The Phoenix Spring 2023

The Phoenix

Spring 2023

Co-Editors

Janelle Mudry

Allison Walsh

Editors of Layout and Content

Emma Deitz

Allison Walsh

Copy Editors

Matt Beuermann

Janelle Mudry

Allison Walsh

Editors of Art and Publicity

Mary Cassano

Taylor Clayborn

Editorial Board

Matt Beuermann

Tess Cadman

Mary Cassano

Taylor Clayborn

Emma Deitz

Alex Henry

Emily Irons

Legion Lake

Mark Permigiani

Hannah Stoughton

Samantha Walker

Allison Walsh

Roxanne Cianci

Dr. Mary Theresa Hall

Cover Artwork

Janelle Mudry (front)

Mikala Wyss (back)

Faculty Advisers

Dr. Sheila Gross ’10

Prof. Sean Oros ’15

*All works in this publication are the sole property of their authors and are not to be reproduced in any manner. These works do not reflect the opinions or the Mission Statement of Thiel College.

Poetry

Short Stories

“The Lifespan of a Spy” pp. 43–5

“Maisie Everything” pp. 46-51

“The Bug Witch” pp. 52-6

“Inamorata” pp. 59-61

“An Aptly Named Laundromat” ......................pp. 64-5

Artwork

By Janelle Mudry Front cover, p. 19, p. 23

By Mikala Wyss Back cover

Photographs

*throughout publication

Photographs submitted by:

• Devyn Bossard

• Muncie Canon

• Marcus Hernandez IV

• Amy Jackson

• Hailey McClain

• Samantha Reid

• Devin Rhoads

• Allie Walsh

• Morgan Wood

Introduction and Dedication

Every year, the editors of The Phoenix include an introduction at the start of the publication that serves as a reminder to all readers that the contents of The Phoenix are unique, creative, and worthy of admiration and respect. It exemplifies why The Phoenix is treasured annually by so many members of the Thiel community.

For the 2023 edition of this publication, editor Allison Walsh ’24 has written that introduction on behalf of the editors and editorial board. Her writing, featured below, is not only a tribute to the work and creativity put forth by the contributing students, faculty, staff, and alumni that have allowed for the creation of this year’s issue of The Phoenix, it also serves as a tribute to Emeritus Professor of Business and Norman P. Mortensen Endowed Chair of Economics David Miller ’61, H’20 and his former student, Professor Gary Witosky ’79, C.P.A. and Professor David M. Miller Endowed Chair of Accounting, to both of whom this year’s edition is dedicated. **********

PEP: preparation, enthusiasm, and performance.

These are the three principles upon which Professor David Miller mentored his business students. These traits are equally as important for those of us in the humanities, as they guide our approach to scholarship, creativity, and interactions with those around us. It is a challenging task to create a work of literature – but even more so to place it up for inspection by your peers. Each of the contributors of this publication courageously entrusted their works to the public at the encouragement and support of Thiel’s faculty and surrounding community.

These two members of our Thiel community have been chosen as the recipients of this year’s dedication on the merit of their years spent committing time, energy, and PEP to the advancement of this institution. They are each revered among their students and colleagues as having fostered an immeasurable legacy within the lives of those around them. A Thiel alum, Professor Miller, returned to teach in 1963 and taught and advised more students than any

professor in the college’s 155-year history. His passing in October of 2022 shook the community and left a solemn feeling in the hearts of many. Professor Witosky, also a Thiel alum, is retiring from his over 20 years of teaching this spring. To the joy and gratification of the business department, he will be returning as an adjunct professor to teach the Ruth A. Miller Senior Seminar in the spring of 2024.

The remarkable thing about Thiel is that, through the years, the sense of community, purpose, and responsibility is perpetually passed down from professor to student in an endless cycle. Professor Witosky was one of Professor Miller’s students and has carried on his legacy into his own teaching practices. Likewise, Dr. Mary Theresa Hall re-founded and advised The Phoenix and has since passed on the torch to her former students, Dr. Sheila Gross ’10 and Prof. Sean Oros ’15. Through their professors, Thiel students are encouraged and inspired to continue their legacy to those who precede them, a principle which is also evident within the works of this publication. In their combined 77 years of teaching at Thiel, David Miller and Gary Witosky have molded and guided hundreds of students while encouraging and inspiring them to reach their highest potential in every situation. They are both prime examples of the value of a liberal arts education and, therefore, a more than deserving pair to be the recipients of the dedication of this creative and artistic journal.

-Allison Walsh ’24

Miller (left) and Witosky (right) in 2015, shortly after it was announced that Professor Witosky would take over for Professor Miller as the Chair of the Arthur McGonigal Department of Business Administration and Accounting.

An Elegy for Professor David Miller

by Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Tomcat, Teacher, Storyteller, Entrepreneur; An icon of an institution And a pillar of character; Interested in everything About everybody, As attested by his son; So overflowing

Was his curiosity and joy, He talked to all

And learned their stories, Whether he ever Had them as students, Or just took time to know them. Those fortunate enough To be his direct students, He taught the secret To success:

It was all about “PEP”; Preparation, Enthusiasm, Performance. He taught his children

The point of success:

“Helping others Is why we’re here.”

He lived life With importance And value; He viewed time as important, And used that time To make others feel important. With fifty-seven years Of teaching at Thiel, Professor David Miller Embodied its values And cemented them And their lessons In the hearts of countless students So that they will echo And live on Through the ages.

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

“

HMSC” by Allie Walsh

“Fall Day” by Allie Walsh

“Brother Martin’s Walk” by Allie Walsh

“The Quad in Autumn” by Allie Walsh

An Ode to Mid-Semester

by Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Deadlines creeping, Restless sleeping, College is a grim place of reaping. I start school with high morale As I return to parties, clubs, and my pals Not worried over work in class As I procrastinate, but still will pass And there are yet still weeks to wait Wait, how is it already at week eight?!

Deadlines creeping, Restless sleeping, I still have time before the weeping. So maybe I should get to work, But there’s still some time to shirk. The leaves are changing, slowly falling, And yet I find myself still stalling I’ve so got this, I’m just vibing, And at the end, I’ll still be thriving. So these assignments give me no scare, I still have so much time to spare.

Deadlines creeping, Restless sleeping, Now assignments sure are heaping. So maybe I waited a little late, But it’s okay, I’ll still tempt fate. I just found out a paper’s due, So tonight I’ll work and knock it through Oh wait, you mean there’s two to do? Oh. So, I’ll just drink a few Redbulls

Deadlines creeping, Restless sleeping, My morale is slowly seeping. So my grades are not the best, I think I might just give up rest. If only I had been told and knew That there is just so dang much to do, I can pound these assignments out Oh god, I can’t recall what it’s about… Why do profs demand so much work Like sadistic sons of… jerks?

Deadlines creeping, So little sleeping, Now begins frustrated weeping. So much test. So little rest. I just want sleep, My wits to keep. But I have class I hope I pass. Deadlines creeping. I dream of sleeping. My sanity I’m sure not keeping.

“Trinity College Library” by Allie Walsh

Ode to a Book

by Tess Cadman

It’s not just a book, it’s an escape from my existence. The literary elements, characters, resolution, such a persistence.

It all transports me, breathing becomes my only subsistence. During a book, I sometimes forget that I am real. Everything on the pages, becomes such a massive deal. Drowns out the noise, there’s really nothing else I can feel.

Halfway done, I don’t want the book to end. The protagonist has become my very best friend. The conflict, drastically continues to extend.

The plot, it twists and it turns. The ending nearby, I can just faintly discern. A sequel,

Is something I desperately yearn. Final chapter, I hold on to it close. The final words, Have me entirely engrossed. I close the book, this is what I hate the very most. Back to reality, in this world so bleak. Books are something that make this universe so unique I find another on the shelf, I think I’ll have to start it this week.

By Amy Jackson

By Devyn Bossard

By Devyn Bossard

“Clairo in Concert” by Devin Rhoads

What is it?

by C. Grace Honeycutt

What am I seeing?

I see colors but no shape

I see images but no focus What is it supposed to be?

I see blue on yellow and green on blue, But no lines, no structure, What does it mean!

Is it a rhino? I think I see a horn. Are those arms? No. It can’t be. What can this be?

But what if it isn’t supposed to be something?

What if it is meant to be nothing?

What if it is just meant to be shapes and colors with no meaning?

I guess that’s okay. Not to know. Just to have shapes and colors, no lines at all. It could be a rhino, those could be arms, You’re not supposed to know. And that’s okay… Isn’t it?

All of my poetry is for you now by Sydney

Varga

My poems about others make you speechless And I hope that when you see yours They fill you with more words than you can dream of

Helen Frankenthaler, Interior Landscape

My Friends, Pity and Fear

by C. Grace Honeycutt

Each day, I act on a bright gilded stage, Dressed to the nines, my face a changing page. I act to hide my very dearest friends, Pity and Fear are always at my ends. To my left is Fear, my friend and my guide Keeping me safe from danger at my side. On my right is Pity who won’t relent, They keep me humble and without content. My friends always here, keeping me from harm, From dangers, and others who alarm. Outsiders think I am always alone, Acting on stage, a tragedy is shown But I am not alone at all, I’m notI have my friends with me until I rot.

The Onlookers Reply to The Nymph

by Tess Cadman

In rejoinder to Sir Walter Raleigh’ s “The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd”

If all the world and love were young, Close your mouth, bite your tongue, Love can last now can’t you see, Love can last to a certain degree.

As you know things do grow old, But some things you certainly can control, Accept these gifts, and if they don’t last, Maybe your love has then surely passed.

Flowers will fade and the plants will die, You may get the impression it is awry, Take the chance: you may never know, Often times you will learn as you grow.

Accept these gifts with a grain of salt, If they don’t last nothing’s your fault, Leave at once, you gave it a thought, One would understand you gave it a shot.

Be kind, courteous, nice without fail, You can live on to tell the tale, Life is what you make of it, Nothing’s that bad, you must admit.

Your mind might be set, These promises could find fret, To live with him and be his love, Give it a try for he could be your dove.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse

Sybil’s Lament

by C. Grace Honeycutt

I stood at bay, there with the sun alight. Eternal Life, my soul and blind design. Each grain of sand a year, with not a fright

And yet my wish had an enormous fine.

As time went by, the bay changed overnight.

The trees grew broad and grand, the moss grew thick, The polis rose and fell all within my sight. As time went on, I felt my clock’s fine tick.

My body frail, my movement slowed to start Forever waiting for the sand to fall, Apollo gazing from his sun-bound hart, And watching as I fade into it all.

I have lived so long in the Bay of Baiae, Decaying into nature’s lovely gaze.

The Swirling Stars

by C. Grace Honeycutt

I feel my mind swirl on and on. Only focusing on what I should not. I keep looking at the stars, Each swirling in an endless whirl. Making me want to twirl-

No. Focus. On that town. On what is right. Keep your head screwed on tight.

Don’t look up, just look down. At the town of greens and browns. Keep your head out of the clouds.

But I can’tI can’t focusbut I must.

On work and home and all of us, But I keep looking to the stars, The swirls that welcome all that’s ours. The beauty of the blues and golds, Take me away from grimly browns That is why I keep my head in the Sky.

Joseph Mallord Turner, The Bay of Baiae, with Apollo and the Sibyl

Vincent Van Gogh, Starry Night

august.

by Janelle Mudry

as the summer draws in its dying breath i feel a certain longing in my heart i feel my soul suffer a little death books left unread and unfinished art the sunday night of seasons claims another another year of my fleeting youth gone oh! august pains my heart like no other dreams punctuated by cicada song the autumnal wind ushers in my tears i mourn not the changing seasons, but me! soft words on the wind nobody can hear during a sunset nobody can see to say i hate august would be a lie but its end draws from me a solemn sigh

November

by Emma Galiardi

annually, i regret the snow too cold, i dislike the frost that consumes us wearing layers of clothes but will never be warm enough i miss the fall season the ability to be peacefully me the fall leaves cascading the ground but, then almost too quickly, the treacherous winter arrives my leaves are covered with snow my grass is frosted and makes loud noises when walked on crunch crunch crunch remember when we walked along those fall leaves hearing those same sounds? crunch crunch crunch it does not feel the same without you. I will not walk in the snow.

i miss us walking on the leaves. laughing. being one with each other.

Life Goes On, Days get Better

By Tess Cadman

Life goes on, days get better, just a bad day, not a bad life. Just a bad chapter, not a bad book, life goes on, days get better. Life goes on, days get better, it’s just a diagnosis, the treatment should suffice. Body caves, gives up, too weak, life goes on, days get better. Life goes on, days get better, sure, you’re in debt, but that’s the price. Just push harder, try again next time, life goes on, days get better. Life goes on, days get better, it’s a just death, he’s now with his wife. Not suffering anymore, you should be relieved, life goes on, days get better. Life goes on, days get better. Is it really just a bad day, and not a bad life? Is it really just a bad chapter, not a bad book? Life does not always go on, and days do get harder.

fly out of that window little bird your wings are trembling in fear

where did the time go? mama bird your baby can not fly in her tears scared, cold, stuck below. sweet bird can you hear that that sweet melody in your ears

fly out of that window little bird your wings are no longer saturated with fears

By Amy Jackson

Little Bird by Gracie Mosko

Betty by Matt Beuermann

Tennis on the small, box television. The Australian Open. Nadal vs. Federer. Ice cream. Cream. Custard. All heaped into a large, off-white dessert bowl, likely from the 1970s. The droning buzz of the electric recliner as she slowly lies back. Bowl resting in her lap, remote resting on the arm of the chair, carefully poised to mute the onslaught of ads packed in between each set. Every so often, the wide and deep dessert spoon steadily maneuvers the sugary concoction from the bowl

to her seemingly ever-pursed lips. To a young boy, she had a powerful, almost scary exterior; part of the reason he was never too fond of her. Looking back, he realizes it was just tough love –more concern, less praise and emotion –very subtle, but it was there. A dollop of the creamy mixture drips off the spoon and lands down her front. He lets out a wry giggle. She looks over and wags her spoon playfully in his direction. “You’ll miss me one day.” It might have taken thirteen years, but she was right.

By Amy Jackson

Worlds Apart

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

I never thought that I could achieve this, A moment of sheer, total wonderment. I left the shackles of the world behind To seek out enlightenment in the void. He said that it was for humanity, A journey to break all our boundaries, To find the future and forget our past.

I lost my love to the unknown cosmos.

Sacrifices had to be made, of course. Risks taken, incalculable rewards. Inherent dangers alone tremendous. Minute hope of an imminent return. I was pregnant. That could have made him stay. But can you kill a dream and not the man?

I couldn’t do it. I loved him too much.

Each night I look to the stars and wonder. The approach to lightspeed is amazing.

Planets, comets, moons, sights unseen from Earth. I have to force myself to get some sleep.

What miracles, mysteries, lie ahead?

It has been a year. I named her Deirdre. I see your face in hers. It haunts me that I may never see you, or hear from you. No contact, but the stars’ cold jealousy.

We have arrived at the Kepler system. Two of the planets are habitable.

Terraforming procedures are starting. Life from lifelessness. You would love this, Claire. You are a grandpa, Deirdre named him Sean, After you, of course. I was so angry

When they told me they’d miscalculated Days into years. It’s not your fault, my love.

God, has it been a whole year already?

The work is tough, results astonishing. Corn, soy, potatoes, even broccoli. The colony group is sustainable.

The ships are splitting up on the way back. This message is going directly home.

I’ll be scouting Tau Ceti Five briefly. Just another three months, and I’m all yours. Got your message, I laughed so hard, I cried.

Always intrepid, always the leader.

I had wished to see you one final time, But at eighty-five I’ll get a head start

To the next adventure. I’ll be okay.

I lived a full, joyful experience

With no regrets. I will always love you. May our paths cross again in the next world.

Life by

Emma Galiardi

Sometimes it is easy to forget that you are living your life.

You are so focused on your daily tasks on waking up early for practice every morning on seeing what they are posting on Instagram on what assignments were due at midnight days go by as you stress about arguments you’ve had weeks go by as you continue to complete tasks from classes months go by as you buy new clothes to match the ever-changing seasons year after year you are changing you are constantly changing every moment you have will edit your life every single moment don’t you want a good life? A fulfilling life? You have personal goals allow those moments to live your life

By Hailey McClain

Transcendence

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

I flowed seamlessly almost frictionless Through corridors of emerald nebulae. The air refreshing on my weathered face, The voice of the honored dead in my ears. The way deserted, so speed increases. I feel emptiness, no destination Of worth or meaning, rise velocity To be everywhere and nowhere at once. Coring dimensional gates cascading Spectrum explodes to possibility. Prismatic essences radiate out. Time trapped in an unknown expansion. Light slashes at the edge of perception. Inertia closing exit vectors now, Leaving ahead as the only escape. Accelerate to new existence.

Rebirth’s Yearning

by Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Winter thawing Raindrops striking Fading snow, As mists flowing Valleys hiding All below; Sun is rising Sky is clearing Warmth returning, Birdsong echoes Rivers babble Rebirth’s yearning.

reflections on the passage of time.

by Janelle Mudry

i could have. i should have. i would have. ii lay here anxious in anguish praying praying that i have enough time i sigh sighs of preemptive grief my ears ringing ringing with near-constant cricket singing singing of lonely longing for what is left left wanting to fix what i think is wrong wrong for final release to feel like theft theft, though done in mercy, feels like a crime crimes like forgetting to treasure what’s deep for whom does the bell toll? whose is its chime? cruel time, it’s because of you that i weep tick, tick, take, and take and take and take with no regard for the mess you make

Sonnet of the Emotionally Exhausted

by Colin Schroyer

Contracting; dilating; watching my Thoughts hyper-saturated by every Word, inflection, or phrase that I try

To rectify my mind and set it free.

My hands. I can’t stop them. They seem to want

To rise and fall and praise. I know I can’t Assess every nuance that seems to haunt

My life. I know that I shan’t, but it’s just Synaptic haptic feedback loops, all while The natural chemicals will surge along

To fill the neurons with vain denial

Of precious hope in spite of what is wrong. Oh Lord, please let this feeling come to pass! Dear Lord, why won’t this feeling come to pass?

Only Ash Remains

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

One long last lazy gaze, The twisting gyre of embers fired, Falling gracelessly to languish Neath cloudy skies of shuttered moon. Rest eludes the weary. Fitful imprints of hectic days Drive worry into the witching hours With no ease to a troubled brow. The body, bereft of strength, consents To the conclave of Shade and Nod, Signifying the end of is And the beginning of could be The murky dreams that twilight spawns. The first few grays of drizzled dawn. I should not rise, for sleep I must, To lie, embrace, with Morpheus, Finding solace in the subconsciousness, Release from the cares of the mundane. Diving into the pool of ecstasy, I writhe inside the freedom of dream. Seas of endless possibility Where no cause is ever lost, Hope lies around the next bend As I rise to see your face once more.

“

No Longer”

by Katabella Byers

The way you look at me now is the way I used to look at myself in the mirror when I was 12

Observing every detail of my body with a look on your face as if you had stepped in gum

You used to smile with a grin so hard that I thought something funny had happened

But you were just happy to see me

And now, you laugh at her jokes with a laugh I only ever heard you use when your dad told a joke

At least you humor her

I had to laugh for the both of us

Hurt by Tess Cadman

Yeah, you hurt me, You hurt me so bad. I didn’t think that it would, affect me, drive me this mad. We talked and we laughed, We were together every day. I shared with you my secrets, I never thought you would go away. But there you went, Didn’t even consider my feelings. Not a thought in the world Even after all those dealings? You were there when I cried When I was sick, couldn’t sleep. You saw me at my best and my worst, This hurts, way down deep. When I turned you in, I thought it would be the end. But I got you back, With sorrow, that I didn’t intend. You came with corrections, Deductions on almost every page. It’s just a midterm paper I thought, I’ve never been filled with this much rage.

Strangers Again

by Anonymous

It’s funny how we pass in the hall and don’t say a word. We don’t even look. Maybe just a slight glance – very subtle –never too direct. Isn’t it strange how two people once so intertwined can end up like this? Like we don’t even know each other. But we do. I do.

I know your middle name. I know your family. I know your dreams. Yet here we are, in this hall, not saying a word. Making sure not to disrupt the awkward yet somehow necessary silence. We once were lovers, but now we’re strangers again.

A Thought on Love

by Laci Dezern

I hate how love has become ash on my tongue

Easy to say but hard to swallow

Never before has something so young Become such a sin

That I crumble beneath Beneath it, my will, shattered to dust Keeping it hidden is now a must

Months have gone by and nothing has changed No emotion, nor harm, And now nothing’s the same The same or a change

Regardless, I am standing afraid

A fire once bright has now simmered away Fearing a partner is always unsung

I hate how love has become ash on my tongue

Self Esteem Issues

by Sydney Varga

You said you loved my eyes

So I can’t stop looking at them

You said you loved my skin

So I can't stop feeling it

You make me

Want to love myself

The way you love me

20/20 vision

by Emma Galiardi

the three piece structure, all plastic blue with gray designs that rest against my temples curves that make the bridge of my nose sore wide after years of being worn they allow me to see you to see you falling in love with her but more importantly out of love with me they allow me to see myself to see what you never will see in me my compassion and drive to be loved i take them off seeing is too much everything is fuzzy but your love is still there do you see me?

do you see that i am here? I have always been.

Acoustic by Bailey Stilts

He felt the cool strings upon his fingertips, feeling the vibrations up through his arms. It gave him the energy to continue on playing. The sound of the roaring crowd was drowning out the sound the guitar made as he strummed to the beat of the song. The lights were blinding in the darkness that surrounded the stadium, making it difficult to see all the roaring fans. He didn't really care; he was so involved in his music. Everyone was watching him strum the opening to “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran. It was his favorite song; it reminded him of his girlfriend. This was the first song they ever slowdanced to. As he started singing, the emotion flowed through his voice. The stadium became quiet as he started singing.

I found a love for me

Oh darling, just dive right in and follow my lead

He watched her dance to the beat of the music until the song changed. Ed Sheeran, his favorite. All the other couples were finding other people to slow dance with, leaving him without a partner. Except for her.

'Cause we were just kids when we fell in love

Not knowing what it was

He felt the cool dew on the morning grass, making a nice blanket to lay on. His heart skipped a beat when he felt her delicate hand grab his. He looked to see her laying beside him, also looking at the sky.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song.

He felt her arms resting on his neck. The cool breath down his back. He felt everyone was staring at them, but he didn't care. Life couldn't get better than this.

Well I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know

She shares my dreams, I hope that someday I'll share her home

The movie is playing on the theater screen, but he doesn't pay attention. He is too busy looking at her, watching her reaction to Scarlett Johansson and David Harbour. He has already watched the movie, but she wanted to go see it so bad.

We are still kids, but we're so in love Fighting against all odds I know we'll be alright this time

Her head now rests on his shoulder, her hair getting in his mouth. It doesn't matter; this moment is what matters.

When I saw you in that dress, looking so beautiful I don't deserve this, darling, you look perfect tonight

They are on the beach, laying on a towel trying to get a tan. He would always just burn, but she wanted a nice tan. He would have to lather in aloe later tonight, but it was worth it to spend this time with her.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song.

They shuffle to the beat of the music. Nothing else matters except for this moment because they both know that this moment can't last forever.

Now I know I have met an angel in person And she looks perfect I don't deserve this

You look perfect tonight

He now stands in front of a gravestone, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Tears streamed down his face. He sets the flowers down along with a CD. The ÷ album to be specific. He then is back to his room, an acoustic guitar in his hands. He just finishes when his mom comes into his room. "Why don't you play for anyone?" She says, coming over to sit beside him. "You are a wonderful player. Your girlfriend loved listening to you!"

"I'm not that good. I have a horrible singing voice, and I am not too good at strumming yet. I don't think people would like it"

Home by Katabella Byers

The night we met you whispered something in my ear I never heard what you said But the way you looked at me said it all We were strangers

Meeting you didn’t feel like that though It felt like coming home

There was never a moment where I felt as if I didn’t belong Which is hard to do

Because I never have But neither have you

And I guess that’s why it works so well

Nectar

by Sydney Varga

You are As easy And natural to me

As the way Bees are programmed To make honey

Moonlight by Sydney Green

The moon was shining

On the empty pond

I was waiting for that special someone Time went by And I finally saw The twinkle in her eyes

The one that I love

December 17

by Emma Galiardi

life is so easy with you i do not like to recall life before you i am happy to know there will be no life after you you allow me to be my truest self one who follows her passions without guilt one who expresses her concerns without fear of repercussions sometimes I feel as if I was due due to express the amount of gratitude for no war or pain my life is now constantly filled with laughter life is so easy with you my bad days do not seem so bad anymore the hate, the anger, the sadness dissipates within your presence i have grown new passions thanks to you please continue, as life is so easy with you

Memento mori

by Dr. Sheila Gross ’10

We battled the stormy seas

For what felt like an eternity, Confronting every wave That ripped our vessels

Piece by piece

So that, beleaguered, We escaped in our lifeboats And landed together on a shore

Surrounded by the debris

Of the wrecks we endeavored To survive.

And in finding each other

On the same bank, Whole yet battered, We enfolded each other

In a yearning embrace, Clinging tightly to this treasure That managed to wash ashore

Among the detritus of what was, Years of mementos, Surrendered and sundered, Surrounding us like miles Of collapsed ruins

That we must traverse, Hand-in-hand

Mementos that become vestiges

Of a past life, Fading with each footstep, Pausing to grieve those fragments Or banish them

As we reach out to each other And discover the support We had been thirsting for On the tumultuous voyage That led us to this new place. And as we embark on this journey

Our love for each other, A bond that strengthens our will And each other’s souls, Carves a path forward

Toward building a life together

Beyond the wreckage.

Happiness

by Sydney Varga

Falling for you is like

The most beautiful song on piano

The first time I watched my favorite movie

The feeling of feeling like the main character I hope it never ends

Toxicity

by Sydney Varga

8/22When you are kind to me I cry But not for you For me

Because I didn’t know What a true love felt like Until now

Honeysuckle

by Sydney Varga

When you speak

Honey pours from your lips

It is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted

Aurelia by Jason C. Merriam ’04

He saw her first from his cold, icy peak, Running through the valley far below, Long, wavy tresses, golden in sunlight. Every stride perfect in her selection. No missteps, no stumbling, speed unbroken As if the world knew not to hinder her. She was there. then gone, but he remembered. Time was never a concern of his.

He was destined to outlast almost all. He tried not to think along those lines though. Each day was routine, until she returned. He was patient, attentive to detail, He focused on the joy in her eyes, freedom

Expressed by her smile, life in full motion. That moment was his, cherished forever. Nothing could make him forget, he was constant, Steady, strong, but shackled to his duty. When he saw her next, it was different. She no longer ran; she carried a load. A firm determined look in her visage. Responsibility etched her features. Later she returned, running at speed. Purpose in every motion, precision

Evident as she exerted herself.

A race of time versus life, her limbs

Undulating hypnotically, hips

Swaying steadily, locks flowing freely. He heard the others, waking and rumbling. His brothers, surrounding him, eternal. He was eldest, stronger, wiser than them.

Mere creatures bound by elemental passion, They lacked his sense of duty and restraint.

As she left the valley, he could hear them

Bellowing and railing in desire. He steeled himself for the confrontation.

“What have you there, Brother?” they cried aloud.

“Always awake, always watching, hiding Your lovely golden beauty while we sleep!”

“I hide nothing,” he replied dolefully.

“It is you who have hid for centuries. Only waking for your worthless vices.

Craven fools who know not what they ask for.”

“Ask? We do not ask We want We want her! When she comes back, we tumble down some rocks,

Seal up the valley, she will be trapped here With us forever. Her beauty all ours!”

“Forever?” his laugh rang out mockingly.

“Her life is but an instant to your own. Your pleasure will last even less than that. What virtue is there in mere possession?

I tell you there is no beauty without freedom. I know what life is. I watch. I have learned. I have known a semblance of love, Brothers, And I will end us all to protect it. I will bring the mountains down to save her. Is it worth all your lives? Mine is worth it.” The cacophony grew in volume, The deliberation of boorish souls, Not any with courage or conviction. While they howled and raged in frustration, He conspired with Sisters Wind, Rain, and Cloud. Snow kept the valley free of travelers Until fury drifted off to slumber. One final time, he saw her, in the spring. Glorious to behold, joy at zenith. He would have wept if he could have, whispered Her name if he knew it. Something happened. She stopped. Raising her hands into the clear sky, Falling to the soft grass, laughing, smiling. She knew. He smiled, and slept, content at last.

Best Friend

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

Tears slide down her face, she weeps openly. She asks, “Does she hate me for what I did?” With her sorrow, I reflect on my own, The loss of my loyal and loving friend.

He and I walked through many a bleak night, Yet the darkness held no power over us. It was a world of hidden sights and smells. The silence enveloped us as its own.

Our thoughts were as one, our hearts as well. The seasons moved with endless adventures, Smiles synchronizing joyous rapture, Children came far and wide to play our games.

The long lazy summers, sleeping in late, Running over hill and dale, swimming in pools, Naps together in air conditioning, Waking up to mom’s delicious cooking.

Autumn’s cooler shades and vibrant colors, Falling, jumping into leaf piles, Football with the guys, tossing the Frisbee, Playing catch in the backyard before dark.

Winter’s cold snap, glorious snow and ice, We left prints and dug tunnels in the ground, Tracked deer and critters through the neighborhood,

Opened Christmas presents and ate treats. The spring was a special time for us both. It was like our energy redoubled. We rolled and rolled in the fresh green grass. Time was meaningless in that sweet moment.

Years passed and as I grew, he became frail. The measure of our lives was unequal. He lost his mobility, it was time. I remember the day, I always will.

I carried him in my arms, muscles strained, My back tasked, but it was no burden. I took him to his rest, my heart heavy, But the light in his eyes washed it away. The nurses met us at the hospital. He thought it was a party of his own. He loved that. Being the center of things. His smile was infectious. They loved it.

They loved him. We carried him inside. We said our goodbyes, hugged for the last time. No tears. I didn’t want him to be scared. He never was. He belongs to God now.

I will never forget him. I was his. I was his boy, you see, not his owner. You cannot own a soul or master a heart. His freedom was my blessing to behold.

The answer is no, she still loves you, always. And they will await us at Heaven’s gates.

Time Travel

by Sydney Varga

When I look in your eyes

I see infinity

From the Big Bang

To the explosion of the sun

And everything beautiful in between I see Everything

That led me to you

Warmth of the Sun

by Sydney Varga

When I close my eyes And think of you

The clouds surround me Cover my extremities And bring the sunshine with them So I feel your love on me

All the time

Patience

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

We laid on a supple lawn of grass, Silken pillows under our heads, Innocence in our minds, eyes upon stars, After a time, I slept, safe in her arms. There had been others, but now, only her. My head leaned towards her and somehow, Through my dream, spanning eternity, I felt her gentle lips explore mine. I was so far away I did nothing, Merely placed some pressure in my lips, Pursing them a little all the while, Thinking how young and beautiful she is, How stern and jaded I have become. Yet in this moment, I forget, and return. The kisses are still light, but limbs intertwine. Her skin soft and smooth against my own. I wonder what I have done to deserve this, A moment so pure and magical. Free of the mundane interruptions. No biting insects or wet, coarse ground. I have waited so long for you, my love. Until time and dream unite us once more.

“Ceramic Ear” by Devin Rhoads

Serendipity

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

She appeared to me as if in a dream, Her smoldering gaze holding mystery. Many a man lost, I stood transfixed, All that I ever valued swept away.

She stalked towards me, she-wolf, lioness. I, warrior born, but that meant nothing. Hips subtly sway before final strike. I am mesmerized, prey to her whim.

My sight is still clear, but passion simmers. Her body pale alabaster in moonlight

Turns to gilded bronze by my embers, Heart ready to rip from my mortal husk.

Every detail is seared in my soul. Her eyes flash violet in firelight, Lashes long the smooth brows traced by kohl.

Succulent lips pursed like ripe berries.

Her lithe and supple legs flaring out

From the silken dress hugging her form. Her bodice encrusted with jewels, Diadem and bracelets crowning her, Emblazoning beauty for all time.

She approaches, her scent in the air, Lily, myrrh, and sweet cinnamon

Entice me into further frenzy.

At last, she arrives to my circle.

Her breath of life warm against my face. She places her slender hand upon My trembling chest, tracing lines with her nails. Her other hand placed upon my cheek, Tantalizing me with satin touch.

Muscles and nerves in sweet agony, Tensed, relaxed, simultaneously. I strain, direct myself to her eyes, Which I hope, appraise my worthiness. Eternity in an expression.

This, epitome, in a moment. There, a hint, slight, sly upturn of lip.

A sultry nod, cosmic enchantment

Dancing across resplendent features. I hear, softly whispered, “You are mine.”

Pollination

by Sydney Varga

The way you taste Is like drinking sweet sweet nectar

From the prettiest flower That’s ever existed

“

Bray Beach” by Allie Walsh

“Inquisitive” by Allie Walsh

“Fallow Deer in Phoenix Park” by Allie Walsh

“Dunguaire Castle” by Allie Walsh

My Mind When I Look at You

by Sydney Varga

I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I love you. I can’t be without you. I love you. I need you more than you’ll ever know. I love you. I wanna tell you. I love you. Over and over. I love you. I’ve never meant it more than I do right now. I love you. I don’t just love you, I’m in love with you. I love you. I wanna whisper it in your ears a thousand times. I love you. Our little secret. I love you. I don’t even need to hear you say it back. I love you. I just need you to know. I love you.

Defibrillator

by Sydney Varga

10/3Touch me

Ripple the surface

Reach all the way through my body

Grab my heart

And beat it for me

So it moves to the rhythm

You want it to

My Smile

by Cecelia Shellenberger

My smile comes when I see your name on my phone

My smile comes when I see your face

My smile comes when I see your smile

My smile comes when I see the gift you gave me

My smile comes when I listen to you talk about something you love

My smile comes in my moments of darkness when you remind me you are there

My smile comes when I’m around you

My smile comes when I remember you exist

My smile comes when I remember that before I know it I’ll get to hug you once again

My smile comes when I listen to music that you’ve sent me

My smile comes because you make an effort to understand me

My smile comes because of you

By Hailey McClain

By Amy Jackson

As The Oppressed

by Kylie Vergnola

As The Oppressed, we have to fight for our right to work and provide As The Oppressed, we have to fight for our right to marry As The Oppressed, we have to fight for our right to love and to learn As The Oppressed, we have to fight for our right to live.

As The Oppressed, we know not to act out of the line For fear that we may be unreasonably punished

A traffic stop for some of us, results in not coming home to our families. We learn at a young age that As The Oppressed, this world is against us. We leave our homes everyday with a touch of anxiety that never quite leaves us Worry that ensures we act totally ourselves, without embracing our identities

We are doctors and lawyers

We are sisters, husbands, wives

We are best friends

We are people.

As The Oppressed, we learn from a young age that we are blemishes on the face of society

The scars from mistakes in the gene pool

We are told that our very creator would despise us, and that hell is where we belong.

As The Oppressed we believe that hell is right here

It is this life we are living

It’s the fiery hate that follows us

The laugh of Satan echoed in the slurs and judgements thrown at us.

But As The Oppressed, we know what real love is True, unconditional, love that survives hate and turmoil Love that shows you no that matter what your identity is, you are worthy of respect and kindness.

As The Oppressed, all we wish for is to love, and be loved.

To be a Woman by Dr. Sheila Gross ’10

Advocate by Jason C. Merriam ’04

I stand for those who cannot. I speak for those who cannot be heard. I defend the defenseless and defeated. Advocate for the forgotten and abused. Too long have they suffered in silence. Too long has indifference been their plight. People made prisoners by the System. Who are they, you ask? They are everyone. Anyone. The infirm, the disabled, The elderly, and victims of fortune and fate. Their lives controlled by a corrupt system Neither omniscient nor omnipotent. Abandoned by the families that gave them life, Taken advantage of by the unscrupulous. Their bodies may be enslaved by the constraints Of the conditions that fate has ordained, Yet minds and spirits fly freely, undiminished, A beacon of hope that shines and calls for action. It calls to me, and you, and you, and you. Asking not for everything we have and are, But for anything and anytime we can give. Even the simple kindness of a smile, A gentle touch of reassurance on the shoulder, An ear to listen to someone’s joys and sorrows, Time to share in the camaraderie of a meal, All these can help a person feel valued, feel loved. Feel part of a world that sometimes leaves them behind. All you have to do is reach back and give The gift of yourself. Fear not what may be different, What may be new, and have faith in your heart and thoughts, Knowing that you are on the side of the angels.

By Marcus Hernandez IV

By Marcus Hernandez IV

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

The Lifespan of a Spy by

Bianca Fenstermacher

The orphanage where I was raised looked normal on the outside. If one were to peek inside, they may have witnessed happy children waiting for potential parents to arrive. But first impressions can be deceiving. Many curious things may have struck an onlooker as odd; for example, there were never any visitors. Not only did the children never leave, but their hair was always neat and well done. They seemed almost too happy, considering they were society’s outcasts. The first lesson we learned was how to appear happy, no matter the circumstance. The second was that we were never going to be free in our lives, and the third was to always have a partner. I hated the thought of having a partner; I was a lone wolf. That was until I met Christine during my 47th mission. My goal that day was to assassinate the president of Blucklington. I wanted to do it solo, but mission command told me I was not going to go alone, no matter how much I protested. While arguing with Sam the Command Chief, a tall woman wearing all black stepped out from a different room. Her eyes were sharp, and she looked at me with malice. “Can we hurry this up already? The president leaves the city in two hours.” Her accent reminded me of an Italian mobster. “I-Wait. What? Who are you? I have never seen you before,” I stammered, my words blending together as I spoke. “I am Agent Crystal from the New Jersey branch. My friends call me Christine, and my enemies don’t have enough time to learn my name. Right now, I am starting to get annoyed that I am not doing my mission.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke, her arms crossed. I felt something peculiar in my chest. It felt light, as though my heart were beating faster than it usually did. “Fine. I’ll come with you. Just know I don’t slow down in my missions, so you better keep up. My name is Agent Venus, and I won’t tell you what my friends call me.” That was almost three years ago now. I have just started mission number 386: kill Hissy Van Helsing. Recently, Hissy announced her plans to end the world. Her ultimate goal is to kill everyone but herself and a select few of the upper class. Naturally, chaos erupted everywhere once the regular people were informed. This didn’t sit right with Christine or me, so we volunteered to kill Hissy together. I must admit, Hissy did a wonderful job covering her trails. Trying to find a lead was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except the haystack had a nuclear bomb inside of it. After many hours of searching through various records and papers, we found the name of her righthand man. “Colby Conquester? Seriously? That’s the best name he could come up with?” I snorted, trying not to laugh. “Wait. Look. His real name is Colby Herald. We may be able to trace him using that name,” Christine said, looking at the file intensely. I knew she was right, so I typed his name into the computer. There were many, many hits. He was a proud menace to society, but he was also horrible at covering his tracks. Once we had his approximate location, we set out to find him in the city of Whangknob. Blending into crowds had come naturally to me. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Christine. She was an impressive six-and-a-half-feet tall, but that meant she towered over everyone around her. Luckily, we didn’t need to go very far. We saw one of Colby Conquester’s goons scurry through the streets after stealing a purse from an old woman. I simply tripped him before pinning him onto the ground. While the local police distracted the general public, I took my time torturing Colby’s location out of the thug. “Tell me where to find Colby Conquester or else I’ll break your wrist,” I said to him, gripping his arm tightly behind his back. “Never! I’ll never tell! I know you’re bluffing. There is no way someone like you could ever do something so cruel!” he shouted, trying to wrangle out of my grip. “You might want to listen to Venya before something bad happens,” Christine said coldly, watching him struggle. Not a drop of mercy existed in her body. I had been rather offended by his offhanded comment; I rather enjoyed breaking his arm.

After about an hour of nonsensical violence, he finally revealed the location we had been waiting for. In a matter of minutes, we changed disguises again, readying ourselves for a fight. Cautiously, we left the area, leaving the hooligan for the police to arrest.

When we arrived at the warehouse, a horrible stench was waiting for us. I was conditioned against gagging, but even I almost threw up. When we entered, hundreds of carcasses awaited us. Almost none of them looked human, however. Almost. In the center of the room, hanging upside down and gutted, was Colby Herald. Around him, various other men, who we assumed to be his gang, hung too. “What the hell? What the hell is all of this?!” I whispered, my heart dropping. The more I looked around the room, the more my stomach churned. “I’m... I’m not sure. I don’t like this at all,” Christine said, backing up a step. I instinctively reached for her hand, squeezing it. There wasn’t much else I could do in this horrible situation. “Well, we found Colby. This isn’t exactly what I imagined, but we found him. We should probably look around to see if we can find anything,”

I said, eyeing the computer behind the wall of bodies. In sync, we walked to the other side of the room. The computer was an older model than the ones we were used to. “Wait a minute, I recognize this computer. It’s an old 9-47-B180. They haven’t made one of these in decades. Which means...” Christine said, her eyes opening wide. “Which means the reason we’ve been having trouble tracking Hissy is because she is using outdated technology to cover her tracks?! Is this the piece we’ve been missing?” I wondered, the gears in my brain turning rapidly. Christine reached forward and hit the power button. The fans of the computer were deafening, as it was older than half of the population. But what mattered is that it worked. The computer prompted for a password. I was completely stumped, but Christine told me to try and search the place for any clues. She would stay behind and trial and error, as the computer had no restrictions on failed attempts. Surprisingly, there were some filing cabinets lying around the place. I didn’t search very long, however, before I heard someone calling for me. “Venya! Venya! Agent Venus! I figured out the password, haha! I’m a genius!” Christine called from the other room, sounding particularly proud of herself. Sure enough, she had gotten into the computer. “How did you...?”

“Well, I skimmed through Colby’s file, and I found he had been married at one point. So, I tried his wedding anniversary. But that wasn’t it. So, then I tried his favorite sports team followed by his anniversary, and BOOM! Password!” She let out a hearty laugh. I couldn’t help but giggle too, the blood rushing to my cheeks. “Okay, okay, Ms. Genius. Don’t inflate your ego too much. We still need to figure this whole thing out.” There were many files on the computer. It did not take us long before we realized that Colby had been planning to usurp Hissy. He had been stupid enough to write a daily diary about when and how he was going to do it. We also found a list of potential locations for Hissy’s hideout. I quickly started transmitting the list to HQ, requesting back up to be sent to the locations on the list. Once finished, we destroyed the computer and then departed. I turned one last time before we left the building, burning the horrific scene into my memory as a reminder. The person we were sent out to kill was truly savage, and we were the only ones who could eliminate her for good. Not even five minutes later, we received the final location of Hissy. She was still within the area, leaving Christine and me as the primary agents to go after her.

The building was not devoid of life; in fact, it was vibrant. There were business men running in and out of it, children playing happily in the yard, and vendors selling various goods outside of it. We cautiously went inside, following the careful directions we had been given. The elevator had a secret switch on it, allowing us to go to the floor where Hissy and the rest of her operation were. The floor we stepped out onto was completely black, but we knew there was merit in the unknown. Together, with me going first and Christine covering my back, we went into the darkness. The elevator door closed behind us. The lights blinded us as they turned on overhead. When I opened my eyes, I found the room full of computers and weapons. Somehow, Hissy had obtained government missiles and other weapons of mass destruction. “What the...?! How did she acquire so much?!” I proclaimed, looking around with wide eyes. Before Christine could respond, a hideous laugh came from behind us. When we turned, Hissy was leaning over the rails of an overhead balcony. Her horrible, misshapen smile looked as though it had come straight out of a nightmare. “Hello, girls! Enjoying the view down there, are we?” Hissy sniggered, her voice shrill. “As you can see, I’ve been quite hard at work! Isn’t that just amazing, Agent Venus? Or should I say, Venya the Orphan?” Her laugh echoed through the facility. I reached for my gun, but then I heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Christine looked at me with sorrow, her gun aimed at my head. I had never seen her cry before, but there was a stream of tears from out of her right eye. “Christine...? What are you doing...?” I said, too shocked to even back away. “What? You didn’t really think that she mysteriously knew the password to Colby’s computer, did you?! Or did you even question how she knew the make and model of it? Surely, you must have noticed by now that she struggles to blend into a crowd. I mean, how much of a coincidence was it that you happened to be paired with your quote, unquote, ‘perfect partner’?” You must’ve had some doubts by now. Wait, don’t tell me you fell in love with her? How amusing!” To Hissy, it was some sort of sick joke. My mind raced faster than I could think. My legs wobbled for the first time in my life. “No... No... No! This can’t be right! Christine! Wake up! This isn’t you! Please don’t do this!” I screamed at her, crying for the first time in my life. “Unfortunately, Venya, this is how it is meant to be. Hissy is my creator, and I must obey her at all times. You must know this feeling by now. I don’t ask for forgiveness.” Christine’s voice was monotonous, but her eyes had more emotion in them than I had ever seen before. Somehow, I could just tell she didn’t want this. My Christine was in there somewhere, and I knew I could get her out again if I tried.

I jumped at her as fast as I could, leading to her firing at my head. But I was faster than she was, allowing me the slight advantage I needed to grab her gun and shoot. I’ll never forget the scream she let out as she died. Well, Hissy’s that is. I thought Christine was going to be furious about the death of her master. Instead, she collapsed onto the floor. I rushed to her side. “Are you okay?! Just hold on a little longer, I will get you to the hospital and-” I started. “Why? Why are you doing this to me? I don’t have much time left now that Hissy is gone. She implanted a chip into my brain which will go off at any moment. But I betrayed you, and I betrayed your trust, so why help me now?” Christine said, both of her eyes tearing up. “Because I love you, you idiot. Even if you are going to die soon, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” I looked away as I talked, not used to the emotions that were flowing through my body. My eye caught sight of something silver around fifteen feet away. “Wait! Is that a portable microwave ray dispenser?!” I gently placed her on the floor and rushed over. Sure enough, Hissy had left one lying out in the open. I brought it to Christine, readying myself for the worst. “What is that? What do you mean by a microwave ray dispenser?” She asked, sitting up slowly. I could tell by her sunken face that she didn’t have much longer, so I needed to act quickly. “Just hold still. You said there was a neuro-chip in you, right? This bad boy should be able to fry it before it can fry you,” I began powering it up, but Christine hesitated. “Wait, wouldn’t that cause some sort of brain damage? What if this doesn’t go well?” “Well, it’s either we try this or you die. I like the possibility of you living over certain death.” Instead of responding, Christine slowly sat up. I was puzzled by this, until she leaned forward and kissed me. But the gun had finished powering up, and I had no choice but to set it off. While she was correct about the brain damage, it was so minor that she only forgot the alphabet and other trivial things. Well, she also forgot about our lives as spies, but that was okay with me; I was happy for her to be alive more than anything. I quit my double life too, picking up a quiet job as an accountant. We began officially dating, restarting our relationship from the beginning. I realized what my instructors had meant about a partner being necessary in life, and I was grateful to have found mine, no matter the circumstance.

“Bright” by Marcus Hernandez IV

“Sky Baby” by Marcus Hernandez IV

Maisie Everything

by Bianca Fenstermacher

Prologue: The Fallen One

The young warrior stumbled through the cold darkness, holding his sword close to his chest. His left hand was desperately clutching his lower right side, blood seeping through his fingers. The floor beneath him was covered with the ichnite of his ancestors. The footprints of ancient dragons were just as apparent, their claws borrowed deep into the rocks. As Garret neared the end of the cave, he could hear his attackers approaching. The warrior knew they wanted to finish what they had started. His vision grew weaker, as his death was nigh. A large cliff loomed, going down farther than he could see. He reached for his necklace, untying it from his neck. For a moment, he looked at the beautiful, green gem for the last time. The gem itself closely resembled an emerald, its hexagonal edges appearing roughly cut. His eyes focused, as he knew there was only one thing he could do.

Turning to the gaping hole in the ground, the necklace left his fingers as it fell. His feet shifted, turning his body around. The warrior, despite being close to death, was hellbent on holding his ground until the end. The first of his assailants neared. Despite wearing a black mask, the eyes of his enemy were visible. The warrior straightened his back as he raised his sword towards the figure. The warrior calmed his breathing as he prepared to fight. “You... Just don’t quit, do you?”

“Where is the gem, Garret? We may choose to spare your life if you disclose the location to us.” The masked speaker spoke with a deep voice. Another assailant arrived, except they were wearing a red mask. “I... will never tell you. That secret dies... with me. You will not... live to regret this day.” Garret said angrily. His eyes were furious, ready for the challenge before him.

Chapter One: The Girl

Maisie watched the clock carefully. The ticking seemed to go on forever. Tick, tick, tick. The large hand gradually moved from the six, to the seven, then the eight. Finally, after what had felt like an actual eternity, the large hand grabbed the nine. The smaller hand was between the two and the three, and everything aligned perfectly. The bell rang, sending Maisie flying out of her seat. Her mom was going to let her borrow the car; a rare feat. Countless thoughts rushed through her mind. Eventually, her mind settled on taking a leisurely stroll through the forest by her late grandmother’s house. Once Maisie arrived, she found the area to still be muddy and gross after the recent flooding. Regardless, she set out on her usual route. She could smell the fresh pine and the moss; her body filling with joy. The birds chirped happily around her as the scenery brought her mind to her childhood. As Maisie walked by a large rock, she remembered how the rock had been a favorite of her grandmother’s. They would always climb to the top together. As she climbed, a sharp protrusion nicked her leg. Her hand instinctively reached down to cover the wound. Suddenly, the rock beneath her started shaking. The ground around her collapsed, swallowing both her and the rock. Her screaming echoed through the forest as she plunged into the damp darkness. Somehow, her bones managed stay unbroken. The cave was completely silent, save her own breathing. The wound on her leg worsened with the fall. Maisie opened her cell phone to use it as a light source as she started walking to find a way out. Suddenly, her foot hit something hard, rattling the unknown object. Maisie carefully peered down, her eyes widening as she saw a skeleton at her feet, still wearing its armor. Another skeleton lay next to the first, with a sword protruding from its chest. The last skeleton was against a wall, slumped over.Maisie covered her mouth, trying not to puke or scream. Her reflexes caused her to move back, causing her to trip over one of the legs. To Maisie’s horror, a dark cliff loomed just next to her, causing her to fall; her arms flailed wildly, grasping the sword. She fell straight on her back, barely escaping being cut by the sword. Ultimately, though, her leg wound grew worse. Maisie quickly used her hands to apply pressure to the cut, covering them in blood. Eventually, the bleeding slowed and she was able to move again. Her hands moved around the ground, feeling for her phone. Upon locating the phone, the pale light illuminated a pale green object. Curiously, Maisie inspected the object, realizing it was a beautiful necklace with a pale green gem in the center; the back of the gem was engraved with the word“Embarina.”

“Embarina...?” Maisie whispered, turning the gem around in her fingers. Her blood gently touched the gem, causing it to glow a beautiful green color. Green smoke and flames shot from the gem.“What warrior has awakened me?” A deep voice echoed through the cave. The room grew hot, and the cave trembled. “I-I have, sir. My name is Maisie Stoll, and I didn’t mean to. And I’m not a warrior.” Maisie’s voice was meek and deflated. “Of course, you are a warrior, why else do you have a sword in your hand? Only a true warrior can summon the great Embarina, the strongest of the female dragons!” The temperature in the room was unbearable now. “Human Maisie, I have chosen you to be my next Grand Warrior. You, who have the blood of the mighty Stollinder clan running through your veins, may state your demands.” Maisie did not know what the dragon meant by grand warrior, but she understood the danger she was in. The cave grew hotter by the second, and her body was screaming in pain. “I don’t want to die in this cave! Please don’t let me die, Embarina!” Maisie yelled without thinking. “Very well then! Maisie Stoll, you shall not be named a human any longer! I combine your blood into mine, and my blood into yours. You must repeat this!” The dragon inside of the gem roared, causing Maisie to feel her eardrums rupture. “I combine your blood into mine, and my blood into... yours?” Maisie yelled at the top of her lungs. Her lungs were wheezing from the intense heat. She felt as though her body was being wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. The heat of the room faded, and her body was finally at ease. A blinding light appeared, and Maisie’s watering eyes closed out of fear and desperation.

When they opened again, Maisie was outside. She exhaled sharply, thankful that it was all just a dream. She checked her leg, thankful to find the wound had vanished. Collapsing on the ground, she sighed deeply. A large shadow loomed above her. An object appeared in the distance, slowly approaching her. As the object got larger and larger, Maisie’s instincts told her to move. She quickly jumped several feet away. Moments later, a large dragon landed where she had been. It was bigger than any car she had ever seen; even bigger than her house. Its fierce wings were bigger than the ones found on airplanes, and its scales were the size of her hand. “Are you ready to fly now, Grand Warrior? Well, you aren’t a Grand Warrior yet. Hmm. How about apprentice? Would you like to take to the skies now, apprentice?” Maisie instantly recognized the voice; it was the same as the gem in the cave. The dragon’s mouth hadn’t moved an inch; it was as though the words had been forced into her head. Another horrible thought forced its way into her mind as well: “How in the world am I going to tell my mother?”

Chapter Two: Homebound

Maisie found that, while flying, Embarina’s large, slimy scales made it difficult for her to hang on. The world below them passed by quickly, and the skies were bitterly cold. Maisie wanted to be terrified of the height and horrified by the creature, yet her body was completely relaxed. Her tired mind drifted away. Suddenly, around the halfway point to her house, she remembered her stranded car. Embarina, without warning, immediately turned around, despite Maisie not saying anything. Once they landed, Maisie proudly gestured to her mother’s prized car. “This, Embarina, is a car. A staple of modern technology! It allows for easy transit from one place to another. I will drive it home and you can follow, okay?” Maisie talked slowly, gently placing herself between Embarina and the car. She had a bad feeling about what was going to happen next. “A what? A... kur? How about I just pick it up and take it with us. I’m sure I’m much faster than whatever that... thing... is!” Embarina yelled proudly, reaching her large foot toward the car. Her nails were long and sharp, causing Maisie to shove herself into the claw. “NO! No. I mean, don’t even worry about it! Let me just do this one time. Trust me! It’ll be super quick and you won’t even notice!” Maisie desperately pleaded with the great dragon before her. “Fine. I’ll follow you. Just hurry it up.” Embarina rolled her great, umber eyes. Maisie rushed to her car, turning the key. The car instantly roared to life. The cool, wood steering wheel felt welcoming. The soft vibrations, the gravel gently crushed by the tires, even the broken A/C blowing hot air felt rejuvenating to Maisie.

As she drove, she noticed the large shadow Embarina was casting overhead. At first, it seemed small and barely covered the length of the car. As time went on, Maisie noticed the shadow getting larger and larger. The flapping wings seemed to get louder and louder as well. She tried to ignore the noise, preferring to daydream about mindless topics.

Her car was violently and quickly raised into the air. It felt as though a tornado had suddenly appeared, but the claws digging into the sides of the car made the culprit obvious. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! ARE YOU CRAZY?! PUT THE CAR DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Maisie screamed out of the open window.

They were already hundreds of feet above the ground. Panic seeped into her core as she realized her vital mistake. “This is so much faster and easier, but sure. I’ll put you down now.” The dragon’s gigantic claws released and the car forcefully plunged downwards. “AHHHHH! NOOOO! THIS ISN’T WHAT I MEANT! DON’T!” The world below approached so quickly that the only thing Maisie could do was close her eyes. The car crashed into the ground, setting itself ablaze. Somehow, Maisie emerged from the wreckage unscathed. She stared at her hands, turning them various ways to scan for damage. Her hands grabbed around her face, but it also was unscathed. The green creature landed next to her, staring at the car with dismay. “See, I told you it wasn’t reliable! Anyway, get on my back and I’ll take you hom” “No! No, no, no! You just wrecked my mom’s car! My parents are going to kill me now! Not only that, but how am I even alive right now?!” Her voice was exasperated. “You bonded to my soul, remember? That means you are as durable as a dragon and heal like one too. I will explain more later, but for now, we should be going. It’s getting late, and I don’t want your parents to worry for you.” Embarina spoke calmly; she did not appear worried by the situation. “But! The car! Do you have any idea what that was worth?!”

“I’m not sure. Maybe three or four gold coins?”

“More like three or four thousand gold coins, you dense, overgrown snake!” Embarina’s golden eyes grew huge. Her mouth opened for the first time, revealing her large fangs. Her pupil moved from Maisie, to the broken car, and then at Maisie again. A large noise escaped from the dragon’s throat. Did... Did she just... gasp? “We must go to your parents now! This is urgent!” Without hesitating, the dragon scooped the girl into its mouth. Her mouth reeked of sulfur, and smelt so acidic Maisie gagged. Embarina quickly took to the skies again; the wreckage of the car gripped tightly in her talons. Again, Maisie was tossed by the dragon like a rag doll. She tucked and rolled onto the ground below her. Her eyes quickly adjusted to her surroundings. Her house was in front of her, and Embarina was calmly sitting on the ground nearby. Maisie turned the doorknob, but the house was locked. She found this strange as her mother didn’t lock the door until after 10 p.m. It was still bright outside, meaning it couldn’t have been past eight o’clock. Confused, she lifted her fist and knocked on the door. After a brief pause, her mother came to the door. “Where were you?! I thought you were kidnapped! Or dead!” Her mother looked both horrified and relieved. “Well, it’s a long story. I have some bad news, and some worse news, but at least I’m here safe now.” Maisie stretched her arms. Her body was sore and exhausted from the events of the last hour. This explanation seemed to only worsen her mother’s shock. “Your hair! Your right eye! What happened?! Why did you dye your hair such an ugly shade of green?! And that necklace... did you steal it?!” Her mother’s face soured, as though she were going to be ill at any moment. “What are you talking about? I didn’t dye my hair, and my eyes feel fine. Better than ever, actually.” Maisie reached for her short hair and pulled a lock forward. To her shock and dismay, an ugly shade of green stared back. “What the! How did that happen? I swear it was brown this morning! Unless... Oh no. Embarina!” Maisie swung around to look at the dragon, its neutral eyes peering into her soul. Its head tilted slightly to the left, confused by her intense glare. Her mother gasped in shock. As Maisie looked back towards her mother, her mother was collapsing onto the floor. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, giving Maisie ample time to save her mother. “Mom... mom! I need you to stay with me here! Just give me time to explain this.” Her mother drifted back into consciousness, but her eyes wouldn’t leave the dragon. Maisie’s mother seemed too afraid to move or speak. “Okay, so. That is Embarina, and she is a dragon. She saved me from dying in a cave, but I had to do some sort of... blood pact? I think? Anyway, she flew me home. Also, she accidentally destroyed the car...”

“How is that a dragon? They all died years ago! And the car? She destroyed the car? Maisie, you aren’t making any sense. This doesn’t make sense!” Her mom spoke like she was having a psychotic breakdown. “I know it doesn’t make sense but that’s how it is right now. Embarina, she, um, lifted the car into the air and dropped it. Really hard. I was in it but came out uninjured due to my dragon... pact... okay, I’ll admit it, it doesn’t sound reasonable either.” “It destroyed the car?! With YOU in it?! You could’ve di -!” Before she could finish, Embarina slowly crawled to the house. Her gigantic snout barely fit on the porch, the wood creaking from the weight. Maisie visibly flinched from the crunching, causing Embarina to gently lift her head just above the floor. “I must apologize for my actions. I did not realize the car was so valuable. Allow me to repay my debts with some of my treasure.” Embarina reached her front claw onto the deck, dropping a bag that crashed onto the floor. Maisie’s mother inhaled deeply before covering her nose; upon smelling the dragon’s breath she promptly passed out again, this time for only a few seconds.

Maisie gently lowered her mother to the ground again, reaching for the bag; she found it rather light. As she peeked inside, she saw thousands of gold coins. Her jaw dropped, as she realized why the dragon had been so impatient to get to her house. “Embarina! How did you get that much gold?!”

“I told you, I took it from my treasure hoard. All dragons collect gold, it is the thing that brings us the most joy. Of course, we also hate owing any debts.” Eventually, her mother’s mind processed everything. “You weren’t lying, were you, Maisie? You really found a dragon and bonded to it?” Her mother’s tone sounded oddly somber. “I’m really sorry, mom. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. At least, after selling that gold, you should be able to buy a nice, new car.” Maisie smiled sadly at her mother. Her mom’s brown eyes filled with tears. An irreparable crack was forming, Maisie could feel it. “I’m guessing you don’t even know what time it is, do you?”

“Based on when I left school, around six?” Maisie looked at the bright sky while concentrating. “It’s one in the morning.” Her mother said, looking back into her house at the wall clock. Maisie gasped in shock. “What! That can’t be! It’s so bright outside and-” As she looked at the sky again, she realized what had been bothering her earlier. It was bright, but the sun was nowhere to be seen. Only the moon appeared visible. “Dragons have perfect night vision,” Embarina mumbled, backing away from the porch slowly. Maisie’s stomach churned in horror. She realized that, during the brief time she had been driving, the streetlamps were on. She chose to ignore what had been obvious. “Oh, my goodness, Mom. I had no idea it was so late. I’m so sorry.” The crack was turning into a divide. “Maisie, my... sweet little Maisie. I don’t know what to do now.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll figure it out. Even if it’s challenging, I will find my place in the world. I’ll- I’ll miss you.” Maisie gathered her strength and stood. She unconsciously grabbed the necklace her mother mentioned. Embarina must have placed it on her while bringing her out of the cave, as it was the same one from the bottom of the chasm. “Wait, what do you mean you’ll miss me? You aren’t going anywhere, right?”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I can’t stay here, and you know it. A dragon would cause too many problems.” Maisie started to walk away. “Wait! You don’t need to just go! You can take your clothes and things, you know.” Maisie blushed before turning around. She hadn’t thought of taking her clothes with her. “Okay, okay. You’re right, I’ll go grab my things.” After she finished packing her belongings, her mother presented her with a bag of food and water. Maisie realized she had never been grateful for her mother before. At least, not as grateful as she should have been. “Mom, I’m so sorry I’ve treated you like a luxury. Without you, my life would be so much worse.” “Honey, I know. I have watched you grow into an amazing young woman, but all children have to leave their parents eventually. I don’t know what you’re going to do about school, though.”

“Well, I have all the credits needed to graduate. Can you submit the request for mydiploma now?”

“On the condition that you visit me at least once a month!” Her mom grabbed her cheeks and kissed them each twice. Maisie giggled the storm of love off.

The divide was not healed, but a small bridge had formed. When Maisie stepped outside again, she noticed the sun was on the horizon. Embarina was curled into a large ball on the lawn, taking gentle breaths. The sunlight hit the dragon’s scales, causing them to shine an amazing way. The dragon’s scales were gorgeous and brightly colored. Maisie stepped around the enormous creature, studying how the rainbow of colors moved. It was an impressive sight, but as the sun rose, the colors faded. Eventually, her scales turned green and stayed that way. She grabbed another lock of her hair, comparing it to the dragon’s scales. They were the exact same shade of green. She approached the dragon once more, gently pushing against the scales. “C’mon, Embarina, it’s time to get up... C’mon now.” The dragon did not stir. Maisie sighed, before pushing much harder onto the dragon. “Embarina! You must get up now! Let’s go!” The dragon rolled over, knocking its large tail into Maisie’s stomach. Maisie was pushed back a foot or two, even more irritated than before. “Mmm. Five more minutes, dear.” Embarina’s voice meekly echoed in her head. “Oh, that is it! You slept for how many centuries?! And suddenly you want to sleep more? How lazy can you get, you overgrown lizard!” Maisie’s face turned bright red with anger. She kicked Embarina’s tail, but still the dragon slept. Maisie took a deep breath, trying to quell her frustration. She slowly walked to where Embarina had moved her head. Oddly, Embarina looked adorable as she slept, like an overgrown puppy. Maisie did not allow this to sway her decision. She raised her leg, aiming for the end of the long nose. Just as her foot was about to make contact, Embarina sneezed. Maisie lost her balance, falling to the ground in a spectacular fashion. Her eye was now twitching.

The clouds above drifted about peacefully. Birds flew overhead, and a plane was visible miles above the surface. Wait a second. Is this a test? An idea popped into Maisie’s head. Instead of being defeated, she ran into her house. A few minutes later, Maisie emerged once again from her house with a small object clutched in her right hand. Her mother looked out of the front window. Wonder and confusion appeared on her mother’s face. “Hey, Embarina? Do you want to get up? I have something special for you if you do.” Maisie whispered into the large, scaly ear. The dragon subtly moved closer to her. Maisie gently moved her hand in front of Embarina’s nose, careful to not reveal the object. A large eye opened. “Good girl! Now get up, and I’ll give you what’s in my hand!” Without delay, the dragon’s head moved into an upright position. The rest of her body soon followed. Maisie opened her hand, revealing the small piece of gold. Embarina swiftly swiped the gold from her hand. It was half the size of the other gold coins, but Maisie didn’t want to sabotage her mother’s new car.

“Great! Are you ready to leave yet, Embarina? I have my bags packed and everything.”

“Mmm. I suppose. A dragon needs lots of rest, but I’m impressed you thought of bribing me. But I have a question for you.” The dragon stretched its large body. “Okay, and what would that be? Ms. we-need-toleave-now?” Maisie placed one hand on her hip. One of her eyebrows were raised, and she moved her chest slightly back. “Just where exactly are we going, Ms. impatient-human?” Maisie was flabbergasted. She had not thought that far ahead, believing the dragon to have known their next destination. Her face twisted, her mind deep in various thoughts. “Okay. So, why don’t we try and find where we are going to live for the next however many years?” Embarina’s large face contorted into a smile. Her large, stained teeth were completely straight. “I like the way you think, apprentice. Hop on my back. I’ll hold your belongings in my arms.” Embarina swiftly swiped her bags. Maisie climbed onto her large back, trying to find places to grab without stuffing her hands beneath the scales. “Okay, I think I’m good. Let’s go!” Maisie shouted, smiling wildly. The dragon nodded, spreading its mighty wings. It took to the skies instantly. Maisie’s mother smiled sadly, returning to her house alone.

“Factory Smoke” by Marcus Hernandez IV

The Bug Witch: The Insect Prometheus

by C. Grace Honeycutt

Not so long ago, in the valley just over the ridge, is a town. A beautiful town with beautiful people. The streets were clean, the houses fair, the people kind, and the fields flush with crops. On the edge of this picturesque town was a shabby house with a singular poor family. This poor family had a poor mother who yelled too much, a poor father who drank too much, and a poor girl who was all alone. The poor girl had no human friends, as the children in the perfect town steered away from her with the excuse of stench or disease. But she was not lonely; she had tons of tiny little friends who kept her company: the bugs. The poor girl played tag with the flies, built homes for the ants, tended to flowers with the bees, and read to the spiders every day. She talked to them constantly on a variety of subjects from the weather to what she learned in school, and sometimes they replied with buzzes or hums. The bugs kept her company and gave her comfort when poor mother and poor father fought. The perfect town did not know what to do with the poor girl. Her parents knew their places in the shadows and crevices, but the girl would play in the middle of town with her bugs. The women gossiped about how the poor girl must be disturbed, and the children enjoyed making fun of the poor girl and causing her torment. The pastor’s son was her main torturer. He would make fun of her appearance and her friends, call her names that stabbed her heart with each sound, and push her into piles of mud or dung for his entertainment. Most children would run home and cry to their loving parents, but the poor girl did not. She held her head high and ignored him and his lackeys. She would never cry, as crying was a weakness she could not afford, and, instead, tended her invisible wounds by taking care of her friends.

“

Ms. Spider, your web is lovely today! Is this your masterpiece?” She would ask her closest friend almost every day. The spider was busy working on her elaborate web in the top corner of her dilapidated room. The spider would respond to the girl by moving in her web one way or another and skittling to the poor girl’s hand. “Don’t worry! This will be the greatest work of art! Well, when you finish.” She let the spider move along her skin, the familiar tickle bringing her comfort. “Guess what I learned at school today. We learned about adding big numbers together. Here let me show you.” As part of her daily routine, the poor girl taught her friends everything she learned in school. She would use a stick to write stuff on the dirt floor and would display her knowledge to her friends. Much like a teacher would their students, the poor girl taught her friends math, writing, cursive, history, science, and religion. To her parents and onlookers, they would think the girl is playing teacher with imaginary friends or that she was idiotic for thinking a spider could do math. But to the poor girl, her friends were learning. See would see Ms. Spider use cursive loops in her web, Mr. Beetle (who resided in her bed) could read and understand her books. The ants that visited her around mealtime would do math when picking up crumbs and the bees would use science to make their food. To her, the bugs were learning, and she was their tutor. Much as Prometheus brought fire to humans, she brought knowledge to insects. But the poor girl would never compare herself to a god, as she was just a poor girl who would get pushed in the mud.

As years went on, the poor girl noticed the bugs starting to speak their own language, not only to her, but also to each other. The ants would offer flowers to bees, Ms. Spider would share her meals with Mr. Beetle, and all the bugs would speak to her. After she returned to her shambled home from the ridicule of school, the poor girl would gather her friends and begin to teach lessons on literature, science, and mathematics. She would listen for the bugs to answer her questions with distinct hums for numbers or letters or simple answers and hum back. Her students brought more students. Mr. Beetle brought his brothers, Ms. Bee assembled her sisters, Ms. Spider’s children would eagerly await her lessons. She had notebooks full of lessons and thoughts which she kept hidden away under her hay pillow.

She did not restrict her lessons to the classroom, she often followed the ants and bees home to read books to their hives, but the bullies often followed. One day, she was reading the tales of old to the ants as they brought food home to their nest. She was so enthralled in reading the book aloud that she did not hear the heavy footsteps of the schoolyard bully and his crew creeping up behind her.

It was not until she felt a heavy push on her back that she realized she had onlookers. Luckily, she braced herself above the nest so she did not destroy the ants’ home. Her book was launched a foot away and she was surrounded by the wolves. “Look, the loon is reading to the pest.” The bully mocked. His lackeys joined in the mocking. “At least I know how to read, nitwit.” She threw back in his piggish face. “What did you just call me, bitch?” the bully scowled. “Do I need to say it slower? A nit. wit. Or maybe that’s too advanced for you. Maybe imbecile. or idiot. Or maybe you’re just a pig.” She sat back up, dusted off her hands and glared at the plump pastor’s son. “A church pig who just eats. sleeps. And rolls in dirt until his mummy calls him home to rub your belly and turn you into bible-thumping hog.” The punches came in quick succession. “What did you call me, Witch! I’m gonna squish you like a bug.” She re-braced herself above the ant hill, not allowing a foot or fist to hit her dear friends. The insults were accompanied by lashings of skin and leather belts or boots. The pain made her body shake, but she resolved to protect her friends, her dear, dear friends. This lasted for a few minutes. She did not even know when the hits stopped or hear the voice that chased the bully away. All she knew was pain and protecting her friends. With blood dripping down her back and a few fractured bones, she got up from the hill and checked on her friends. There were a few casualties from stray boots, but a majority were alive. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t save you all…” The poor girl felt the world start to sway around her and the guilt of the dead weighed on her soul, causing her to collapse.

In the middle of the field, the girl lay asleep. Her blood trickled onto the ground and the ants of the hill she saved came to her side. It took over a thousand ants to lift her body and carry the girl away. As they went, more ants joined the parade, assisting in carrying the girl or herbs or plants behind her. Termites, beetles, and worms followed and surrounded the girl into her home. The ants placed her on the bed of hay, using their strength to flip her around so the spiders could get to work. From the ceiling descended tons of spiders, landing on her back, starting to suture the wounds. Beetles and termites carried water in leaves and walnut shells to clean the wounds before the spiders started stitching the lacerated skin. With bandaids made of webs and herbs to ease the pain, the bugs just waited for her to wake. Like disciples praying, the bugs stood still and in a unison of hums, chirps, and clicks, made a sound like a heartbeat:

Hm-Hmm.

Click-Click.

Chirp-Chirp.

Buzz-Buzz.

The bugs created an artificial heart. The sound carried from the shack the poor family lived in to the town where all the villagers halted. Each beat made the villagers’ fear for their lives. The bugs in the town all stopped and joined in the ba bum. “The Rapture is Coming!” The town drunk called, sending the town into hysteria. “Everyone. Calm down!” The Pastor emerged from the church with his wife and son at his side. “The Lord is sending us a message!”

The miller’s wife screamed as termites spewed from the mill and sat on the outer wood. They joined the unison heartbeat, click-click. Click-click. The schoolteacher ran out of the school as the ants filed out to the top, chirp-chirp. The farmer stumbled out of the pig pen as the flies left the pigs alone to hover above pigs, buzz-buzz. “It’s the poor girl! It’s the Witch!” The pastor’s son called out.

“She’s controlling the bugs!” The pastor’s wife slapped him on the back of the head, “Stop that. Just because she’s odd doesn’t make her a witch.”

“Our Lord is sending us a message. Everyone, halt! And listen!” The Pastor called, “Pray to our lord! Listen!” The village people huddled into groups and began to repeat the lord prayers. Tenuous minutes passed of buzzing, chirping, humming, clicking heartbeats filling the air like thunder.

Buzz-Buzz.

Chirp-chirp.

Hum-hum.

Click-click.

Ba-bum.

Then it all stopped as suddenly as it started. The bugs returned to normal activities of pestering pigs, gathering food, and hiding in the nooks and crannies of the buildings. The village collectively sighed in relief.

The pastor stood at the top step of the church, “The Lord has passed judgement on us, and we passed for now! We must become more devout so he may be pleased with us! The Lord has spoken!” The village cheered in devotion to their lord, but the pastor was wrong. Far from the town center, as the people praised their pastor, the poor girl awoke from her slumber.

Years after “the judgement,” during a brisk fall day with impending snowfall, the poor girl (now a young woman) was raking the outside of the schoolhouse when she recognized the web tucked underneath the roof’s ledge. “Ms. Spider, I was wondering where you went!” She exclaimed and propped the rake against the schoolhouse wall. Then she looked closer at the web and saw little eggs woven in the corners, “You’re a mother! Oh, congratulations! When are they due?” In response, Ms. Spider made a combination of low purring sounds that turned into a language the poor girl understood, “Soon, very soon, before the snow falls, I hope.” “I hope so too. If not, I will bring some cloth and reinforce your web.” The poor girl replied with a huge smile. “You are too kind, goddess,” Ms. Spider purred. The poor girl shook her head and giggled, “How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a goddess. Just call me V”

“Who the hell are you talking to, Witch?” The Pastor’s son called, still the same bully as he was in his youth. Still the same pig, now more thanks to his mother, came up to her with his cronies, returning to work from their lunch. They surrounded her to try and make her feel intimidated, but the girl was used to the bullies attempting to make her feel inferior and failing. “Why do you care, pig?” She retorted and picked up her rake. “I need to make sure you’re not speaking to the devil. It’s my job.” He crossed his fat arms and lifted his chubby chin. The poor girl made an exaggerated surprised expression and crossed her arms as well, “Really! I didn’t know that! I thought your job was rolling in the mud and eating donations meant for the orphanage.” This caught the bully off-guard and angered him more than her presence already did. “What’s under the roof, butcher?” He called to the butcher’s son. The short, portly man leaned towards the schoolhouse and saw the spider web. “It’s a spider. Want me to kill it?” He asked nonchalantly, not understanding the gravity of those words. “NO!” The poor girl cried and stood in front of the web to protect the mother and unborn spiderlings.“Please, she isn’t harming any. ”

“Yeah, kill it, it’s just a pest.” The bully nodded to the butcher with a wicked grin. “NO. She’s a mother, she’s innocent! Please don’t hurt her!” She blocked the butcher’s son from the web with her rake. Swiping at the men, she called, “Back, you pigs! Leave her alone!”

“She’s mad!” One of the other bullies called in astonishment. “She’s always been mad.” He turned to the others, “Restrain her and throw her in the church cellar, she needs some holy spirit punched into her.” Using her rake as a weapon, she swiped at the bullies, but it didn’t last long. The brutes came up from behind her and nabbed her arms with force. Another bully pulled the rake from her hand and handed it to the pastor’s son. “Now, now, no need to fuss, we are simply doing the Lord’s work, Witch.” He proceeded to the spider web and, with a mighty swing, used the rake to destroy the nest. “NO! PLEASE STOP!” The poor girl writhed and tried to escape from the binds of fleshy hands, “

SOMEONE, ANYONE, HELP!” She watched in horror as the delicate web was mangled and Ms. Spider frantically scuttered, letting out desperate purrs for help. The eggs were splattered against the rake and the poor girl could hear the dying cries of newborns. “STOP IT! YOU’RE KILLING THEM! THEY’RE INNOCENT! HELP THEM PLEASE!” Some passersby looked on, but ignored her desperate pleas, writing it off as ‘the crazy girl’s mad ravings’. No one would dare stop the pastor’s son. He held too much power in the town. They just looked at the scene in pity and disgust. The only ones who heeded her cry were the bees and wasps in the nearby hives.

After hearing their goddess’ call, they set out an alert to all the neighboring hives. Within seconds, bees, hornets, and wasps rushed to aid their savior, wings beating in time and seemingly chanting: Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz-Buzz. The townsfolk noticed the artificial heart of hornets and bees invading the town, but the bullies were so focused on tormenting the poor girl that they ignored the sound until it was too late. One saw them coming and ran away; the others looked in shock as hundreds upon millions of stingers pierced their skin. The pastor’s son felt the stings before he realized that he was under attack. The bees and wasps and hornets targeted him. They covered every inch of

skin from his feet to his ears to his inner mouth to his eyes, all pierced by needles with intent to kill. His screams rang like the church bells over the valley town. The poor girl was released as the lackies ran, and she went, not to the aid of the human, but the aid of her dear friend who was clinging on to life as she gathered her living eggs.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” She cried, “I couldn’t protect you from my fowl kind…” Her tears landed softly on her dirty clothes. “It’s okay, my goddess, you cannot do everything,” Ms. Spider purred, “We are not worthy of your kindness.” The poor girl wanted to remove the mother and eggs from the horrendous war scene of man against insect, so she ran to the front of the schoolhouse to find a new, safer home for Ms. Spider and her eggs.

Meanwhile, the pastor’s son was failing to endure his massacre. His screams were muffled by the sound of bugs crawling down his throat, invading every crevasse of his insides so the murderer and tormentor would perish. The fight did not last long as the bugs overwhelmed the bully in their dying attempt to protect their goddess, sacrificing themselves and their stingers to the greater case of her call. Surrounded by a field of corpses, the poor girl felt her heart break for her dear friends’ sacrifice.

“Why?” she asked, falling to her knees, “Why? Why did you do this my poor, poor friends why did you sacrifice yourself for me?”

Noticing that the heartbeat stopped, the townspeople emerged from their hiding places. They looked on the crime scene and saw the pastor’s son lying dead, unrecognizable, and the poor girl mourning the killers in her hands. The pastor’s wife ran to the front of the crowd and nearly collapsed. The sight of her dear boy puffed and perished, sprawled on the ground surrounded by bugs.“MY BABY!” she cried and cradled his head, “My poor-hi-poor baby!” Enraged, she looks up, tears streaming down her face like twin falls, and her skin as red as her son’s sores, “YOU!” she pointed at the poor girl, grieving her fallen friends, “YOU DID THIS! YOU CONTROL THE BUGS! YOU MADE THEM KILL MY SON!” The poor girl, still on her knees, shook her head furiously as she matched her accuser’s sobs. “No, I-I didn’t ask them to do any of this! They were just protecting Ms. Spider! They were killing her babies and destroying her home! I-I”

“WITCH! WITCH!” The Pastor’s wife called out, pointing her accusatory finger. “BURN THE WITCH!” The townspeople rallied around the pastor’s wife, raising their pitchforks, lighting their torches, and starting to charge at her yelling “BURN THE WITCH!” She ran. She ran as fast as her poor legs could carry her. Through the town, past her shack, and beyond. She was nearly to the woods when she tripped on a rock and crashed. She fell so hard that she nearly blacked out. She knew she was dead. There was no way for her to escape the town without more people getting hurt. An ant crawled into her view and started to make the bu-bum sound, but she stopped him. “Please, I will be okay. Take care of each other let the others know, I love all of you…” She said as the townspeople caught up to her. “Goodbye my friends.” She was able to whisper to the ant before she was pulled up and bound in ropes, hoisting her away to her death.

When the sun met the earth, the pier was made. The townspeople gathered to watch the burning, as this was a rarity in their perfect town, well, soon to be perfect after they destroyed the Witch. The Pastor comforted his sobbing wife as she mourned their child and watched in hatred as the butcher and miller bound the poor girl to the stake. With a vengeful vigor, he took a torch and lit it in the holy fire, raising it to look at the wretched face of the Witch. “For the crimes of Witchcraft and Murder, I sentence you to death! To be Purified by the Holy Flames of our Lord! Any Last Words, Witch?” The pastor’s glower screwed his gentle face into a fearsome cowl. The poor girl, understanding her death was imitate, raised her head to look out at the crowd that had condemned her. The humans all looked menacing, with not a single person showing an ounce of kindness, all condemning her to death for her oddity. But what the humans could not understand was that all the insects, sitting on the exterior of houses, looming in the grass and dirt, all watch in horror as their goddess, their savior, their Prometheus was strung up for a crime she did not commit. The poor girl knew what the bugs would do once the fire hit the straw, and all she could do was look out at the town who had condemned her all her life and say, “I pity you for what’s to come.”

With her final words set in stone, the pastor scowled one last time and threw the torch onto the pier. The flames quickly engulfed the fuel and smoke surrounding her being. It quickly became hard to breathe as the smoke plunged into her lungs. Despite the hard breath, she could faintly hear the growing ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. As her vision blurred, she could faintly see the hordes of insects

flying towards the pier and hear the screams of doomed humans as the bugs came to avenge their goddess.

Buzz-buzz.

Hum-hum.

Chirp-chirp.

Click-click.

Ba-bum.

After the snow thawed in the pass, a merchant traveled to the perfect town with its perfect people. He was always excited to come here, as he always received a warm welcome and a warm meal from the kind townspeople. So, when he crossed into the woods and heard utter silence, he became nervous. There was no children’s laugher, no idle chatter, no galloping of happy feet, nothing but the buzz of silence. He slid off his steed and walked into the desolate, silent town with caution, feeling the horror sink in. The buildings were decaying, the animals dead or running wild, and bugs everywhere. Houses molded in beehives, the schoolhouse covered in spiderwebs, the church in shambles with termites crawling on the broken cross. He drew in a deep breath and held it, for the stench was brutally massacring his nostrils. As he grew closer to the center of the town where he often sold his wares, the stench grew worse, and an odd structure came into view. A towering coagulometer of dirt and web and hive coned around what looked like a witch’s pier. He was so focused on the structure that he did not notice what he tripped on. The man landed face to face with the eyeless corpse of who he knew to be the miller’s wife. He jumped to his feet as fear sunk into his bones and realized that all around the pier were corpses of the town, rotting into the ground in various states of decay. As his eyes darted around to all the corpses, he finally landed on one corpse that differed from the rest. What clearly used to be a woman sat on a wax throne with a crown of sticks and web resting on her head. Unlike the other corpses, which were eaten or stung or suffocated to death, this corpse looked partly burnt. As he looked in horror at this monstruous temple, he noticed that the corpse moved. Her hand moved forward, open palm as if to greet her guest.

In a voice made of buzzes and hums and clicks, the corpse called, “Welcome traveler… Welcome home.” Then came the buzzing heartbeat. Buzz-buzz. Hum-hum. Chirp-chirp. Click-click. Ba-bum.

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

“Summer in London” by Allie Walsh

“Anemone” by Allie Walsh

Inamorata

By Tess Cadman

Disseminating sun beams rose over the pine trees bordering the Perata house, flooding Natalie’s room with warm sunlight. She didn’t want to wake up, live another day in her body. It was torture, something Natalie knew all too well. She wanted it all to end; the constant conversation, voices, and screaming thoughts in her head would kill her before she had the chance to kill herself. Natalie was a devotee of the night; much feared by the general population, but it was her favorite. It’s when everyone else in the world is quiet.

It’s a simple story, really: it all began on Natalie’s tenth birthday. She awoke out of a dead sleep, eyelids thrashing open while white and black speckles flashed on the celling of her room. She sat straight up, losing all the breath in her lungs. Annette’s voice was loud in her ears, I wonder if I should go wake her, or if she’s going to wake up by herself. Natalie got up from her bed just as her mother was turning the doorknob. “Mom I’m…”

“Happy Birthday Sweet Pea!” Annette shouted, pulling her in for a hug. It only got worse from that day on. Eventually, Annette caught on to what was happening to her little girl. Around the age of twelve, she began taking Natalie to multiple high-class doctors in Pittsburgh to figure out what was going on in her head. One neurosurgeon told Annette that Natalie was schizophrenic, another told her she had hearing loss, another told her she was just experiencing acute auditory hallucinations. With no answers and a continuing fear for the future, Annette brought her back from a doctor’s appointment, sat her down, and told her to never tell a soul that Natalie could hear what they were thinking. Annette had unfortunately learned about her daughter’s condition the hard way. A few days after Natalie’s tenth birthday, she was sitting in the kitchen thinking about what to get for dinner. I’ ve been craving Enchiladas, with a lot of cheese. “No, I don’t really like enchiladas, unless they are from that Mexican food place in town. Can you get taco bell? Or if you’re going to the grocery store, can you get fries and chicken nuggets?” Natalie had replied, looking at her with wide eyes. She turned back to watch the TV. Annette stared at the back of her daughter’s head that was peeking from the back of the couch. She brushed it off, until a few days later when it happened again. Annette was wondering why Natalie could never remember to pick up her clothes after she had her bath. This kid is going to drive me nuts, she thought. “Hey! No, I am not, I was just coming back to get them!” Natalie said from the bathroom door. She hurried in and grabbed her clothes and ran off. Annette stood staring at where her daughter just abided. She played the scene over and over in her head and began sobbing, sinking to the bathroom floor. She sat in silence as she wondered if it was her fault, wondered if it was her husband’s death, wondered if she was lashing out because she didn’t have a sibling; but no that didn’t make sense, how can she hear what I think? Can she hear me right now?

Annette worked up the nerve to chat with Natalie about it. They had multiple conversations about these occurrences and Natalie finally confessed that she could hear her mother’s voice in her head. “I don’t know why I can hear them though, it’s like I ate something bad or slept wrong or something.” But that wasn’t the only voice, she explained how she could hear the cashier at the grocery store and how she was thinking about stealing money from the register after their transaction. She said she could hear her teacher’s judgements and the awful things she thought about her students. She could even hear what her best friend thought about her, how she pondered on why Natalie’s clothes never matched, and that she never really liked hanging out alone with her. She could hear anyone’s thoughts if they were in the same room as her. It was concluded by the end of Annette and Natalie’s long discourse that the contemplations from other people’s minds rang loud when Natalie laid eyes on them.

As much as this scared Annette and Natalie, the two learned to live with it. Annette knew to never think a bad thought about her daughter while she was near. Natalie learned how to conceal this power and to never audibly respond to any thoughts she was hearing. It took a few years, a few failed classes, switching schools, and some awkward conversations to figure it all out.

A turn of the corner came when Natalie began home school; little to no interaction with the public. When she did go out, she would never look at a single soul. Her eyes stayed glued to the floor directly in front of her. The little sweet blonde Perata girl that lives on 10th street turned into Annette Perata’s weird, unsocialized, homeschooled, freakish daughter. Both Annette and Natalie

were okay with that; they made do with what they had. Despite that, Natalie was graduating cyber school soon. Annette acknowledged that she wanted to attend college, so, Annette was bound to do everything she could to make her baby happy. She would cross any sea, trudge through any storm, and take any bullet for Natalie.

Annette had joined various Facebook groups within the last month in her last hopes of connecting with someone. Group pages such as “Moms of schizophrenics unite,” “Weird things my kids do,” “Moms need help too,” and “Advice for moms” had produced nothing. Annette began searching her feed multiple times a day in hopes for a logical answer something the doctors couldn’t provide her. Her finger constantly swiping up, down, left, and right. Please God, all we need are some answers, she thought, looking up to meet her daughter’s eyes. “Mom, I’m going to be ok, really! I know how to deal with it now” she said, looking at her mother grabbing a seat across the kitchen table. “I know sweetie, I just I don’t know. I want you to go to college as the best version of yourself” Annette said, putting her hands over her eyes. “Mom, I’ve got this! If it gets to be too much, rest assured, I will come home and figure it out. But it’s time that I go out on my own. I can’t stay couped up in this house forever,” she said, looking at her mother, then giving her a hug before trotting up the stairs to her bedroom. Annette knew her daughter was right, but she was determined. So persistent that she posted a forum on a Facebook page wishing for answers.

In due time a woman by the name of Iva McDade contacted her about Natalie’s condition. Iva looked to be around the age of 60 based on her posted pictures. Through her online profile, Annette resolved that she was an accountant who was widowed with one girl and her mother was murdered in the 90s. Annette had done a lot of research after Iva invited them to her home. After various exchanges and thoughtful conversation, Annette decided to make the trip to New York City to meet with the woman to discuss her daughter’s setback. Annette made sure to only think of this conversation when she was alone, until she could bring up the conjecture to her daughter. Annette wanted to travel alone, but Natalie insisted that she would come with her because, “after all, if we get murdered, death can’t be as bad as life right now.”

“Mom, I don’t want this to have a sad ending. Whatever happens, happens.” Natalie said with a smile on her face. She was looking out the window of her mom’s Honda, sailing East on Interstate 80. “I know sweetie, whatever happens, happens, but your life won’t ever have a sad ending. If Iva doesn’t have the answers we need, then we call it a day, drive home, you go to college and I stay home. I won’t ever bring this up again… well to you of course. I will do all the trips to doctors, neurosurgeons, or random ladies. Natalie began thinking of all the things that would change if Iva could cure her. “New York City on my own from here on out, I promise. I won’t stop until the day I die” she said in a relaxed tone. She looked over at Natalie’s blonde hair resting easily on her shoulders. Natalie gave her a smirk; Annette returned a wink, but truthfully, the pair were intensely scared for what they might learn. She could finally have friends, or even a boyfriend, and she wouldn’t hear what they truthfully thought about her. While this all seemed so great, Natalie considered the actuality of not being able to hear people’s thoughts anymore. Would her mother still think about her dad all the time? The ability to hear those recollections and sweet memories are what kept Natalie going. She thought about how she could even hear her dad’s voice in her mom’s mind. Her mind swelled with pros and cons of the situation soon ahead. Would Annette begin to think destructive thoughts about me again knowing I can’t hear her? I kind of want to know what my friends think of me, right? The thoughts became jostled in Natalie’s brain as her mother slammed on her brakes to park the car. “We are here!” Annette disconnected her phone from its holder, shutting off the GPS and gathering her purse. Natalie looked out of the window and up the side of the apartment building. The red brick façade hid the sky from her view. There were windows on every level of the building. She’s on the 20th floor, her mother’s thought was loud in her ears. Natalie strained her neck to see how high the building went; she couldn’t see the top. When the pair reached apartment 25B, both of their hearts were racing.

Iva had no decorations outside of her door, unlike the many others that resided in the building, not a single noise could be heard coming from inside. A strong smell of incense was protruding from the bottom of the wooden door. It seemed that her apartment was uninhabited if it wasn’t for the strong scent of lavender, lemons, and smoke. It was so strong, Annette’s mouth started watering; she loved lemon.

Annette raised her hand to knock on the door. Natalie stood behind her, using her mother as a shield. Before her hand connected with the wood, the chain lock dropped down and the door swung open. Iva looked at the two with a smirk on her face. She was wearing a tie-die baja, matching pants, and her grey hair was tied in a knot on the top of her head. Stray hairs popped out at her temples and at the nape of her neck. “You must be Annette and Natalie!” Annette smiled at Iva; Natalie’s palms began to sweat as she faked a smile. “Yes we”

“Come in! Welcome to my humble abode, please come in.” Iva said, ushering them into her apartment. Natalie gazed around the studio apartment. There were tapestries covering every wall: greens, blues, reds, and purples screamed from every angle of her home. The intense colors almost gave her a headache. Massive plants reached from window to window, blocking almost any sunlight that dared to get in. “I’m so glad you ladies decided to come. I know reaching out via Facebook and inviting you to come to my apartment seems well very sketchy. But I think I might have answers you need, Annette.” She wandered over to her couch and pat the bright red cushion for them to sit down, finding her own seat in the floral covered couch. None of the furniture in the apartment matched. “So, Natalie, tell me about what you’ve been dealing with. Start with the day it began.”

Natalie did just that, starting from that February 3rd, 2007, to the current day. She talked about how hard it was dealing with the surreal life she lived. Iva sat staring into Natalie’s eyes the entire time never interrupting her once. Natalie stared back, noticing something as soon as she finished her life story. She never heard a single thought from Iva. From the second she laid eyes on her when she walked through the door to now, not a single voice came to Natalie’s mind. Her brows furrowed while she stared into Iva eyes with purpose. The was a long moment of silence. “Interesting. I know you must be wondering why you can’t hear what I’m thinking,” she said, their eyes still locked in trance. “You can’t hear me because I’ve been through what you’re going through right now. I woke up on my tenth birthday and began hearing people’s thoughts just like you.”

“What?” Annette gasped. “Gosh. I only thought there were two of us! Sweetie, you’re not alone! 20 years ago, I had my own way of finding my cure; stumbled upon my answer at a bar, when I could hear Miss. Louise’s thoughts and she could answer mine. It was hard, those days I had to live with this just the same as you. My, my, the things people think!”

“You can’t be serious!” Annette said under her breath, a smile spreading across her face. “It’s true! Bless the Devine! And, my precious Natalie, there’s a cure! I’m so honored to help you the same way Miss Louise saved me. It’s going to be a feat to accomplish, but it can certainly be done.”

“What is it?” Natalie asked, joy swarming in her heart, tears forming in her eyes. She couldn’t believe it. Her whole life she was sure she would live with the thoughts forever but now she can finally be free. “Let me preface this by saying that you must take this cure with a grain of salt. Committing a crime is against the gracious law of the Divine, but it must be done if you want it to be over. I miss my mom dearly, but we came to an agreement. It was for the betterment of my own life! And I brought a beautiful child into the world because of her” she sat straight up, rubbing her palms with excitement, “You must kill the first person you heard in your head, with your own hands.” Natalie’s smile instantly dropped. No, this cannot be true. “No… no…. there must be another way!” Annette cried. “Honey, who was the first person’s voice that entered your mind?” Iva asked. Natalie looked to her mother as all the feeling in her body escaped with her breath. “My mother.”

By Morgan Wood

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

An Aptly Named Laundromat

by Colin Schroyer

In the first nineteen years that I have spent on this planet, it took nearly all nineteen before I ever stepped foot into a laundromat. Coming from a family adapted to possessing at-home laundry machines, we never had to leave the house for as much as a little bit of dust on a shirt. But, during the same week that our true-blue washer and dryer went kaput, one of our dogs decided to pee on my parent’s bedding. And thus was the start of my journey to the laundromat.

Though in reality, it’s no surprise it took me as long as it did before I ever had to step foot into such a place. Near my not-so-little yet not-so-grand city, there were only a few, and my parents advised me to go to the “good one.” Located just past a left turn you didn’t know you could make sat a squat brick building, roughly fifty, maybe sixty feet wide. If it weren’t for the nondescript “LAUNDROMAT; OPEN 24 HOURS” sign by the intersection, there would have been no indication that the place even existed.

To the establishment’s right stood another building, which receded even further than the laundromat, up for rental. The building seemed long abandoned, doomed to succumb to the pressure of emptiness and collapse in on itself, metaphorically or literally. The effort to bring life to the place seemed hopeless unless the building could find its perfect match, someone willing to take possession of a tiny space that cowers behind a local pizza joint.

The laundromat itself lacked any outward sign of its purpose, the front consisting solely of wide, open glass panes: no words, no sign, no writing. If you were to look beyond the empty glass, sure, you’d catch sight of the dozens of washers and dryers, but on the surface, it appeared as though there wasn’t a thing inside. There were, however, five or six parking spots situated out front. Three cars occupied some spots, another car rested off to the right in an unofficial seventh spot, and a few other vehicles sat quietly in front of the laundromat’s little brother on his right, looking lonely. I pull my car into the third spot from the right in front of the laundromat.

If an individual, such as myself, were to venture into the establishment, they’d discover that the building was occupied, despite what the exterior said. A string of dryers, quarter-powered, most of which were vacant, ran along the left wall. Save for a few seats next to the windows, it was nearly wallto-wall dryers, each one reminiscent of a bygone era. They each held a nostalgic, old-timey feeling, all with the appearance straight out of a 1950s advertisement trying desperately to appeal to the bevy of stay -at-home housewives that were common for the time.

As one follows the dryers and reaches the back, they’d be confronted with the mechanical, industrial-looking washers. Six hefty, chrome-laden tumblers, all lightly caked with dried soaps, detergents, and whatever additives people poured in for their clothing, sat neatly aligned along the back. Well, “neatly aligned” wouldn’t be entirely accurate; three sat nicely in line, the one to their left was nestled back into the wall, the one to their right was out of order (and wearing a “DO NOT USE” sign like a badge of honor), and the one on the far right tried to keep in line with the three musketeers. These brave soldiers washed countless loads of laundry washed over a length of time that I cannot even be sure of. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring the soap.

Turning around as I prepare to exit, a few individuals have also straggled their way inside. A father and his son, two mothers, old friends gossiping about all that’s happened since they last spoke, a fellow playing on their phone, waiting for their bundle of clothes to finish.While waiting for the bedding I brought, I wanted to use my time to read a book, but the ambient humming of the dryers, the rattling of baskets full of clothes, and the bustle of people in and out all had other ideas. That’s not even mentioning the need to pick up more soap at the store.

After a brief departure for the local Giant Eagle, I make the seemingly impossible left turn back into the laundromat. The uncharacteristically warm weather for early November makes the alreadysetting sun appear like an anachronism in the early evening. I reenter, some faces familiar, some new. The gentle rustling of folding clothes, the pervasive whirr of the dryers, and the grating jostling of metal baskets full of damp clothes; all auditory elements rising to prominence once more as I situated the heap of decorative pillowcases, cotton blankets, and off-white fitted sheets of my parents into the washers. Coin-operated, I remind myself as I retrieve a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag full of quarters from my pocket.

One, two, three… I start depositing Mr. Washingtons into the mechanism. The clinking and clanking of metal-on-metal ring out from the thin, little deposit slot. What should be a mere matter of a small handful of coins, a seemingly innocuous amount of change, somehow manages to keep a virtually unspoken establishment running. How many people come in and out of those clear doors every day? Seven? A dozen? A hundred? Or maybe a thousand, if I may ponder such a preposterous amount? Countless people use what they view as pocket change, and it manages to pay for the lights, heating, cooling, water both hot and cold, paint, cleaning supplies, and repairs for that honorably discharged washer. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of dollars spent in a day (I won’t even entertain the notion that a minuscule brick building can somehow generate a profit more remarkable than that!), could this place indeed be a neglected, bijou diamond in the rough? Yet, with such a possibility, nobody bats an eye. Through it all, the little laundromat keeps its anonymity as it lurks just out of sight.

…twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The machine begins to hum and tumble. I pick up my newly purchased soaps and pour them in through a little metal hatch, setting them down on the floor. The sepiatone, worn-out, well-trodden floor. The floor that bears the weight of countless footsteps, families, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters; baskets of clothes, sheets, uniforms, and toys; sticky bottles of softeners, detergents, brighteners, and conditioners, all accumulating together, the collective weight of expectation. The expectation of cleanliness.

Most of the patrons have left by now. The sun has crawled below the horizon, and the moon has stepped in to take its place. My parents’ bedding finished getting washed a while ago; I’m just waiting around for it to dry, waiting until the whirr of the dryer halts. I finally have an opportunity to stick my nose into my book, but it’s hard to focus with figures floating about within the beige walls. They aren’t distracting, intrusive, or annoying; I can’t concentrate because they’re here. No one I have ever met has even acknowledged this place has even existed, but somehow the laundromat has become a place of refuge from whatever exists outside those windows. Without a word, from either the inside or out, people from all walks of life, each with their own stories, wound up here one way or another. It’s almost instinctual, atavistic, the silent urge to go to the laundromat.

The humming stopped. My laundry’s done.

“Between 2 Carts” by Marcus Hernandez IV

The Calm

by Cecelia Shellenberger

Before every storm there is a calm

There is a sense of goodness and right with the world But then the storm hits and all hell breaks loose

Your mind shuts down Your world becomes different All that you thought you knew becomes false

You can’t eat You can’t move

All you want is to be back in the calm

Daydreaming

by Mark Permigiani

It’s 4:42. My mind wanders. Places far from home I dream of my future. Wherever I may roam

Making up scenarios in my head

Wanting to change the world. When I can barely make my bed

These daydreams can’t all be nothing. Do I have a purpose?

Oh yes. My love of the subject

Manifesting this dream.

Standing in my classroom

Teaching my students about Poe and Hemingway Here I am.

Book in hand.

The look of interest In my student’s faces

Overwhelmed with joy. As I continue my classroom paces.

But then

I hear the sound of a pen drop

Snapping back to reality

Oh well

It’s 4:52.

And I still have to finish… math homework…

By Morgan Wood

By Any Means

by Mark Permigiani

Clouded by an ideal. Maybe not expecting what was real. In my heart I have a goal. But stress is beginning to take its toll.

I set out on this path alone. Nobody wants to throw the dog a bone. These feelings in my heart I own. Times like these, one’s true colors are shown.

The unforeseen tribulations take over my brain. I begin to ask myself if my dreams are sane. What people see on the outside is a shame. Capable of so much more, but I am to blame.

That feeling still rooted into my core. Still wanting to go for more. Having doubts, sure. But my spirit starts to uproar.

Never as seamless as you envision. Nevertheless, forge on with precision. Think about why you set out on this mission. A meaning much deeper than tradition.

Rainy Day at Temple Bar” by Allie Walsh

By Morgan Wood

By Morgan Wood

Mirror by Dr. Sheila Gross ’10

I read in a book once About this phenomenon, When you recognize yourself In someone else You become infatuated Because it’s like looking into A mirror, A window into your soul. And this upsets the balance Of the intimate reality That was your comfortable existence, And you deliberate, You perseverate, Until you can no longer say With certainty Who you are. With fear and tension You hold back because You’re lost, Because the question that plagues Your mind, That consumes your curiosity, Begins to brim over the walls Of your heart.

For you see a version of yourself In this looking glass That you thought you had lost And wonder Whether the visage Staring back at you Sees in you His own reflection, too.

“Kayaking on Mosquito Lake in Cortland, Ohio” by Samantha Reid

The Sound of Silence

by Mark Permigiani

Noise. What has plagued humanity. Everyone seems to have something to say. That sound. So familiar.

People trying to earn each other’s approval.

I know better. I know the way. It may not be fun. An outcast maybe

It may not be popular, Centering your mind.

Sometimes, silence makes the loudest scream. Do not fear being misunderstood. It is only when we’re marinating in our solitude, We understand ourselves.

Don’t fret. For the sound of silence Will keep you set.

By Morgan Wood

Where I Was From

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

Half-moon in the sky, cloud shapes drifting, Winter chilled, but not frozen. Last night. The familiar grounds of my homeland. My thoughts disperse in reminiscence. Visions of walking through the darkness, Sights, smells, sounds, coalesced harmony. One part shining beyond the others.

The trees, the beating heart of the land. They represent two centuries of change, A living history of community, Marking the evolution of the times. Every root, trunk, and branch tell a story. I know the massive maples, so wide

That I cannot wrap my arms around them. They dominate the sidewalks, heaving Them upward with roots thicker than most trees.

Towering in height, their canopies

Of leaves bring welcome shade in the spring, Shelter from the storms of the summer, And vibrant beauty to the autumn.

In the stark winter, truth is revealed. The scars and bumps of amputation. Treetops and branches altered by progress. Making way for power, and communication. Some have grown around man’s obstacles, Others have been butchered horribly.

A few are only trunks that remain, The saddest, two-yard-wide rotting stumps. Even worse are the silent sentinels

That stand among the fallen giants.

Solemn husks of once proud evergreens, Stolid, perhaps dreaming of better days.

The northern breeze brisk on outstretched limbs, A comforting snow blanketing needles. The sun nuzzling the very treetops

And the companionship of its brethren. Yet they were taken, everything stripped, Injected with chemicals, shipped away To a distant land, and placed in bondage For a perpetuity of service.

In contrast, on the main avenues, Dogwoods stand in a stately manner, Arranged in perfect alignment, The fruition of careful planning. The pure white blooms herald forth the spring. Their crimson leaves usher in the fall. The trees are bred to a certain height, Ensuring their enduring beauty. The tops never to encroach beyond The propriety of social order, Or the boundary of power lines. Such is nature bred in captivity. There are so many more stories to tell, But this is the last night I have here. I do not have the lifespan of a tree, So I must act in relative haste. Soon I will marry, and have a child

Before the trees turn in autumn splendor. I will never forget my first home, Its beauty and sorrow ingrained in my soul.

By Marcus Hernandez IV

By Morgan Wood

Role Model

by Mark Permigiani

A man that’s been through life’s squall of punishment.

Calloused body and mind. If you listen closely, You can hear it in his voice. Intimidating on the outside, Nothing but love on the inside.

Providing words of wisdom. From a place of pain. Not withholding advice. Speaking on what made him this way.

My heart breaks. For I look up to this man

Never minces words. Sometimes this sends me into upheaval. Then I remind myself Loved ones, never deprived of honesty. Your lessons I hold dear.

To get to the most divine destination, You must suffer treacherous journeys. Coming out on the other end, I say thank you, To my role model.

By Morgan Wood

Sunset at Sea

by Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Sun sinking fast

As spray rushes past, Ship wave-cleaving And deck high-heaving. Time rushing away At the end of a day, Horizon light-swallowing With starlight swift-following.

Foggy Spring

by Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Foggy mist

Rising off melting snow

And dampened moss, As birdsong heralds dawn

Amidst the hemlock, Evergreen

Against the snow below

And blooming blue sky above The sun rises slowly

Amidst the cold valley, But by noon,

It’s brilliance will have warmed The rising spring buds.

By Devyn Bossard

Frozen by Jason C. Merriam ’04

It is an element of life, Transformed to structural substance. Carving the bones of Mother Earth, Yet floating with clouds in the sky. Monochromatically simple, These complex crystalline entities Defy the scope of imagination. Nature’s duality on display. Some cultures say this, others that, One describes it in fifty ways, Drawing with an artist’s fine stroke Or obliterating the canvas. Everything is location based, Dictated by sheer circumstance. What was a lasting monument, Flees and fades neath a morning sun. There are other worlds beyond the pale, Where it reigns for all eternity, Holding life in its vise-like grip, Never to release until end. For creation is fickle.

Capricious in blatant furies, The relentless heart of bitter cold, The expressive soul of ice and snow.

By Hailey McClain

By Amy Jackson

By Muncie Canon

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

By Amy Jackson

Thank you to the students, faculty, staff, and alumni members of Thiel College for your submissions! Publication of The Phoenix would not be possible without your willingness to contribute your time, talents, and creativity to ensure the continued growth and outreach of this journal. The Editors