Obscured
cru·ci·ble ‘kroosәb(ә)l/ noun
1. a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures. 2. a place or occasion of severe test or trial. 3. a place or situation in which different elements interact to produce something new.
The Crucible borrows its name from UNC’s first student magazine, which served what was then the Colorado State Normal School from 1892 to 1920. We chose the name to honor both UNC’s heritage as a teachers’ college and its students of today and tomorrow. Like its counterpart in chemistry, The Crucible purifies its contents; it challenges its contributors to test themselves and to strive for flawlessness in their future creative ventures. © 2018 by United Student Literary Voices All rights reserved by respective authors. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The views expressed in this book do not necessarily reflect the views of The Crucible staff. Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2018 United Student Literary Voices University of Northern Colorado Campus Box 109 Greeley, CO 80639 www.crucibleunc.weebly.com Cover art by Grace Hoag “Interference” - 20x16” Acrylic on hardboard panel © 2018 “Raven”, “Rotten Hand”, “Stag Beetle”, and “Three-Eyed Rabbit” courtesy of Anna Harbert Interior designed by: Jason Keller, Mary Harbert, and Kathryn Derby
STAFF Editor-in-ChiEf
Kathryn Derby
ViCE PrEsidEnt
Kaila Ward
sECrEtary
Erika Siebring
trEasurEr
Austin Huber
CrEatiVE dirECtor Editors
Jason Keller and Mary Harbert Savannah Wilson, Abbigail Andersen, Justin Venman, Abigail Merlette, Molly Riggs, Grace Hoag, Cale Newton, Cooper Newton
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Readers, Another semester has come and gone, and another Crucible edition has made its way into your hands. Every semester our editors pour their heart and soul into putting together the book you now hold. Your peers present their best works to fill these pages, and you pick up the book to enjoy. This time around, we decided to define our Fall 2018 edition by the word “Obscured.” “Obscured” is an inherently interesting word, as it forces a reader to think differently about something. That is what we invited our authors and artists to do -- think about the world in a different way, an original way, one that nobody has seen before. Within these pages are fragments of people’s lives, people’s memories; how fascinating it is to think of the world around us and all it is capable of. This is the canvas we created for ourselves and our peers, and here we are putting it in an ornate frame and hanging it on the wall to be viewed. Naturally we are not alone in this gallery of thought. The Crucible staff extends it heartiest thanks to our advisor Lisa Zimmerman, and her continued, unwavering support of our creative endeavors. We also thank the UNC Office of Clubs and Organizations for giving us the resources to showcase the best our contributors have to offer, as well as the tireless efforts of our staff. We invite you to browse, and enter each of these portals with an open mind and your imagination bared. With care, The Crucible editing staff
TABLE OF CONTENTS Poetry Xan Cordova
1760 - Late September fall far from...
7 29
Natasha Tutavac
The Maw
10
Tyler Borkowsi
Bruise Easy Mourning the Innocent
12 22
Evelyn White
Half-Seen Somethings
14
Karianie Cotto
Brujeria
16
Austin Huber
DI\I/DE (Two Beings)
23
Kaila Ward
Silhouette
24
Joie Games
Intrusive Melancholy
27
Samuel Schoenecker
Elegy for Floating
31
Olivia G. Fink
Oct.
38
Prose Mary Harbert
Belonging
18
Ethan Duggan
Grafted
26
Molly Riggs
Bridge
33
TABLE OF CONTENTS CONTINUED Art Grace Hoag
Interference Crow
Cover 21
Elliot Douglas
8 27 47
13 17 32
Elyssa Buettel
Silhouette
25
1760 - LATE SEPTEMBER Xan CordoVa She walks into the room like punctuation and demands the whole world Between her manicured fingertips. We watch her, Because she is beautiful. Beautiful like Forest fire. Beautiful like Storm surge. She moves like a mirror, a shark in shallow water. She knows we are watching, knows we want to wear her lipstick. Want to sink into her Oblivion. She smells like iron and clove cigarettes. She is first class like Sparkling water in Flint. She sings lullabies like Automobile accidents. Loving her is falling asleep while driving. We drive without seatbelts. Cordova | Crucible 7
She calls herself what others would deny. Greed. She names herself, Because others Would call it progress. We love her like the yellow drunk loves to drown. This desire, Eats the world. This slick black hunger is a red light On a January morning. They called her evil, because it’s the only word they knew. Evil, A dark hooded boogeyman That lives behind our socks and tennis shoes. To comfort our bright eyes, Our soft hearts. All I know is, Many bad men Had warm beds and cotton dreams. Once were good. Once. To be fucked by her We’ll tie our own nooses and kiss forty fives. Rocks in our pockets, Rivers in our ears, To get our American dream. She walks over to me and 8 Crucible | Cordova
I wonder, What’s the worst we could do? What’s the worst we could do?
Cordova | Crucible 9
THE MAW natasha tutaVaC Red door creaks open, letting the old ghosts pile out in a frenzied tumble of heavy painful breaths. Atrophied steps strewn down in front of me, leading into the depths of crimson nightmare– that gaping maw of fear. Deafening throb of white noise in my ears, feeling the darkness below lapping at my hesitant feet. Damning memories cracking through the dusty air in the damp cellar, smelling of old wine and musty secrets. Worn soles on the bottom of my boots scraping against the forgotten gravel, seeking fingertips gliding across the soot-covered wall. Latching onto the switch of the swinging ceiling light, I hold it captive– Immobile. I close my eyes 10 Crucible | Tutavac
against the glaring tenebrosity, remembering the way below the surface. Taking a fortifying breath I release the light, allowing the invasion of a cheap flickering bulb. Swallowing with a dry throat, I begin to close, I begin to end, shutting it all down.
Tutavac | Crucible 11
BRUISE EASY tylEr Borkowski The night is frantic Full of tangling legs, Ink Blots, And the inability to breathe. The stars are forgotten Replaced by the sensual amber of streetlights, and the darting eyes of airplanes overhead. Strangers, Constricting, Strangling, And replicating what once felt right, The love is lost. Only the Morning can save us now.
12 Crucible | Borkowski
8 Elliot douglas
Douglas | Crucible 13
HALF-SEEN SOMETHINGS EVElyn whitE Clouds of shadow part. Moonlight graces gentle plains. The nightingale sings. That twilight hour, When streetlamps–once dormant–wake To cast darkness out. Stars smile above. Rarely do I meet their gaze, Lost in neon dreams. Your eyes hold answers Down in their cavernous depths. I might drown diving. Time stops, suspended, As I long for your reply. All hangs on your lips… Brake lights wax and wane. Throngs of cars trudge through the night, Duties done, towards home. My face faces me– Reflected in black water Where the waves distort. Indescribable: Half-seen somethings I can’t grasp, Just out of my reach. 14 Crucible | White
Another day dawns, Questions linger in my mind‌ No sound but the lark.
White | Crucible 15
BRUJERIA karianiE Cotto My father is magic One time I got a stye on my eye and he got rid of it with just his finger He used that jibaro magic The magic grandma uses when we get sick Egg over forehead and Tea leaf magic My father is magic Stretches $10 across a week My father is magic He turns dirt into Neosporin And leaves into band-aids My father is black man alive in America magic My father is island boy turned entrepreneur magic My father is drug dealer Turned husband and father magic He traded in his spot on the block For a bench at the playground My father has so many acts He fixed any car while fueled on Corona and high blood pressure medications I swear he levitated every time we played double dutch He disappeared for months at a time at the bottom of the bottle Found quarters in the back of my ear He disappeared for good.
16 Crucible | Cotto
27 Elliot douglas
Douglas | Crucible 17
BELONGING Mary harBErt Dust settled onto my poorly-laced sneakers as I landed in the loose dirt beneath the swing. I slumped over onto the tree it was attached to and kicked my feet out in front of me. A cloud of powder shook free. It settled back onto the ground and over my jeans into a fine layer. The swing creaked next to me. A few yards away an old house sat, nearly caving in on itself from the weight of the years. Its wooden siding had white paint peeling from it, revealing a decaying wood. The wrap-around porch seemed to be the only thing left to support the structure, yet it looked as though it would collapse at the slightest breeze. But the air was still. It has always been still. I brushed my hands onto the front of my pants and stood up quickly. I teetered forward with the momentum, almost losing my balance. I placed my hands in my overall pockets and looked up at the roof—the gray roof with its missing shingles, shingles that once shimmered like obsidian. Those days have long passed. A shift behind the house caused several crows to take off, black objects against an unnaturally blue sky. A shiny object dropped suddenly in front of me. As expected, it was almost immediately covered in dirt. With a sigh, I picked it up, brushed off what I could, and placed it in my pocket. I glanced up into the sun, never having fully learned the lesson about its powerful rays, to try to stare beyond the blue, to the stars and the infinite, imagining what it would be like up there. I heard a gentle caw from a far up branch from an unseen friend. I nodded and looked to the house again. A wisp of dark gauzy fabric floated gently from the side of the house, disappearing behind it. Another caw beckoned me to explore. I followed. I felt the soft padding of dust under my feet, the color of linen and bone—silt-like—shifting beneath me. Distracted and daydreaming, I looked out to my right towards the horizon. An ocean of trees extended out from this little island of dust. I wondered if there was anything beyond. My foot caught on the crumbling porch—a plank of rotting wood curved out from the building as a means of escape. I fell, but something caught the 18 Crucible | Harbert
back of my overalls. I felt the strain on the metal fasteners against the buttons sewn into the denim. My hands scraped the ground, but I was able to recover. My feet sliding and stirring up dust like a drifter, I twisted around to see my savior. A woman in a forest-green gown stood before me. Her face was stoic and her posture, draped in crêpe, was akin to a Greek statue. Her face, the color of emperador marble, shifted as she exposed a toothy grin, enhanced by a piece of jewelry, ornate and golden, hanging from her septum. The gold revealed an array of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “Come with me, child,” she said in a deep and warm voice. “I have someone you should meet.” She reached for my hand and I took it. Stumbling along the terrain long outgrown, I was ushered to the entrance of the house. I had not been on this side before. Turned away from me, an aged rocking chair was positioned towards the expansive mass of trees, inescapable and imposing. A woman with long gray hair, and a well-worn printed shawl draped around her shoulders, sat slowly creaking on the wooden seat as she thoughtfully watched this ancient scene. She turned to look over her shoulder and greeted me with a wide smile. Her tawny skin lined by the passage of time, wrinkled further to show the years of smiles she had made in her life. “Hello, sweetheart,” the woman said. Her eyes gave a small, starlit twinkle. I was stunned for reasons unknown to myself; my feet planted where I stood. With my mouth slightly agape, I continued to stare. “Give me that, please,” she said with a slight croon to her voice. My hand immediately slipped into my pocket and gripped what my friend, the crow, had given me. “Now, sweetie.” The woman turned back to face her scenic view, fully expecting for me to comply with her demand. The statuesque woman in green dropped her hand to my shoulder and gave me a slight push of encouragement. I looked up at her. Her eyes were lined with shimmery emerald kohl that made me think of grass in the sunlight. I took a small step forward and then another. Eventually, I made it to the front of the rocker. The woman distracted, as if a million thoughts went through her head, bobbed and spoke to herself in a hushed and imperceptible tone. I placed my gift onto her lap. She stopped, all attention affixed to this gift. Her cracked and creased hands reached to cradle it. Scooping it up, she brought it to her face, closed
Harbert | Crucible 19
her eyes, and returned to her gentle muttering. The crows gathered. My gaze stood strong—unmoved and unbroken— watching this woman. The caws grew louder, surrounding me and her. But as she looked up from her clasped hands, our eyes locked. An icy blue, like a tundra I have never seen, kept me from collapsing under the barrage of dark feathers beginning to encroach upon us. Her frizzy hair started to sway gently as if a breeze took. Then, a rush of wind, like a vortex, overcame us all.
20 Crucible | Harbert
CROW graCE hoag
Hoag | Crucible 21
MOURNING THE INNOCENT tylEr Borkowski Biting into the fleshy pulp Estrogen bleeds into my mouth And dribbles down my chin. The predator is satisfied But the man, Ashamed.
22 Crucible | Borkowski
DI\I/DE (TWO BEINGS) austin huBEr I Step outside. Feel the plasticity of the earth. Each object a façade, pressed into the skin Changing, churning, made of such beautiful arts Produced by a one, a master. A master with a mind Of metal. Impossible. Immeasurable. Morose. II Breathe the free air again. The molecules mingle with brachia. Life courses. Life coarsest. Until the waning sun restores the darkness, loosening the door Of a monster with a mouth as monstrous As a gaping grotto swamped with vestiges of masked lifeforms. III Imagine a feast filled with acres of cookware. Sauces and settings, salts and scotches, all for attendants you can’t see. Maybe a plate made of metal, but more precious than gold. The master and monster are set to imbibe and consume. Your blood and bile fill their steins. Your flesh piles their plates. IV\/VI Chisel a caricature to be your likeness. Escape. Leave it behind. Just this once. Confuse them. They see only a simple simian. You are more.
Huber | Crucible 23
SILHOUETTE kaila ward Drowning in darkness, Their hands reach for unforgiving lights. They reside in apparitions. They are impermanent shadows, On temporary walls. They are nameless, faceless, and godless. They are creatures of cruel creation, Grasping at a final chance of normality. These night walkers are human in nature. For they too, Are merely understudies to their own ambitions.
24 Crucible | Ward
SILHOUETTE Elyssa BuEttEl
Buettel | Crucible 25
GRAFTED Ethan duggan
26 Crucible | Duggan
INTRUSIVE MELANCHOLY JoiE gaMEs The light beyond my eyes Illuminate the shadows beneath my lids Red hues outline the images conjured by my mind DISREGARD THIS MESSAGE Words race across the innards of my head Attempting to interpret the visuals Do the images come before the words or the words before the images DISREGARD THIS MESSAGE Possibilities of contentedness are growing slim Conscious misconnections breed neurotransmitter confusion Unbalanced chemicals control our lives DISREGARD THIS MESSAGE Fatigue hits my hollow form The fog can’t hide my current self Nothing can stifle my sorrow Games | Crucible 27
I’ll never be more than what I am RECEIVING TRANSMISSION Ignore the sadness Find some sun and bask in the warmth Surely, if you smile hard They won’t notice your veneers Simply, feign happiness Maybe one day you’ll have it
28 Crucible | Games
FALL FAR FROM.. Xan CordoVa They tried to make you whole. Teeth straight Eyes bright Sober. But you are fault lines, High tide, Snow in September. You are a jigsaw puzzle of the night sky. It’s hard to see Why you fit together. You have ghosts in your throat, Memories in your veins, Hereditary hauntings. They tried to love you. Sitting on the wooden pews Dress white Eyes bright Tired. What you say Doesn’t matter. What does: God, Washing machines, Caffeine pills. You are a leap year Waiting for a birthday. Cordova | Crucible 29
Coffee hickeys on Paper napkin proposals Thinking about tomorrow While in bed with today. They pierced you together. Bone to muscle, Muscle to skin, Bathed you in holy water, “Absolve me of my sins The ones I’m yet to have.” You look like your parents. Rosary eyes, Cigarette sighs, Where do they end and you begin
30 Crucible | Cordova
ELEGY FOR FLOATING saMuEl sChoEnECkEr Thought it was solid, turns out it’s liquid. Thought the boat was built to specs, but regrets served as floor boards. We’re drowning in a depraved ocean, searching for life, but it’s elsewhere. Losing your face in the fog, I reach for your hand, but ice water fingers veins, inking hearts till numb. Bodies turn to weight (drowning in the wait) guess we should’ve been breathing, love. How’d we get here? I take it all back, let’s just be kids.
Schoenecker | Crucible 31
47 Elliot douglas
32 Crucible | Douglas
BRIDGE Molly riggs She buckled him into the back seat of her beat-up Sedan, looking over her shoulder, suspicious to prying eyes peeking from behind closed drapes. Finding none, she looked back at her oblivious and gleeful son, kicking legs carelessly as he gazed at his mother, eyes gleaming in admiration. Those eyes did not interest her as much as the nonexistent eyes searching through peepholes to catch her in the act, and she scanned the row of apartment doors once more before climbing into the front seat and starting the engine. Sure she was free and clear, she placed her shaking hands on the steering wheel and her foot on the gas and didn’t look back, not even checking her rearview mirror to spot those admiring eyes. She drove from the city, drove for hours, until trees swallowed that Sedan on all sides, a chameleon of chipping, forest green paint among nature’s skyscrapers. Still, when he looked out the window, he could detect the light peeking its way through, and he imagined the two-lane, cold, concrete road, crumbling around the edges, thanking the thin sun rays for warming and lighting the long-forgotten path to nowhere. His name was Michael and he had a wild imagination. Whenever his mother sank into a world of her own, as she often did, he sunk into his, imagining that the inanimate had faces and names and personalities, and they spoke and laughed and joked, and yes, sometimes they cried too because we all do. This road had surely been crying before the sun beams had come along to bring it a smile, before the tires of that determined Sedan ran its tread over the forgotten path to remind it of its purpose. Michael liked to imagine the street smiling as they passed, and he looked at his mother still with admiration for making that joy possible with this unexpected journey. Just as unexpectedly as the journey had begun, early that morning, the journey came to a halt when the sun was directly above their heads. The car made an abrupt stop in the center of a red brick bridge connecting the road they’d come from to the road they’d never go. A lazy stream ran tiredly beneath, dried up enough to reveal once hidden, now carved down, Riggs | Crucible 33
rock and dirt on either side. It was here that she stopped the car, stepped out, glanced around again for penetrating eyes—though there was no one else around and probably had not been for centuries—and went to the back to remove Michael from his seat. “Where are we, Mommy?” curious child, he asked, but she did not grace him with a response. In a trance of blind determination for a goal not specified, even in her own mind, she carried him around the corner of the bridge and down the steep hill of grass and weeds that led to the stream beneath. There she set him down in the dirt, feet splayed out toward the edge of that dried brook, back propped up against the faded brick. He ran his little, tender fingers along the rough stone and met a curious indentation that proceeded in four consistent lines. He didn’t question why his mother had brought him here, or why she was standing up as if to leave, but instead, he asked, “What does this say, Mommy?” She squatted back down to read the engraving. “When darkness comes / and pain is all around / like a bridge over troubled water / I will lay me down.” He stared up at her curiously, waiting for more of an explanation. “It’s a song,” she threw out carelessly, rising quickly on her feet, as if it had been a grave inconvenience to have squatted down in order to read such nonsense in the first place. What does it mean? he wanted to ask but knew she wouldn’t answer. So instead, he stared intently at the fragile words in the hope that the significance would jump out at him. That was why he didn’t notice his mother walk away from him until she was so far that he had to yell. “Where are you going, Mommy?” Michael shouted, and she halted in her place, as if she had just been caught by the prying eyes waiting for her back in the city. “I’ll be right back,” her voice shook as she called out the lie without guilt. “Just sit right there and wait for me.” And so he did. Why not? And while he waited on a mother who had hastily gotten into that beat-up, forest-green Sedan and driven back in the direction they came, Michael returned his eyes to the words to try and make sense of them. He was stumped though. Especially the first line: When darkness comes. He squinted eyes up at the sun rays that had previously brought joy to the lonely road, now streaming over the edge of the bridge and casting a defined line between shadow and light just past his reach. Though his mother had told him not to move, he took two big scooches over into the sun, closed his eyes, and smiled up to the sky, letting the sun rays warm his unblemished child’s face. And as he looked up, Michael
34 Crucible | Riggs
imagined he was a plant, letting the sunlight soak into his veins so that he may live on as a plant for another day. He placed his hands by his side, clawing his fingers into the dirt, and let his roots sink in. He sat up straight, tall and proud, just like a prideful plant would do, eyes still closed as he breathed calmly in and out, producing oxygen by which the animals of this forest could breathe—could live—another day. Just like him, who swayed now in the gentle breeze and allowed his leaves to open wide, raising his arms up to the sky. But soon he grew quite hot, sweat dripping down his child’s face to remind him that he wasn’t really a plant, but a little boy named Michael. A little boy named Michael who was quite hot. He gazed longingly at the little stream, and imagined what would happen if he jumped right in. Surely it was deeper than it seemed and if he dove headfirst, he’d plunge to the depths filled with colorful coral and swaying seaweed—cousins of the plant he’d previously been. But now, he was a fish, darting along beside brothers who blew bubbles and swam carefree, just as him. He could breathe in and out easily and the cool, blue water had no effect on his sparkling gills. And there was nothing to be done except to float around, listen to the blub-blub sound of his brothers trying to communicate, and gaze at the sun beams breaking through the surface of the water, being deflected in all sorts of crazy ways. The sun compelled him, and suddenly he got the urge to swim to the surface and leap from the stream with all his might. When he landed in the dirt, Michael had transformed again, this time into a little bear cub. And from the edge of the trees, he saw his mother, a bear now too, calling for him to catch up. And of course he hurried: He had been waiting for her here all along. He darted on all fours between the trunks of trees, letting the sneaking sun beams warm his dark brown fur as they broke their way through the thick leaves that grew even thicker as he bolted further into the dense forest, running after a mother who seemed to be running just the same, seeing as he just couldn’t seem to catch up. And he started to get a bit scared, because the further he ran, the more ominous the forest became, allowing less and less of the sun beams to break through. And he remembered the second line etched into the brick bridge—and pain is all around—and he began to understand a little better what it meant. Still he continued on, seeking his mom. He bounded along at top speeds, claws pulling up dirt each time he set a paw down just to bring it up again, sort of like how he had grasped at the dirt when he was still a boy transforming into a plant. He ran so fast, in fact, that eventually his feet stopped touching the ground at all, and instead he seemed to be gliding through the air: flying.
Riggs | Crucible 35
And it was then that Michael realized, at some point, he had changed from bear to bird. He flew up past the tops of the trees toward his flock of friends who drifted through the sky in a precise line, as if they were following a path to nowhere, same as his mom and him had followed the endless road. He told the bird friend to his left about that road, and the beat-up Sedan, but that bird friend didn’t seem to care; he just sailed along in blind determination. Michael told his not-so-friendly bird friend then that he was going to fly straight up to the sun. It was then that his bird friend finally graced him with a response: Where are you going? and then What does it mean? and then What does it say? and finally Where are we? and at that point, Michael decided that his bird friend was a bit crazy, so he flew away from him and the other birds. He closed his eyes and flew straight for the sun, in hopes that he could soak up a bit of its joy, just like the lonely road. But when Michael opened his eyes again, he was back on the ground, face up to the sky, now dark and stormy, no sign of the sun. And when he looked down at his hands, he found them large and weathered, which brought him to the grave realization that upon landing, he had transformed from a boy to a man. His skin was tan and his palms were coarse from years and years of sitting in the dirt, waiting for a mother who seemed to have never returned. He glanced at the bridge, even more weathered than his old man’s face after all these years, and the stream which was now a mad and rushing river, and the next line came to him then: like a bridge over troubled water. He believed that he now knew what it meant. But there had been one more line. What was it? To get the complete picture he needed to remember, but after all this time, he just couldn’t. Desperate, he crawled on hands and knees back into the shadow of the bridge, running his calloused fingers along the deteriorating stone, searching for the indentation—searching without luck. What was it? What was it? Suddenly his shaking arms gave out, and he collapsed beneath the bridge. He conceded to lie down. As he shifted slowly from his stomach to his back, tears falling from the corners of his eyes in thinking about all the lonely years he’d spent alone beside this bridge, the final words came to him in the most tragic way. I will lay me down. To sacrifice yourself for the one you love. And instead, his mother had sacrificed him to this bridge, this bridge who had cared for him more than his mother ever had, who weathered the storm for him, even now, broken and deteriorated. Michael placed his trembling hand back against the brick, a thank you to the bridge for always being there, and his fingers—now plump and smooth, a boy’s again—met the indentation of lyrics once more. The sun beams cascaded over the edge of the bridge, revealing a bright and sunny
36 Crucible | Riggs
day just two scooches away from where he lay in shadow. Yet he no longer desired to soak those rays up as a plant, or a fish, or a bear, or a bird, or as an old man, a lonely road. Nor did he want to be the little boy, Michael, anymore. Instead, he became the bridge—took on the duty to relieve the tired brick before him. And there he resolved to stand strong for many years to come, weathering storms, smiling at sun beams, and waiting for another Sedan, with another imaginative boy inside, to travel along the lonely road and find him.
Riggs | Crucible 37
OCT. oliVia g. fink saturday: floating shapeless trees surround me, I feel protection in their shadows sunday: wash your hair, clean the dirt from underneath your nails fade into me rolling hills of orange yellow green brown red the sign in passing read drifting sand as she stood at the edge of the trail, where the opening without bounds dropped steeply to the sea, it looks so inviting, she said, “why is this not terrifying?” I couldn’t think of an answer, we walked on monday: call out to the clouds, demand what is yours tuesday: write the names of the five who need life before your own, pin it to the ceiling before the waves come wednesday: stand with the weight in your heels until you fall thursday: bury your feet before sunrise, close your eyes and drink water until it shines friday: “I am never awake; always dreaming” says the reflection in the mirror muddy and soaked saturday: you were laughing but there was no sound sunday: tears fall from the left eye only she says that kind of thing manifests itself 38 Crucible | Fink
we sit facing each other on the couch disconnected from my body a painting is a verb 12 pills in between every morning I forget how to breathe a spiraling ceiling of grey shadows replaced warm rays of summer I hear her cry at night they’re coming to get me and please believe I don’t pray out loud anymore monday: check your copper strings, you have to go inside yourself tuesday: deconstructing my dream pavement moves faster these days wednesday: cry on the train, tell them the medication is working thursday: read the notes on the mirror out loud try not to choose what you see friday: “keep track of the faces without names, but do not entertain” saturday: we eat from our ignorance empty your values on the hardwood floor run the hot water, float in your own filth sunday: still can’t face heights I’m standing on my gut can’t find my mouth blinded the saliva falls too long for me to watch fog seeps through my teeth, I hear the gun load keep your chin up and ten toes down “you live in a glass house” monday: find a label without the forest
Fink | Crucible 39
dancing in the pale yellow, there’s not much time left the sky ignores me, looking for a place to scream tuesday: my body harbors the memory, I keep my hands wet, it hasn’t gotten cold yet wednesday: push away from the space between your thumbs feel it all leave your crown thursday: our footprints get bigger, the soil is drying up friday:
40 Crucible | Fink
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES Tyler Borkowski is a sophomore theater student at UNC and what he really wants to gain and master in his writing is to capture solid images. He believes writing is a very powerful thing when you let your soul show you what it wants you to see, as opposed to trying to manufacture a narrative or an idea of yourself through writing. Elyssa Buettel is a sophomore theatre studies major. In addition to studying theatre, she enjoys activities such as photography and music. She is also a member of the Film Production Club here at UNC. Xan Cordova is an English major with a gender studies minor. When not writing she is involved with the Pride of the Rockies marching band on campus and the Blue Knights Percussion Ensemble. Karianie Cotto is a student majoring international affairs at the University of Northern Colorado. She has performed at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Denver as well as the Denver Art Museum through Denver’s youth slam poetry group, Minor Disturbance. She published her first chapbook the spring of 2017 and gravitates to writing on her own experience as a queer Latina woman in the current socio-political climate. Elliott Douglas is a visual artist and poet who is inspired by nature and fascinated by humans. He plans to travel after college. Luke Duggan is a junior studying English at the University of Northern Colorado. When he’s not writing he’s most likely running or collecting music. He has been published in Sonder Midwest as well as The Winnow Magazine. He likes to observe the way people are, and hopefully not in a creepy way. He appreciates you taking the time to read his writing. You can follow him on Twitter for short prose and updates at the handle @lukeduggan12, buy merchandise with his words printed on it at lukedugganwrites.threadless.com, and read his articles at medium.com/@lukeduggan_62250. Olivia Grace Fink is an undergraduate student at the University of Northern Colorado, she plans to graduate in 2020 with a BA in both sculp-
Notes | Crucible 41
ture and K-12 art education, along with a certificate in arts entrepreneurship. She grew up and lives in Colorado, where she spends time outdoors with her family and friends. She is passionate about trees, live music, the rain and guacamole. Currently, she is working on a series of 3D-printed and laser cut sculptures highlighting the use of palm oil. Joie Games is a graduate student in the Department of Chemistry and Biochemistry at the University of Northern Colorado. Outside of the lab, she enjoys consuming various media, but particularly loves the ones that evoke emotion and have dysfunctional leads. She enjoys dabbling in writing whether it be in an expression of her daily emotions or a random story that popped up in her head when she probably should’ve been paying attention in lecture. Beyond her love for chemistry and media consumption, she has a great passion for technology and how it influences our world. Mary Harbert is a senior English and journalism double major. She is expected to graduate spring 2019. Mary works for The Mirror, UNC’s student newspaper, as managing editor. She also holds officer positions in Sigma Tau Delta, the English Honors Society. She hopes to publish several novels one day and live in a cottage with her partner along with several cats and dogs. Grace Hoag is a multi-disciplinary artist with work in painting, ceramics, printmaking and jewelry. She is a junior at UNC with a major in art and design, minor in business administration, and certificate in arts entrepreneurship. To view more art, please visit Grace’s artist website at gracehoag. com, or follow her on Instagram @_hoagieroll. Austin Huber is a junior English major, who hopes of taking his hobby of creative fantasy writing and make something of it. He’s probably the best Dungeon Master in the world, and when he’s not reading or playing video games, he’s probably trying to find something tall to climb to the top of. He hates long walks on the beach (because sand is rough and coarse and it gets everywhere), but he’s not afraid to fight off a squirrel if he has to. Molly Riggs is an English major with a minor in writing at the University of Northern Colorado. Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to be a bridge. Sam Schoenecker is a senior English major from Colorado Springs.
42 Crucible | Notes
Though this is his first foray into writing for print publication, he has previously written for Hello My Name Is…, UNC’s sketch comedy group, and other live theater events. Follow him on Twitter (@Sam_Schoenecker) for a basic take on basic news, then head over to his Instagram (@shoe_necker) to see what bullshit caption he can cook up next. Natasha Tutavac, Croatian born, is a psychology major who needed “to feed her soul” so she took up a minor in writing. She has affinity for anything macabre, mysterious and thought-provoking. She can often be found in poetry stacks of the library, surrounded by the Greats, scribbling inspired thoughts on ripped out pieces of paper. Kaila Ward is an English Education major with minors in film and creative writing at UNC. She enjoys blogging and writing and is currently in the process of publishing a book of poetry. From romance to horror, Kaila enjoys several genres of literature but finds a particular love in the poetic world. While she is often seen running around campus, it is not unusual to spot her with her favorite book, The Great Gatsby. After all, a girl’s best friend is F. Scott Fitzgerald, right? Evelyn White joins us from Sacramento, California, where she performed as an actor and singer and received an associate of arts in social sciences (Sacramento City College), before migrating to UNC to pursue a bachelor of music in vocal performance. She has worked on publishing projects as both a writer and editor in the past, but the haiku collection “Half-Seen Somethings” included in this edition of The Crucible will be her first published poetry. For performance updates, photography, and the occasional poem, be sure to follow her Instagram (@eve.l.white).
Notes | Crucible 43