SarahAnn Morgan Third place: “Next to Normal” by Taylor Rose Elliott Prose First place: “Love Ablaze” by Faith Bentley Second place: “Something” by Karson Harsey Third place: “Slaying a Witch” by Faith Bentley

Judges Art judge: Symon Gibson is an installation artist and painter, residing in Lake City, South Carolina. A graduate of Francis Marion University with a focus in ceramics, he earned his degree in 2012. With nature as his inspiration, he gravitates towards using natural or recycled materials in his work. Poetry judge: Born in Tennessee, Sarah Clark lived in Chicago, Minnesota, Georgia, and Texas before making her home on the Dakota prairie. She attended Baylor University for both her M.A. and Ph.D. in Language and Literature. She currently teaches British and World literature at the University of Mary in Bismarck, North Dakota. Her favorite poets include Rainer Maria Rilke, Pablo Neruda, T. S. Eliot, John Keats, John Donne, William Butler Yeats, and Seamus Heaney. Prose judge: Ryan Borchers holds a Master of Arts in English and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, both from Creighton University, and works as a freelance writer and editor in Omaha, Neb. His work has been published by Prairie Schooner, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, The River, Spelk, and other literary journals. He is the author of three unpublished novels and is collaborating on a graphic novel with his sister, Erin Novak.

Table of Contents The Sublime Art * Tayler Brooks, “Baby in a Manger Flower” Renee Drake, “Thinking” Davis Lisk, “A Bend in the Rail” Renee Drake, “Focus” Leah Buffalino, “Fabricated Smoke” Brianna Williamson, “Giant’s Causeway” Poetry Davis Lisk, “The Elder of the Wild” Don Paint, “Reverend Arthur P. Soul Daddy Dingbatte or The Modern Indulgence” SarahAnn Morgan, “Joy in the Glass House” Karson Harsey, “Fire” Kyle Jackson, “Jumping Not Falling” Taylor Rose Elliott, “Have you seen this priest???” Davis Lisk, “The Death of the Phoenix” * SarahAnn Morgan, “No Longer Any Sea (Revelation 21:1)”

10 13 14-15 17 19 20-21 8 9 11 12 12 16 18 20

The Depths

Art Leah Buffalino, “Glass and Fruit Study” Leah Buffalino, “Emerald” * Leah Buffalino, “Windy Day” Leah Buffalino, “Efflorescence”

25 27 34 43

Poetry Kimberly Rhyne, “Chronic Fatigue” SarahAnn Morgan, “Little Reminders” * Taylor Rose Elliott, “Next to Normal” Claire Stratton, “A Prayer of Exhaustion” Kimberly Rhyne, “Y/N”

26 30 31-32 33 42

Prose * Faith Bentley, “Love Ablaze” Leslie Meyers, “The Sons of Eve” Leslie Meyers, “Nestled Safe in Your Arms” Kimberly Rhyne, “Ode to the Tin Woodsman”

24 28-29 35-37 38-41

The Expanse Art Tayler Brooks, “Flower Cluster” Jackie Endy, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” Brianna Williamson, “White Tiger” Renee Drake, “Eye” Poetry * SarahAnn Morgan, “Great King Worm” Jennie Stevens, “To My Grown Children” Micah Stevens, “Forgotten” Taylor Rose Elliott, “Polyhymnia and the Nine Mousai/ The Escape from Behavioral Statistics” Prose Leslie Meyers, “Crosses by the Road” * Karson Harsey, “Something”

46-47 49 50-51 54 46 52 53 55 48 56-59

The Elsewhere Art Brianna Williamson, “You Look Delicious” Davis Lisk, “Pumpkins in the Night” * Brianna Williamson, “Irish Farm” Leah Buffalino, “Fruit Bowl” Brianna Williamson, “Dark Corner” Davis Lisk, “Eye of the Sun” Brianna Williamson, “The Grass is Greener on the Other Side”

72 77 79 80 81 82 87

Poetry Jennifer Palmer, “Scraps” Claire Stratton, “Mother I Dreamed” Karson Harsey, “Walled Up” Chase Garber, “Significance of Poetry” Kimberly Rhyne, “The Lion’s Den” Davis Lisk, “The Willow Tree and Other Gothic Musings”

62 63 64 65 73 76-78

Prose Kimberly Rhyne, “Speak No Evil” * Faith Bentley, “Slaying a Witch” Chase Garber, “A Home Away From Home” Claire Stratton, “Stress” Davis Lisk, “Papetto, Whom I Love”

66-67 68-71 74 75 83-86 5

The Sublime “The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment.” – Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas on the Sublime and Beautiful

The Elder of the Wild Davis Lisk

Tall as a tree and lean as a limb, No one is as tall as him, The Elder of the Wild. He sits by a fire as big as a house And stares as he stokes it, as still as a mouse, The Elder of the Wild. When the stars are out and burning bright Above the fire’s dying light, The Elder of the Wild, With a hand containing silver dust, Casts down on the fire; silver changes to rust. The Elder of the Wild Blows on the cerise mist, And flicking with his skinny wrist The Elder of the Wild Fashions magic articles From reams of ashen tentacles. The Elder of the Wild, Half an ancient, half a child, Wholly terrible, wholly mild, The Elder of the Wild.

Reverend Arthur P. Soul Daddy Dingbatte – or The Modern Indulgence1 Don Paint

Can I get a Hallelujah? Can I get an Amen? I’mma praise it again and again! Well, I know you hear the music I know you see the vice I politely ask you to pay once or twice I’m the one who gives you blessings As easy as a pie slice You’ll flock to me anyway because I’m “nice” I can buy your place in Heaven baby! Just an indulgence or two maybe! I can buy your place in Heaven baby! A pretty penny for some punch maybe! Please, can I get a Hallelujah? Please, Can I get an Amen? I’mma praise it again and again!

Well, give me a Hallelujah! Give me an Amen! Pay me to praise it again and again! Well, I’m tired of playing the music I’m tired of twistin’ the vice And I don’t know about y’all, But I wanna go home tonite! Now, I know you’re on a budget But I know your wallets fat When you give money, do it in the name of Reverend Arthur P. Soul Daddy Dingbatte I can buy your place in Hel…Whoops! I mean Heaven baby! Just an indulgence or two maybe! I can buy your place in Heaven baby! A pretty penny for some punch maybe!

Well, I won’t stop playin’ the music I won’t stop twistin’ the vice Though my worship is trite The path of the wide and narrow The only door to light I guarantee can make your wallet very tight! I can buy your place in Heaven baby! Just an indulgence or two maybe! I can buy your place in Heaven baby! A pretty penny for some punch maybe!

1 Author’s note: A poetic satire of the modern televangelist, with some comparison to the past historical indulgence collecting methods of the Catholic church.

Baby In A Manger Flower

Tayler Brooks Digital Photography

Joy in the Glass House SarahAnn Morgan

The dark clouds slogged and shambled; the dark waves sprawled and shattered; the deep cold gripped and grabbed; The desperate wind groaned and gasped. I stood in my glass house gazing in awe at the unclear coast splaying out before me. The glass walls began shaking, and I knew my house was breaking. The walls seemed to melt away as if the glass was not glass, but ice facing the ever-burning ever-bright Sun. The world rushed in to meet me, but I faced it with no fear, and the only light I could see came from my own chest.

“Fire”

Karson Harsey

A Lit Fire Within A world Otherwise

ice

freezing

warm

die

sustaining

heat

destructive

life burn

Engines power through snow Deer pants for a stream Boy in a cabin sleeps Hunter falls on knees All by fire

Jumping not Falling Kyle Jackson

I stand here existing on the precipice of the cliff, looking at the sprawling valley below me. I turn around and feel the bitter Winter behind me. The familiar chill beckons me back. Below is the luscious Summer, which exists warm, inviting, fair and unknown. It is the Fall I dread. That moment between familiarity and uncertainty. I see life in the valley. A welcoming life that I hadn’t seen before The dichotomy splits me. A strong wind rips through me. I am tossed about with all my doubts. Do I stay or do I Fall? Instead, I will Choose to Spring. 12

THinking

Renee Drake Foam Core Board

A Bend in the Rail

Davis Lisk Digital Photography

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PRIEST???1 An Ode/ Ubi Sunt Taylor Rose Elliott

Father, what is written in the book of His skin? I can’t find the priest, while we’re losing to inhibition There are no remains, sitting here in the confessional in vain. No one seems to care where he is, or where he’s been We’re beginners in introspection, but no one seems to care -I’m the bird on the wire, the town crier, waiting for natural selection The wounded deer pants for water; we don’t know how to help him On the plains, the schoolchildren are singing in the rain. Bastard children of Mothers of Mercy mistaking sins for maternal whims Counting rosary confessions while my sisters bow down and untie their hair -I stand, an eyewitness, wondering if it’s a sin just to forget about convention Crying out, wondering who deserves this little fall of men Set free from Saint Luke Institute, when Jesus saved me, they could call me sane. I can’t lose this, crying out to deacons, trying to remember one single hymn They’d accuse me of projection, but maybe the deacons should bear the blame-I’m a sinking soldier singing La Mer, counting my sins on beat with my own procession For Him to see all that’s been done is a fear I can’t even begin To overcome, my eyes since adjusted to the dimness, the candle of shame. I will confess to anyone who will listen over and over and over again To let go of this obsession could leave me selling my Christian name-I’m screaming and pleading to the murky baptistery, to my own reflection. If the priest was here he could wash my eyes and I could begin again If the priest was here he could teach me the game behind living in chains. Even a phone call with a Father could reckon who I am and who I have been I’d answer affection, remember what it was like to feel love and pain-Forever starved for a feast: a spoon of Bread, Wine, Confession, Amen Father, could I still be written in the book of His skin?

1Author’s Note: The idea of the book of skin in this poem was originally derived from the time I went to Boston and encountered the Boston Athenaeum Skin Book, a memoir made out of the skin of writer and criminal James Allen, alias George Walton. In this poem, however, it is used as a religious symbol of sacrifice and salvation. The rest of the poem is an exploration of religious trauma alongside mental health, and a critique of the idolization of church leaders in place of God Himself.

FOCUS

Renee Drake Colored Pencil

The Death of the Phoenix Davis Lisk

The phoenix doth not rise today, And ash on ash is blown away. The sky is all a misty grey. The phoenix died for good today. And cinders fall like autumn snow As wind-harps trill and wind doth blow Because the black the white doth show, That is the phoenix in the snow. The spring of everlasting youth Hath lost its charm, and speaking truth Leaves old men old and rife with ruth. They ne’er shall taste again of youth. The bird is gone and springtime too. Let each to each be good and true In time to come when hopes are few. The bird is lost and April too. The lantern rising from the sea That carries dawn to meet with me Is snuffed, is snuffed, and darkness free To eat up air and land and sea. The leaves upon the trees are dead And lie upon the earth in red. I care not what the winter said. The bird is dead, is dead, is dead.

Fabricated Smoke

Leah Buffalino Digital Photography

No Longer Any Sea (Revelation 21:1) SarahAnn Morgan

The seas no longer separate land from land. The great blue recoils from touch. Anyone can walk through the sea on dry ground. The waters become walls. The two rivers Milk and Honey flow into the sea. Dragons soar above the sea like seagulls. They gaze through the water, clear as glass. Leviathan slumbers in its depths.

Giant’s Causeway

Brianna Williamson Digital Photography 21

“In other words, you cannot observe a wave without bearing in mind the complex features that concur in shaping it and the other equally complex ones that the wave itself originates.” – Italo Calvino, Mr. Palomar

The Depths

Love Ablaze Faith Bentley

Darn ship. I was thrown forward as the ship rocked back and forth, abused by the harsh waves surrounding it. My inkwell overturned and spilled like black poison dripping over the edges of my desk. Straightening up, I sat down to complete the task at hand. Dear Amelia, I miss the light that is your beauty. I cannot tell you how much I love you, my dear girl. Do you miss me? Things are going well here. I know you are worried, but I beg of you dearest, take heart. For I could not be in a safer place than I am now. The ship is absolutely remarkable and incredibly structured. I dipped my pen and looked around at the massive structure that was to transport me across the Atlantic. It was much safer for me here than it would have been if I stayed in London. Especially with that bit of unfortunate news I had received before I left. We just left Ireland; I cannot wait to arrive in New York. I am thrilled to see America in real life. Don’t worry about our ‘little problem’. I promise that we will get married as soon as this ship makes its way back to London. Forget what anyone else says. I know your mother has harassed you to no end, but just tell her that we are passionately and unapologetically in love. If anyone had ever experienced ‘true love’, I had no idea. Amelia seemed to be rather smitten with me though. 24

I smirked. The ship rattled. Maybe she won’t understand the burning feelings that lighten my dark soul, but I hope you feel the same fire that sets my heart ablaze for you. Truthfully, all that is of significant consequence is how we feel about each other, right? How did I feel about Amelia? She was beautiful, smart, witty, and kind. But she was also pregnant, and I had no intentions of marrying the damsel. I shuddered. Many a great man had lost his wits when he reduced himself to such a basic arrangement as marriage. Well dearest, I must be going now. This letter should get to you soon. The post office on this ship is massive, much like everything else. All my love, Wilhelm I waited a few moments for the ink to dry as I pulled out the old wooden box underneath the desk. Grabbing an envelope, I folded the letter and placed it inside. Later, I would go to the post office, but now I had plans to dance with that beautiful woman who had made eyes at me on the dock earlier. I pulled on my jacket. The boat rocked. Silly Amelia, there was no better place to be than the R.M.S. Titanic.

Glass and Fruit Study Leah Buffalino Oil Paint

Chronic Fatigue Kimberly Rhyne

i am bro ken i am sick all the time sick and tired of being told that one day, i will get sick and tired of being sick and tired i have exhausted many of my options such as: 1. trying 2. trying HARDER 3. medications 4. thoughts and prayers 5. therapy 6. therapy again 7. therapy but it’s different now 8. therapy but I’M different now 9. being sick and tired of being sick and tired what else is left to try? (and why do i hate that word— “try”) i am strong enough now that when Martha stares at me from her armchair in the corner of my mind i stare back at her until she blinks but Addy is still too strong for me and she makes Martha stronger and she makes me weaker and i cannot stop her and i am out of time. i am running out of time to change. and i am much too sick and tired to hurry.

Emerald

Leah Buffalino Digital Photography 27

The Sons of Eve Leslie Meyers

I did my best. God gave me two sons and I did my best with them. Abel was the kindest young man. I would watch him play in the meadow with the baby lambs and be reminded of how gentle and loving he’d always been since he was a boy. Cain also had a tender side. However, most of the time that side of him was masked in sullen moodiness. Cain had a temper that could leave deep wounds like a knife. Sometimes I would catch Cain staring at Abel as he tended to the lambs. There would be a sort of emptiness in his eyes. Every time I witnessed that look, my heart would catch slightly. What could I do? He was a man. He made his own choices. He made his own mistakes. I poured my heart out to God about him often. How could I not? He was my son. One night after supper I decided to speak with my firstborn; I left Abel to put out the fire and took Cain aside. We sat down in the middle of my favorite green meadow and I gazed up at the amazing twinkle light display above me. Cain laid his head on his knees and sighed. I reached over, rubbed his back, and asked the question I had been pondering for many nights. “What’s wrong, son?” Silence greeted me as I waited in the stillness for his response. His back began to slightly shake under my touch. I scooched close to him. His head fell lightly on my shoulder as I wrapped my arms around him. “You can tell me.” He let out a muffled sob he attempted to hold back with his hand. A minute later his 28

entire frame became racked with sobs. After he calmed down and let out a violent sniff, his head lifted from my shoulder and turned to look me in the eyes. I met his gaze and asked again, “What’s wrong?” He blinked. His gaze then lifted to the vast canopy of bright stars dancing above us. “Mom, do you ever feel like God made a mistake in making me?” I recoiled in shock. How could these words come out of my precious baby boy? “Son, why would you even say such a thing to me? You know God loves you.” “I know, Ma, but sometimes it feels like God gave you one perfect son and He made a mistake by making me. I’ve always known I could never be like Abel. I don’t talk and act like him. I have a lot of anger inside me. Sometimes all I want to do is hurt him for being so perfect. I hate myself for feeling so worthless around him.” “Son, God loves us all the same. He doesn’t love Abel more because he is maybe more mild-mannered than you. He loves both of you equally. He appreciates the strengths of both of you and understands your weaknesses too.” “But Mom, the big sacrifice is coming up tomorrow and I’m afraid of what might happen.” “Why would you say that?” “What if God doesn’t like what I give Him?” “Son, just give God your best. That’s all He asks of you.” Cain nodded his head and sighed. I didn’t know

what to say or do. I didn’t know how to actually help my son. So, I just continued to hold him and tell him how much I loved him. Several minutes passed and then we slowly plodded back to our tents and went to sleep. The following morning dawned just like any other and as the sun woke up I arose, remembering what day it was and where my boys were about to head off to. I cooked some recently harvested potatoes. Soon I was greeted by the smiling face of Abel and the gaunt and drawn one of Cain. They ate quickly and kissed me goodbye before exiting our campsite and heading off to offer up their gifts to God. Several hours soon passed. The offerings weren’t supposed to take this long. But I decided to ignore the thread of worry that began to wiggle its way into my heart. I instead worked at weeding the garden and collecting firewood for the evening meal. All of a sudden, a powerful scream sliced through the still midday air and my heart stopped beating for the longest second of my life. I was stricken motionless. Only after that moment had finally passed did my heart jolt back into action. I dropped the sticks and logs from my arms and broke into a sprint. I flew to the clearing where the boys went to make their sacrifices. I frantically looked around me for any sign of them. Seeing a forest on the far side of the clearing from where I stood, I rushed into the dense foliage. The only thing that met me there was darkness. It threatened to encapsulate my very soul the moment I stepped into it. I

searched and called out for my sons to answer me. Only silence responded. After several minutes of hasty searching I was finally able to locate the form of my precious baby boy sprawled limply on the leaf-strewn forest floor. Blood was pooling from his abdomen. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t make a noise. I remained frozen until every fiber of my being screamed at me to go to my son. As I bent over him one fleeting thought stuck out in my mind. Could this have been Cain? An image of them playing together between the vegetable beds when they were just children popped into my mind. Endless hours of hide-and-seek were spent there. Could one brother possibly do this to another? Could Cain be hurting so deeply he would resort to such cruelty? I collapsed on the floor by Abel’s body and cradled his head in my arms. I rocked back and forth as the sobs came swift and free. Did God care? Was He here with me? Everything was so much easier when I was able to see Him with my own eyes. I needed Him to tell me how I failed my sons. I needed to know what I did wrong! This must’ve somehow been my fault. Cain wouldn’t just do this. My thoughts stabbing at my mind like tiny knives, I cried out to God, longing for answers, but the answers never came.

Little Reminders SarahAnn Morgan We used to smile at each other Sending little reminders to be happy And that life is good (whether we truly believe it or not) Now we only stare at each other Sending little reminders to keep your distance And that life is unpredictable (whether we like it or not) At my job I sent smiles to the children Picking out candy and snacks Now my smile forgets it lives in a dark world Hidden by a mask The children don’t send smiles back Only wide eyed stares Little reminders that the world has changed drastically (whether we want to admit it or not)

Next To Normal Taylor Rose Elliott Does anyone remember that antidepressant commercial, just last year, the sad people holding paper masks over their faces “When added to your current antidepressant.” I was 20, the Rexulti caused mania (brexpiprazole) (1mg for a week, then two for two, then four) Does anyone remember those commercials from 2012, when I faked sick from school Varying promises: pain relief, or happiness, “Depression hurts!” Or “Imagine living without pain!” I was 12; Cymbalta prescribed at age 19 (duloxetine) (increase dosage until effective, on to antipsychotics now)

I’ve decided to get fixed, poke holes my pocket too Psychology professionals, relaxing medications And for the wreck Urgent care, muscle relaxant medications And for diving into the wreck1 Treatment plan adjustments And for the other 2 wrecks Chiropractic adjustments

All I know is freak accidents and miracles of lifetimes (undying hopes and determined doubts champagne problems and merlot stained linens Cold guns and stranger fuzzy feelings)

But my favorite color has always been grey (Spelled with an e, or an a? Are all the shades really the same? Is it inherent or intentionally made?)

1 Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972 by Adrienne Rich.

In this town there is a Forest Lawn, Perpetual care and morgues But there just a park of green patches in California Here, there is a Westview Cemetery, buy your plot today! But there My old middle school, Go Titans!

Does anyone remember those crazy times back in March 2020, the week of my birthday Most happy people wear masks now too. “The CDC now reports…” We only knew scared in a symbolic sense, then (02/10/2021: 469,121 total deaths) (wait for your allocated phase) Does anyone remember those crazy times back in But I’m too busy recounting my pain to know. “Your feelings are valid.” We know validation, we know argumentation, all symbolic (protest, not riot, protest, repeat) (wait for when we can unmask)

A Prayer of Exhaustion Claire Stratton

I can’t stop losing to my demons Devils are stronger than me. Isn’t a sum of sins what God designed a human to be? Perhaps the least of our worries Is what we ought not to see... Am I less His Woman Tripping in rocky terrain? Am I more than lost sisters, While bearing Soul’s stain? Doubt, before sin, Proves a heavier chain. So crippled, we staggerWe whose shame never partsPulling for mercy And praying to stars Spitting blood from Shriveled, desolate hearts.

Windy Day Leah Buffalino Linocut Print 34

Nestled Safe in Your Arms Leslie Meyers

It had been a glorious ceremony. My little sister looked like a princess in her purple robes and white head covering. My Abba had worked extra hard to be able to afford them for her. Somehow, the knowledge of those hours of tireless toil made her bridal glow all the more radiant to me. The feast had been scrumptious. Ima and I had been bending over hot stoves and sweating for what had seemed an eternity, but was really more like the greater part of the wedding week. Everything had seemed to fall into place beautifully, everything except one small detail. Uriah missed the entire event. Being a part of the army, he had to miss many a family function. I tried not to let it get to me too much. Sometimes, I just ached for him, though, like when I sat down to the wedding feast and the man who was placed next to me was my strange third cousin from the countryside. I could never have imagined when my husband first joined the army that I would be signing up for a mostly absent partner who I would only get to see on occasional weekends and holidays. This not only made my life quite lonely, it also heavily increased the possibility that my dream of motherhood would never be realized. These thoughts swirled with increasing severity inside my heart. It was almost midnight. I couldn’t sleep. Our house was quiet, save for the sounds of my father snoring. My parents were leaving in the morning. Once they were

gone it would just be me and the silent walls and still air as my only companions in the house that was supposed to be our home, Uriah’s and mine. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. It didn’t take long for my bones to feel chilled; as I lay in my warm bed the sensation refused to dissipate. I began to long for something, anything, to warm me; the only thing that I could think of was a bath. If Uriah had been here I would’ve just rolled over and allowed his heat to raise my body temperature, but he wasn’t. I rose out of bed to reset the fire. I grabbed the bath bucket and walked out the back doorway to the well that shone in the moonlight several feet from the house. After retrieving the water, I placed the filled bucket on the fire and waited, shivering in the cold, for it to almost boil. Once the steam from the bucket started rising quicker and thicker from the water, I took it off the fire and held its burdensome heaviness for a few seconds as I pondered where I should bathe. Normally, I would bathe inside the house. It was rare that anyone was here. However, tonight as my parents were sleeping inside our cramped home, I decided the roof would be the only other logical option for privacy. Animals could get to me if I bathed in the open yard somewhere. The roof was safer; because of the late hour, no one would be able to see me. I climbed the few steps to it, laden down by the awkward bulk of the bucket in one arm and my stool in the other. I placed the stool down in 35

direct view of the moon. Soon thereafter, I was splashing water on myself and pouring it over my head. The anxious chill finally began to melt from my bones and I could sigh up at the moon, pretending that it cared how I felt. The following morning I watched my parents set off for their home and was about to turn back inside the house when one of the king’s official guards came galloping up on his steed and handed me a small folded piece of parchment. After unfolding it and reading its contents, terror gripped at my throat. I raised my head to meet the gaze of its courier. A strange mixture of resolution and compassion resided beneath his eyes. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide, but there was nowhere I could go that this guard could not find me. He was carrying a sharp sword on his side and I knew that if I resisted no good would befall me. Instead, I gave the slightest nod of my head, took his outstretched hand, and mounted the horse behind him. We galloped off in the direction of the palace. The wind hit my face like bullets. Fear’s tight fingers squeezed ever tauter around my throat and pricked the backs of my eyes. --Much time had passed since that fateful day and so much had changed. Uriah had been killed in a battle. When his men came to tell me what happened to him, they communicated how valiantly he had fought the enemy from the front lines of their battle formation, and I was not surprised. He always was the type of man to put his all on the line to help someone else. Almost immediately after I had received the news of Uriah’s death, the 36

king’s guard who had brought me to the palace several weeks earlier, galloped up to my house. I was alone. The guard told me the king wanted to marry me. He said that if I agreed he would bring me to the palace directly, away from my neighbors’ prying and judgmental eyes. I would receive my own personal wing there and have access to anything my heart desired. He spouted off all the right words to convince me of the benefits of marrying the king. Then he shook his head the slightest bit and I saw the man behind the uniform look me straight in the eyes. His look was firm and unwavering. He told me that I didn’t have to say yes to the king’s proposal but that he wouldn’t blame me if I did. He said that after everything the king had put me through it was the least he could do to provide for me now. I took a moment to let all of the information he had just thrown at me sink in. I am a widow who is pregnant with an illegitimate child. What other option do I have than to accept the king’s offer of marriage and move into the palace? Any woman would be crazy to pass that up. I no longer had the luxury to choose to be that crazy and walk away. I now had to think of my baby’s future and what would be best for him or her. Starting over as a single woman was almost impossible and that risk was no life to give to my child. After making the decision and gathering my essential belongings, I took the guard’s hand yet again and mounted behind him for what would be my final journey to the palace. Now, almost eight months after that final journey here I lounged in my wing of the palace. I was one of

the wives of King David. I had servants, gourmet meals, lavish gowns, and sumptuous beds but those things didn’t help make it feel any more like home. I was alone here. My wing was so large and I was so pregnant that much ambulation was all but impossible. The only people that ever visited me were my maids and cooks. I would try to talk to them, but they were always rushing to and fro. My only real companions were the baby that lay inside me and God. I would talk to them almost constantly to the point where my servants would look at me with concern from the corners of their eyes. On this particular day, I was talking to God about Baby and asked Him to help him or her grow into a strong, capable adult who would love me and Him for the rest of their days. In the midst of my request I felt an agonizing pain of the kind I had never felt before. I screamed in agony. One of my maids happened into my room at just the right moment, heard my cries, and rushed out to get our resident physician. While she was gone my water broke and the pains that I felt intensified over a short period of time. When the physician came at last and looked at me, he told me my body was ready to push. I thrust every ounce of my heart, body, and soul into that action. The phrase ‘God help me’ rolled around in my head like a ball. After what only seemed like an hour my precious son was at long last placed in my arms. He was perfect. I kissed his downy head for the best moment of my entire life. Then the physician grabbed him from me and took him out of my bedchamber. I called after him to bring my boy back to me. But he didn’t. Another hour went by and I

had fallen asleep from exhaustion and sobbing. The physician placed his hand on my shoulder and lightly jostled me awake. He handed my boy back to me. Strange noises were coming from his mouth and nose. I asked the physician what was wrong with my son and he told me he had taken him to his quarters to look at him more closely and had tried, to no avail, to pin down what was ailing my baby. The physician’s eyes looked worn and concerned. He looked right at me and told me, without emotion, he didn’t think my son would live very long. I felt like a ton of bricks had slammed into my chest and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t understand why God would allow yet another loss to turn my world upside down. I hugged my son to me with fierce gentleness and gazed at his tiny features, memorizing him. I remembered what my mother had always taught me. Where there’s life, there’s hope. I shook away the feeling of helplessness and began a prayer that very second that I would continue every waking moment for an entire week. I claimed the Lord’s promises. I begged and bartered with Him to spare my son. A week later I awoke and he was gone. Like the last rays of sunlight, he left my life dark, dank and suffocating. What are You doing, God? Do You even care anymore? You’ve put me through so much more than I can handle. I’m just one woman! I need to feel You, God. I need to know You’re here with me and that You have my son nestled safe in Your arms. That’s all I ask of You. .. 37

Ode to the Tin Woodsman Kimberly Rhyne

I can’t stop staring at it. It’s been two years to the day since I lost my leg. By all accounts, I should have gotten over the sight of the stump by now. It should have stopped catapulting me into flashbacks, nightmares, whatever else PTSD seems to invite. I should have stopped feeling downright dysphoric whenever I’m without the prosthesis. Tori was doing better by this point in her recovery, wasn’t she? She lost three limbs in her accident. That’s what I keep telling myself. Nearly every day, I find myself repeating that thought and others like it: Tori lost three limbs. Tori didn’t even get to keep her knees or her elbow. Tori suffered an awful lot of emotional distress following the accident. She’s suffering so much more than I could ever imagine, and I’m still finding ways to be envious of her. Everyone agrees that Tori is an angel, a ray of sunshine, a safe person to talk to, whatever else she is. She lost her dream of being a pilot, sure, but she found a new one in being everyone’s best friend. There’s something magical about the fact that she can actually do that. A drug addict and dealer that emotionally abused his brother? She’ll find the good in him somehow. A girl who grew up being told she was a demon child and she deserves to be hated? She’ll convince her even demons can be loved. An ex-Navy veteran who never made it to full service before losing his leg in a building collapse? She serves as an infuriating reminder of everything he could still be if he were only a bit warmer. 38

I guess, if nothing else, I’ve gotten really good at pretending. Honestly, when I think about it, I’ve always been good at pretending. I pretended to be everything Dad wanted for twenty long years. I pretended to be stronger than I was so the people in my life could rely on me when their own lives were falling apart. I pretended not to feel, not to care, not to mind when Tony grew more and more resentful of me over the years. Maybe I should just be grateful I still have at least one brother who knows the truth. I wonder why I let him know the truth and not Tony. But now everything I pretended for is gone. That’s what gets me the hardest. What does it matter if I saved lives while the place was going down if my own life is in shambles now? I don’t want to think that way. It feels so selfish and cruel. Frankly, if I’d had my wish, I would have just died in that collapse instead of surviving. A heroic, sacrificial death would have been worthy of Dad. It would have been worthy of Nonno. It would have been worthy of me. I still don’t know why I let Tori talk me into trying to live when I had already decided I was willing to die. Maybe it’s because she’s an angel, and people want to trust angels when they extend a hand. Even if that hand is prosthetic. Whatever the reason, I let her convince me to try to make that final dive out of the building. When I think back to how I felt at the moment, I think part of why I ran after her was the fear that if I didn’t leave, she would

stay with me. The world can’t afford to lose her the way it can afford to lose me. I can’t leave an impact without the Navy, but Tori? Somehow, I feel like Tori’s funeral would draw people from all corners of the globe. That’s just the kind of person she is, the kind of person who could make friends with someone who doesn’t even speak the same language as her. Isn’t her friendship with Romane proof of that? The girl is missing an arm and she still made the attempt to learn sign language. I should have tried harder. That’s another phrase that keeps echoing in my mind. I should have tried harder to escape, or to save more people, or to get through training quicker—would that even be possible?—but I didn’t and I lost half my leg as comeuppance. And yet, every time that thought hits, another one follows. Didn’t I do enough? Why didn’t I do enough? Why did I work myself to the bone, pushing myself beyond my limits, succeeding in every stage of training for the SEALs, becoming a true man in every possible sense of the word, just for Dad to toss me aside the second the Navy didn’t want me anymore because it still wasn’t enough? Why was it never enough? Would anything have been enough? Why wasn’t it enough? Why wasn’t I enough? I can’t stop wondering. Being alone with my thoughts and this leg is getting more unbearable every day. Why can’t I be more like Tori? When she lost her

limbs, she immediately decided her new goal in life was to make the world a better place by sheer force of personality. I wanted to make the world better too. But I spent all that time developing my body, getting stronger and stronger, and now all that strength feels useless because I have nothing else to dedicate it to. The military is off the table. The police wouldn’t want a recruit with a prosthetic leg. Who else protects people like that? “Be yourself” is a nice sentiment. Tori has tried to tell me that before, that just being me is enough to change the world. It’s sweet enough, I guess, but she’s missing the point. I don’t know me. Who even am I without the Navy? Without gearing my life towards this goal, who is left? Tori didn’t lose herself when she lost her limbs. I did. At first, it made me angry. Now I don’t know what to feel. I cried for the first time in decades when Mama told me it was safe to break, and it was nice for the moment, but now all I ever feel like doing is crying. I’ve never been more weak in my life and I don’t know whether to celebrate finally being free from Dad’s expectations or fall to pieces over the fact that I never met his expectations. I’m supposed to be okay with this. I’m supposed to be fine. I’ve always been fine. That’s why Tony grew to resent me so strongly. Now even that was a waste, because I’m not fine and he still resents me. I never seem to realize I’m crying until the first tear makes it down my face. I’m in desperate need of a 39

distraction, but the only person I’d feel comfortable calling at this point is my best friend and he’s probably fast asleep. Instead, I find myself strapping the prosthesis on and heading downstairs to watch a movie. Maybe revisiting my childhood hero will get my mind off of things. Wouldn’t life be so much simpler if superheroes were real? I could try to make myself useful as a sidekick or something. Batman and Robin didn’t need superpowers to obliterate crime in Gotham. I’m halfway through Captain America: Civil War when someone comes down the stairs and joins me on the couch. My little brother Marco yawns, glancing at me as if waiting for one of us to speak up. “…It’s really late, Piero,” he says quietly after a moment. “Are you still getting up early tomorrow?” I shrug. “I can’t sleep. Go back to bed, little bro, don’t worry about me.” Marco hesitates. “…But I do worry about you. You haven’t been yourself lately.” I can’t help but snort at the accusation. “Well, yeah.” “I don’t mean physically,” Marco counters, shifting on the couch. “I mean even your personality…you’ve felt different. I miss you.” “I miss me too.” Evidently, Marco has no response to this. We sit there quietly for a while, focused on the movie as if to avoid having to open the wounds anymore. Marco takes my hand and I find myself squeezing his back, admittedly 40

grateful for the company. “…When we were little, we used to love playing superheroes,” Marco finally says. “I remember you always used to insist on being Captain America. I couldn’t really protest, honestly. I thought you were a lot like him.” I smile slightly. Somehow, it’s comforting knowing Marco believed in me back then too. “I still do,” Marco continues. “You still have all the same qualities you did back then. You work hard, and you’re smart, and you’re kind and trustworthy. Now that you’ve lost your leg, though—” “You don’t have to say it, Marco,” I interrupt. “I’m not a hero anymore. I’ll never be that strong again. I can’t be Captain America.” “That’s not what I was going to say,” Marco retorts. “Just listen for a bit, okay? Please?” I sigh, avoiding his gaze. “I’d really like to just watch a movie and stop thinking about this.” “Now that you’ve lost your leg, you remind me a lot of Bucky.” Now it’s my turn to not have a response. My eyes are drawn to the screen again, where Sebastian Stan’s Winter Soldier is just arriving on the scene. “He loses an arm, right?” Marco adds. “And then he has to get a new one—twice, I think. He’s disabled, he’s got a prosthesis. And he’s still kicking butt and saving lives, right? He’s lost himself a few times. He had to deal with brainwashing—and I’m not saying Dad’s harsh expectations were brainwashing, but I guess in a sense they

were—but he managed to move past that, remember who he really was, and come through for the good guys in the end. We’re watching him conquer past trauma right now, aren’t we? It’s like he’s trying to prove he can still be good, he can still change the world, even though a part of him is permanently gone. He lost his arm, and he lost himself, but the thing is he got himself back. I think you can do that too.” It takes me a second to realize I somehow moved closer to Marco during his speech. Am I crying again? Apparently, yes; Marco reaches across with his free hand and wipes my face with his sleeve. I chuckle, squeezing his hand. “…I guess you’re right,” I finally agree. “Heck, Rhodey gets paralyzed from the waist down and he still fights supervillains. But we don’t have supervillains, huh?” “Maybe not in the same sense,” Marco says, shrugging. “But we have bad guys. And we have things like depression and identity crises, so maybe you can fight those things. You’re always talking about how your friend Tori inspires you, but you keep ignoring that you inspire her, too. You inspire me, and Luci, and your friends, and everyone who knows you. And you make people feel safe, like it’s okay to be themselves. You can be yourself, too. I still think you’re pretty great.” I just nod, leaning into Marco to ask for a hug. He wraps his arms around me. “I think you’re pretty great too, kiddo,” I whisper.

“…Thank you, Marco. I-I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. This has been hard for us too. We just want you to be okay again.” We’re quiet for a few moments again. The longer I watch the television screen, the more the bad thoughts seem to fade away. I’ve never believed in the concept of luck—hard work is what earns results, Dad always taught—but at the moment, I can’t help but feel a little lucky to have at least one brother who still loves me. “…Hey, Marco?” “Hm?” “Can you be the Captain America to my Winter Soldier?” “Oh my gosh, I thought you’d never ask.”

Y/N

Kimberly Rhyne why? the question echoes on and on through the hall of mirrors, always reflecting. back to back i ask “why?” why me? why them? why us? why this world, falling and failing and loved—always loved— though we don’t understand why. how does He love me? let me count the ways: one, two, three distinct depressions, six or seven therapists, i lost count, thousands of lessons learned, three or four or five friends saved, and one lost to a void of some such sort. why him? why not? always reflecting and answering itself with “why not?” do we deserve despair? but hope lingers in the beams of light, refracting fractals of every question that we dare to ask. “why?” “why, indeed?” well, i guess i’ll just have to wait and see.

Efflorescence

Leah Buffalino Acrylic Painting 43

The Expanse

“Space is a plastic environment, charged with meaning, that reflects the distinctive character of human embodiment in the full range of its moving, perceptual, emotional, expressive, developmental, and social capacities” -David Morris, The Sense of Space

Great King Worm SarahAnn Morgan

He rules in secret, His subjects unaware of his sovereignty. He dwells in the bowels of the Earth; His subjects tread above him. He waits for the day when Man will join him. It is certain to happen. He writhes in anticipation For his next permanent visitor. None can escape his kingdom. The Earth consumes all she sustains With the aid of the great king That lives in the land with no sun. The king digs through the dirt, Blind, but not lost, He knows very well where he is And the job he has to accomplish. The king is on no one’s mind, Until they have trespassed on his territory, And now they have something To worry about.

Flower Cluster by Tayler Brooks Digital Photography

Crosses by the Road Leslie Meyers

Two pieces of wood bound together by memories held precious in human hearts. Two meaningless, unspectacular things molded together to represent lives lived, loved and lost. Rigid, unmoving, lifeless, yet firmly planted, are the symbols that represent more than dictionaries could describe or words could express. With tragic irony these symbols are placed in the spots where the unthinkable became reality, and unspoken nightmares materialized. The boys who partied too hard, the sleeping children, the distracted mothers, the old people ambulating along, the fathers struggling to provide; people no different than you or I. Them, the crosses abide for them. The crosses silently scream with the sanctity of life most try to forget; the sanctity of love most try to avoid; the sanctity of appreciation most try to placate; and the sanctity of being present most try to discard. The crosses testify to the hallmarked truth that today is not a promise, probability, or perchance but rather an undeserved gift waiting to be seized, enjoyed, and shared. Life begins

with pain and ends with pain, but what lies between those distinctive events is what matters. The heartbreaking pieces of wood that jut upwards into the world endure, embedded inside the spots where lives expired and climactic breaths were breathed, to faithfully verify humanity’s need to look up, look out, and look beyond. In the midst of the irrefutable brevity of life it remains all the more important to open eyes to see with intentionality, open ears and arms to know and forgive, and open hearts to make an impact in ways incomprehensible. The inaudible cries of caution that remain largely drowned out by the incessant cacophony of traffic, stand the brave tributes to life and everything that it can be, waiting expectantly to be noticed, understood, and accepted. Steadfastly, through every season, pointing heavenwards in the direction of the only substantial hope that mankind has subconsciously been seeking since time began. Crosses by the road, keep pointing up! Humans on the road, keep looking up!

Somewhere over the rainbow

Jackie Endy Acrylic Painting 49

White Tiger Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

To My Grown Children Jennie Stevens

Too swift the time does pass This I cannot bear I cannot clasp and hold and keep You are somewhere But not here, now And you ever and ever and ever change I love you now But I miss you then.

Forgotten Micah Stevens

History is won by grand men, Work is done by “frail” women. Victors boast of their victories, The vanquished forget their stories. We hear of the war and the spoils, We recount the king’s labors and toils, Yet we forget the peasants’ hardships, Dying on the land of their lordships. Barbarians dwell in forests and creeks, Romans lounge in cities and streets. The Latins write of the Gallic babble While marching on dead fields for battle. Each person had a tale to tell, Each human more than a mere shell. But we remember the crowns of gold, And forget our commoners of old.

Eye

Renee Drake Colored Pencil 54

Polyhymnia and the Nine Mousai/ The Escape from Behavioral Statistics Taylor Rose Elliott Polymnia Twist my arm Break the funny bone and Rewrite the equation. So I know What’s real; true. Do artists ever know When Paradigm shifts from self to I The validity of The way we Aim to solve x,y; love Has no reliability, and No significance here, Graphed in pen. The Mousai Pop Open My sore head Lay me back down. I’ve memorized pi The degrees of freedom Spitefully escaped within Analysis of variance; But Polly strikes me like a mother Silences us both like a worn father An outlier in the manic magic days Loose as Rorschach, but mean man arms hold me down, back She gobbles my happy pills while promising me hope

Polumnia The stats Didn’t raise me But my mother loved them More than She liked to read My notes, my poetry Never Noticing when I never slept, or dreamed. But she knows when I fail At equations Through all the loneliness No solitude Muse My Polly, She’s like sin Makes me confused Turns me outside in. Intrinsically holds me, Everlasting loving, she’s An empirically hopeless hoax of hope Hard to live without her-- without me.

SOMETHING Karson Harsey SKIT 1 INT. RESTAURANT - DAY A GUY walks into a restaurant and walks up to the WAITER at the front desk. WAITER Hello. Sir, may I take your order? GUY Yes, I’ll have a large fry with a large mocha shake. The Waiter leans behind the counter and pulls out a large fry the size of the state of Minnesota. The fry whacks a teddy bear into oblivion. WAITER Will that be here or to go? GUY Um, it’s right here, isn’t it? WAITER Congratulations! You got the answer right! Now spin that wheel! The Guy spins a wheel next to him. EXT. FIELD - DAY The wheel rolls off into a luscious field full of daffodils and dancing llamas. A MAN and his WIFE frolic in the fields chasing the wheel. The wheel is made of cheese.

MAN Honey, we need that cheese! WIFE Yes, dear! We doe! The man and wife are now deer. The deer run into a lake. INT. LAKE – DAY The deer swim down into a subterranean city closed in by a large dome. The closer they swim towards the city, the more opaque the dome becomes. The deer swim around the dome trying to find a way in. They come around to a dark corner. EXT. ALLEY – NIGHT The deer come out of the alley and find themselves on a deserted street corner. A THUG stands unnervingly still on the other side of the road. The thug stands still. The thug does not blink. The thug slowly turns toward the deer. The deer is a baby crying. The cries sound like whale noises. The thug walks toward the baby. POV The camera shifts away from the scene. Off in the distance, a SWORDSMAN stands on a building. SWORDSMAN Come with me if you want to live. The camera walks toward the swordsman floating up as if there were stairs.

SWORDSMAN Kneel down. The camera lowers looking up at the swordsman. The swordsman lowers his sword towards the camera’s shoulders. SWORDSMAN You shall be pronounced Prince, Duke, Archduke, Sentinel, King, Richard the Thirty-First! BONK The swordsman bonks the camera over the head with the sword blade. SWORDSMAN You may now kiss the bride! FADE TO BLACK INT. ??? - ??? ??? ??? . ??? Why feel this way? Do birds sing for bees? Why despair for evil’s affair? Do geese see God?

EXT.

POOL - ???

A backyard pool. Night or day, who knows. POV A table sits next to the water. A 20-year old girl sits underneath it, her head sticking out between the legs. The girl puckers her lips for a kiss. The camera comes closer to her. ???. ??? - ??? ????????????????????????????? ?G???????

???E?T????? ?O????U??

???D?? ??A??S ???B?? L??B??D?????????? ???SYST???

NOT

W????KING?????

!!!#*#*(!*((!(@E)R#(#)*@#)R*!E(FO(U@#R(RAIW#(RI@(#IR(QWUE(RI)(I@#(RI)I@ERO)!IR)I!#@) RI!RI!$JFVOamVKMQNOWEMfo nRIGOksofihnaorskjvWEMskjv jvkmW{OKVDOM mkpdsv mKM VKsfp MpkMSv

I can’t move.

I can see shapes, but I can’t move.

Am I… paralyzed?

…

“As soon as we become motionless, we are elsewhere; we are dreaming in a world that is immense.” – Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

The Elsewhere

Scraps

Jennifer Palmer At times I stumble upon ruins of myself – fragmented sayings, childish ramblings, unsupervised wanderings – of a girl convinced she was a woman. They make my insides burn; they make my mouth sneer. So I fold the poems, one, two, three times, and slip them into a file I never open. And I wonder when I am old and the wrinkles crease at the corner of my eyes, and my skin sags on my frame like a worn-out coat, and the memories gather dust in the corner, is that all I will be? A forgotten folder bulging with little scraps of the past?

Mother I Dreamed Claire Stratton

I can’t find my shadow friend; She’s absent in my dreamsBut when I wake She seems to take My hands into her own She sits in the silence of a moonlit room; Watch over me That I might be Comforted at last

Walled Up By Karson Harsey

The town had walls Towering high into the blue. It stood tall for a century, The bricks fastened as if with sinew. But, though a traveler Would look on in a trance, The people behind the walls Would take a different stance. The gardens had wilted, The roofs would sag. It seemed as if the clouds Choked everything like a gag. A fear struck all the town Every boy and every girl. Even the high council Got caught in the swirl. They tried to find a solution To prevent evil’s sprawl. One idea involved asking For help beyond the wall. “No, we can’t do that! That wall brings us peace. We can’t just tear it down, We might just cease! Besides, why bother the neighbors? We all live in harmony. Why doom ourselves To fight off many an army?” So, they reasoned with the people, They proposed to fear not. Try they might, Fear stopped not. Finally, someone or a few Climbed the wall. They opened the gates, Letting their defenses fall. And to the neighboring lands They sent a mercenary. And, despite fears of an army, The town received an embassy. 64

Significance of Poetry Chase Garber

What is the significance of poetry? Can some perform or write it stoically? Or does it have to be meaningful and connect with the crowd? What if poetry is something people know nothing about? What if poetry was a form of disbelief, One that doesn’t make sense but still recounts what we see? Does poetry regard the rhyme and the meter? Or does it imply knowledge of something sweeter? Something filled with meaning, with knowledge, or beauty, Which may entertain thoughts of grandeur, absolutely. It’s a journey for all who embark on this mission, To find what poetry means to them and their premonition. One day we all will connect with it somehow Whether that’s today, tomorrow, or even a long time from now. The future holds many things unforeseen And for many, poetry will be a lesson without meaning A lesson in listening to those around you Even if that lesson comes once in a blue moon. Poetry is helpful in understanding life Especially for those who may not have experienced strife Everyone should listen, young and old For if poetry helps one, I guess silence isn’t gold.

Speak No Evil Kimberly Rhyne

The front yard of my family’s house on Oahu was perhaps the best decorated of our various yards. We had beautiful flowers and took advantage of my next door neighbor’s butterfly bush to attract various Monarchs to our home. Near the front of the driveway, like lawn gnomes or statues protecting our garden from evil spirits, stood three small, white concrete cat statuettes. Each statuette had a different pose, representative of the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” adage. I loved those little statuettes; I always told my mother I wanted to keep them all for myself one day. I even gave them all names—the “see no evil” cat was Cookie, “hear no evil” was Milk, and “speak no evil” was Cream. To a child with an imagination too big for her four-year-old body, they were the best toys I could have asked for. But one day, Cream went missing. She simply vanished, as if some apparition—the kind the cats were supposed to protect us from—had just picked her up and stolen her away. A piece of me was convinced Cream had offered herself as a sacrifice to whatever monster had obviously come for our souls, but my parents assured us she had probably just been stolen by a mischievous neighborhood kid. I was skeptical. As the years went by, my two sisters and my parents slowly forgot about Cream. They forgot there had ever been a third part to the saying. They forgot the 66

noble sacrifice Cream had made to protect our home and our family. I, however, never once looked toward the lonesome silhouettes of Cookie and Milk without knowing deep in my heart how miserable they must have been without their sister. Did Cookie even know she was missing? She had her paws over her eyes and couldn’t see the crime. Had Milk ever told her? She had her paws clamped over her ears and couldn’t hear Cookie’s frantic requests for a recap of what had happened. How could those cats be so brave? One of their own was missing, probably forever, whisked away to the void where they take the evil children who end up on Santa’s naughty list and don’t give all their teeth to the Tooth Fairy. I mourned for Cream as if she had been my sister, as if I were Milk, trying desperately not to hear about all the horrible things that must have happened to Cream. With time, even our dog forgot about those diligent cats that had once been a trio of guardians. I was the only one left who still checked the driveway for Cream’s safe return. And then, one day, just months before we were to start preparing for our move, a miracle happened. Cream returned to our yard as if she had never left, bearing gifts in the form of a letter and a small, purple photo album. I was the first to notice Cream’s arrival. With a cry of joy, I ran outside and scooped that kitten into my arms

like she was another of our living, breathing pets. The inescapable void was apparently not so inescapable after all. She had even managed to take along some gifts! As my family gathered outside in bewilderment, I tore open the letter and passed it to my mother to read for us. “Sorry for taking your decoration without asking. I didn’t have much time to plan all of this, since I was getting sent off on my trip so quickly. I thought it would be a fun way to bond with the neighbors and show them a bit of what I was getting up to. “This little kitty wanted to come along and help show you all the beauty of our world. She brought back some photographs of our time together so you can feel more assured she had lots of fun. I hope you can forgive me for taking her along without getting your permission first, since we documented the trip so well. Think of this as a collection of postcards from my family to yours. “Aloha!” As soon as my mother finished reading, I excitedly snatched up the photo album and flipped through the pages. There she was—there was our Cream!—on the ground in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, propped up on some sort of fence right in front of the Sydney Opera House, next to a building that showed off a great view of the Leaning Tower of Pisa…there must have been at least twenty photographs, each one taken at a different land-

mark from around the world. Whoever had taken Cream had evidently just wanted to bring her on a little trip, and as he or she insisted, Cream did look like she was having fun in each picture. It warmed my heart to know her kidnapper wasn’t an evil spirit after all—it was a member of our great Hawaiian family, just having a bit of fun with a lawn decoration. We never did find out who actually took the pictures. Cream’s mysterious captor had left no clues as to his or her identity, though we did try asking all of the neighbors if any of them had any clues. Regardless, whoever that person is, I am grateful for the postcards he or she left us. They became a point of laughter and a fond memory for my family… and I’m sure for Cream’s too. Even if she couldn’t tell us about it.

Slaying a Witch Faith Bentley

I pinched the delicate edges of the pastry dough in between my fingers. It stood stretched against the scalloped rim of the glass pie dish. Grabbing the melted butter, I brushed a quick layer across the unbaked crust. This pie needs to be perfect, I thought as I reached across the counter for my pot of cooked apples. I mixed the sweet sugar, silky butter, and spicy cinnamon with the apples I had sliced earlier. The pie would taste amazing. At least, I hoped it would taste amazing. So much was riding on this stupid pie. After I poured in the apples, I started on the lattice top. Taking the pastry cutter, I sliced delicate strips of dough needed to assemble the crisscross pattern that I had seen on pies my mom had baked. Mom . . . My heart ached in my chest. I blinked back the tears that threatened to escape and reached for the tiny vial of shimmering powder that sat on the counter. Just a hint of fairy dust. Taking a large pinch in between my fingers, I watched the dust fall as I sprinkled it over the top of the pie. The sight made me think of the words of the fairy creature who had given me the magic powder. You went into the witch’s house for a tasty treat, but soon learned you were the thing to eat. Now you’re tired, sluggish, and slow. Your breadcrumbs got eaten, and there’s nowhere to go. Feed the witch the fairy dust Hurry, go, feed her you must. 68

The powder will make her fall asleep. For 100 years, she won’t make a peep. Then in her slumber, you can flee, and set generations of children free. I grabbed the pie dish, opened the oven, and placed the pie on the top rack. Please, please, let these next thirty minutes go alright. I just needed the witch out of the house for a bit longer. Then the pie would be done, I could hide the fairy dust, and her doom would be here waiting for her to arrive. The witch was a special kind of monster. She left me unchained to torture me; I was sure of it. I could escape if I wanted to, but I was unwilling to leave my brother behind. I turned my head to look over at my poor brother, Hansel, chained to the kitchen wall. My love for my brother was the reason I remained in this house of horrors. I could hear him moaning in pain from the aches that riddled his stomach. Drool dripped down his chin as he slept. Where would we go? Even if we managed to escape . . . Where would we go? Father had abandoned us in the woods to rot. I gripped the counter, my knuckles turning white, hate boiling in my soul. Stupid father. Stupid stepmother. Stupid squirrels that eat breadcrumbs.

Stupid witch. I released my grip on the countertop when bits of the peppermint slab counter broke off in my hand. Just breathe. Twenty-five minutes left. Anxiety took over my being. My hands shook as I opened the oven. In my distracted state, my finger grazed the hot metal oven rack. I jerked it back and blew on the puffy red skin. I wiped away the tear of frustration that made a trail down my face. So much stupid pressure on one pie. My only fear was that she would not eat the pie no matter how wonderful it turned out. I knew her eating preferences lingered on small children, but pies were all I was able to make. I could still remember my mother’s voice telling me the importance of each step in making the perfect apple pie. The warm smell of cinnamon and apples as she pulled it out of the oven. The crunch of the pastry. The taste of home. Oh, Mother. . . would you have made Father abandon me? “Gretel” said Hansel, his raspy voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were full of sleep. “Right here,” I rushed over to his side. “Did you make the pie?” “I did,” I said as I took the corner of my unraveling sleeve and wiped the edge of his mouth to get the drool and chocolate off.

“Did you put the fairy dust in it?” “Of course.” He smiled. His now chubby cheeks covered his eyes as they lifted. “I can’t believe a fairy showed up to help us. I can’t believe you wished for a fairy, and one showed up” his voice was wrapped in awe. “Me neither,” I said patting his head as he drifted off to sleep again. Fifteen minutes left. Like Hansel, I couldn’t figure out how I had summoned the fairy. My mind had drifted to home as I looked out the sugar pane windows. The home we had before my mom had gotten sick and died. I wished for a miracle. When I looked back out the window, the fairy was fluttering above my head. That night, the fairy had given me the answers. The fairy had given me the dust. Five minutes left. I pushed Hansel’s sleeping head off my shoulder and got up to put the fairy dust away. With nowhere else to put it, I slipped it in the top of my worn-out boots. Then I ran over to pull the apple pie out of the oven, stumbling in my haste. Delicious, I thought as I grabbed the golden-brown pastry. Pulling the witch’s plate from the cabinet, I cut her a perfect slice. I sat the piece on the counter as she walked through the door. “Hello,” I said, stretching my face into a fake smile. 69

I hoped if I was nice, she would take the pie. “What do you want, pest?” she said, taking the key to Hansel’s shackles out of her pocket and putting them on the chain around her neck. She was taunting me. “I made you something to say thank you for taking us in and giving us all of this wonderful candy,” I said, putting my hands behind my back so she couldn’t see me fidget. My smile widened. It felt like my jaws were going to break. Her brow furrowed with confusion as she eyed the piece of pie on the plate. “What are you plotting, girl? “Nothing,” I said, trying to look innocent. I felt the sweat pooling on my upper lip. “Look,” I pushed the apple pie toward her, “I made it just for you, to say thank you.” She licked her lips. “Just for me” she questioned. I had her convinced. “Yes,” I nodded at such a furious speed my brain felt like it was rattling around in my skull, “just for you.” “Well, I guess one piece wouldn’t hurt.” The witch’s face twisted into a grin as she walked toward me. When she got to the counter, she looked down 70

at the pie. Taking the fork in her hand, she looked up at me before scooping up a bite. I felt my body tighten in anticipation. We were so close to being free. Thank you! Thank you! Tha . . . I winced as my head slammed onto the sharp edge of the countertop, my back breaking through the thin gingerbread cabinets. Pain seared my nerve endings. Ouch . . . what in the world? The witch was over me, ready to strike me again. I looked down and saw the fork with the bite of apple pie smeared over the floor. She hadn’t believed me. Now she was trying to kill me. Pushing myself up, I tried to regain my balance and escape her hungry claws. I only made two steps before I slipped on the apple filling and was on the ground again. “Stop,” I begged. “Please . . . what are you doing?” My feet slipped as I tried to get away from her. “You tried to trick me, missy,” she said, “I can’t have you doing that.” Before I knew what was happening, the witch leaped at me. Once again, she knocked me onto my back. Her bony hands grabbed at my arms, but I managed to get one hand free. I pushed at the witch’s face with all

the strength I had left. She turned her head and bit down hard on one of my fingers. I wailed as the tears formed in my eyes. The skin of my finger broke as the witch continued to increase the pressure of her bite. I’m going to die. She’s not going to stop until she kills me. I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely. Hansel was crying my name in the distance. Hansel . . . At once, the pressure on my finger let up. The blood trickled down from the open wound without the constriction of her teeth. I opened my eyes and looked around. I didn’t see the witch above me. Where did she go? She was laying on the ground resembling a big lump of black coal. How? I crawled over to her and poked her shoulder. She didn’t move a muscle. Her eyes were closed and her bloody lips slightly open. Her chest was moving slowly. It seemed as if she was asleep. Shuffling closer, I studied her face and saw the silver sheen on her lips. But how? She didn’t eat the pie.

The only thing she bit was . . . my finger. Slight traces of shining powder remained on my fingers from where I had stuck them down in the vial. She was asleep. The powder will make her fall asleep, for 100 years she won’t make a peep. I smiled. Reaching behind her neck, I grabbed the key that kept Hansel chained to the wall. It was time to leave and find a new home.

You Look Delicious Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

The Lion’s Den Kimberly Rhyne

Where has she gone? Heaven called back its angel Leaving you alone in the lion’s den “Stand up straight, pet” “Don’t be late, pet” “Love is fake, pet” “You must obey, pet” The tips of your fingers drip Bright red blood onto The carpet, poor pet Anxiously awaiting the day Heaven will call you back, too To reconnect with your angel Even though you know You belong in hell That’s what they’ve always told you “You’re a pain, puppet” “I’m ashamed of puppet” “Never escape, puppet” “You must obey, puppet” If the devil doesn’t love you Why won’t he let you go? Why are you crushed under his thumb? “So this is love I see, I see This must be what love means So my angel lied to me” Hold your breath, pet One day you will learn It was the lions who lied

A Home Away from Home Chase Garber

The vivid blue curtains hung just so the middle of the window was visible. The sun was glaring, and the window shined as if it was recently scrubbed with elbow grease. My brothers James and Charlie ran to the table. Our mother always made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch every weekend. From the living room, I asked Charlie what they had been doing, but there was no response. He didn’t even give me one of his raised eyebrows that always made me question if I’d said what I meant to say. I figured he was too occupied with his lunch to pay me any mind, but something still felt . . . off. My brothers often ignored me, but this felt different. I felt distant. My eyes darted around the room, looking for something out of place. Shaking off the blanket of confusion, I floated up the stairs like a ghost. We had three rooms on the second floor. The smaller one on the right of the hall was for the youngest of our family, James, and the one at the end of the hall was mine and Charlie’s. Our window faced the street and the park, which we always bragged to James about. The street was usually quiet, but today, it was noisier than usual. People were yelling about something, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. I walked toward the room and peered out the window to find that the road was empty. That’s strange, I thought as the sound rose in pitch. It seemed like a familiar one despite its level of annoyance.

As I was leaving the room, I noticed that my bed was made perfectly, like it hadn’t been touched in years. I never made my bed. Especially not like this. That blanket, which I was sure I had left downstairs, covered my shoulders again. As I began to walk out and toward my mom’s room, I heard a crash. What was that? With one huge step, I was in her room and found my mom leaning over a broken vase. “Oh, let me help you with that.” As she turned to me, I expected a lighthearted response; instead, she simply began to walk towards me until her body had undoubtedly gone through mine, giving me the chills. How! What? What’s happening? Stumbling, I felt like I might faint from the horror I had just experienced. My back hit the doorframe and I began to fall. In what I thought was slow motion, I landed, and to my surprise, the flooring was plush and soft. My arms were locked together against my torso, and my memories began to fade. My childhood home had become a padded yellow room, the noise from the street a guard’s voice ringing in my ears.

Stress

Claire Stratton I have so much work to do. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think stress puts me in a stupor; all I want to do is stare at this tree and its’ changing leaves. I want to sit in perfect silence, hypnotized by the pretty blue behind the clouds. I think that when I get too stressed, I lose the ability to think at all, and as much as I consciously know I should change into a more productive state, I just can’t think of how. So I sit and I stare for hours- consumed by a mysterious, cognitive anesthetic. Sometimes the world feels safer with no faces or feelings- and more docile as a blurry waking dream. 75

The Willow Tree and Other Gothic Musings Davis Lisk

I THE WILLOW TREE

II SAMHAINTIDE1

I thought upon a willow tree At evening yesterday; Its limbs were like a spider’s legs, Woolly, gaunt, and grey.

Upon a Samhaintide a chill And ghastly wind blew by: It mingled with the heavy fog; It bellowed low and high.

Perhaps it shall upon a time Awake with creaking joints And clicking maws to walk the earth To all her desolate points.

It left in me an icy thought: The curtain had grown thin, And all the ghosts, spirits, ghouls And goblins enter’d in. 1[ˈsaʊ.wɪn.ˌtaɪd]: n. ‘The Hallowe’en season’ from Old Irish Samain [ˈsaṽinʲ].

III THE JACK-O’-LANTERN I took a carver’s knife in hand And circle drew with care; Then I removed his cranium (At least he hath no hair!) I lit a candle, grey and thin And lowered it with grace: Behold the crooked glory of His disenchanting face!

Pumpkins in the Night1

Davis Lisk Digital Photography

1 Pumpkin Carving Artists, from left to right: Donnie Lisk and Donje Lisk, Davis Lisk, Daniel Sanders and Justin Sanders, Dakota Lisk and Brianna Lisk

IIII THE GIRL WITH THE VELVET RIBBON I met a girl upon the road One day when I was young. About her neck, most prominent, A velvet ribbon hung. She never took it off, Not e’en when we were wed. When she was dead, we took it off, And tumbled off her head! 77

V THE LADY SPIRIT I saw a woman on the stair With sadness in her eyes (I never saw her there before And never afterwise.) She looked at me and gave a sigh: ‘What a lovely little boy. Let not what love hath sewn as one Let likewise love destroy.’ VI THE GENTLEMAN SPIRIT Who is that man, translucent blue And quivering upon The mantlepiece as flames ignite And sparkle like the dawn? He says he is a vagabond (If that is really true) And goes from house to house to see If you-know-who is you. VII SNOWY WOOD I wander in the wood at night When winter has enshrouded The forest boughs in ghostly white And forest paths enclouded. It looks like giant limbs of black Upon a cotton pillow, Like an insect in your bed That you, perchance, may swallow.

Irish Farm

Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

FRuit BOwl Leah Buffalino Oil Paint

Dark Corner

Brianna Williamson Digital Photography 81

EYe of the Sun Davis Lisk Digital Photography

Papetto, Whom I Love Davis Lisk

A goldenness hung in the air, reflected by round and bulging little clouds. A lively cheer, as if emanating from the chirping of grasshoppers, rose and filled the castle of wood, painted white with garlanded banners of pink, yellow, and cerulean with a trim of scarlet hung at the border of each tier. The players, half in red and half in yellow flannels, on the field, which had a long rectangle in the middle of a diamond divided into four quadrants, were in a state of tense anticipation. A man in yellow with a prominent, curled moustache took one of the red balls out of his holding sash and buttoned it back up. He then bowled the ball across the line to a man holding a wooden paddle. Smack! The red ball went up and bounced off of a blue ball in the quadrant to the back and right of the bowler. ‘Half point Seedbeekers.’ He then felt around in his bag for a green ball, which he in turn bowled again toward the potterer, for so the position is called. Crink! Up and up the green ball soared while the Seedbeekers’ potterer ran between the two poles at either end of the rectangle (although he was pretty sure it would score a high round). It cleared the field and was flying over the spectators. The potterer jumped up in rapture as the portion of the crowd in red cheered wildly. Up and up and up it went until finally dornk! A shocked gasp went around the bleachers. The green ball, whistling over most of the stands, fell into a box filled with men in crisp and heavily tasselled uniform and ladies in extravagant dresses. One older gentleman, who had been wearing a bicorn, removed his hat to wipe

the sweat from his brow just as the ball was descending, and was struck full force in the head. He tumbled forward over the balcony and dived headfirst upon the stairs. The potterer knew what he had to do. The punishment for killing a head of state, albeit accidentally, was death, but he was legally entitled to a five-minute uninterrupted head start before the State Guard would hunt him down and, upon capturing him, impale him with spears. He ran out of the stadium and out onto the rolling hills and the burning of the setting sun. His goal was to run to the nearest house he could and claim perpetual sanctuary. After four minutes of running he began to grow ever more anxious as he anticipated the commencement of the State Guard’s hunt. Indeed, he was almost to the point of despair, when he saw a grand house, all made of limestone with pinnacles and turrets and high lancet windows of gold. Outside the door upon the long porch guarded by slender columns stood an old man dressed in red robes with a long white beard and a balding head of gangly white hair. The potterer sprinted like he had ne’er before up to the old man, who waved gently and smiled to him as he approached. ‘Sanctuary!’ gasped the potterer, ‘Sanctuary!’ ‘Come in, my child,’ said the old man, quite calmly and gracefully, and helped the potterer through the hearty doors of black-stained oak just as the fifth minute was completed. ‘What is thy name, my child,’ asked the old man, ‘and what hast thou done?’ ‘Tommy Elegant,’ said the potterer, still trying 83

to catch his breath, ‘green ball gone awry on a good high round. Head of state got hit and fell, dead. Fled as fast as I could.’ ‘Mm, yes, yes,’ said the old man, who seemed quite pleased with his new guest, ‘this way. Thou shalt sit and repose while I have my man Gribbs see about refreshments. My name is Mambalingo, and thou shalt dine with my son Papetto, whom I love.’ Mambalingo then took Tommy Elegant across the checkered marble floor past beautiful articles of blackstained oak with golden trim and pink and purple chintz. They almost glided as they made their way through those masterful halls, and Tommy Elegant began to think himself privileged to be a prisoner of the place all the days of his life. Upon reaching a wide arch of white with a gently curving top, carved to resemble flowing ribbons of silk, Mambalingo led him into the room beyond it and to a seat with a high back and soft cushions, and, with a gesture to the other side of the table said, with great joy and watering eyes: ‘Tommy Elegant, meet thou my son, Papetto, whom I love.’ Tommy Elegant, half-dazed with mirth, turned to face the much anticipated Papetto. When he saw the master of the house’s son, however, it took all that was within him to stifle a scream of intensest horror and dread, for, sitting across from him, was a ginormous snail with a bib of pink fringed silk. Mambalingo sighed: ‘My beautiful son! Oh, how happy the twain of you shall be here in the House of Mambalingo!’ And with that he glided back out of the room to 84

fetch the manservant Gribbs. Tommy Elegant found his eyes inexorably fixated upon the snail, which seemed to glare back at him with its black, lidless, antennaed eyes. For the longest time the two sat there, motionless. The silence, which at first felt warm and even joyous, was rank with disease and acute anxiety. The eyes of the snail – black, lidless, antennaed – floated like flies, ravenously fixated upon Tommy Elegant, as a sound of buzzing echoed in his brain as due to some increasing mania, and then – Slish. The snail began to slide up onto the long table and, ever slowly, to move along towards Tommy Elegant. He went stone still, gripped with fear, as the lumbering monster approached him. Closer, ever closer it came, until it was not more than a yard from where he sat as one petrified. Then, with a sound akin to the creaking of rusty hinges, the snail slowly began to open its amorphous mouth, revealing a set of long and menacing teeth, all yellow and sulphurous. Tommy Elegant gripped his paddle. With a horrific grating sound proceeding from the enraged snail, it lurched toward him like lightning. He swatted the monstrosity with his bat as the thing’s roar reached an unholy and terrible volume. Thwack! There was silence. Tommy Elegant opened his eyes. The snail was gone. He slowly got up and looked over the side of the table. He put his hand to his mouth as he gasped. Green blood was everywhere, oozing by imperceptible margins of time from the snail’s horribly disfigured ‘face.’

Dead, he thought to himself and sighed, but then he heard off in the distance the voice of the master of the house: ‘Oh, yoohoo, my Papettino and his newest friend. Gribbs is talking with the cooks now. Refreshments should be with us on the hour, but, till then, let us hold good company one to another!’ Oh no. Tommy Elegant had to think fast. He looked out the window. The State Guard had surrounded the house. No escape. He knew what he had to do. He took his paddle and, bending down, placed it into the snail’s pseudopod. Then, backpedalling until his back was up against the wall, he let out the bloodcurdling scream that had been welling up inside of him for so long and shouted out: ‘He did it to himself! Oh, the blood, so much blood! He did it to himself!’ Mambalingo, hearing the cry, ran in and, upon seeing Papetto lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and clutching the paddle, broke down into tears and moaned helplessly, ‘O my son Papetto, my son, my son Papetto! would God I had died for thee, O Papetto, my son, my son! * * * When the priest arrived, he regretted to inform Mambalingo and his distressed servants that although Papetto had been baptised as a Catholic, due to his tragic death at his own pseudopod without any signs of previous

mental illness, he could give Mambalingo’s beloved child neither his last rites nor burial in sacred ground, which grieved the master of the house exceedingly. However, no matter how much Mambalingo pled, the priest remained adamant, and so the body was brought up by Gribbs along with the other male servants into his bedchamber until the matter could be rectified. Supper that night was a sombre affair, and Mambalingo spoke seldom and, when he did, only in short agonised interjections over the loss of the snail. Tommy Elegant, although both saddened by his sanctuary-keeper’s loss as well as in some discomfort as a foreigner to the household’s woe, was also extremely relieved and very happy to be rid of the awful creature as well as the State Guard. At least, as he reasoned, he should rest easy tonight. Mambalingo insisted upon personally seeing Tommy Elegant to his bedchamber on the top floor. ‘Thou, Tommy Elegant,’ said the master of the house, stopping the potterer before he went into his room, ‘my friend, my son, Papetto, is gone. Alas! I shall mourn him well. Thou art Papetto now, and ever afterwards shalt be called so, as long as this house endureth.’ Mambalingo, with tears now driving channels down his cheeks, kissed Tommy Elegant on both cheeks and, bidding him good night, descended the ponderous winding staircase of black-stained oak and dainty lathework. Tommy Elegant, somewhat taken aback and yet at the same time somewhat moved, although, with no small amount of residual discomfort, made his way into his bedchamber with the small golden lamp that had been 85

given him. Ah! He jumped back, hand on heart, and then sighed and laughed. He had been greeted, quite unwantedly, by a great stuffed snail the exact same size and shape as Papetto had been. Well, he thought to himself, the original Papetto, that is. And, his anxiety thus assuaged, moved over to the window, opened it (for the night was still very warm), and placing the lamp upon the nightstand descended beneath the soft chintz bedlinens and blew out the candle flame. And yet – the button-eye of the stuffed Papetto, it seemed, by some trick of the moonlight, to stare upon him amidst the darkness. At first he tried to laugh and say that it was a merry jest after what had happened earlier that evening, but the stare lingered long past the affected laughter. The eye (but it was only a button) was bright as a star in that dark bedchamber at the top of that castle-like house. Finally, despite the button-eye of the stuffed snail, Tommy Elegant fell asleep. He jerked and found himself in a cold sweat. He had been dreaming of factory equipment and that he was a great grape that had gotten wedged between two massive cogs when there was an awful wrenching noise. All was quiet there in the dark, except for the eye, the eye that still gleamed out in the darkness like a star, and again he gazed into that eye until sleep, unbeknownst to him, had overtaken him. The eye again, brighter than ever. He had dreamt this time that he walked about in a dark and cold wood at night where something followed him, an unseen thing that slipped away as soon as he turned to look at it, but then he had caught a glimpse of something so black he could see it even within the blackness of night. 86

Something moved. Tommy Elegant reached for his paddle which he kept beside the bed. He had dreamt he was covered in worms, wriggling brown things that moved in eternal motion over every reach of his body. There it was again. He braced himself. Buzzing, all in his head. It was coming for him. With a blast of a mechanised, creaking boom, he swung his paddle at the pale gleam of yellow teeth. The thing was upon him. He grasped at the beast and, with all his might, thrust himself forwards towards the window. He caught himself on the latticework while a great amorphous shape merged with a circle fell almost as if in defiance of time, and, after what felt like ages, reached the ground with a great thud. Tommy Elegant fell to his knees, but then felt suddenly cold. He looked up at where the button-eye had been. All was darkness. He felt around for the drawer within the nightstand and, taking out a box of matches, relit the lamp and walked over slowly towards it, and then stepped on something. Looking down, his heart gave way. The head of the stuffed snail had been beaten so that the stuffing was fallen out all over the place, but where were the eyes? But where were the eyes? He could not for the life of him find the eyes.

The Grass is Greener on the Other Side

Brianna Williamson Digital Photography

Index

Bentley, Faith – Senior, English Brooks, Tayler – Junior, Criminal Justice and Legal Studies Buffalino, Leah – Senior, Studio Art Drake, Renee – Sophomore, Studio Art Elliott, Taylor Rose – Senior, Psychology Endy, Jackie – Junior, Biology Garber, Chase – Senior, English Harsey, Karson – Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies (Art/English Literature) Jackson, Kyle – Junior, English Language Arts Secondary Education Lisk, Brianna – Guest Contributor Lisk, Dakota – Guest Contributor Lisk, Davis – NGU Alumnus Lisk, Donje – Guest Contributor Lisk, Donnie – Guest Contributor Meyers, Leslie – Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Morgan, SarahAnn – Freshman, English Language Arts Secondary Education Paint, Don – Guest Contributor Palmer, Jennifer – NGU Staff Rhyne, Kimberly – NGU Alumna Sanders, Daniel – Guest Contributor Sanders, Justin – Guest Contributor Stevens, Jennie – NGU Staff Stevens, Micah – Senior, History and English Stratton, Claire – Junior, English Williamson, Brianna – Junior, Secondary Education Social Studies

24, 68-71 10, 47 19, 25, 27, 34, 43, 80 13, 17, 54 16, 31-32, 55 49 65, 74 12, 56-59, 64 12 77 77 8, 14-15, 18, 76-78, 82, 83-86 77 77 28-29, 35-37, 48 11, 20, 30, 46 9 62 26, 38-41, 42, 66-67, 73 77 77 52 53 33, 63, 75 20-21, 50-51, 72, 79, 81, 87

The Mountain Laurel 2022 Sponsors: College of Fine Arts, Art Department, North Greenville University College of Humanities, English Department, North Greenville University

Colophon: Fonts: FORTA 70 pt, 36 pt, 18 pt; Georgia 6 pt, 8 pt, 10 pt, 12 pt Pages: 8.5” by 8.5” 88 pages: 32 4/4 80# satin, 56 1/1 80# Satin Cover Stock: 120# Silk Cover Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover: 4/1 + Soft Touch Laminate Cover art: Digital Design by Hayley De González Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator CC Section Page Art: The Sublime - Digital Design by Hayley De González The Depths - Digital Design by Hayley De González The Expanse - Digital Design by Hayley De González The Elsewhere - Digital Design by Hayley De González Printing: Printing Partners, Indianapolis, IN Copyright 2022 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.

The Mountain Laurel, Vol. 58, Uncharted Territory

Articles inside

Faith Bentley, “Love Ablaze”

Leslie Meyers, “The Sons of Eve”