The Phoenix 2024

The Phoenix

Spring 2024

Editor-in-Chief

Taylor Pearce

Assistant Editor

Hannah Stoughton

Editor of Lay-Out & Content

Roxanne Cianci

Copy Editors

Emily Irons & Matt Beuermann

Editor of Art & Publicity

Taylor Clayborn

Editorial Board

Muncie Canon

Emma Deitz

Grace Honeycutt

Korey Kelly

Makenna Oswalt

Legion Lake

Kelly Oros

Mark Permigiani

Samantha Reid

Colin Schroyer

Allison Walsh

Kaitlynn Wolffe

Faculty Advisors

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.

Table of Contents

Poetry

“The Professor’s Tale” ....................................p. 5

“Lighthouse”...................................................p. 6

“Fragile Future”...............................................p. 6

“Losing A Friend” p. 8

“Give It To God”.............................................p. 9

“Boldly”.........................................................p. 10

“The Concrete Brains”...................................p. 11

“Five Stages of Grief” p. 12

“III” p. 13

“An Invisible String” p. 14

“Palm Tree”...................................................p. 14

“Blood Runs Thicker Than Water” ...............p. 15

“You’re on your own kid”.............................p. 15

“Healing” p. 15

“Another Life” p. 16

“Cactus” ........................................................p. 16

“Have My Heart”...........................................p. 16

“Mid-Semester Parchments” ........................p. 17

“Higher Education” p. 17

“Leaf” p. 17

“The Sentence of Life” ........................pp. 18-19

“Avec Amour, Petite Papillon” .....................p. 20

“in another life” ............................................p. 20

“catastrophic love” p. 20

“Grief” p. 21

“Dead!” .........................................................p. 21

“Statue of David” ..........................................p. 22

“Arrythmia” ..................................................p. 22

“Beach” p. 22

“Growing Pains” p. 23

“I Still See You” p. 23

“Child’s Guilt” ..............................................p. 23

“Astronomy” ................................................ p. 23 “Be Gentle” .................................................. p. 24

“Stepdad” ..................................................... p. 24 “Broken Heart” p. 25

“Blind” ......................................................... p. 25

“Missing you” .............................................. p. 25 “Emotionally immature parent” ................... p. 25

“College Friends” p. 26

“The Dark [K]night of the Soul” p. 26 “A Tale of Two Worlds” p. 27

Summer’s End” .......................................... p. 30 “Pour Cher Vincent” ..................................... p. 31 “Seedling Curiosity” p. 31 “Profile of a Learner” p. 31

serving” ...................................................... p. 32 “Since I left, I have changed in many ways” p. 32

Stay or Flee” ............................................... p. 33 “Strike” p. 33

water” p. 33

death of a hummingbird” ........................... p. 34

Reflection or Entering your twenties in another country” ........................................................ p. 34

The Little Knight” p. 35 “We Find” p. 36

to the lover who never was” p. 36 “what was once ours” ................................... p. 36

Short Stories

Haeun

Photographs

*Throughout publication

Photographs submitted by:

• Serrenah Peterson

• Gabrielle Klepeis

• Zachary Bergstresser

• Ava Kavulla

• Marina Anderson

• Roxanne Cianci

• Dr. Sheila Gross ’10

• Prof. Sean Oros ’15

Introduction & 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 2024 edition of this publication, editor-in-chief Taylor Pearce ’24 has written that introduction on behalf of the 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 who allowed for the creation of the thus year’s issue of The Phoenix, but it serves especially as a tribute to Dr. Mary Theresa Hall, to whom this edition is dedicated.

In honor of Dr. Mary Theresa Hall, whose unwavering dedication to education and literature has illuminated the corridors of Greenville Hall for a quarter of a century and will continue for the time beyond, we dedicate this issue of The Phoenix in her honor As we, the editors of The Phoenix, prepare to unveil this milestone marker of our literary journeys, we pause to acknowledge the guiding force behind our endeavors, a beacon of knowledge and inspiration.

Like the pilgrims of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, Dr. Hall leads us on a quest for enlightenment, traversing the vast landscape of literature with unwavering determination and boundless passion. With multiple degrees adorning her name from esteemed institutions, she embodies the essence of scholarly pursuit, merging academic rigor with heartfelt dedication.

Dr. Hall’s impact extends far beyond accolades and awards, though they adorn her path like stars in the night sky. Her tireless efforts, grit, and determination breathed new life into The Phoenix, which had laid dormant for years before her heroic arrival. The journal’s awakening ignited flames of creativity and fostered a community of literary expression. Through her guidance and unwavering support, she has nurtured countless minds, pushing each student to reach beyond their perceived limitations and soar to their highest potential.

Yet amidst her many achievements, Dr. Hall remains a paragon of humility and kindness. She often refers to her students as her “disciples” and no such metaphor could ring truer. She gathers around her a band of devoted learners, each drawn by the light of her wisdom and special spirit. Through her guidance and unwavering support, she has nurtured these disciples, empowering them to spread the gospel of knowledge to all corners of the world.

As we offer this humble dedication, let it serve as a tribute to Dr. Hall’s undeniable legacy, a testament of her unwavering commitment to the pursuit of knowledge and the nurturing of young minds. May her spirit continue to inspire and guide us on our own literary pilgrimage, as we carry forth the torch she so diligently lit.

The

Professor’s Tale by Sean Oros

When in August, with its warm winds The lethargy of July has stirred, Then students set out for academies With many nervous, excited words; Down sundry county roads, They long to join the youthful flow To seek their hidden futures And mentors they yet not know.

To those pilgrim students Who to Thiel their steps do lead, Many professing scholars Await with words to heed; Yet among their worthy number Legends sometimes arise, Such as one whose life of service Is to enlighten student eyes

She is brick wall and mentor, A nurturer of thought and soul, Whose red ink inspires challenge And stirs young minds to grow; For those who see the nurture Behind the red-ink pen’s indents, They find a teacher-mother Whose beloved children are students.

She raises up her colleagues And wisdom freely shares, But to her loyal students She’s a legend no one compares It is by such examples We have weathered many a fall, But few can truly match to Our own Dr. Mary Theresa Hall.

Lighthouse

by Faith Zagotti

When I was lost at sea

It was you guiding me

You lead me back to shore

A lighthouse to look for

Always a safe haven

For when the tides came in

And when I wanted free

You would let go of me

When the waves were at war

And I could not find shore

The lighthouse would guide me

Yanking me out the sea

Always cared for my safety

Thank you, lighthouse, you saved me.

Fragile Future

by Faith Zagotti

Future unimaginable

Halted by immaturity

Love impracticable

Left without security

The suture breaks

The souls cleave

Inevitable heartache

For the young and naïve

by Serrenah Peterson

by Ava Kavulla

by Serrenah Peterson

Losing A Friend

by Faith Zagotti

Our friendship ended I hold no ill will

You’re not offended

For we lost the thrill

New friend to fulfill

What I couldn’t give you

Such a bitter pill

I guess you were through

Did I misconstrue?

Was I not ignored

Not invited by you

Because you were bored

Or was I untoward?

No just forgotten

For new friends explored

That’s misbegotten

Just needed expressed I wish you the best

Give It To God

by Faith Morfenski

It’s been a long week

An overwhelming amount of work

Getting ready to go out

Dressed and with shoes on

Outside the air is crisp

You get inside the car

Driving down the side roads

Just to miss the stoplights

At the destination you arrive

You walk with no motivation

Into the pews you sit

The music starts to play

Your body starts to relax

The pastor says a prayer

Your worries start to fade

Sitting alone in the pew

Everything has gone completely silent

With your head hung low

You start praying out loud

“

Father son and holy spirit

I know you hear me

My days have felt long

Life is very confusing now

I trust you know everything

And I’ll get through this”

You stand up to sing

And worship the wonderful Lord

You walk out of church

Feeling much better than before

Because you let it go

You gave it to God

And gave yourself some rest

by Serrenah Peterson

Boldly by Colin Schroyer

The best art has something bold to say. But truthfully, almost everything has already been said.

So shouldn’t there be any more art? Obviously, that’s not the case. Yes, every day new art is born. Not all art is “good,” though. What does that make this?

That depends; is it bold?

I’m trying to make it so.

You figure it out and let me know. Does that mean only “great” art should exist?

Art is art. The great ones just stand the test of time.

If it’s not “great,” should it not be made? It’s up to everyone to decide for themselves what’s great. Every piece of art has the potential to be extraordinary. Some have better chances than others for that.

The bolder ones, right?

The boldness doesn’t really matter. How people respond and resonate is what’s important.

The right art at the right moment can reach anyone.

But what of the flops, the mass-produced mediocrity?

Other things, even if not masterpieces, can still be, and still be enjoyed.

So what’s the message of all this?

Be bold enough to say what you want to say.

But what if it’s not original?

Many things have been said, but some things have yet to be said by you.

by Roxanne Cianci

by Gabrielle Klepeis

The Concrete Brains

by Colin Schroyer

I’m sure you’ve met the concrete brains, Though they’d much prefer “cement heads ” From speaking harshly, I’ll refrain, For the sake of these breathing dead.

The concrete comes from the cavern, A cave they never quite leave from. Wandering deeper with each turn, Their kind strays further from the sun.

Stalactites crack into their heads, Leaving powder in the ruin, Forming concrete with the mixed Cerebrospinal fluid.

But anyhow, I can’t say it’s Necessarily bad to work In the cavern, only when this Lifestyle keeps them in the murk,

When everyone decides to go Deeper and deeper in, never Looking back. That’s what they get for

Keeping their eyes away from heaven. Tragically, the real tragedy Is in what they do and don’t know They can’t tell help from heresy, And yet, they claim right from wrong, though.

So if you find a calcified mind, Do not be quick to call them dumb. The truth is we might not know why Their minds became willingly numbed.

Treat the stone-eyed, rock-mind, and the Granite-granted gently, kindly, Despite how they treat us; because Then, this kindness could set them free.

And maybe we can chisel away At the inches of gray matter

‘Til we reach the stem and regain The heads of the concrete brain

by Marina Anderson

Five Stages of Grief

by Connor Lovic

Denial

You mean the world to me

I am elated to spend this time together

I hope you feel the same

You have always been the quiet type

But I can still feel your emotions without a word

I am glad we can agree

We will watch our kids grow

See all their successes and accomplishments

This family is strong and unbreakable

Don’t you agree

I am sorry

I forgot you were gone

Anger

You left our family alone

How could you forget about the kids

What is our family supposed to do

Now that you let them down

How could you be so selfish

Did you ever think about the family

Did you ever think about me

What am I supposed to do

I can’t raise the family by myself

We were supposed to last forever

But you ruined it

You left me

Bargaining

I am sorry for what I have said I really did not mean it

I just want you back

I would do anything to have you back

What do I have to give

Can you come back

Please I am begging you

What deal do I have to strike with you I will do anything for you

Whatever you want

I will give anything

Just to feel you one more time

Depression

It is clear you won’t take my offer

Why won’t you come back

I can’t care for the kids like this

What can I do for them

I’m lacking the energy to do anything

I find myself laying in our bed all day

Wishing you were here

Every aching moment thinking about you

Crying my heart out

You won’t leave my mind

The thought breaks me down I may just shut down

Acceptance

I finally gathered enough strength to get on my feet

The family managed to stay afloat

We feel the sting you left behind

And the road of recovery will be long

But I understand you are not coming back

I can no longer run from what happened

I accepted the reality

Undoubtedly we will still have to endure the pain

And I am not okay

But time heals all wounds

And it will take a while

But I will be okay

by Gabrielle Klepeis

III

by Taylor Pearce

Loving you is like A laugh with my head tilted back Unrestricted joy.

by Ava Kavulla

An Invisible String

by Faith Zagotti

Doesn’t this feel familiar

The comfort of our souls

I find it a bit peculiar

The similarity of our goals

Maybe it’s a coincidence

Or maybe it’s a string

Of certain significance

But it’s an invisible thing

Tying your soul to mine

Stretching when apart

But forever entwine

Within each our heart

I know it seems absurd

But maybe it’s destiny

It’s certainly not unheard

That’s the reason presently

I know it’s a silly thing

But it ought to be

There’s an invisible string

And it ties you to me

Palm

Tree by Faith Zagotti

Such a silly little palm tree

Making me laugh with goofy quips

Oh, so tall, boy, you tower me

Tranquility, your presence grips I quite like you, goofy palm tree

Perhaps we could be good friends

But I can’t fall for you, agree?

Because we all know how that ends

I’ll just appreciate palm tree

Cherish friendship for what it is

For it brings great amounts of glee

All thanks to palm tree’s goofy rizz

You’re just what I needed to heal

Thanks for allowing me to feel

by Ava Kavulla

Blood Runs Thicker Than Water

by Shalondra Santos

They say that blood runs thicker than water. The bond of sharing the blood of family is meant to be strong and powerful.

But if that’s the case

Why do I not have evidence to prove that?

When my birthday comes once a year, Why are the first ones to wish me a good day are my friends and not my family?

Whenever I achieved a goal or win an award for something great, Why are my friends the first to praise and congratulate me and not my family?

Whenever I’m up on a field or stage performing at my very best, Why are my friends in the crowd cheering me on and not my family?

Whenever my lip quivers or the flow of tears start to drop,

Why are my friends quick to comfort me and not my family?

They say blood runs thicker than water. But the blood I’ve been surround with has shown me nothing but shadows that I’ve been forced to get use to Nothing by a hollow case that gives me a simple smile.

While the ones I chose to be with have shown me nothing but the light they have shown me the meaning of striving for success.

While giving me a genuine purpose to do so.

Blood does run thicker than water. I’ll admit that much for sure

But the tears, smiles, and warmth of seeing them

That will always be thicker and stronger than blood.

You’re on your own kid by Sydney

Varga

Your “parenting” Left me feeling like a flower In the dead of winter

But it is my own fault

That I have not watered myself Or photosynthesized

Healing by Faith Zagotti

It took several years With little to no prevail To stop the falling tears

To forget the fairytale That he had promised Now proven dishonest

Another Life

by Dylan Evans

Born into the world one way, But lived life another My destiny changed, From a decision not of my own

I see others with the life I could have led, I hold anger towards you

Vivid memories of destruction Confusion filled me when young

The older I grow, the wiser I become My pain is from you and all the lies promised I put on a mask to appease you I’ll never heal from the wound I’ve been given

Cactus by

Neia Laird

Cactus that cuts.

Leaving its spines so it can be remembered. Showing its color from the beginning. Yet still I came too close. Knowing that I can get hurt, still I ventured on. Cried as I pulled his spines bleeding from my wounds. I’m now afraid of these cactuses. Took years to recover. Yet forever I’ll see that mark.

Have My Heart by

Faith Zagotti

A precarious hold On a heart or soul Emotions so bold Yet neither whole, Truly & Cruelly

by Roxanne Cianci

Mid-Semester Parchments

by Dr. Mary Theresa Hall

The words are written on canvas and tapestry

Painted with black pastels and shell-colored parchment

Conveying collections of joy, pain, punctuation, and infinity

Ablaze with alexandrine and truncated lines

Meters with end-stopped, run-on, and over-time lines:

Narrative and lyric assortments that make the eyes bleary and misty.

Sometimes my fancy takes me to lands well-traversed and lives from other eras.

Sometimes I long “to wander in their shades” until time’s passage beckons me to dig deep into current soil

Where students of literature and life create rich passages and lines of their own.

A new anthology of flowers and voices awakens in Greenville Hall’s tower of learning and liberty.

“Just” an ordinary day in the classrooms of Thiel College before the break of mid-semester beckons.

Higher Education

by Brooke Griffith

The light shines bright upon the glass as eager students walk right past.

Some walk with hast, while others drag their feet along the clean sidewalk slabs. Down the road, a sidewalk crumbles, and townsfolk work amongst the bustle.

The children go out alone to play, but only till the sun goes away.

When older men in suits drive past, they do not see the sidewalk cracks. Instead, they see a campus sign, and ways to persuade students’ minds.

Leaf by Neira Laird

Orange, brown, yellow, green

Changes color on a certain season

Falls from the tree in a beautiful side to side motion

It crunches and crumbles

Silky soft, bright, vibrant Happy, small

Living Fall

The Sentence of Life

by Shalondra Santos

The power within a comma or a period is a lot more than anticipated. It holds the ability to put a pause on wordings or put a stop to sentences completely. It’s an interesting ability to wield so no wonder people say, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” I mean, let’s take it from the start of it all, the comma.

A simple yet complicated form to sentences. It gives people a way to add a pause,

A brief moment where one can take a breath of air

Reflect on the previous words prior, and then continued as if nothing had changed. It’s simple in that way but complicated in the ways of how just adding one comma can change the meaning.

That first comma can change everything. I can sit here and say proudly, “My family raised me right!”

I’m declaring it for years and years but then something changed A comma was introduced. It changed the meaning. It went from, “my family raised me right!” Into “My family raised me, right?”

A statement into a question.

A question that’s never been asked before in that sentence. That first comma was the start of adding meanings to things that we didn’t think needed meaning before.

Who knew that it could hold that much power?

That’s just a comma.

A form in writing sentences.

A period holds more of a power over that. Why use a comma to pause when there’s a period that ends the sentence entirely? It’s better to give things a pause to allow a flow of thoughts and emotions to form and settle rather than ending it abruptly.

But we all know that we can’t escape a period.

A sentence of life has to end somewhere. We were taught in elementary school that run on sentences don’t make sense cause a sentence can’t go on forever.

A sentence must end at some point is what we were told. Some people abide by that and try to make long sentences before having to end that sentence. Others try and cheat the system off by cutting their sentences off short. Some people love the thought of that. Others pity it.

And some don’t even care.

We can’t give those who add a period too soon a moment of pity. All writing forms are meant to be beautiful after all. They have written the most in depth and detailed lines I’ve ever seen. They just go unnoticed until the end is reached. They have thought the most about what it could be like to extend their words, their feelings, their sentences on for longer but just couldn’t.

After all, it’s hard to be an author, let alone a writer these days.

I pray for a change in our world of language and literature. The form of implicating commas shouldn’t be as frequent as people use them. A pause a good, but not when they are use in the context of dark and misery.

However, If I had it my way, I would eradicate the existence of periods. A sentence doesn’t have to be cut off so soon. Those who dread the end of a line will have the ability to not fret anymore.

But that’s not real.

No, that would also be cruel.

Cruel to those who need those pauses in between the timing of lines.

Cruel to those who had good reasonings to add that small dot to the end of their words.

Cruel to those who have already ended their sentences. Literature cannot be changed so easily. The same way this world cannot be changed so easily. We may change the wording. We may change the size. We may even change the format.

But there’s no easy way to change the structure we are bound by. That structure that we have come to call, The Sentence of Life

by Serrenah Peterson

Avec Amour, Petite Papillon by

Faith Zagotti

With love, I let you go It’s over now, right?

Thinking of you at night But I got to let you go

With love, I don’t know What will come of us

But I don’t want the fuss I’ve got to let you go

With love, I love you so But to keep you is a crime And we’re up on our time

You have got to leave, go!

Go away, butterfly With love, goodbye

catastrophic love by Emily

Irons

and maybe we were never supposed to be together forever our eternity was never a part of the plan but you, in all ways, were my soulmate my fictitious dreams of love made up into man

in another life by Emily

Irons

in another life maybe we were strangers in another life maybe we were friends in another life maybe we were lovers in this life i am glad to have called you all three

you made me feel like i was in a movie the romantic ones i constantly dreamt of but our story may never be retold because our love, it was entirely and desperately, a continuum of catastrophic love

by Gabrielle Klepeis

Grief by Hannah Stoughton

No one understands the grief of others. We all hold it in some way, be it for fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers. An endless snow in the midst of our Mays.

It crashes into you like a wave taking you into the deep of the sea, bringing you into the muddiest grave. No one understands the grief or the degree.

A shackle and weight tied around your ankle forever. It never shrinks, never migrates. No one understands the grief of forlorn endeavors.

How can we be so blind to the suffering we all have?

An unwavering lack of being kind because No one understands the griefs hidden behind our backs.

Dead!

by Dylan Evans

What we had, what I thought we had anyway Is long long gone, but I suppose it’s nothing. Did I get what I deserve? Did I deserve to lie in this casket? Having you cover me in dirt, rocks, and spit, and… What we had was dead. Who I was with you is dead. And what we had, dead.

by Roxanne Cianci

Statue of David by

Sydney Varga

I swear

You were carved from marble David Is envious of you

Arrythmia by Sydney

Varga

Touch 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

Beach by Samantha

Stine

Shimmery scales, a blue tail and, a swirling of purple and indigo hair. The swirling hair and tail belong to Poseidon, himself the king of the ocean. Poseidon had ask his royal subjects what the world was like above water since he couldn’t leave the ocean. Yes, he may be a God, and he has all these mystical powers, but he can not walk on land which makes him wonder. What kind of animals, creatures, humans and, monsters are in the woods?

by Zach Bergstresser

Growing Pains

by Gracie Mosko

Today I tripped walking down the stairs. The neighbors watched as I tumbled, Down down to the ground. No one ran to my rescue they just stared. But it was still a good day.

Yesterday I said good morning to someone, at 8 o’clock in the evening

When the moon replaced the sun. I walked away humiliated, tears streaming down my face. But it was still a good day.

Tomorrow I hope to accomplish, bigger things than the rest of the days. But I do not think that will happen. Because humans cannot grow without trials, and diamonds are not made without pain.

Child’s Guilt by

Sydney Varga

If you step on the cracks

You may not break your mothers back

But you may

Give your mom a brain tumor

That leaves her

Wondering who you are

I Still See You by Gehna Wagner

It’s been 10 years since I last saw you

But everything around me reminds me of you

I see your face in the trees, the clouds…

And even in my face

It is hard living without you

But God was calling you back home to him

I guess he needed you more than I do That’s a lie I needed you I need you He took you too soon

You still had so many things to teach me

But the cancer won And now I can only see you in the trees,

The clouds, And in the mirror

Astronomy by Sydney Varga

When we are apart

It feels as though

You are sitting on Mars

And I, Jupiter

Waiting to eclipse each other in orbit

Be Gentle

by Gehna Wagner

Be gentle or she might shatter into piece

The little girl in her still wants to dance

Growing up too fast made a grown woman fragile

The grown woman is stuck in a trance

Thinking she would be a kid forever

Be gentle or she might shatter into pieces

The little girl never got the chance

To play with toys and be a child whatsoever

Growing up too fast made a grown woman fragile

The grown woman found herself in a circumstance

Where she felt all the pressure

Be gentle or she might shatter into pieces

Men don’t understand at first glance

Men growing up made them clever

Growing up too fast made a grown woman fragile

The woman found herself taking a stance

To not feel displeasure

Be gentle or she might shatter into pieces

Growing up too fast made a grown woman fragile

by Sydney Varga

I will never resent my mother

For she tried to save us

She tried to keep us warm at night

She tried to put food on our table

But I will resent you

For the way you tried to take away our blankets

And raid our cupboards

Stepdad

by Roxanne Cianci

Neira Laird

Broken Heart by

The light that was once lit has now gone dark. You took my heart and left me broken apart. I sit in tears with my thoughts running wild. You left me in pain, now I’m completely drained. And with our last goodbye I start to cry. For I have no happiness, All I’m left with is sadness. I never should have given you my heart, Cuz all you did was Break It Apart.

Blind by Gracie Mosko

I’ll take my frustration out on you You’ve done nothing wrong I swear I just don’t know what else to do I know you help me through thick and thin I guess I don’t see how blessed I am I think that’s why I’m always struggling Bundles of feelings are flooding my brain I’m laughing I’m scared I’m sad Its permanence is like a big laundry stain

Missing you by Neira

Laird

A call in the middle of the night Falling on my knees I didn’t think it was true, Until the celebration of your birth

With a tear-stained face, I dressed in black just for you Now I hold a piece of you, And I’m left with just the memories

Emotionally immature parent by Sydney Varga

You tape my mouth shut Because Growing up you had no voice You lock me in a room Because Growing up you had no freedom And you call this parenting No

I call it projection

College Friends by

Sydney Varga

I thought I was the main character in my story for so long And then I met you guys

And you guys were the main characters in your stories As well as mine

And I couldn’t be more thankful

The Dark [K]night of the Soul by Anonymous

Chainmail armor forged in fire, the poet strums on his lyre with a feather pen in hand –a knight riding with the poet. Which is mightier: the pen or the sword? One cuts the flesh, but the other wounds the soul. Then right after the pain, the sword goes. A wounded soul hurts more than a wounded soldier.

Poetry: a bulwark against spiritual starvation

by Sean Oros ’15

A Tale of Two Worlds

by Jason Merriman

A small creature once lived on the earth, Yet it’s eyes always looked upwards. The sky, the clouds, the sun’s majesty, These all filled its vision and heart.

But to one thing went all its love. The hawk, noble, proud, high, and mighty. It soared among all the heavens And our little friend envied it so.

One bleak, wintry day, it scurried forth, Scavenging for its hearth and home. The chill wind howled, the sky cold and clear.

It felt danger but fought for life,

Looking longingly for its Love, It felt the talons of betrayal. The hawk swept down from far above. Our friend’s frail body shook with fear.

In a moment, everything changed. Nature and magic became one. Awe, shock, pain, fury transfiguring Soft furry form to hardened spines.

The hawk screeched in surprised agony, Retreating to the air again, A newfound respect for hunted prey, No longer master of the world.

And the small one wept timidly, Its dreams dashed by the one it adored. Yet Father Wind whispered this solace As the newborn porcupine gazed up.

“Never will you be one with the heavens, But the skies will hold no power over you.”

Chance

Blossoms by Jason Merriman

There’s something sacred in discovery. The process of becoming acquainted. Picking up a flower for the first time, The petals fragile in a trembling hand.

First flush of excitement spreading slowly. Subtle fragrances filling the whole palate. Nuances cascade incrementally, Lids close to enhance sensory focus.

It’s impossible to truly know someone

From a parting glance, without pretension. A friendly visage conceals stark menace, A beautiful face, something sinister.

One can never tell, hence the mystery To reach out, to seize life from nothingness, Or hold back, seeking shelter from the storm. Existence is to risk without reward.

Cursory exams can tell a story Bereft of substance, filled with vagaries, Worthless only to those afraid to know That the adventure begins with hello.

For No One

by Jason Merriman

A breath of wind from the butterfly’s wings, A glacier slides slowly into the sea, The tick tock click of the atomic clock, The first glint of golden light with the dawn.

Life moves in inevitable increments, Time in flashes of incandescent brilliance. Wisdom wends them a whirlwind symphony, Wreathed in a mantle of eclipsing shadow.

Yet it still gathers strength in the storm, The edges of entropic creation, Death and birth in the same sentence. Flowing freely, but so slowly, as if unseen.

No one can know how it must feel.

Gravity pulls from the grasp of fingers. All the will in the world shall not hold it. It waits, not forever, so decide.

by Roxanne Cianci

In Her Eyes

by Jason Merriman

In her eyes, the sun is rising, Wonders of youth resplendent, A corona of morning light Surrounds bronzed orbs of creation.

In her eyes, true worth is measured, Under a steady verdant gaze. One rises to unparalleled heights From even the humblest beginnings.

In her eyes, ebon furies flash, Lightning rips the sky, thunder roars. Smoky countenances pervade. A haze of solace ends the conflict.

In her eyes, hope springs eternal, Pools glisten above and below From morn’s azure to eve’s midnight. All that was lost, can and will be found.

I have always been in her eyes, One has meant much to many, But all who given everything, Wisdom, hope, love, and peace in her eyes.

Momentum

by Jason Merriman

One point of light, flashing out of darkness, Twirling between triumph and tragedy, A blinding moment rushing to the fore, Incomprehensible in its meaning.

A typical day, a standard journey, One moment of mindless monotony Torn asunder into sudden terror. The kiss of a knife against a bared throat.

Crushing cacophony, a soundless roar, Vibrating insanity abounding, Implosions burst behind the naked eye. Relentless waves pull neath the undertow.

A whisper calling for crimson caress, Starlight creeping within Backbrain’s depths. Light whitewashing out higher consciousness, Reality’s grip sliding tenaciously.

It returns in a haze of smoke and static. Adrenaline rushing, panic pounding. Searing, scintillating sensation Blossoms into carnal carnage.

Hands lashing, body thrashing, frenzy. Fingers grasp and find fleeting purchase. Instinct explodes, neurons fire One last gasp of desperate fury. The strength found only in the twilight, The timeless void filled with those on the edge.

The last port of call for the falling, Its shores leading to oblivion.

Not this day though, today the power Preserves. The will and spirit triumphs Over the trauma of existence. One point of light, flashing out of darkness.

My

Guardian

by Jason Merriman

I am a weaver of what could and will be. A teller of tales, writer of stories. “What if?” is my instrument to wield. This “what if” is closest to my heart.

Mostly, I only see him in my dreams. I’m little in the backseat of a car. We come to an old, black, iron bridge. Like a constant sentinel, he is there.

Hand in greeting, smile unmistakable. Broad grin of gleaming white teeth in the sun.

The lean form tanned, crinkles in his eyes. Joy radiates from him contagiously.

I delight in seeing him, instinctively Knowing that he loves me for eternity... There’s an elemental goodness about him. I read his lips but cannot hear his voice.

You see, Grandpa Joe passed when I was six. I can’t quite remember how he sounded, But I know that he is with me always, Watching over me in times of trouble.

Yet I wonder what life would have been like, The two of us sitting, laughing, smiling, Telling tall tales into the setting sun, Adventuring endlessly by moonlight.

You may be gone, but never forgotten As you live daily in my thoughts and deeds.

Saoirse by Jason Merriman

I do not even know your real name, Only that I owe you everything. I was a captive of perfection, Imprisoned by my indecision.

When I met you, my chains were broken. No more limitations, no more fears. No more excuses, no more regrets. I may fail, mostly, but I shall live.

I cannot explain our connection. Two souls intersecting, a brief bond, Eclipsed in the blink of the mind’s eye. You probably will not remember me.

It does not matter, I am grateful. You gave me strength to act for myself, Take chances, risks, and find happiness, Seeking no approval but my own.

I hope you find your dream, write your story, Achieving the freedom you deserve. I will never forget who it was That returned the fire to my soul.

Summer’s End by

Jason Merriman

The days till warm, the nights grow chill. The seasons change, despite your will And all are slaves to time and tide, Yet precious memories do abide.

The sky, the waves, the ocean air, The reddish haze of summer’s stare As she slumbers to rise anon To light the joys of life upon

Us all, Her children great and small. We strive, survive into the Fall, The lady Autumn, whom we call For fairer weather, time to stall.

Our love is stronger in the green. Life resplendent, a golden sheen. Your hair cascades like foamy waves. It’s to my heart that summer saves

by Gabrielle Klepeis

A dream, repeated, once again. One year hence in days of men, Your visage, grace, will warm my soul Against the grasp of Winter’s cold.

A smile, a nod, a wayward glance, Nothing happens by happenstance. And though we part at Summer’s end, It will return and all will mend.

Pour Cher Vincent by

Hans Myers

A Dutch Onzijn, in the French Style, for a similar man

What can a flower say to the world through you?

Bright yellow and muted brown, lines messy, rushed:

paint piled thick and heavy, brush strokes thick and fast.

Yet on the canvas, you your emotions gushed. Visions of a beautiful “Starry Night” vast, left for us to ponder, to think, and to dream.

Did you know, perhaps, then, at the very last when your eyes beheld eternity’s bright gleam your humble palette would the world paint anew?

Though in Auvers you died, your art your soul still fills us with color, and light, and our hearts thrill.

by Sean

Profile of a Learner by Dr.

Mary Theresa Hall

It is a fearsome thing to fall into the hands of a loving God.

The soil and soul grow properly in the twowindowed room

We share for fifty-plus minutes three days a week.

No two days are alike.

Seedling Curiosity by

Allison Walsh

When they left, you were a sprout; not yet formed, though well on the way. Though over the course of your stay your inquisitive arms reached up, spreading about

Ideas and printed words and lights combine with pens and notebooks and the occasional whir of the computer when it, unlike the inhabitants’ brains, decides to work and assist in the cultivation of the turf.

Coming from cold and warm climates, entering the room where Hope goes to be born and fear goes to die, Ideas germinate and old skin flakes off.

Past authors meet current writers and form enduring friendships In the furnace of trust.

This is Holy Ground. This is learning. Miracles happen here in Greenville Hall 107

Oros ’15

232 has been sat with a party of 2. 45 seconds or less, i tell myself.

I watch as seat one goes to the restroom

by Hannah Stoughton

Great. Double the introduction, double the drink run, double the wait for an order. Hi, how are we doing today?

Fine, thank you dear. She’s going to want a coke; I’ll take a water.

Oh, can we get an appetizer, too? She’ll want a blossom.

To be known is to be loved.

212 has a party of 8. 45 seconds or less, i tell me

A little old woman sits in the corner with a birthday hat,

A picture of her husband sits next to her. Her kids and grandchildren take turns telling me it’s grandma’s birthday, We sing to her; she holds onto the picture and wipes a tear.

To be remembered is to be loved.

Our whole restaurant has been sat. 45 seconds or less, we tell ourselves. A child’s birthday is in the section next to mine,

A couple celebrates an anniversary at my table.

A group of friends meets for drinks and appetizers,

Laughing as they recall the memories of the life they once shared. It is 45 seconds or less to me, 45 seconds of love for them.

Everyone is here because they love somebody. Enough to say, I want to eat with you and celebrate your presence in my life.

Enough to say, The time I spend with you is more filling than the bread on our table. Enough to say, Let’s do this again soon!

Everyone is here because they love somebody enough.

Since I left, I have changed in many ways by Dylan

Since I left, I have changed in many ways, I thought I was safe you were derisive. Through all that pain, no, I could not stay.

Maybe you thought I would give; I would not stay down, and take it the love that you can’t give.

Since I left, I have changed in many ways. It took time, but I’m over the disdain,

Evans

and saw through the fog; so manipulative. Through all that pain, no, I could not stay. I tried to defend, push your spite away, I discovered, it was no way to live.

Since I left, I have changed in many ways. Always a conflict, every single day, Those words you threw; so accusative. Through all that pain, no, I could not stay.

Even now, you try to lure me away, but I’m stronger, I’ve become adaptive. Since I left, I have changed in many ways, Through all that pain, no, I could not stay.

Stay or Flee by

Brooke Griffith

Should I remain in familiarity or be the one to flee?

My community does not agree on whether I should stay.

Should I share a life with loved ones or create my own and leave?

Could I make it on my own or am I to naïve? I left my home for college; I made my own life there.

Should I remain in familiarity or be the one to flee?

In my absence, my mother grieves. She asks, “when are you coming home?” Should I share a life with loved ones or create my own and leave?

If I go, my life goals might be easier achieved.

What would life look like in a different state? Should I remain in familiarity or be the one to flee?

If I left forever, how would I be perceived? They say, “Do not forget where you come from.”

Should I share a life with loved ones or create my own and leave?

I would want help to raise my family. But my dreams are not at home. Should I remain in familiarity or be the one to flee?

Should I share a life with loved ones or create my own and leave?

Strike by Brooke Griffith

It strikes. I freeze. I can see the flash in front of me. It roars. It rips. I can feel my heart pulse quickens. I cry. I do not want the time to come. Yet the rain makes me calm. Its soft melody reminds me that everything will pass in time. I close my eyes, and go to sleep. I cannot let my fear control me. STRIKE! Of this night, I will take my leave.

Bye

water by Hannah Stoughton

If the world must continue to suppress me Must you be so quick to join?

Do not stand and tell me that I Run away from my fears. If Only you knew how deep the Water that fills my lungs truly is. Never again could I even run, as long as I am suffocated by the oceanic weight of your expectations. Not that I would want to, as I Gravely accept your scrutiny and tyranny of my house.

The water does not yet weigh as much as your unloving hand pressed upon my chest.

the death of a hummingbird

by Emily Irons

she loved all animals horses, giraffes, and elephants – those were her favorites until one day when a little birdy came along this animal, this bird was different he was buzzing with energy and life singing songs of sticks and buds this bird was unique and special this bird was a hummingbird

now the hummingbird never meant to meet the girl and the girl never expected to meet the hummingbird but the two became inseparable each one feeding off the other’s hopes and dreams forming a bond like no other their similarities bringing each other closer and closer – one heartbeat at a time even their differences connected each other’s souls in a magnetized wave of emotions

but after a year of chasing flowers on the 29th day the hummingbird and the girl’s connection faded away

“do you feel anything, hummingbird?” she asked but there was no answer only loud silence and devastation and loneliness crept its way in, too,

so the woods became quiet the trees ever silent only the sound of the wind crying at night wondering what it did not do right …but the sounds of the hummingbird pecking away ring in her heart every. single. day.

Reflection or Entering your twenties in another country by

Isn’t it so romantic entering your Twenties in another country?

Allison Walsh

When you left the one land you’d ever know you were still a kid you never knew that amid All the tears and train rides you found Yourself.

and somewhere along the way you look back and realize that who you used to be is no longer who you are. You left behind the girl who was afraid to get her feet wet and stepped into being the woman who ran into the ocean, sighing yes.

The Little Knight

by Colin Schroyer

There once lived a young, aspiring hero; But unlike most heroes, this was a goblin. More than anything else, he wants to be brave,

And to prove that he is, he’ll go on a quest To find a legendary, ancient evil, Vanquish it and reclaim its stolen treasure.

Despite the vast fortune of promised treasure, The little goblin strives to be a hero

Like the valiant knight who slays the evil Monsters of this fair land. The little goblin

Picks up a sword and embarks on the same quest

As the knight, in order to test if he’s brave.

He steps into the forbidden woods to brave The twisted branches and roots and barktreasure.

He asks himself if this is truly his quest; Can a foul monster like him be a hero? He may be, from the dankest depths, a goblin, But he knows that his heart resides no evil.

From afar the goblin senses an evil Aura emanating. The boy steps with brave Ambition. Off in the distance the goblin Sees a mighty oak. “That is where the treasure

Must be!” shouts the impending goblin-hero. He musters courage and marches to his quest.

From a voice afar, the goblin hears a question: “Are you the beast of darkness and evil?”

“Why no!” The goblin shouts, “I am a hero

Come to vanquish the beast.” “You must be quite brave

To venture here to run off with my treasure!”

A rust-brown, beady-eyed squirrel tells the goblin.

“Why, you are no monster!” says the brave goblin.

“Of course not!” says the squirrel, “Are you on that quest,

As is the rotten Knight, to claim my treasure?”

“Why, I was, but why do you claim him evil?”

“He stands not for chivalry, he is not brave, Not honorable, not like you a hero!”

“We found the despicable beasts of evil!” The slaying of the creatures concludes the quest.

We shall celebrate our valiant hero.

by Ava Kavulla

We Find

by Sean Oros ’15

We find the shining ore And we extract it. We find the glorious hardwood And we chop and shave it. We find the sacred spring And we confine it. We find the good practice And we mandate it. We find the divine, And we weaponize it. We find the innocence And we crush it.

to the lover who never was by Emily Irons

i do not know whether to apologize or celebrate our times are over, and they were great but that does not mean we could not have tested fate

we decided “right person wrong time” like a cut feeling the sting of a lime because when is it ever really the right time?

“in another life” was suggested maybe even in a few years – but do not get too invested a time machine to see our futures has been requested

do not worry, i will watch you from afar wish that all your dreams come true on a shooting star but be prepared to be included in my memoir

oh lover… boy you never were but that does not mean you could not have been

what was once ours by Emily Irons

what used to be the hallways of our love are now blank canvases staring back at me in desperation

what used to be the songs of our love are now the words that help me cry myself to sleep every night

what used to be the places of our love are now the empty spots that hold the carcasses of our greatest memories

what used to be the symbols of our love are now the items tucked away in a closet collecting dust and dried tears

now, you see, everything that used to be ours is not ours anymore

it is not yours anymore, either not even mine

only the shadows of our vulnerable selves dancing away these timeless fragments of my imagination live in these things we once called ours

by Sheila Gross ’10

Drunken Leadership: How to Lead in a Time of Pure and Utter Chaos

by Matt Beuermann

In life, there are many situations that afford someone the opportunity of becoming a leader, but I can think of few that are more challenging than trying to coordinate a late-night Sheetz run with a group of severely intoxicated college students.

Sure, one might argue that a multi-million-dollar business merger is no walk in the park, but just imagine conducting such a venture when you’re drunk.

You see, almost everyone knows that a night out at one of Greenville’s finest establishments, that being Rumorz of course, wouldn’t be complete without a drunken pit-stop to another of Greenville’s finest establishments, Sheetz.

After a big night of tequila shots, blue fishbowls, and $1.50 Miller Lite drafts, one works up quite the appetite, and there is no better cure for said appetite than a couple of hotdogs or maybe even a nice, hearty app sampler.

Some may say that coordinating such a journey is solely a feat of management. Rounding everyone up, making sure people close their tabs, watching for traffic as the group clumsily traverses the five streets between the bar and Sheetz. While that all sounds very managerial, I, on the other hand, view this situation as a leadership endeavor.

It’s all a matter of knowing your people. In the business world, you have to know what each one of your followers brings to the table so that you can account for their weaknesses and capitalize on their strengths. At 2 a.m. on a Sunday, the focus is no different.

You have to know that Brett will try anything to persuade the group to go to Headliners; you have to know that Rachel is prone to falling down in the middle of the road; you have to know that Evan will more than likely tackle one or two of you into the ground at some point during the walk; and you have to know that Nate will sprint away from the group at a moment’s notice.

But as I said, knowing your crew isn’t enough; to be a leader, you have to know how to empower them to work together.

At the bar, you have to ensure that Brett is focused on a game of pool right up until you leave so that he won’t become sidetracked by the thought of strippers. On the walk to Sheetz, you need to pair Evan with Rachel so that she doesn’t fall in the middle of the street and so that he is too preoccupied to tackle someone. There isn’t much you can do for Nate, but you can at least remind him to look both ways before crossing the street as he runs along the sidewalk.

You have to know your people. The best leaders always do. And while it isn’t an easy undertaking – dealing with drunken reprobates never is – I can’t think of a challenge that I’d rather face at this stage in my leadership development.

Every Friday or Saturday night, I’m becoming a leader. Maybe not after the first beer or the first shot. Maybe not even on the walk to the bar. But I know that at some point during the night, the time will come, and I will need to round up the troops and lead them on our quest for late-night fried food.

And if I can do all of that when I’m drunk, just imagine what I can do when I’m sober.

Farewell, Reggie

by Lana Kulik

It’s the second day now that I’m not myself. How can someone be so sad about passing of a dog that was not even her own? Let me tell you the story of Reggie the guide dog.

I first met Reggie and his guidee Peg in August 2016, when I moved to my new teaching job at a small college in Pennsylvania. Peg was my colleague, and our offices were across the hall from each other. You would never tell that Peg had a genetic vision condition that nearly blinded her completely, that’s how well adjusted and highly functioning she was. To this day, I’d tell her, pointing at something, “You see?” and she’d just plainly reply, “No, I don’t, but tell me like you see it.” Best exercise for giving good descriptions.

Reggie was one of the reasons Peg was so high-functioning. He was an excellent guide dog that would warn Peg about an obstacle or danger, find his way to basically anything and lead Peg there, and communicate his own needs to her. Peg would proudly tell everyone that Reggie had saved her life at least a couple of times when they were crossing the Queens Blvd during her visits to New York City.

I’m pretty sure Peg and Reggie had a secret language and body connection. They were like a well-synced tandem, with Reggie being very attuned to Peg’s movements. Guide dogs go through special training for that and learn how to almost literally become an extension of their guidees. It was a wonder to watch, especially because I never heard Reggie bark or talk. He’d sometimes growl quietly in displeasure or softly whimper like a puppy when he asked for something, but never barked or showed his anger in another way. Kids loved him, and our students often used him as a therapy dog, as it turned out, as well.

Reggie and I quickly became friends. Peg would take his leash and harness off when she’d reach her office, which gave him freedom of moving around. He’d never stray too far but a lot of times when Peg went to the radio station or the restroom and came back, she’d stop by my office, “Is Reggie here?” Most of the times, he was.

He’d stroll into my office unnoticed, put his big, beautiful head into my lap, and look me in the eye, “I’m here! Hi, how are you?” I’d pet him behind his ears, kiss him on his forehead, and talk with him. He had those incredible, loving, and all-understanding eyes that would melt your heart. He also loved all sorts of treats and knew that I always had some interesting foods in my office. He’d always sniff them out. There’s a reason Peg’s daughter called him “a naughty food surfer.”

“Don’t overfeed him,” Peg told me when I asked what he was allowed to eat. “He is already a little overweight, needs more exercise. And never feed him chocolate, it would kill him.” To me, a dark chocolate connoisseur, the piece of information that dogs could die of chocolate was a shocker. I was glad Peg told me before I ever attempted to treat Reggie for chocolate. She also explained to me that as a Labrador mix, he missed an enzyme signaling to his brain that his stomach was full. Reggie would eat everything you’d give him. He’d just gobble it all up.

Soon, we developed our little ritual: Whenever Reggie came to visit, I’d have some fruit for him, such as a banana, pear, or apple. He loved them all, but apples were his favorite. I’d take him

to our kitchenette, wash and slice an apple, and feed it to Reggie slice by slice. He’d just lick it off my hand and gobble it up, a lot of times without chewing it.

“That’s it? Bud, you shouldn’t just down it in one piece. Chew on it, savor it!” I’d say, feeding him another slice.

He’d simply tilt his head to the right and lick his lips, “Have some more? I want some more!”

When the fruit was gone and I’d say, “That’s it, Reggie, you are done! I have no more apples,” I swear he’d give a big sigh, like “That’s it???” Understanding that our little break was over, he would shuffle his paws back to Peg’s office, with his shoulders drooping and head down.

“I don’t know if he loves me or them apples more,” I’d joke to Peg often.

“I’m sure he loves you,” Peg would respond, “apples are just a perk.”

Peg, her husband Jim, who is also a guidee for a handsome dog named Greyhound, and I became close friends in a really short time. My son and I would visit them often and spend many holidays and weekends together. At one point, I found myself between rental places and they hosted me for almost two months at the end of the semester. We became one big family of humans and animals (at that time Peg and Jim also had three cats, in addition to their two guide dogs).

When I was staying with them, I’d take Reggie for a walk in the local park almost every day (we didn’t like walking in the rain). He absolutely loved those walks because there was so much to explore and sniff out in the park! Once, noticing that there was no one around, I took his leash off and let him run around a little. Oh, how happy he was! He rolled himself in the high spring grass, ran back and forth to the little canal and fetched me sticks. And then, he came back with a dead bird in his mouth, put it at my feet, and proudly looked at me, “See, I can bring food too!”

It took me a second to realize what it was.

“Eww, Reggie, where did you find it?”

He showed me the direction with his head, “There!” Still very proud of himself. As a child of the 1970s who ran around wild in my grandparents’ village, I could tell the bird was long dead as it had the signs and smell of decomposition.

“Eww,” I said again, “Reggie, you shouldn’t have put that in your mouth!”

I took a doggie bag out of my pocket and bent to pack the bird for trash, but Reggie snatched it quickly and stepped back, “This game is mine!”

It took a lot of stern talk and semi-angry commands on my part (I don’t think he ever took me seriously when I tried to give him commands) for Reggie to put it down, very reluctantly and with a big sigh. When we came back from the walk and I told Jim and Peg Reggie had found a dead bird, they both laughed and said, “That boy had so many weird things in his mouth, you wouldn’t even want to know!”

That same year of the pandemic, before I went down south for the summer, Peg decided to retire Reggie. He would have turned 10 that August, and he spent 8 years of his life working. So, Peg decided it was time for him to simply enjoy his life. Dogs of his Lab/Retriever mix usually live to 12-13 years, so he’d be able to just live out his days happily, having a relaxed life in a loving home. I suggested that I’d adopt Reggie but then I moved to a place that did not allow pets and Peg decided to keep him at home. She also applied for a new companion from the Guide Dog

Foundation. Anna arrived early summer with a trainer from the Foundation and Reggie, being the sage of the animal part of the family, accepted her and shared his wisdom with her.

A year later Peg took what she thought would be early retirement but in fact landed her a job at another school, and several months later they moved further away from me and closer to Peg’s new job. Reggie and all other animals quickly adjusted to the new house and environment. I came to visit whenever I could, and even though it wasn’t as often as I’d want to, I still took Reggie for walks. He also slept with me in the guest room, setting himself next to the bed and snoring and laughing in his sleep. I just loved his presence in the room, it felt safe, warm, and protected.

Because I didn’t visit too often, I could see how Reggie was getting older with every visit: his face would get more gray hairs, he started to drag one of his legs because of a hip pain and got several fatty tumors. Even though they were benevolent I tried to bypass them when I brushed his still luxurious shiny black coat. Reggie loved being brushed, he would just lie at my feet and murmur with pleasure when I did it.

In a couple of weeks, Reggie would have turned 13. I was away for most of the summer on a research trip and was going back to Pennsylvania this weekend. One of the things I was looking forward to was taking Reggie for a walk again, brushing him, and kissing him on his forehead.

Last week, our mutual friend Shel posted that Reggie got sick and asked for prayers for him. I was hoping it wasn’t anything too serious and he’d recover. But then on Monday, August 14, Peg called me in the morning and said, “I’m calling you because I didn’t want you to learn this from a Facebook post.” My heart sank. We cried on the phone together and Peg promised me a vile with Reggie’s ashes when he gets cremated.

I still can’t believe Reggie is no more. That I will not be able to look into those big brown eyes, bottomless wells of empathy and love. Or take him for a walk where people would complement Reggie’s handsomeness and I’d proudly tell them that he was a retired guide dog, and even though he is big and may seem scary, he is actually a tender loving old boy who is incredibly good with kids. I have learned so much about dogs, their guidees and the Guide Dog Foundation thanks to Reggie, Greyhound, Anna, and Peg and Jim. My life has become a lot richer with them in it.

If there is reincarnation, I hope one day Reggie returns as another great dog or even a better human. But not too soon, as Peg said, she’d like him to spend some time in Heaven and be their guardian angel.

by Ava Kavulla

Crash

by Muncie Canon

It’s the year 2052, three years since the U.S. converted entirely to electric, AI-powered, driverless cars. The bill had been created in an effort to help the climate and make driving easier and safer, and it was doing just that…until today. Until we heard the deafening sound of crunching metal. A senior comes running into my science class, yelling for us to turn on the news. Now I’m staring at a screen full of car wreckage from millions of crashes. The news reporter comes on screen, struggling to compose herself as she gives her report.

At exactly 1:48 p m today, all the cars driving on the roads crashed simultaneously. Some into ditches, telephone poles, or buildings. Others into each other, or even into pedestrians. We do not currently have a death toll or injury toll, as all our first responder vehicles were also a part of the crashes. We advise everyone to stay off the streets, and whatever you do, do NOT start your vehicles.

My jaw literally drops. The room is silent. The overhead speaker crackles to life as the principal speaks: “Due to today’s crash tragedy, we will be ending the school day early. Students who live in walking distance are permitted to walk home; those who drive or ride the bus, we are working on finding you a way home, and will keep you updated. Stay safe out there.”

A murmur fills the classroom as I stand frozen, unsure of what to do. My brother, Tate, appears in the doorway, motioning for us to go. On our walk home, we see smashed cars scattered everywhere, some still with bodies inside. Car debris littered all over the streets, sidewalks, and yards. We arrive home to find a crumpled car right in front of our house. A woman is struggling to get out of it. We rush over and pull her out of the car; she thanks us, tears streaming down her face. She tells us in a panic that she must get to her kids at the school and takes off running. Tate examines the inside of the car. The AI screen, although cracked, is somehow still working, and ironically the displays states: You have arrived at your destination. Tate starts clicking things on the screen as I wait outside the car.

“Hey Callie, check this out,” he says. “The destination was shared.”

In the past year, the AI system on the cars got a new feature that allowed people to share destinations by sending an address from either their car’s AI system, or their cell phone. When an enabled sharer on the contact list shared a destination, the car that received the destination can navigate to the address automatically.

“When I try to look up the destination it gives me an error,” Tate continues, “but it says the sharer is ‘3R1S8.’ Strange…”

“Okay?” I respond as Tate runs to another wrecked car across the street. He climbs in for a couple minutes, then runs to a third car.

“They all say that” he yells, running back to me. “Destination error, sharer 3R1S8. I wonder if I can track the location of that sharer.”

I shrug as he pulls out his laptop and climbs into one of the cars. Tate doesn’t believe there’s any problem he can’t solve. Tired of looking at this mess, I go inside. As soon as I enter the house, Grandpa gives me a big hug, telling me he’s glad we’re okay. He tells me he already called Mom and she’s safe. She works for the government, so she won’t be coming home early. Grandpa

and I sit on the couch and watch the news. They’re so focused on saving lives, that they haven’t even began to try to figure out why this happened.

“NEW YORK!” I hear Tate shout as he comes tearing in the house moments later. “NEW YORK CITY!” Tate stops in front of us, his hands on his knees as he gasps for breath. Grandpa puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Are you okay?” Grandpa asks.

“The sharer,” Tate says, still catching his breath, “he’s in New York City. I tracked his location. We gotta go!”

“Go to New York?! Why?!” I ask in disbelief.

“Because we can save America!” He answers in complete seriousness.

“A: That’s crazy” I retort, “and B: How do you expect to get to New York? It’s like six hours north and we can’t take the car, it’ll crash us!”

“But we can take the truck,” Grandpa says. Ugh, old people.

“No, Grandpa Same AI system, same problem.”

“Not that truck, the gas-powered truck.”

“And where do you expect to find one of those? The government scrapped them all a couple years ago.”

“Not all of them” he smirks. “I figured this would all go south one day, so my backup plan is parked in the woods behind the house.”

“Alright, Grandpa!” Tate cheers. “Who’s ready for a road trip?”

I can’t believe we’re doing this. I was sure this pickup truck wasn’t even going to start up, and now we’re half an hour away from New York City. We’ve been driving around wreckage and debris for the last five and a half hours. Every city we drive through looks like a ghost town.

“So, what’s your plan for when we get there?” I ask Tate.

“Save America” he says confidently. I roll my eyes; great, so there’s no plan.

We use Grandpa’s Garmin, to find our destination, which is actually right outside the city. It’s a small tan house with a dilapidated porch. We park across the street.

“Okay, game plan,” Tate explains. “I’m going to knock on the door and ask to borrow the homeowner’s phone. You two act as a distraction so I can try to find the destination sharing information.”

“Alright but let me get a smoke in really quick; this is really stressing me out,” Grandpa says, reaching into his pocket for cigarettes and matches. Matches? Is there anything this man does that isn’t old fashioned?

When he’s ready, Tate knocks on the front door of the house. A scruffy, heavyset man opens the door, looking confused as to why Tate is standing there.

“Hi, my phone broke when my car crashed. Can I please borrow yours to call my mom?” Tate asks.

The man hands his phone to Tate, now it’s time to distract him. We start talking to the man about today’s events, as Tate steps aside to search the phone. The man seems reluctant to discuss the crashes at first, but now he’s getting really into it.

“They should have never converted to driverless cars!” He exclaims in a fit of passion.

“They should’ve known something like this was going to happen! I was a Taxi driver for twentyfive years. I even owned my own taxi business. We can’t just be replaced! Maybe those cars needed to crash, to prove we still need live drivers” He sneers, his face turning red.

He continues to rant some more, but I don’t pay attention to him as I see Tate coming back into view. He holds the phone screen up. I can’t see everything from this distance, but I can clearly make out the 3R1S8. I can’t hold in my gasp as I realize we’re talking to a murderer.

“What?” the man asks, but as Tate approaches us, the man sees the phone screen. “Hey! What are you doing with that?!” the man asks.

“Uh…I…” Tate starts, but then takes off running outside.

“Hey!” The man shouts chasing after him, Grandpa and I in hot pursuit.

Tate takes off down the street, losing the man. Then the man changes direction and starts heading towards Grandpa’s truck. I notice the keys are still in the ignition. Oh crap! The man climbs in, and it roars to life.

“Driverless cars aren’t the only ones that crash!” he shouts out the window, a crazed look in his eyes. I realize with alarm that he plans on running over Tate. What am I going to do? I could give a command to an AI powered vehicle, but what can I do to stop a gas-powered one? Wait, gas-powered! The man throws the truck in reverse to back out of the spot.

“Grandpa, toss me your matches!” I shout. He tosses them my way as the truck straightens out to face Tate’s direction. “Now get out of the way!”

The man puts the truck in drive, but I’m faster. Sorry, Grandpa I think as I light the match. I throw it at the truck, and immediately hit the ground.

BOOM.

The explosion knocks me out. I come to with a worried Grandpa and Tate looking down at me. They sigh with relief as I open my eyes.

“So, what’s your game plan now,” I ask Tate.

“We just saved America,” he grins.

“Maybe,” I say, looking around, “but we still have A LOT of cleaning up to do.”

by Sheila Gross ’10

Thump

by Muncie Canon

I was lying in bed in the middle of the night the first time I heard it. Thump. Thump. Thump. Then faster.

Thump thump thump thump thump

What the heck is that noise?! I had thought. I had to be the only one up, so I just ignored it and went back to bed. That was a few days ago, and I’ve probably heard that noise at least twenty times since then.

Like now, as I sit at the breakfast table.

Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump

“Do you hear that?” I ask Jake. “That thumping?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles at he quits tapping his leg and continues to sleepily eat his Froot Loops. But it isn’t always him. It certainly couldn’t have been him in the middle of the night.

Thump Thump Thump

“THAT! Did you hear that noise?” I ask a now non-leg tapping Jake.

“No” he mutters. Definitely not a morning person.

Thump thump thump thump

“What about that...”

“TARA WOULD YOU PLEASE KNOCK IT –”

Thump. Thump. THUMP.

“Okay, that time I heard it,” he admits, suddenly wide awake. “What was that?”

“I have no clue,” I tell him, “but I keep hearing it.”

“Where is it coming from?” he asks, getting up to look around the room.

“No idea,” I respond, helping him look.

“What are you two doing?” our mom asks, entering the room. “You better get going; you’re going to be late for school!”

We grab our bookbags and head out, mystery unsolved.

The thumping continues when we get home from school, although a bit different now. Thump. Thump. Scratchhhhhh.

“This is driving me crazy,” Jake says. “We gotta figure out where this noise is coming from.”

We look around the entire house for nearly half an hour with no luck. I’m about to give up when Jake shouts from the living room, “Hey, I think it’s coming from the closet!”

We stand outside the closet door in silence. Finally, we hear it.

Thump Thump Thump Scratchhhhh. Thump

Jake was right; something’s definitely in there.

We press our ears on the door to get a better listen. We can hear something rustling around.

“It sounds like whatever it is must be crawling around in there,” I say.

“Wait, crawling around in there? We are being so stupid,” Jake shakes his head.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Tara, when was the last time you saw Whiskers? We are being paranoid, the stupid cat’s probably just crawling around in there. She must have wandered in the last time it was left open,” he figures.

“Well, that old cat’s mean anyways, let’s just leave her in there,” I chuckle. I can’t believe how worried we were over nothing.

We relax on the couch now that our worrying is done. Before long, our dad comes home from work and asks us about our day.

“You should have been here dad,” Jake laughs. “We were all paranoid that there was something mysterious in the closet, and it was just Whiskers! We left that mean old cat in there!”

“Huh?” my dad looks confused. “Whiskers is right over there.” He points to the windowsill, and sure enough, there she is.

Thump Thump

Uh-oh. Jake and I share a worried look.

“What was that noise?” Dad asks.

“Apparently not Whiskers,” I say.

We catch Dad up on the situation, and the three of sit outside the closet and listen to the noises.

“What’s in there?” Dad asks, looking as worried as us. Jake and I both shrug. We continue listening until Mom comes home.

“What are you guys doing?!” are the first words out of her mouth. We fill her in, but she thinks we’re crazy and makes us take a break for dinner. It’s so hard to ignore the sounds coming from the closet. By the time dinner’s over, it’s gotten even worse. Thump. THUMP THUMP THUMP scratchhhhh thump thump CRASHHHH thump thump thump

“I can’t take it anymore!” Dad exclaims. “We’re going to have to open the closet.”

“No!” Mom pleads. “Who knows what could be in there?”

“We just can’t live like this Charlene!” Dad insists. “Don’t worry, I can take it.” He grabs the ladle off the table. “I’m going in!” he declares heroically.

We all stay back and watch Dad approach the closet door.

THUMP THUMP Scratchhhhh. BANG. Thump thump He raises his ladle, swallows hard, and slowly reaches a shaky hand towards the doorknob.

“Honey, I don’t know if this is such a-”

Too late.

The door swings open and a small, gray blur comes flying out of it. I duck out of the way, mom screams, and the ladle goes flying.

“What was that?!” Dad yells.

“I don’t know,” Jake responds, “but we better go find it!”

BANG BANG CRASHHHHHH thump. Thump thump. CRASHHHHH. THUMP THUMP thump thump

Whatever it is dashes through the house as we rush after it. We chase the blur until it eventually runs into Jake’s room.

“Shut the door! Shut the door!” I shout.

Jakes runs over and slams the door shut.

“Now let’s go outside and try to see if we can see it through Jake’s window!” I say.

We all run outside, and my mom stays a step back as the rest of us peer through the window. At first, we can’t see anything because the blur is hiding under Jake’s bed. But then it comes running out full tilt. I gasp.

“IS THAT A RACOON??” Jake exclaims.

“How in the world did a racoon get in our house?!” Dad freaks.

We all turn to look at Mom, who’s being oddly quiet during all of this. Her face reddens as she stares at the ground.

“Well, you see I was taking the trash out the other night,” she begins, “and he was so cute…and lonely… and hungry. He reminded me of Whiskers. I thought maybe he could come in for a bath and some food. And then…”

CRASH. THUMP THUMP THUMP

“Yeahhh. That,” she finishes.

“Charlene! How could you be so stu-”

“CAN WE JUST PLEASE GET THE RACOON OUT OF MY ROOM?!” Jake spazzes.

We all rush back inside. We prop open the front door, and my dad once again grabs his ladle for protection as he warns us to get back. He whips open the door to Jake’s bedroom, and we all leap out of the way as the racoon, probably just as traumatized as us, scurries out the door. We all breathe a sigh of relief as my mom runs over to shut the door.

“Hey, check out this cute little squirrel out here,” she says.

”NO!” We all shout in unison.

by Sheila Gross ’10

by Ava Kavulla

The Worlds in Heaven

by Hannah Stoughton

For almost all of history, people have imagined the “life” they would “live” after dying. They’ve theorized, dreamed, and attempted to replicate the ethereal realm that people hope for. For Christ’s sake, hundreds of religions were founded on the idea of human beings escaping the fully probable darkness that consumes one’s consciousness after shutting their eyes for the last time. It’s all bullshit. “Well, how would you know?” That’s easy, I’m dead. Cold, rigor mortis, would-be-considered-desecrating-a-corpse gone. I lived a short life, dedicated to making myself the best person I could be. I committed my fair share of wrongdoings, but nothing that kept me from showing up at the pearly gates of what many would call “Heaven.” And by gates, I meant gates. There were eight overly large, extremely inviting and intimidating doors to what seemed to be eight very different fates for one’s soul.

“Hey, how are ya?” a voice from behind me thundered, somehow not echoing at all in the vastness of the lobby area.

I jumped as far as I could muster, before turning around and seeing a woman standing before me. She was dressed plainly, wearing unripped jeans and a t-shirt that looked brand new.

“I’m Mary. Sorry to sneak up on you so suddenly! It’s my first day on the job, and I got a little excited about my first assignment,” she laughed nervously. I felt my brow settle just above my eyes.

“Job? Your job? I’m an assignment?” The words tumbled out of my mouth as my confusion grew.

“Yea. You’re in Heaven! I’m your Heavenly tour guide!” A grin appeared on her face. I faced two thoughts at this statement:

1. I know I’m dead, so why would I question her?

2. If I try to do anything to prove her heavenly status, I will get sent straight to the hottest pits of Hell.

“Oh, ok. Where do I go?”

“Up to you.”

“What?”

“Up to you,” she stated in the same manner, shrugging her shoulders.

“How is it up to me?” I asked, suddenly questioning everything she’d said.

“You lived a good life. God thinks that anyone sent to Heaven should be allowed to pick a world based on which sin you wanted to partake in the most but refrained from. Follow me,” she said, turning to the first door.

“Here is Greed. This one is pretty popular. We’ve designed a real-life simulation for people that replicated the real world, except everyone here has unlimited funds. They can buy whatever house they want, eat at whatever restaurant they want, drive whatever car. A lot of people pick this one to see what their life would’ve been like if they were rich when they were still in the human world,” Mary explained.

“Do people get to go with their families?”

“Yea! Do you have someone in mind? I can tell you where they’re at and that can help influence you.”

“No, no thank you. I was just curious. I died a little young to have met my soulmate and whatnot.” She looked a little sad at this idea.

“Okay, we’ll continue. Here’s Gluttony. The clouds are made of sugar, and the rivers of milk and honey. They got that part right down there, at least,” she joked.

“Everything you see except for the clothing and housing is made of something edible. There is no such thing as being fat here – only happy!

Next is Wrath. I know it sounds a little weird, but it’s basically like having a really long therapy session and smashing things. This one isn’t too popular. It’s too simple and negative for a lot of people, but life-long retail workers love it.”

“I can see why,” I laughed back, curious as to what else there was. We kept walking along a white path.

“This is Sloth. Single mothers adore this one. Here, they lay around all day, being served by people that weren’t good enough for Heaven but not bad enough for Hell. It’s a weird, murky area of criteria. Anyway, everything is done here for those that choose Sloth’s world.”

“That sounds fantastic. I wonder how many people choose this one,” I remarked.

“Sloth is second most popular. It’s pretty close to Greed,” Mary replied.

“Envy is next. People can choose exactly how they look, based on their most envious emotions from when they were on Earth. Envy is popular amongst people that don’t have a family to return to, or perhaps a lover they miss,” she said, glancing at me quickly.

“So, people like me?” I stated the obvious.

“Maybe, depends on how you view yourself. They get to live their most lavish life. It’s similar to greed, except less simulation-like and more what you’d expect from a Heavenly life,” she shared. There were three gates left for us to look at.

“We’ve got Pride up here. This is for anyone who lived a life in shame or was never able to be who they truly wanted to be. A lot of people who commit suicide end up here. It’s one of the happiest worlds we’ve got; everyone is authentically themselves and never experience the feelings associated with self-doubt on Earth. It’s where I picked, before I got promoted,” Mary smiled. I could tell she missed it.

“What’s Lust like?” I asked, wanting to move on from her reminiscences.

“Well... ever heard of Hugh Hefner? Like his mansion, but way less predatory and weird.”

“Isn’t God against sex and stuff?”

“No, but even if He was, that’s for when you’re on Earth. You’re in Heaven now, and He doesn’t think twice about what you do once you’ve walked through the gates.”

“Oh. I see. What’s this last gate?” We’d covered all seven sins. Why was there an eighth door? It was the only one with windows. Inside was an all-white room, with one giant computer screen. Nothing seemed to be happening there.

“It’s pretty much what you see. Top secret stuff happens in there if that’s your sort of thing. We don’t know much. No one has picked this one in thousands of years,” she offered.

“If you don’t have any other questions, we can make your decis-” “I want this one.”

She blinked. “The eighth door?” She double checked.

“Yes.” Something about the mystery of the door drew me in.

Mary shrugged, unlocking it with a large white key. “I hope it fits you. Enjoy your stay in Heaven!”

I walked in, and the room was as extensive as the windows said. There was only one other person here, and I thought to myself, “Why did I just do this to myself?”

The man turned around, evidently surprised at the idea of having a friend. It was when I saw his face that I realized what this was.

“Hi, Hannah.” He smiled warmly at me.

“Hi, God,” I choked back out. He pressed a button, and the world appeared on the giant computer screen. There was a little pencil icon with the word “edit” written on it, in the top right corner.

“Care to join me?”

My Biggest Fear

by Muncie Canon

It was a dark and stormy night… okay so it was a clear and breezy Tuesday evening, unusually warm for October in Pennsylvania, but I wish it was a dark and stormy night because that would add to the thrill of going to see a horror movie on Halloween night. Finally deciding that we are officially too old to go trick-or-treating, my best friend Marissa and I have decided to go see Dark Witch 5, supposedly the scariest of the Dark Witch movie series, at the theater tonight. That’s not even the best part! Marissa’s twin brother Derrick is coming with us, and he’s bringing his best friend Chance…who also happens to be the love of my life, although he doesn’t know it yet. That might change tonight, though, at least Marissa and I think so. I was just finishing up my zombie make-up when the doorbell rang. My mom beat me to the door, letting everybody in.

“Marissa, Derrick, no matching costumes this year?” My mom asks.

“Twins with matching costumes are cute when your seven, not seventeen,” Marissa says shaking her head.

Chance chuckles at this. He is so cute in his pirate costume, with his curly brown hair spilling out over a red bandana, and an eye-patch leaving only one of his gorgeous green eyes exposed. My mom takes a group picture of us before letting us out the door. We’re taking Derrick’s car, so naturally he’s driving. Marissa calls shotgun, and I know this is only so Chance and I can sit together. The back seat of Derrick’s Chevy Cobalt is so small, we’re nearly touching. His knee bumps mine as we go around a sharp curve, and he gives me a cute apologetic smile. Marissa and I talked it through, and the plan is for me to sit next to Chance at the movie, so that at some point I can act scared and grab his hand. The butterflies in my stomach are having a ball right now. By the time we arrive at the theater, I am so nervous I have to pee. I go to the restroom, then follow the signs to the room playing Dark Witch 5. I navigate through the dark to take my seat next to Derrick, the only one there.

“Where are Marissa and Chance?” I ask.

He tells me they went to get popcorn for everybody. The previews had already started, and I didn’t want them to miss anything, so I figure I had better go get them. I go out to the snack bar, but they aren’t there. I check the lobby, no luck. Right when I’m about to head back to my seat, I glance through the glass doors leading outside, just in time to see Chance kiss Marissa. I don’t need to see the movie anymore; my worst fear has already come true.

by Sean Oros

’15

The Hands

by Muncie Canon

I can’t believe they’re still having the wedding here. Nothing screams love like an unsolved murder case. Exactly one week ago today, the owner of Lakeside Barn Weddings stopped by the venue the day after it had been rented to make sure the renters cleaned up. According to the news, as the owner was walking up to the large, white barn, he could see in the distance something lying on the dock. As he approached, he realized what he saw was a body. A dead body with two handshaped bruises on its neck. So far, no suspects have been found.

The owner offered to give Nick and Darla their money back on the rental considering the circumstances; since, you know, a murderer could be on the loose, but Darla insisted on having the wedding as planned. She said she put too much work into the planning to just change everything last minute, and in true Darla fashion, once she had a plan, she was sticking to it. There’s no changing her mind. Ever. I know this better than anyone because Darla and I have been best friends since we were in diapers. My mom still thinks I should be the groom in this wedding. I tried to explain that it’s just high school politics: I was in chess club, Darla was a cheerleader, and Nick played football. They were destined to end up together; I didn’t fit into the equation. They became high school sweethearts, and now here we are at their wedding. I’m fine with it, I really am. Nick’s a great guy; I’m happy for them. Really, I am.

Anyways, tonight’s the rehearsal dinner, and even though I’m not in the wedding, Darla still asked me to come. Right now, Donny’s practicing his speech. He was chosen to be the best man, because not only is he one of Nick’s closest friends, but he also helped set Darla and Nick up on their first date. If not for him, we wouldn’t be celebrating this wedding tomorrow. Donny wraps up his speech to a round of applause. He bows, laughing, then grabs a quick drink before heading to the restroom. I head there as well; this night has been dragging on forever!

After using the restroom, I wash my hands as Donny fixes his hair in the mirror next to me. I dry my hands and am just about to go back out to the dinner, when the most horrifying sight crosses my eyes! Two hands wrap around Donny’s throat. The large, pale hands seemingly operate themselves without a body. I stand frozen in terror as the Donny tries to fight the hands off, gurgling and attempting to catch his breath. It’s over before I can do anything about it. The hands are gone as quickly as they came, leaving behind only two hand-shaped bruises on Donny’s neck. What am I going to do? I can’t go out there and say that two hands, all on their own, strangled Donny to death. They’ll think I’ve gone mad, and I am not mad. Or worse, they’ll think I did it. I decide to leave the restroom and not say anything when I get back. Hopefully they’ll find him later and assume it happened after I left.

I rejoin the group, acting as if nothing happened. It takes about half an hour for someone to find Donny. The police are called, but their investigation is inconclusive. It doesn’t take long for the owner to arrive to the venue. He decides to shut the place down until further notice, so the police can open up a bigger investigation of the property. No one objects this time, as the wedding party is crushed. No one can believe what happened. I keep my mouth shut.

Six months later, Lakeside Barn Weddings venue reopens, despite the still unsolved murder case. Darla insists on continuing to have the wedding as planned, although now at a later date and with a new best man. Today is the day, and this time everyone made it through the rehearsal dinner. Nobody dares mention what happened six months ago. The wedding isn’t until three this afternoon, but we have been here all morning decorating. The barn looks amazing. There are lights strung everywhere, and tons of flowers in Darla and Nick’s wedding colors: maroon and navy. Darla has meticulously placed every decoration and has a detailed plan of how the venue will be transformed from the wedding set up to the reception set up by the time the majority of the people arrive at five. Everything is just about ready; Darla just wants to practice walking down the aisle in her heels and wedding gown really quickly, then as soon as she’s done everyone will take their places for the wedding. They say it’s bad luck for a groom to see his bride in her wedding gown before the wedding, so Darla sends Nick back to his changing room.

“Crap!” I hear behind me. It’s the new best man, Donny’s brother, who is also a close friend to Nick and Darla.

“I have Nick’s wedding vows,” he says, holding up a folded piece of notebook paper. “I need to give these to him before the wedding starts, but I’m supposed to go escort my mother in right now and she hates to be kept waiting.”

“I can bring them to him,” I offer.

He thanks me and hands me the paper. I hurry off to give it to Nick. I find the room he has been using for changing. I knock on the door, and he answers, looking very nervous. He is so relieved when I hand him the vows, he thought he had lost them. I wish him good luck as I turn to head out the door and grab a seat to the wedding, but I stop when I hear a loud gasp behind me. The two hands are now wrapped around Nick’s throat, just like they did to Donny. Two hands, all on their own, squeeze Nick’s throat as his face begins to turn purple. I wish I can stop it, but I can’t. My heart is beating hard and fast in my chest; it’s deafening in my ears. All I can think is oh no, not again! Before I know it, Nick is gone, and so are the hands. I see the bruised handprints left on his neck as I exit his room. What now? Again, they’ll think I’ve gone mad if I explain that two hands just killed Nick, and I am most definitely not mad. I know what I saw, and I also know that I’ll look guilty if they find me with the body, so I flee the scene, closing the door behind me. When Nick doesn’t show up for lineup, a couple groomsmen go looking for him and discover his body. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the blood-curdling scream that escaped Darla when she found out.

It’s been a long day of police questioning and calling wedding guests to explain what happened. The venue owner insisted there was no rush to clean up, we could take the next few days if we needed, since he didn’t have another rental until the following weekend. However, the maid of honor decided we should at least pack up the food and desert, no reason for it all to go to waste. So, we spent a little time working on that, and now I’m sitting with Darla at the edge of the stage, looking at the wreckage that used to be her beautiful wedding set up. She stopped crying about an hour ago, finally running out of tears. Even though her tear-stained face has make-up smeared on it, and her eyes are red and irritated from being rubbed, she still looks just as beautiful as she always has. Now beautiful and single.

“I love him so much,” she finally sniffs. “I always have. All through high school I knew I loved him, and I knew even then I wanted to marry him someday.”

She was so busy reminiscing that she didn’t notice the two hands that moved towards her throat, but I did. They were the same two hands from the last two times, large and pale. She tried to scream, but by this point in the day she no longer had a voice. It didn’t matter anyways because she couldn’t get any air. She collapsed in no time, the fourth victim lying dead on the ground with two hand-shaped bruises on her neck. I looked down at the two hands, my two hands. I think I’ve gone too far this time. I really have gone mad.

by Zachary Bergstresser

by Ava Kavulla

El

Consejo de Mi Madre by Muncie Canon

“You should really try to learn some Español, Mijo,” my mother would always tell me. “Just a little bit at least, so you can speak with Abuela. She’s not going to be around forever you know.”

But Abuela was around forever, or at least longer than Mom. And since we haven’t heard from Dad for over ten years now, I have been living with her for the last month and a half. Abuela has lived in America for at least as long as I have been alive but has never bothered to learn English. I guess we are both stubborn in that way. Needless to say, things have been very…quiet the past month and a half. With only a month to go until I am old enough to move out and live on my own, why bother learning Spanish now? We make do; point to things, gesture, emphasize facial expressions; basically, life at home has just been one huge game of charades and no one is winning. Unfortunately, things are going to get worse before they get better, because every year Abuela returns to her hometown for Día de los Muertos, and this year she is insisting I go with her. As much as I don’t want to, she did take me in; how can I say no?

We are staying with Abuela’s sister, Tía Carmen, in her tiny, single-level house in Mexico, where she lives alone. I am sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the living room that connects to the kitchen in this open-concept house, so I have no bedroom I can hide in. Instead, I am smack dab in the middle of everything. I haven’t left the sofa much since we got here last night. Abuela and Tía Carmen have been chatting the whole time, catching up I suppose, but since I cannot understand a single word either one says, I have taken to counting and recounting the polka dots on Tía Carmen’s curtains. Luckily, the Día de los Muertos festivities begin later today, so we’ll take a trip into town.

My Abuela is very shy and keeps to herself in America, but that must be because she can’t communicate with anybody. Here, she is very outgoing and talkative. She seems to be popular too, the way people constantly stop to talk to her. I have never seen her smile so much.

“¡Hola Lola! ¿Cómo estás?” A tall, older man says to my Abuela.

“¡Hola Jorge! Yo estoy bien. ¿Tú recuerdas Mateo?” She responds.

“¡Sí, hola! ¿Cómo estás?” He says turning to me.

I have no idea what to say to that and I don’t want to be rude. I stand there awkwardly for a second, then thankfully Abuela answers for me.

“No habla Español,” she says shaking her head.

They both chuckle before starting into a conversation. They can laugh at me all they want; a couple more weeks and I won’t have to worry about speaking Spanish ever again. We continue to have conversations like that the rest of the afternoon, then later that evening the real fun begins. I swear everybody and their brother is out in the town square. There is live music and dancing. Plus, an aroma in the air of all the delicious foods being made for both the living, and offerings for the dead, placed on intricate displays containing photos and candles. The whole town looks awesome compared to how boring it looked yesterday. There’s bright colored paper strung everywhere, blazing orange flowers scattered about, and hand painted skulls made of sugar. I’m walking around, checking out the scene, when I see her. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She has dark colored hair that reaches down to her lower back, bright green eyes, and small, pink lips in the slightest curve of a smile. She has on a multi-colored dress that reaches her knees, and bright blue and pink paper flowers in her hair. I have to go meet her. I smooth back my hair and adjust the collar on my shirt. I walk over to her with as much swagger as I can muster, and when I reach her, I flash the smile that always drives the girls crazy back home.

“Hola,” she says.

Crap. I forgot; I can’t talk to this girl. How am I supposed to win over this girl when I can’t even talk to her?

“Hola,” I say back. At least I know that much. But then she seems to expect more, and I realize I’ve just been awkwardly staring at her for the past minute. I can make this work. I point to myself.

“I’m Mateo,” I say. “How are you?” I shrug and point to her.

“Maria,” she replies. Not what I was going for, but okay that works.

“Wanna dance?” I ask her. She looks at me confused.

“Want to,” I hold up two fingers at this, “dance?” I ask doing a little dance. She still doesn’t seem to be getting it. Oh boy.

“To,” I hold up my fingers, “dance?” I try again, exaggerating my dance a little more. When that still doesn’t work, I try a third time, but this time I exaggerate my dance a little too much, lose my balance, and trip over my own two feet, falling on my butt. She giggles wildly at this. I smile back at her.

“¡Maria!” a voice calls, and a group friends wave her over. She smiles at me, then turns and runs off.

Why didn’t I listen to my mom and learn some Spanish? At least Día de los Muertos is a two-day event, so I’ll have another opportunity tomorrow night. I return to Abuela who apparently had been watching the whole thing. She chuckles and shakes her head as we start towards Tía

Carmen’s.

Today is very similar to yesterday, with Abuela meeting and greeting with all kinds of people, but this time I pay attention. I figure I can pick up some of the language they use to greet each other and use it to talk to Maria tonight. I can’t wait; tonight, I won’t mess it up. When we finally get into town, I notice the party tonight is even bigger than it was yesterday. The crowd is larger, there’s tons of more food, and some people even painted skull designs on their faces. Maria has a skull design on one half of her face, but it does not conceal her beauty at all. If anything, she looks even prettier tonight with a pink dress now and extra flowers in her hair.

“Hola Mateo,” she greets me as I walk up to her.

She remembers my name! This time I’m ready to talk to her, but before I can speak, she calls a few others over.

“Mis amigos,” she says, gesturing at them.

I nod as if I understand. Okay, here goes nothing.

“¡Hola Maria adios! Como bien,” I say with a smile. Maria and all her friends bust out in laughter. I have no idea what I said, but I guess it wasn’t right. My face starts burning up. I think I might pass out. Maria must realize I’m embarrassed and stops laughing, but her friends don’t. I can’t believe I messed it up again! If my chances with Maria weren’t gone before, they definitely are now. I try to hide my embarrassment as I walk back to Abuela, who had been watching again. She must be sooo proud of her grandson. She gives me a sympathetic smile as we head out.

I bury myself in the sofa when we get back to Tía Carmen’s. Tomorrow, we have to go back into town to take down our offering displays, offrendas I think Abuela called them. There’s a chance I might see Maria then, not that it matters anymore now that I messed everything up again. She must think I’m a loser. Oh well, it all ends in a few days when I go back to America.

Today I plan on going into town with just Tía Carmen to clean. Abuela decided to hang behind today. Just as I’m about to leave, she calls my name.

“Mateo…you…love…Maria?” She asks slowly, trying her hardest to speak English.

“Well, I don’t know about love Abuela; I definitely like her…” I stop rambling as I notice she’s not following what I’m saying.

“Yes Abuela, I love Maria,” I grin.

She reaches to her left and grabs a bouquet of flowers out of a vase and hands them to me. “Take…go...” she says winking.

For once I understand what she means. With flowers in hand, I start to head out the door, then turn back. There’s something I have to do first.

“I love you Abuela,” I say, and I can tell from her smile and the tears in her eyes that she finally understands me too.

by Ava Kavulla

Difficult Conversations

by Muncie Canon

The sun awakens me, and I roll onto my side away from it. Wait; where’s George? He should be lying right next to me. I sit up, gazing around the room. Did it always look like this? Who rearranged my apartment? Where’s George? I get up and search around, but George is nowhere to be found. Why would he leave and not say anything? Two quick knocks and the door opens, revealing a large, bubbly dark-haired woman.

“Hi, Mrs. Murkle, how are you this morning?” She greets me. Who is this woman? She apparently knows me. I’m horrible with faces. “Where’s my husband, George?” I ask her.

“Honey, George passed away,” she tells me without flinching.

The room starts to close in on me. There’s no way this can be true. How could she just blurt it out like that? She must be kidding.

“That’s nothing to joke about,” I say.

She explains to me that she isn’t joking; he really did pass away. My eyes well up with tears as I ask how. It was a heart attack. She tells me everything as if it’s just casual news, no hint of emotion in her voice, but her news breaks me. She grabs my hand and offers me a sympathetic look, and then the strange woman just leaves me there to process this earth-shattering news alone. My face is hot. I’m burning up. Breath in out. In out. IN OUT! IN OUT! My face is dripping with tears. Shirt is soaked with tears. Eyes are blinded by the blur of tears! My body shakes violently with every sob. Wait! I have to call Sheryl and tell her about her father’s passing. I grab the phone and start to dial…who am I calling? Why am I crying? I have to get out of here. I hang the phone up and start into the hallway but stop short because there are strange people everywhere. I don’t recognize any of them; do they all live here?

A man with a cane walks out of the neighboring apartment. That’s not Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Johnson was never one for company.

“Morning Betty,” he offers with a polite grin.

I say good morning back, but I still can’t place this man who apparently knows me. I think I need to go for a walk and get some fresh air. I push open the double doors to feel the rush of the cool morning air. However, the lovely sound of birds chirping is drowned out by a shrill beeping sound. Within seconds, two young men grab me and start to lead me back inside.

“Hey!” I shout. “Hey! What are you doing? Let go of me! Who are you? Let go of me!”

“You must stay inside Mrs. Murkle; you know that” they scold me.

“Why must I stay inside?” I ask, but they ignore me.

They drag me back to my room and abandon me there. How frustrating! I just wanted some fresh air! Before I can try to go outside again, the dark-haired woman is back. This time with a blond-haired woman and a teenage boy.

“Sheryl and Owen are here to see you,” the dark-haired woman tells me with a smile.

Who the hell are Sheryl and Owen?! Wait! Oh no! Where’s George? I haven’t seen him all morning.

“Where’s George?” I asked the woman and young boy. They just stare at me with pity. “Where is George?” I ask louder. Now I’m sobbing.

I can’t remember when I last saw him. Did he ever come home from work last night? I sit on the bed. I hold my arms. I rock back forth back forth back forth.

“Where’s George?!” I shout it this time, not even bothering to wait for a response.

“Where’s George?! Where’s George?! WHERE IS GEORGE?!” I choke on my sobs. The blond-haired woman attempts to take my hand, but I pull away.

“Mom,” She says gently, “we talked about this yesterday, remember? Dad passed away years ago.”

But I don’t remember. What is she talking about?

“She’s been like this all morning,” the dark-haired woman says. “She even tried to escape at one point.” She sighs. “But that’s not unusual for patients with Alzheimer’s.”

by Zachary Bergstresser

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