Synecdoche 2023

COPYRIGHT - 2023 Synecdoche Literary Journal of Vanguard University is a trademark used herein.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopy, recording, taping, web distribution, information networks or information storage and retrieval systems -- without the written permission of Synecdoche Literary Journal of Vanguard University.

Contact Information Vanguard University English Department

(714)-556-3610 ext. 2500

synecdoche@vanguard.edu

Cover Design by: Alysha Muñiz/ © D.I.N.Studios

Synecdoche 2023 Editorial Team

Michael Robles Editor in Chief/Managing Editor

Jackson Swindle Marketing Editor

Eden Pohl Photography & Art Committee

Calvin Erbe Copy Editor

Alysha Muñiz Production Editor

Megan V. Luebberman Editor in Chief/Managing Editor

Sophia Trejo Creative Works Committee Editor

Dylan Cuffari Scholarly & Creative Works Committee

Jacob Zabka Photography & Art Committee Editor

Professor Warren Doody English Department Chair

Mikyla Bultsma Scholarly Works Committee Editor

Creative Works Committee

Eden Pohl, Dylan Cuffari, Jacob Zabka, Sophia Trejo

Editors in Chief

Megan Luebberman and Michael Robles

Scholarly Works Committee

Dylan Cuffari & Mikyla Bultsma

Photography & Art Committee

Eden Pohl & Jacob Zabka

Letter From the Editors

Michael Robles and Megan Luebberman

Four years ago, one of us wrote a poem about the idea that we cannot create something profound with the intention of it being profound. Writing this letter, we were confronted with a similar issue. How can one write something that perfectly culminates in an entire journal consisting of art, writing, and creativity by various students at a university?

The truth is, it’s hard. No single word, sentence, or entire letter can perfectly summarize the authenticity of a project like Synecdoche.

Until one word, or concept, came to mind: vulnerability.

As a creative, it is terrifying to be vulnerable in one’s work. Moreover, it takes courage to let a single person, let alone an entire editorial team, see your work. Because, it’s not just your work. It’s a display of your very soul, the inner workings of your mind and heart poured out. Whether fiction or autobiographical, paint or photography, something lyrical or repetitious–there’s deeper meaning beneath the surface. Some pieces become reflections of our lives, intentional or not. Others stand as a testament to life’s truths–its tragedies and triumphs, its joys and pains.

Creatives come in all forms. No matter the medium, artistic expression is valuable. In many words or few, a story can reveal a lifetime. Similarly, one standalone photograph can speak emotion and age into a lone landscape. An art piece can evoke passion, longing, and mixed sentiments. An essay, carefully crafted, can embody the realities of present-day discussions in a masterful way. All in all, the form doesn’t matter–the heart of the artist does.

A mental game of back-and-forth tends to develop in a creative’s mind when making something. Pride and shame stand at our shoulders, pleading with us to either put it on display or destroy it. I love this, we say. The fact that every piece of it, from beginning to end, contains a part of us that we have never shared before. Or, I hate this, we say. Every piece of it seems horrendous, as though we never should have made it in the first place. However, we dare to finish it, unveil it to the world, and await acknowledgment.

Waiting for either mockery or praise is daunting; another step in the process of sharing your work with the world. When the waiting period is finally over, you hear what everyone thinks about your piece. Regardless of the audience, whether it be a friendly face, a professor’s desk, or an expectant audience, facing feedback is tough. While it takes bravery to create something, it takes just as much, if not more, to share it. Yet, many did share with Synecdoche this year.

Synecdoche is more than a culmination of the creative minds that populate Vanguard. It’s more than a selection of what emphasizes the literary, artistic, and scholarly prowess that the student body possesses. Synecdoche is an image of who we are, what we do, and what we aspire to be. We strove for the 20th Anniversary Edition of this project, of this message, to show Vanguard what it takes to be a creative. The authenticity, the aspirations, and the faces that represent not just what creativity means, but what it can provide.

For 20 years, Synecdoche has been a project, a vital stepping stone for Vanguard’s English department. But it is more than that. It is a voice for the students who dare to be creative. And for 20 more years, it will be a collection of bravery, authenticity, and vulnerability. Synecdoche is that. A dare to be vulnerable. A dare to be creative. A dare to have a voice.

Acknowledgments

As we create, we keep in mind that everything we do is an imitation of the great creations of God. We are reflections of Him, made in His image. There’s nothing we can think of, or make, that God already hasn’t conceived of. It’s humbling to think about and makes us appreciate the gifts of creativity He has given us. At the end of the day, glory goes to Him. We are thankful that He gives us so many ways to express our souls…

A special thank you to Professor Doody, the English Department, and the Synecdoche Team for making the production of this journal possible! God has graced Vanguard with a department who understands that creativity is a journey more than a skill. The dedication they have for their students and staff is insurmountable. Thank you.

Also, thank you to the talented Alysha Muñiz, our Production Editor, for designing our cover and the entire journal.

Exodus 35:35

He has filled them with skill to do all kinds of work as engravers, designers, embroiderers in blue, purple and scarlet yarn and fine linen, and weavers—all of them skilled workers and designers.

Pieces with this symbol

were chosen by the team and English Department as the winning piece for their respective category:

Poetry - Death Do Us Part (45)

Photography/Art - A Car in Cinema Land (52)

Scholarly - Our Town: A Timeless Piece (89)

Prose - The Fun of Science (110)

All I Need is String Megan V. Luebberman

Was Waiting, Woefully wakeful.

Wandering in thoughts alone.

I slept like a kite tangled in a tree on a windy day.

Writhing, wrapped up, and woozy.

Wriggling weakly.

Whispering Please Go To

A Hidden World Mikyla Bultsma

It is a commonly held notion that a single book can be a portal to another world, but what do we call the place that acquires, stores, and trades such items? Of all the possible names out there, ‘bookstore’ sounds like a bit of a letdown. But I suppose that’s why they say not to judge a book by its cover.

The popularity of bookstores rises and falls as the years go by. Oftentimes, it is large chain bookstores, such as Barnes & Noble that will see the influx of clientele, leaving the diamond-in-the-rough bookstores to be excavated by adventuring souls.

It is one of these very bookstores that captured my heart the moment I stepped through the door some four years ago. Located off a main street in the busy city of Orange, surrounded by monotonous business buildings, this seemingly small diamond-in-the-rough hides out in plain sight.

From the outside, The Bookman appears small and inconsequential, although it is anything but that for true readers. As if established by its very own magic, the store seems to grow inside once the door closes behind me. I imagine it’s a feeling akin to what Lucy Pevensie felt when first discovering Narnia behind the door of a simple wardrobe.

It is easy to get lost in it all; shelves reaching to the ceiling and filled to the brim with books. One aisle after the next. Peering into each path is like gazing into an entire genre with my own eyes. There are the usual suspects: poetry, history, fiction and mystery, nonfiction, philosophy, romance and biographies. Even extending beyond the expected with books of math and science, food and cooking, religion and musical composition–literature reflects life and does not seek to limit itself to only what is expected.

It is easy to get lost. The place itself welcomes the notion. As the bookshelves tower over me, raising a world of ink on paper, it is a call for those who are willing to lose themselves in pursuit of something more than the world around them. Countless portals, collected and held in a few hundred square feet, waiting for a wandering soul to claim them and explore the world beyond the binding.

I cherish the feeling of walking through the aisle of fiction. As I walk amongst the novels and stories, it feels as if walking through time: seeing the books which are worn with use and age, some ranging as far back as decades passed. Oh, the people they have seen and the lives which they have touched firsthand. Begging a multitude of questions: Who has read these novels? How did they get there? Where will they go next?

At the heart of the store is what builds the heart of each reader: children’s books. I find there to be a certain poetry to the layout. Children’s literature holds the greatest of morals and meanings within the simplest of stories. If anything, all other established forms of literature are built upon the foundation set by children’s literature; further expounding upon tales and stories, building more complex plots and details, cloaking themes and morals underneath layers of allegories, symbolism, metaphors, and paradoxes. Just as the bookstore is designed around its children’s section, so is all literature inspired by those first meant for children.

The bookstore is a difficult place to leave; it is as if I leave a piece of my heart behind each time I depart. But there is comfort in the fact that it will always remain. Just as the realms within pages stay standing even after the book is closed.

A Sea Snapshot

Megan V. Luebberman

“Can we please go to the beach?” My mother pouted. “I guess,” I groaned reluctantly.

It seemed an inconvenience to leave the house and drive to the beach, even if it was only a 20 minute drive. For Californians that lived so close to the coast, we hardly saw the beach maybe 2-3 times a year. However, in response to my mom’s insistence, my stepdad and I packed up the car for an afternoon beach trip. The drive took little to no time, as expected, and then we were there staring at the beach. Sand flew into the air as a couple ran by to reach the water. Lots of people enjoyed the waning sun at the beach: photographers, dog-walkers, couples, and a good many surfers.

The beach was generally unappealing to me. I disliked the sneaky sand that always trailed into one’s car and home. The sticky salt water of the dark ocean also added to the discomfort. In most cases, I would much rather be at home in the comfort of my room. However, for my mom’s sake, I decidedly chose to enjoy the view.

The three of us walked towards the water, stopping where the damp sand began to smush under our feet. The sky already displayed vibrant hues of orange that continually shifted among the sparse clouds of the day. Even though I began bitterly at the start, the view did provoke simple joy inside of me.

A blond guy staggered up next to us as we stood looking out to the water. He held a surfboard in his hand and scanned the water with his eyes.

“How are you doing? Isn’t this great?” He said suddenly in a tone that made it seem as if we’d been waiting for his arrival.

“We’re in paradise, a beautiful view,” my step dad replied in a friendly manner.

The surfer agreed fervently, murmuring more appreciation for the beach.

“Thank you for your service,” he said, noticing my step dad’s military hat.

“Anytime.”

“My aunt used to build subs in the military,” the surfer rambled on in an almost incoherent sense. “It was wicked–some cool stuff. Very cool stuff. You see, she–”

My family and I peacefully watched the water come in more and more as the tide rose. Internally, I laughed at the talkative nature of the surfer. He was too talkative to not be under the influence of something.

Many surfers sat in the water, catching waves that formed very close to the shore. They rode the waves sideways, careening along the shore rather than in the direction of it. Children toddled along the water’s edge. A few picked up the wet sand and hurled it either in the ocean or at their friends.

I peeked at the surfer, who continued to chatter away about the beach.

“This is the life, right here on the beach. There is nothing better than this. The water, the sand, it’s the beauty of nature for ya...All you gotta do is get a cheap apartment with a couple roommates near the beach. It’s perfect.”

I reflected on this. The simplicity of his mentality caught my attention. He really did love beach life. He continued to talk on and on about this surfer lifestyle he’d chosen, but I didn’t listen to all of it. However, at one point, I whispered to my mom,“There really are surfer dudes out there. Just like the stereotypes.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, as if this were obvious. Eventually, the blond surfer went into the water and we saw him no more as he blended in with every other surfer. I wondered if someone really could surf day in and out and never tire of it. As the sun finished its journey below the horizon, I wondered what would become of him. Something he enjoyed so much I only could tolerate. Yet, glancing at both my parents I saw that it brought life to their eyes. Maybe the surfer tried to feel that awe every day, maybe he even succeeded.

The Tides Alysha Muñiz

A Letter from Marion Jaden Massaro

In the golden age of our lady Victoria’s reign, those of her role have power only in name given as gifts, gentle songbirds in a cage love for thousands in a compelled exchange.

The woman in white hides her tears behind a veil, she whispers of another to a sister to no avail. And, oh, he knows! Save her soul and his life for she loves him though she is to be another man’s wife.

From the look on her face, he learned the other’s name, hands on her shoulders, he says “Dream of him in pain. For you belong to me, as do your jewels. Be happy with me, or you will both be fools.”

So, she dons a false smile and a gown white as snow to be joined to the man as cold as its icy glow. And being only a woman there is nothing I can do, but I can assure you, my friend, her heart still belongs to you.

This is the greatest rebellion of her age: refusing her heart though her hand signed the page. My dearest hope is that someday those like her may choose but for the time being, her love is not his fortune to lose.

A Tad Odd Rebekah Pulaski

Andrew always knew he was peculiar. He knew from the way that people looked at him on the streets, from the way they introduced themselves to him, from the way he couldn’t tell if people really liked him or were just interested in him. But he did not know what had made him peculiar.

Maybe it was his profession? Andrew was a mortician. He dealt with dead people and knew that people did not think this was normal. He could always recall that familiar expression: the mouth dropping slightly slack, the tiniest raise of eyebrows to make space for the hidden astonishment in their eyes. He could tell that being a mortician was not quite the same as a dentist or a teacher or a lawyer.

Or maybe it was Andrew’s home life that threw them off? Andrew was not married and had no children. He was what people might call “alone,” but Andrew had always been alone in a way. He had parents of course, but they didn’t speak anymore, and he couldn’t actually remember most of his childhood. He tried not to dwell on the past.

Despite Andrew’s reclusiveness, he did not spend time calling himself lonely. He did have a social life. He liked to get coffee with his friends, on Thursday nights especially. The coffee shop they went to, Lily Pad Roasts, hosted poetry night—and Andrew loved poetry night. He loved it because it was an event. On the rare occasions he had gotten coffee without an event, he didn’t seem to know how to carry a conversation the same way his friends did. He wasn’t quick enough, couldn’t just say what was on his mind because—to his horror—his mind didn’t seem to work the same way his friends’ minds worked. But that all melted away on poetry night. Their conversations didn’t follow the same topics they usually did. Instead, they all sat, unified by the nerves that come from sharing the most vulnerable parts of your heart with people you barely know, pleading with the universe that these unknown faces won’t leave the room and immediately discuss how awful your work is, how stupid your voice sounds, and how awkward you look when you stand on a stage.

These were the things Andrew usually contemplated on his morning train ride to work. He occupied his mind to distract from the

fact that it seemed everyone was watching him. But to Andrew’s annoyance, his thoughts were interrupted by a tall, intimidating man. “Hey where do you come from, man?”

“What?” Andrew said, wondering why he was being bothered and why this man was bringing more attention to him. “I’m from here, I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Oh,” the man blurted out, seeming embarrassed. “Sorry, I just…” he trailed off. “I feel like I would’ve seen you before.”

“Right,” Andrew said, trying not to be rude. “Chicago’s a small world.”

The man smiled, relieved that he had exited the conversation successfully.

Luckily, Andrew’s stop came just then and as he stepped out of the doors and onto the platform, his lungs finally filled with the outside air and he could forget his loneliness.

Andrew walked through the doors of the mortuary and was met by Sarah. Sarah was his secretary. The face that could greet the grieving families in a way that Andrew never could.

“Morning, Sarah,” he sighed, tired from all the thinking he had been doing and the strange conversation with the intimidating man.

“Good morning, Andrew.” Sarah smiled. “You have a woman waiting for you in your office.”

Andrew never understood how Sarah seemed so happy all the time. She was constantly surrounded by death, and even though that didn’t bother Andrew, it never exactly made him happy.

The door of Andrew’s office was slightly ajar, spilling the slightly green tinted light that came from his wallpaper onto the floor. He took a deep breath and pushed through the door with his clammy hand.

There was an odd-looking young woman sitting on the plush chair across from where he would sit. She was bent over in the usual my-loved-one-just-died kind of way, but she didn’t seem to be crying. No, she seemed to be looking. Hunched over and looking at the framed picture from his college graduation day that was sitting on his desk. “Hello Miss,” Andrew said, to break her out of her trance.

The woman jumped slightly. “Oh! Sorry, hello, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry Miss, didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.

My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “Yes, I knew that actually.”

“Ah, of course. You’ve done your research,” Andrew paused, pulling his chair in underneath him, choosing his next words carefully. “You’ll have to forgive me, though, I don’t know your name. I don’t believe I had an appointment for this time.”

“Oh goodness!” The woman touched her hand to her mouth lightly, embarrassed. “Of course. My name’s Sam. I didn’t make an appointment because, well…I guess I just wanted to see for myself.”

“Completely understandable,” Andrew said with a practiced smile. “We always want to make sure our loved ones are in the right hands.”

Sam smiled at this. “Yes, and you seem to have just the hands I was looking for.”

Andrew paused slightly at this. He thought it was a strange compliment, but grieving people may say strange things sometimes, so he ignored it. “Oh well thank you, I appreciate that very much.”

“You’re exactly how they described you,” Sam said as Andrew reached in a drawer for his paperwork.

“Oh, so you’ve been recommended by a former client?”

“No no, I’ve just heard about you from some people.”

Andrew’s stomach dropped slightly.

Sam continued, “You know, how you look, the type of person you are.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Andrew stuttered out slowly, struggling to keep his composure. “I don’t completely understand.”

“Of course! You haven’t seen Rani!”

Andrew was understanding less and less. No one had ever commented on how he looked before, especially at work.

“Here she is!” Sam turned her phone screen towards Andrew to show a picture of her and Rani standing together at the beach. Sam looked as she did on the plush chair in his office, long legs, freckled arms, and brown hair. But Rani looked different from Sam. Her proportions weren’t the same. Her arms and legs were unnaturally skinny, and her torso was wide and long. Her eyes popped out of the top of her head rather than on the front of her face. She had no ears.

And worst of all, her skin was green.

Andrew stared at the picture, trying to understand what he was seeing. Then he looked up at the woman, who was smiling with an understanding tone. Then he realized what was going on. He laughed out of courtesy and relief, “Ma’am, this isn’t the place for jokes.”

“No, of course it isn’t!” She agreed. “I’m not playing a trick, sir. She really was just like you! A big, walking, talking, frog.”

Andrew slowly looked up from the phone, into the eyes of the woman who was shattering his reality. She looked as if she was speaking weightless words, explaining ideas he should’ve already known.

“A frog?” was all he could croak out.

“Yes. That’s why I want you to take care of her. Her burial and funeral. I couldn’t very well trust a normal person with Rani.”

Andrew took a long, deep breath. “Will you excuse me for a moment?’

Sam nodded her head.

Andrew stumbled out of his office, down the hall, and through the bathroom door. There was a mirror. The mirror that he looked into at least once every day. The image looking back at him was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Slender arms. Big torso. Bulging eyes. No ears. And worst of all, green. He was a frog. How had he never noticed before? How could he have been so stupid and blind? And then a horrifying thought came to Andrew, and he asked his reflection, “Does everyone know?”

“Sarah!” Andrew shouted, unable to stop himself. He flopped clumsily out of the bathroom and towards the lobby. “Sarah!”

“What’s wrong, Andrew?” Sarah said with concern in her voice, as she stood up from her chair.

“Sarah, am I a frog?”

A look of uneasiness flashed across Sarah’s face, “What?”

“Am I a frog?”

“I mean…” she paused, “I guess I don’t know what you are…but I didn’t think it mattered. I thought you knew. But yes, you look like a frog.”

The corners of Andrew’s vision got dark. He felt dizzy. What about all his friends? How could they not talk to him about this? Was everyone just pretending to feel comfortable around him this whole time?

“Are there other frogs, Sarah?”

Then

the worst expression that Andrew could’ve imagined painted itself onto Sarah’s face, a look of pity. “I don’t know, Andrew.”

A Letter To My Younger Self

Sophia Trejo

Ambar Carolina Cruz once sang

“Ya no quiero que llores,”

I don’t want you to cry anymore, “The universe is gonna give you muchas flores,” The universe is gonna give you a lot of flowers. I feel as though that’s all that I’ve been doing these past couple of weeks.

I knew that all those years of suppressed emotions were going to float to the surface one way or another. I just didn’t expect it to come in the form of typed-out letters on my computer screen, having to stop every now and then to look up at the ceiling to blink away my blurry vision. As I wrote, I hoped and prayed that no one would walk into my room to see my pink nose and glossy eyes and further question me if I was fine even though I said I was. I wish I can tell my younger self to be more open about her emotions, to talk to her loved ones about what’s been on her mind in hopes to avoid any pain she’ll have to endure in her future. See, I’ve come to realize that the prickling, pinching of pain is necessary to live, forgive, and love again. Anxiety brings me closer to God as it reminds me what a fragile, little human I am.

The tug on my heartstrings reminds me to never forget my Nie and that grief has no expiration date. Discomforting situations remind me of how important it is to stick to the ones I love. I don’t think the Lord no quiera que llore nunca más, for me to not cry ever again, but He does tell me that He will comfort me under His gracious wing when the uncontrollable emotions decide to take the wheel once again.

So, dear Younger Self, you can share your feelings, cry it out—do whatever you think will make you feel better instead of locking it away in your heart and throwing the key over your shoulder. Suppressing your

emotions are not going to make them go away or cancel out the future ones.

Quítate ese miedo, take away that fear of being open and remind yourself that you’re doing great, that you’re trying your best because that’s all I can ever ask of you.

ashes

Julie Eyerman

we are all drawn to fond memories like children’s hands to hot stoves. we wish to remember. we want to feel warm again but we risk getting burned when we reminisce.

don’t get too close.

I lit the candle I burned when you came over for the first time again yesterday. it’s the first time I’ve burned it since you left. bittersweet notes of rose fill the air and I’m taken back to that day.

I wish you didn’t ruin roses for me.

the one you gave me was almost my favorite color, too. a lucky guess. I burned that rose with the candle. to think I kept it this long just for you to burn me…

we all return to ashes, eventually, don’t we?

Audrey Hepburn

Jaden Massaro

When she told me her namesake, I thought, “That’s a lot to live up to.”

To a twinkling eye-catcher, a breezy breath-catcher a shooting star-striking beauty sleepwalking dreamcatcher. She slapped me once when she caught me tormenting my own sensibilities.

That’s a lot to live up to.

To a polished gemstone on a foundation of stone, a twenty-four-carat high voltage lightning bug in a bottle. She held me once when she found me ravaging my own memories. That’s a lot to live up to. She told me once that she wants to be at my wedding I don’t know when or who or even if ever.

But I wrote her invitation yesterday. When she told me her namesake, I thought, “That’s a lot to live up to.”

I feel sorry for Audrey Hepburn.

Bitter Reflections

Michael Leininger

Mirrors have never been sweet,

Changes have swept me from my feet, A face full of change, hides a soul recently rearranged, Ears once full of sweet nothings now deafened, Eyes sickened by my now lonely gaze,

Behind a broken smile, I still foster love once misplaced and mishandled,

Eagerly searching for a mirror with a man who’s proud to be untangled.

Everyday Circus

Eden Pohl

Blocked.

Sophia Trejo

I’m sorry for blocking you. Truly. It was my first time ever doing that to anybody, especially to a friend. I remember looking at your number for a long time—your last text message you sent me even longer—before clicking those tantalizing three dots at the top right hand corner and pressing down on those red letters.

Block.

But in all fairness, in this time of complete and utter honesty, I was tired of you, more specifically, your pettiness. Your attitude towards every single conversation that you apparently wanted me to start through your parched and shriveled up speech bubbles was infuriating. I was shaking my pail bucket upside down for you as I tried to find the last bit of water on earth to keep our friendship alive. But alas, I had nothing left to give you.

I’m sorry that it felt so satisfying to not hear from you for a week. I would think that after seven years of friendship, I would have gotten used to your frivolous demeanor, that I would have figured out how to break you out of that problem of yours. I would also think that after the years of school together, the phone calls that would last into the early hours of the morning and the endless text messages that we would send years after you moved away– you would have the guts to tell me how you truly felt about me. It was only after I unlocked my door, invited you back in, had yet another argument, and patched up the broken window with a band-aid that you asked:

“Was there any time during our friendship where you saw me as more than a friend?”

I’m sorry that I thought we were close enough for you to confide in me about this earlier. I’m also sorry that after four months of back-and-forth altercations, you still didn’t understand that we miscommunicated over text.

When I initiated that we speak over the phone instead, you still came at me headstrong through those blue speech bubbles, demanding an answer with your capital letters and all. Except when we did later

that night, you grew quiet. Your Caps Lock turned into ellipses as I confessed my initial feelings for you in the early years of our 7th grade friendship. But I’m not 11 years old anymore, and after truly knowing what’s under your skin as friends instead of anything more, I thought we would both come to an understanding that maybe we weren’t compatible for each other after all.

I’m sorry that you didn’t see this as a rational outcome.

I’m sorry that when you tried to reach me again you couldn’t.

You’re still blocked.

Broken Girl: My Battle with Chronic Illness

Hannah Sutherland

I really thought they had done it this time…Almost like brand new, they had fixed me. Five years of hard work. Holes they filled; joints they oiled; muscles they polished. But I think maybe I was just too broken from the start. I really can’t blame them. In the beginning I had more scratches than skin. Too many sores, too many scars. To fix the damage was a task best left alone. A problem without an answer. A question with no solution. Because no matter how many times they tried to fix me I crumbled apart again. My body rejected the help. It simply refused to comply.

And tell me. How many times do you let a toy break before you throw it away? How long do you let the scratched record play before you switch to a new one? How long do you let a dead battery sit in a remote before you replace it? How long do you leave the bruised fruit out before realizing it won’t sell? How much time do you give the stained shirt before tossing it out? When do you realize the mirrors’ too broken to see your reflection?

No one wants a broken toy, they throw out the deranged doughnuts. After all, once the holes in the shoes continue to grow there’s no need for them anymore, they no longer serve any purpose. So tell me, how many times do I need to break before I must be thrown away? Will I continue to fail until I no longer bring anything of value? Will I sit and rot, attracting nothing and no one? Instead of bringing value will I cause additional stress to the lives of those around me?

The sores, they’ve come back again. More and bigger and little and everywhere. Places they shouldn’t be. Causing an itch like fire and an almost constant bleeding from one place or another. I am a soiled mattress; a stained sweater.

And the pain makes my hips again like sap, stuck and slow. I move stiffly and poorly, forgetting what I’ve known since I was a child, how to walk. So I’ve taught myself again to walk. I’m the doll whose legs no longer move as they’re supposed to.

And my eye, its bright red like marker that’s been colored over, where I should see life is dark. I’m a scratched camera lens.

And I’m tired again. Not sleepy but body. And I feel as if I could never get enough rest to give me energy again. I’m a teddy bear soaked in gutter water that just drags saggily behind its owner.

And I don’t sleep when I’m supposed to. I wake with dreams like drowning, images flooding my mind till I’m awake gasping for breath. Medication settles like a heavy fog. Twisting my dreams into nightmares. I’m a malfunctioning radio that turns on and off on its own accord. Stuck in a terrifying loop.

And I’m tired of being the broken one. I’m tired of being the one who has to be fixed constantly. I’m tired of being the one who has to be accommodated and handled gently. I’m tired of needing to be changed and tampered with just to feel okay. And I worry no more about the pain, because pain can be covered with paint. A sloppy smile on my face. And the sleeping and the dreams are not visible to others, but the sores I cannot cover.

The sores, they sprinkle my body. Covering me in peeling red spots. Ugly and open and appalling. They mark me as what I am and when people ask I tell them…I’m broken. “What’s on your arm?” I’m broken. “The marks on your face?” I’m broken. “The spots on your stomach?” I’m broken. I’m broken! I’m broken!!! And thank you for asking and thank you for caring. But I’m sorry because what I tell you will not be what you want to hear.

You cannot fix me.

But sometimes, it’s nice to know if something doesn’t work before you use it. And maybe, it’s good for you to see and to know that I don’t work before I hurt more than just myself. Maybe…maybe, that’s the best thing a broken girl can do.

Butterfly Net Jaden Massaro

Paths like parabolas, close but never crossing I’m skipping along, gripping my butterfly net, tossing Out honey and flowers, anything to catch their flight.

I know I saw your eyes sparkle just the other night

When I knew that song and I knew you laughed

When I told that joke wrong. It’s all photographed In my mind, hanging with my collection of butterflies (They flutter their wings whenever you meet my eyes).

Scraps of moments are smoothed and pinned to my walls With my magnifying glass, I turn raindrops into waterfalls.

And somehow, I find myself caught in the butterfly net, What a strange specimen…I wonder, did she forget About the parabola her feet were set on so rationally? Because here she is, skipping into a spider web, happily.

Jacob Zabka

Cafe Lafayette-Dinner Train Megan V. Luebberman

Brisk, cool air. A damp atmosphere. The poised, expectant quiet. Shoes walking on wet wooden planks of the ramp. Tickets received at the desk. And finally, boarding.

Passengers glance as we pass. A stillness and a liveliness. The train begins its journey.

Destination: To the end and back of the railroad. To see the greenery of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. To explore the wilderness. To enjoy time with a loved one. To try and spot a moose.

Rain outside the windows. Mist enveloped mountains in the distance. Frank Sinatra. A large set of ordered silverware and a flickering candle. Is life always this romantic?

Connections with my grandfather. Reflections on the past. Perfection at its finest.

Slow Moving Scenery. Trickling water below the metal bridge. Peace…Calm…Tranquility…Only a brief period of time in the scope of existence, yet lasting an eternity. Temporarily Idyllic.

A ride backwards to the starting point. Then a drive home in the pattering rain. The fog hovering over the green mountains. Not a moose in sight.

But a bond between a granddaughter and grandfather started.

Capable of Oatmeal

Sophia Trejo

“Can you do your job properly and charge me correctly?”

Measure out 1 cup of preferred liquid. Water or preference of milk will work.

The older gentleman stuck his hand out to me, palm up with the change I just gave him. It was my first semester of college and I was working at my first job. As a cashier, I had the heart-racing responsibility of handling money—something that I have never done before to this extent. Granted, it should have been a fairly easy job considering that there were only three common ways to charge the customers. Nevertheless, I was terrified.

Pour into a small pot and bring the liquid to a boil on a stovetop. Stir occasionally to not burn the liquid.

This older man wore some type of uniform; like he was a park ranger without the hat or any useful abilities outside the comfort of four concrete walls. Was he a part of the security team there? I didn’t even know where the security office was. I have never seen this man before and I assumed that he worked around the area.

Measure out a 1/2 cup of preferred oats. If they’re not Quaker Oats, you’re doing something wrong.

Pride is an emotionally attached, little creature that I had grown fond of over the past couple of years. In spite of my initial assumption, Pride encouraged me to act as if I knew what I was doing and by listening to her siren call, I ended up charging the customer incorrectly.

Once the bubbles form, turn the stove-top to low heat and pour oats into the pot.

I racked my English major brain to try to execute simple mental math. My shaky hands attempted to type in the amount I needed to give him as I avoided his laser gaze to the side of my head. I tried to block out the sound of the older man’s exasperated sigh of what could only further describe his annoyance with the teenage girl in front of him.

Let oats simmer and occasionally stir. Let the oats soak up the liquid until it is your desired texture.

Everything around me became blurry and a muffled ringing noise rang through my ears. In the back of my head, I heard my mom telling me, “When you assume, you end up looking like the first three letters of that word.” It was safe to say that I certainly felt like one.

With the back of a spoon, scoop out an estimated tablespoon of peanut butter and place in a separate bowl or favorite mug for aesthetic purposes.

I truly felt that God did me a favor in making me not be able to remember what happened for the rest of the most nerve-racking customer encounter I’ve ever had. All that I remember seeing was a scared little girl. Her eyes, pink and puffy from crying with a desire to run back to her mom’s arms to shield her from harm. Her heartbeat thumping and visible from the base of her throat as it was about to spring out from her clammy skin. Complexion, pale as anxiety and shame overcome her.

I tell her that it’s okay because she knows better now.

Peel one side of a banana and (to reduce dishes) with the same spoon cut half of the banana into thin circles and let them fall into the bowl.

I comfort her by telling her that she’s gained four more years of customer service skills since then. I tell her that it was a part-time job, it was not her career. That people make mistakes and to treat others with respect and kindness, especially employees who are just trying to do their job. That it’s okay to not to know.

With the back of the spoon, smush banana slices and then mix with the peanut butter. Pour oatmeal into the bowl and mix.

She now knows that if you don’t know, ask.

Cut the rest of the banana into its desired thickness of slices and place aesthetically on top of the oatmeal. Take a picture of the oatmeal to fulfill a sense of accomplishment in knowing that you are capable of doing something right. Consume with enjoyment.

Colorado Jaden Massaro

I never liked the mountains but if you asked me, I would go. I would toss my coins in the valley fountain and move to Colorado.

We would land at the Denver airport and spend Christmas with your family. My breath’s already short so the altitude won’t bother me.

There’s a town called Loveland in Colorado. It sounds pretty nice. The population is eighty-thousand, I wouldn’t look at them twice.

I never wanted to go skiing, I was afraid that I would fall. But there’s a moment that’s so freeing just before you feel it all.

My sister doesn’t like Colorado, but I’m sure she would make this exception. There’s a lot more to see than just the snow in Colorado, it’s a common misconception.

communication is color coming together

sometimes I wish it were black and white so that I knew what to say but even when our colors clash we bleed the same

you were never black and white I let you color me for the better

communication is color coming together

Late Afternoon

LoraLee Yates

Death Do Us Part Jaden Massaro

Withered roses on the arbor arch wedding bells play a funeral march the afterparty, the afterlife small talk with Orpheus’s wife. Waltzes with wishful siren ghosts echoes of their translucent toasts:

“To death!” do us part, but life goes on and on and on and on and on on my own.

You’re the secret I’ll take to the grave I’ll wait here. A life or a seat I will save.

The six-foot chasm, seventy years to cross oh, time was always lost.

So, dance with me, they’re keeping score a billion miles and six feet more endlessly twirling on the ghostly dance floor on and on and on and on and on and on my own.

Departure from Tennessee

Jacob Zabka

I dreamed of this day for so long and leaving Tennessee was filled with a lot of emotions I was overwhelmed with. People would ask me if leaving Tennessee was bittersweet and, with those that I wasn’t as close with, I would tell them that it was. However, people who I was really close with knew that I was filled with joy that I couldn’t describe. My move from Tennessee wasn’t an out-of-the-blue decision, but a decision that was on my mind for three years. Those three years led up to the evening of my departure and journey across America, to land where I felt was home, and that home was Seal Beach, California.

The decision really started when I came to Manhattan Beach, California, to visit my cousins. I landed at LAX, and there was something that festered in my heart and soul the second I left the airport. It was a feeling that most people can only imagine if they experience it themselves. It is the feeling of a void being filled that hasn’t been for so long. I got to experience things that I didn’t know my heart longed. On my first day, I ran to the beach, and when I got to the edge of the water, the beauty of California struck my eyes. I was instantly hooked, and the rest of the week was filled with food that wasn’t chain restaurants, but hole-in-the-wall places, coffee that was better than I ever had, surfing, walking under the California sun and green palm trees, sitting down watching the sunset over the ocean. Watching those sunsets gave me peace that I believe came from Jesus. It was a peace that I needed in my life, and Jesus knew that I was meant to be there. Leaving California was like a knife to my heart, because I was leaving a place that I knew was my true home. My heart was no longer in Tennessee anymore…my heart belonged in California.

Journeying through my freshman year at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, I was honestly quite sad the whole time. Every day I thought about California. I thought about the waves crashing, the sunsets, the food, and the peace that had graced me when I was there. It was the second semester of my freshman year that I prayed to Jesus, asking if I was meant to move there. I prayed for two weeks before I got an answer, and Jesus told me “You are meant to go there. If you want to go there right now I will make everything work out for you.

However, I’m asking you to wait a year and trust me.” I wanted to leave that very instant, but my heart was tugging at me to stay an extra year and trust Jesus…and I did. Little did I know that this decision would make the next year the hardest year of my life.

My sophomore year of college was brutal, to say the least. Over that year I made three trips out to California to visit my best friends that have moved out there. The year was filled with joy when I was in California, and filled with so much sadness when I would return to Tennessee. I lost a lot of friends that I invested so much time into, I lost a lot of hope at points, I was working all the time or studying my butt off to get the best scholarship that I could, and for a year I was at a very low point in my life. At points I would be furious with God, asking why I was feeling all these emotions when I followed what he asked of me. Little did I realize at the time that he was preparing my heart, and it was about two to three months before that I read the book of Job. The book of Job wrecked my heart because it was everything that I was feeling. I was experiencing the pain and sadness that Job did. God wrecked my heart in that moment because everything that Job questioned God on was what I was questioning him on as well. I realized at that point how much God was protecting me over that year, and I was able to find that happiness again.

The night before my departure was filled with all my favorite things: my favorite food which was this meal called chicken and rice that my mom would always make, sparkling lime Lacroix, and playing a card game called 3-13. I had everything already packed and my roommate and I loaded up the car. While there was so much joy in leaving Tennessee, I did find it a bit bittersweet. I was leaving my family that I loved, but I was also leaving a place where God gave me a good foundation for life. God, for 20 years, was preparing me and my heart for all that time so that he could do work for me out here in California. I woke up on the morning of July 27th, 2021, ready to take on the new adventure of going to my new home. Everything was already packed in my car, and all I had to do was get in it and go. My family and I gathered in our living room and my mom prayed over me for my new journey in California. I knew how sad she was, so I gave her the biggest hug I could possibly give her, and let her know how thankful I was for her. She has always been my biggest supporter, and I wanted to make sure I knew

how much I loved her. My roommate and I walked out my front door, got in my car, and we began our journey through America, anticipating our return to home. Right before we pulled out of that driveway, my life flashed before my eyes. It was filled with old memories from Tennessee with friends, family, and events, but it also flashed with some visions for my future life in California. It was a sign that what I was doing was in God’s plan and I gave him thanks for that. When I think about this departure, I could write about every moment of the night before I left. I could recount every thought going through my head, every feeling I had in my heart, and every word I spoke. However, to me, the substance behind this departure lies in the years leading up to it. The heart of the departure lies within everything that came before it, and that is what makes it so beautiful. It was the recount of the hand of God over my life for so long.

Driven Michael Robles

“Are you excited?”

My dad held the wheel with both hands, 10 and 2, just like the driving schools used to teach.

“Hmm?” My nose was stuck in Ender’s Game.

“For the trip,” he said with a smile. “Finally get to go out in the summer past that hellhole of a city.”

I turned down the music from my phone. “I don’t know, I like the city. L.A. is nice, sometimes.”

My dad scoffed. “C’mon! Bumper to bumper traffic all day, every day. Crackheads and homeless on every corner. You can walk a mile in any direction and not know a single person. That’s no way to live!”

“Ehh. There’s a certain charm to it.”

I looked back down at my book.

“Well?” He asked. I could feel his eyes on me.

“Huh?”

“Are you excited?”

I closed my book. “Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

His eyebrow raised as he tilted his head. “Well, you certainly aren’t acting like it.”

“I mean, yeah, sure. It’s just, camping isn’t exactly my forte. It’s hot, there’s tons of bugs. Sleeping bags don’t seem very comfortable.” An endless road of desert stood ahead of us. The GPS showed we had more than a hundred miles ahead of us until the next turn. Anna and my mom were asleep in the back seat along with tons of bags, our chairs, tent, and coolers.

“You’ve never been camping, though.”

I knew this conversation wouldn’t end. He expected an answer. He expected his answer.

“I don’t know, but new things like this make me nervous.”

I instantly regretted buying into his questioning.

He licked the top of his lip from sweat. His sunglasses already started making indentations into his eyes, changing his complexion.

“You can’t go into a new experience being nervous all the time. Sometimes you just gotta take it in stride and follow through.”

I rolled my eyes.

“This trip is supposed to be fun,” he continued. “Your mom and sister really wanted you to come.”

“I know,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Besides. There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just us four.”

I reached for my bag on the floor of the car to grab my sketchbook but stopped. I knew he’d think I was just trying to distract myself. Or ignore him. Part of me wanted to do both.

“You should grow out of nerves like that. It’s not good for you.”

I sighed under my breath. “I can’t exactly grow out of nerves, dad.”

“They make people do crazy things, or nothing at all. They get in the way.”

“Crazy like this,” I asked, showing him my left hand. Torn skin appeared on the corners of my fingertips, dry blood peppered around some of the areas.

I’ve had the habit of biting my nails since I was a kid. My parents assumed I’d grow out of it, but never did. It got bad when I was in elementary school. I bite sometimes to my top knuckle. It was an anxious tick, I suppose.

He turned from the road for a second. “Ew. You do that when you’re nervous?”

“And anxious.” I looked at my nails.

“Anxiety,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Of course.”

“Well, it’s better than what happened before,” I chuckled. His fraction of a smile faded. “Stop. We don’t talk about that.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. A tense silence filled the car for what felt like hours. The clock on the dashboard never moved, even though I so desperately wanted it to. I tried to think of something to say, but I felt forbidden. I felt annoyed. Irritated. Still had eighty-five miles to go.

He spoke up. “That’s not something you should joke about.”

“Why? It’s not like anyone acts like it happened anyway.”

“It’s hard to talk about. It was hard for us too, especially. Joking about it like that is insincere. And disrespectful.”

I could feel my voice raising. “Hard? How do you think I felt, dad? Being sent off for however long without being told when I could come back. Being told it was for my own good, and that I need to “heal,” but not having a say in it. I felt like a character in a show that just up and left and came back like nothing happened.”

He didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the road. I could feel his breath getting heavier, practically huffing in the heat. My hands balled up into fists, straining. My cheek got sore from biting on it. I looked back at my mom and Anna, and breathed.

I lowered my voice. “It’s like there’s this empty space of time I was gone and I just have to act like it didn’t happen. And I gotta just say “yes sir” and “yes ma’am,” smile, and go on my merry way. Like that whole year didn’t happen.”

I looked at him, half-expecting an answer of some sort apart from ending it. The silence frustrated me even more. If I’m being honest with myself, part of me hoped he’d yell back.

“Just drop it,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

You never do, I thought. I turned back to my window, staring at the desert. Sixty miles to go. An hour and twenty-five minutes left.

“I just want to have a nice vacation for everyone,” he said, one hand off the wheel.

I kept staring at the Joshua trees. “I know, dad.” I reached for my headphone, but decided against it.

“Can you turn the station to 100.1?”

I turned the knob. “Yes sir.”

Shot in Chinatown, Los Angeles, the vintage car in front of run-down Cinema Land, tells a story of time. One story kept pristine and one left to the conditions of the world. These varying worlds caught my eye and were worthy of being captured. Shot on Portra 400, the warm tones of summer in Los Angeles cast its midday light onto the scene, and produced this image I call A Car in Cinema Land.

A Car in Cinema Land

Jacob Zabka

Ethics and Speech: Do the Ends Justify the Means of Sharing Your Faith?

Jade Promise McClintock

Vanguard University Department of Psychology

Diversity in the Helping Profession: PSYC-331-01-21FA

Professor Elizabeth Powell

December 13th, 2021

Life is precious, and a soul is everlasting. To save a life or a soul, one may be willing to risk it all. But if a life is saved by threatening death and a soul is redeemed by killing its spirit, is that really a life, and is that truly a soul? How can life be lived out of the fear of death? How can a soul prosper with a broken spirit? When the “ends” are defined as the goal of conversion, then the “means” that have damaged souls and spirits are far from justified.

In this essay, I was directed to “thoughtfully argue [my] personal opinion” about ethics and evangelism as it relates to public speaking. I will be graded on my ability to portray my argument in a civil and conscious manner because that is what is most effective in presenting myself as a speaker worthy to be listened to, and in my persuasiveness. Would you, as a listener or reader, listen and comprehend my message if I were on the street with a sign telling you that you will go to Hell if you did not agree with my opinion? Would you comprehend my message in this essay if I were to publicly burn, destroy, and attempt to outlaw depictions of your deity, God the Father? Perhaps you would change your opinion out loud out of fear, but you will not understand it. In Mark 4:11-12, Jesus explains how He, the holy son of God, portrays the good news. He said to them, “To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables, so that they may indeed see but not perceive, and may indeed hear but not understand.” Jesus has given us the goals one should have when explaining the message. When the goal is evangelism, Jesus commands us to speak in a way that promotes in-depth perception and understanding rather than surface-level observation.

But is our God a murderer? Is He unforgiving? Does our God give up on us when we are just beginning our journey? Although many Christians love to see themselves as superior souls to non-Christians, we were all once that motorcyclist, and our God acted as one that guided us to him. God never gives up on us. Jeremiah 29:11 states, “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Would a God that does not harm His people kill this man before He was able to be saved? The ends do not justify the means because the “means” promote an ungodly God.

When preaching of a God that hurts His people, you are preaching of a false deity. Those that threaten deaths on corners of streets, spout hateful words at pride events, protest outside Hindu temples, and burn churches that marry same-sex people are not following a God that the Bible depicts. They are not leading a soul to be saved by The Holy Father that is shown in the Bible. They are leading a soul to quake in fear over a lie. Are these the means you say we should condone? The means that lie to promote the savior complex some self-proclaimed “Christians” have?

The Bible calls us to not act upon worldly desires. Although we may want to, it is not our job to save, it is our job to lead those to the only one that can save by being as Jesus was: loving, compassionate, and understanding. Nor should we promote worldly desires, like the desire to live in fear. The ends do not justify the means, because a soul in fear of death cannot be a soul saved.

Got Your Back Jaden Massaro

I don’t blame you for falling, Just for staying on the ground. I don’t blame you for sinking, Just for swimming down.

I don’t blame you for retreating, Just for surrendering where you stood. I don’t hate you for what happened, Just for thinking that I would.

You can turn your back on me, but I’ve still got it. I won’t burn this bridge until you walk back across it You’d better watch your back because I’ll stand my ground I won’t leave these crossroads until you turn back around

And when you step back onto that path, wait for me–I’ll be your solid ground, your bridge to safety. With only my hands between us and defeat I’ll be there, even if we crumble under their feet.

I’ll never blame you for falling, Just to stay down for good. I’ll never hate you for what happens, Just for thinking that I could.

Kailey Friesen

Throat on fire

Screaming for the lost

The sky unchanging

Unsympathetic to the pain

The world faulted for turning

No one else to blame

Rain falling on marble cheeks

Pleading for the taken

“A life for a life”

Waves of unanswered questions

Drowning in sorrow

The sea asking to stop churning

A single seed of truth in barren land

Growing on cracked lips

The words of acceptance

Ivy covering the lifeless grief

Death and life intertwined

Your legacy a garden to your memories

Here Lies the Town Mess Up

Kailey Friesan

The night sky painted over with clouds hung low over the deserted playground; it was silent. It was silent except for the echo of a dog’s bark in the distance. It was going to rain. His left knee hurt so he knew it would rain. His left knee hurt from a home run gone wrong. Liam made fun of his hurt knee, calling him a cripple. Liam used to come to this playground with him, sit at this same bench, and smoke. But that was ten years ago.

They had come here that night. Talked about the SAT’s coming up. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. His parents weren’t fighting, he was on the varsity baseball team, and he wasn’t failing any classes. Too perfect.

A breeze caused the swings to move. They squeaked and moaned in retaliation. His breaths came out in puffs of smoke. He could use a smoke right now. The memories were coming fast, making him dizzy, and he didn’t want to remember.

That night he had suggested breaking into the local skating rink. He needed to do something. His restlessness made his fingers twitch and his breath get caught in his throat. Liam protested but eventually caved in after a promise of popcorn and a look in his eye that made Liam pause. There hadn’t been any popcorn. Only flashing lights and screaming parents. That was ten years ago. Ten years since Liam lost his scholarship to San Diego State and his ability to walk. Ten years after he had even talked to Liam, apologized for ruining his life.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. His boss probably wondering if he would show up to his shift. He wouldn’t. He would probably never leave this town, this bench, this life. He would be buried right under this bench. A perfect spot for another mess up to sit. They would build a memorial here: “Here Lies The Town Mess Up. Sit At Your Own Risk.” His phone buzzed again.

The breeze stopped. The barking ceased. The clouds seemed to hover lower and lower. He was going to suffocate under these clouds. That same restlessness he felt all those years ago burned a hole through his shirt, but he sat there watching the clouds drift closer and closer.

How Authorial Gender Influences the Portrayal of the Woman

Michael Robles

When analyzing literature, one of the most important aspects to take into consideration is the perspective of the author. Recognizing the class, gender, ethnicity, and other aspects of the author allows readers to give thought to how their background is incorporated into the work. More importantly, the author’s background can have a major effect on how they portray characters, specifically of the opposite gender. The novel The Awakening by Kate Chopin is a famous example of how a female author wrote the personal awakening of a female character, and displays a sense of accuracy in the character of Edna Pontellier. However, the novella Daisy Miller by Henry James is a clear example of how an author of the male gender portrays a female character of similar qualities differently from that of a female author. Therefore, The Awakening and Daisy Miller show how gender differences influence the portrayal of the female gender.

In The Awakening, the character of Edna Pontellier is written in two perspectives: in a tone more sympathetic for her role as a woman, and in a more neutral standpoint in the general role of the story. Kate Chopin assures to make the reader understand that Edna Pontellier is seen as a wife and mother more than as an independent being throughout the story. On page two, Kate Chopin even writes, “… looking at his [Leonce Pontellier] wife as one looks at a valuable piece of property which has suffered some damage,” (Chopin 2). In her introduction into the novel, Edna is immediately being compared to private property of her husband, thus showing the more raw theme of how women are to be considered property by their families and not their own person. Chopin recognizes this and immediately calls attention to it very early into the novel. Not only that, but her characterization is based on how women were treated in the nineteenth century. In his article “Women in the Nineteenth-Century America,” Graham Warder states, “Less a place of production than a spiritually sanctified retreat from the hurly-burly of economic life, the home was where women nurtured men and children into becoming morally elevated beings,” (Warder 2018). Women were expected to care for their husbands and children, and

children, and Chopin mirrors this in Edna Pontellier’s beginning characterization.

In Daisy Miller, Henry James writes the story from a male’s perspective via the character Winterbourne. By writing from the perspective of a male, James establishes a disconnection between the reader and the characterization of the female character, as the use of limited third-person perspective only gives them details specifically from Winterbourne’s perspective. Therefore, they are expected to make assumptions of the character through the eyes of the male’s experiences with her. When he first meets Daisy, Winterbourne is taken aback by how she freely expresses how she has had many gentleman friends, where she states, “I have always had a great deal of gentlemen’s society,” (James 417). Winterbourne expresses confusion in this, as the narrator states, “Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person?” (James 417). James has Winterbourne compare Daisy’s statements to that of an unscrupulous young person, thus showing how the male’s perspective influences a female character’s depiction. Even though the narration is from a limited third-person perspective, it evokes a bias against Daisy’s actions, which becomes apparent to how she is treated throughout the novel. While Chopin focuses on Edna’s characterization in a more victimized manner, James uses adjectives with negative connotations to personify Daisy, such as the word “unscrupulous.” These two depictions are seen with how both characters are treated by their peers throughout their stories.

Chopin uses the character Adele Ratignolle to address Edna’s expectations as a woman, specifically by using the same expectations that women are expected to follow in nineteenth-century United States. One of the main ways that Chopin addresses the role of a woman in her culture is by using Adele Ratignolle as Pontellier’s counterpart. Adele represents the female lifestyle that Victorian women were expected to follow. In the article “Maternal Discourse and the Romance of Self-Possession in Kate Chopin’s the Awakening,” Ivy Schweitzer states, “The Awakening, written by a woman who was herself a mother of six and a widow at thirty, raises the perennial American question of individualism in terms of maternity,” (Schweitzer 162). Chopin questions the nineteenth-century American ideal of motherhood by developing a contrast between Edna and Adele. Adele is heavily characterized by the way she worships her children and husband.

Throughout the novel, Edna has become much less adamant about being a wife and mother, going so far as to move into a smaller cottage when her husband takes their children. Near the end of the novel, Edna is aiding Adele give birth, who dies when the baby is born. In her dying breath, Adele whispers to Edna, “Think of the children, Edna. Oh think of the children! Remember them,” (Chopin 111). Adele’s dying words are for Edna to consider how her changes in character affect her children. Chopin uses Adele as a comparison to how Edna is expected to live, when in reality she yearns for the exact opposite, depicting her actions in a neutral perspective. By using Adele this way, Chopin reinforces Edna’s characterization to be more humanizing rather than negative. Even though Edna’s actions, such as abandoning her role as a mother and cheating on her husband, are considered negative in American society, Chopin uses her growth as a more neutral enforcement for them.

One other key character that Edna interacts with is Robert Lebrun. The two form a bond in the beginning, but once Robert returns from Mexico later in the novel, Edna has become more individualistic. She has moved into her new home and made painting her priority, and realized she is not in love with her husband. Once the two reconcile in chapter thirty six, Chopin uses possessive language to show Robert’s true intentions to Edna. Robert says, “… you were not free. You were Leonce Pontellier’s wife. I couldn’t help loving you if you were ten times his wife… I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife,” (Chopin 107-108). Chopin uses terms such as “free” and adding possessiveness to Edna being Robert or Leonce’s wife to depict a controlling aspect of marriage. In doing so, she adds her own perspective on what marriage is: man’s possession over women. Edna responds to Robert saying, “I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier’s possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose.If he were to say, ‘Here Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,’ I would laugh at you both,” (Chopin 108). Chopin establishes how Edna’s endeavors, while they contain taboo acts, are part of her growth. Edna’s response of laughing at them both shows that she sees herself as no one’s possession but her own, reinforcing her independence and Chopin’s stance on her development. This also indicates Chopin’s neutral and sympathetic perspective on a woman defying the societal expectations due to her perspective as a female.

Instead of having Edna have a more empathetic response to Robert’s longing for her to be his wife, Chopin uses their reconciliation to express how Edna is individualistic in her romantic wants. This differs from James’ depiction of romance in Daisy Miller, as Winterbourne does show possessiveness, but Daisy Miller mocks him instead.

Daisy Miller is often criticized by other characters within the environments she is part of. This adds to how Henry James’ perspective as a male changes how Daisy Miller is portrayed to the audience. In the novella, Daisy begins to flirt with another man, Mr. Giovanelli, in Rome, without intention of courting him. This is seen both in how Daisy grows angry at Winterbourne when he assumes she will marry Giovanelli and she gets upset (James 440), and Mr. Giovanelli even telling Winterbourne at her funeral that she would never have married him (James 449). It becomes widely known that flirting is not part of European culture, as Mrs. Walker starts to dislike Daisy due to this to the point of hostility. However, Daisy is the only one who receives repercussions for flirting with someone she will not marry, even though Giovanelli is just as guilty. It is clear how James’ perspective as a male, whilst writing in the perspective of a male character, evokes a negative bias to how Daisy Miller is expected to act as a woman. By having Mrs. Walker specifically ask Daisy, “Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl,” when she is seen walking with Giovanelli, James emphasizes how Daisy is expected to act ladylike and not fraternize with men she does not intend to court. Throughout the novella, Winterbourne bears witness to Rome townspeople talking negatively about Daisy behind her back, without any mention of Giovanelli being blamed for the same intention, thus placing the derogatory action on Daisy because of her expectations as a woman. The breaking of such expectations adds onto how both Daisy and Edna’s actions are seen as taboo, yet because of the authors’ differences in gender perspective, the consequences they experience differ.

Throughout The Awakening, Edna constantly battles her role as a mother and wife, attempting to abandon or at least disregard them. This is apparent when Edna tells Adele, “I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children, but I wouldn’t give up myself,” (Chopin 47). Chopin differentiates Edna’s life from her figurative self to show how Edna believes she would not give

the very characteristics and virtues that make her whole. Schweitzer states, “Edna’s struggle for autonomous selfhood entails a rejection of her responsibilities as mother,” (Schweitzer 162). This emphasizes how Edna’s rejection of motherly ideals played a part in her suicide, as the weight of the expectations as a mother burdened her throughout the novel. In doing so, Chopin shows a breaking of virtues and expectations that Edna soon continues to do throughout the novel. This is especially seen when she commits taboo acts such as falling in love with Robert while still married, and committing adultery with Alcee Arobin.

While her actions are not as public as Daisy’s, Edna receives almost no literal consequences for her actions. Her family does leave her as a sort of consequence of her independence, but Chopin writes, “When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sign of relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her,” (Chopin 72). In essence, Chopin uses Edna’s family’s departure as a positive consequence and opportunity more than a negativity. This is due to Edna’s growing individualism becoming a motive for Chopin to express how a woman’s independence is beneficial, despite it being scorned upon by her father and eventually Leonce. Even when Edna kisses Alcee for the first time in chapter twenty five, she feels as though she betrayed Robert, not Leonce, because to her, she “married her husband without love as an excuse,” (Chopin 77). However, she receives no repercussions by the public and is merely warned by both Robert and Adele to not have relations with him. When Edna dies, it is not as a literary consequence either, because Robert leaving acts as a consequence of her individualism, not her actions. Chopin’s perspective as a woman is seen in how Edna receives very little repercussions, showing how Chopin does not believe a woman’s freedom should result in negative outcomes of her independent choices. While Daisy Miller does the same, both literal and literary consequences are much more outspoken and karma-influenced.

Daisy Miller exhibited a form of independence in her characterization as well, but it was heavily focused on the consequences she faced from other characters. By the end of the novel, her straying from expectations both as a woman and in European culture, led to her being treated as an outcast by Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne, and the

city of Rome as a whole. This was in part due to James’ perspective as a male writer, as even though it was not represented as a primary reason to treat Daisy this way as a character, the contrast between her being a female and both the writer and protagonist being male influences her portrayal. This is evident in how Giovanelli is perceived in comparison to Daisy. In chapter four, Mrs. Costello calls Giovanelli a “perfectly respectable little man,” but says she “can imagine nothing more vulgar,” than Daisy being entranced by Giovanelli without wanting to marry him (James 442). In this contrasting characterization, James is showing how Daisy’s expectations as a woman being broken are resulting in consequences by others. By villainizing only Daisy for spending time with Giovanelli, James is leaving little room for offering her character growth as a result of the consequences she faces. This is due to the limitations of being a male when writing a female character.

James’ limitations as a male writing a female character shows in Daisy’s consequences. In The Awakening, when Edna’s family leaves, she becomes restless, but grows from it by painting more and eventually buying her own home. She becomes more upfront about her interest in Robert, and even has sex with Alcee, so Chopin figuratively frees her from the bondage of marriage and motherhood that she wrote her in. For Daisy, she is merely gossiped about and receives no growth or development. Instead of having her character arc shape through her outcast behavior, it is just repeated. The focus is eventually shifted to Winterbourne avoiding her. James writes:

“He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself; not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism,” (James 447).

Since the novella is also told from the perspective of Winterbourne, the reader is given his own personal interpretation of Daisy’s character and consequences, thus limiting her character even more. As a male, James gives Daisy consequences that a woman would be expected to receive from her committing culturally taboo acts, and thus her literary consequences suffer as well, as she learns nothing from the experience and continues to act the same way until her death.

This differentiation is also seen in how both Edna and Daisy’s demises are written.

Chopin gives Edna a death that depicts her finding true freedom in suicide. She faces death as a result of her own individualism because she did not want to be “owned” by Robert via marriage, so she loses him as a result of that. The only way Chopin expresses Edna’s resolution to truly be free is by death, thus emphasizing that the true way for a woman to be “free” from motherhood and marriage is death. While Chopin gives Edna a self-annihilating death, it is not by the consequences of her own actions, but by the feeling of not wanting to live a life she is expected to live. Her character arc focuses on searching for a newfound freedom and attempting to reach it wholeheartedly, but because of the expectations she is given as a mother and wife, she cannot reach it. So, the only way to reach it is death. The female perspective as a woman and wife comes into play because Chopin was a wife and most likely experienced these expectations firsthand. Edna previously told Adele that she would give up her own life, but not herself for her children (Chopin 47), and her death makes this full-circle. Edna receives a full character arc in the end as Chopin writes her as a result of the over-encumbering expectations of women. As for Daisy Miller, her death was much more limited because of the perspective it was being told in.

James writes Daisy Miller’s death as karma-influenced, and gives her no lasting effect on other characters due to lack of experience in the female viewpoint. James’ key focus of Daisy Miller was on how cultures changed when Americans began to travel to Europe, and the resulting culture shock on both sides. So, it is evident that he is writing from the perspective of a male. However, this limits Daisy Miller’s death because of his lack of importance on Daisy’s gender as part of her character. When Winterbourne asks Giovanelli why he took her to the colosseum, Giovanelli says, “… I had no fear; and she wanted to go,” (James 448). James has Giovanelli immediately place the blame onto Daisy for contracting Roman fever, adding to how only Daisy is blamed for both her and Giovanelli’s actions. Daisy’s death also has no lasting effect on Winterbourne or Giovanelli, which hinders her character’s growth in the end. Giovanelli says, “Had she lived, I would have got nothing,” in terms of her not marrying him (James 448), revealing

how Giovanelli is mostly dejected by not being able to marry her. James even ends the novella with Winterbourne learning almost nothing from his occurrences with Daisy. While Winterbourne says he committed an injustice to her, the feeling is almost immediately vanished in his epilogue as he studies “a very clever foreign lady” the same way he studied Daisy (James 448). James’ bias towards male characters is heavily shown in the novella’s ending, as Daisy is blamed for her contracting Roman Fever, and her death having no effect due to her defiance of European and gender expectations. As a male writer, James gives Daisy, his main female character, no ending development as opposed to his main male character. Winterbourne’s character arc is given an ending in which James writes Winterbourne’s study of the clever foreign lady is “contradictory,” but Daisy’s final remembrance is focused solely on her interactions with Winterbourne and Giovanelli (James 448). This shows how James’ male perspective focuses more on a female character’s effects and interactions on other characters, as opposed to fulfilling actual arcs for male characters. This differentiates how James as a male writer creates an ending for a female character compared to Kate Chopin.

In conclusion, Kate Chopin’s The Awakening and Henry James’ Daisy Miller express how the gender of the author influences their portrayal of the female gender. While Chopin gave Edna Pontellier a rounded character arc where her demise was influenced by the societal expectations of women, Daisy Miller was instead characterized by her interactions with other characters and the consequences of defying European and female cultural norms. The gender of both authors plays a heavy part in both how primary and secondary characters are portrayed in nineteenth-century fiction.

Chopin, Kate. The Awakening. Philip Smith. 1899. Dover Thrift Editions, 1993.

James, Miller. “Daisy Miller.” Norton Anthology of American Litera ture: Shorter (V2: 1865 to Present), edited by Robert S. Levine, W. W. Norton & Company, 2012, pp 410-449.

Schweitzer, Ivy. “Maternal Discourse and the Romance of SelfPossession in Kate Chopin’s the Awakening.” Boundary 2, vol. 17, no. 1, Duke University Press, 1990, pp. 158–86, https:// \\doi.org/10.2307/303221.

Warder, Graham. “Women in Nineteenth-Century America.” Social Welfare History Project, 13 Mar. 2018, https://socialwelfare. library.vcu.edu/woman-suffrage/women-in-nineteenth-centu ry-america-2/.

Desert Mirages Eden Pohl

I feel most pretty when I cry

As the teardrops fall down my face my lashes get longer

My small, average eyes get puffy red and twice their size

My naturally full lips get even plumper

And my usually cheerful face, marked with deep smile lines contorts itself into a grimace that’s so foreign to my everyday demeanor

Yet I know this face

I know this face very very well

It’s the face of my breaking point

Where I’ve ignored the darkness brewing under for as long as I could

Where I’ve moved the broken pieces of my past on both my shoulders too many times

But despite how many times I shift my weight the pain doesn’t get any easier

Any less noticeable, but I sure pretend it does

I focus on my face instead

I’m staring at it right now in my old black mirror as I write this poem

She’s beautiful

And she’s so so broken

I feel most pretty when I cry Durodoluwa Aina

This is her,

The Dolu hiding behind all my laughs, all my jokes, my cool and always smiling demeanor

The everyday dolu is cool and all

But this one’s striking

She’s harder to digest

But I still think she’s so beautiful

Because it’s only when I see her face

Her grief stricken face that I’m finally kind to myself

I become gentle to myself in ways I never do when I’m “okay”

I Outgrew the Pot Rebekah

Pinedo

When it comes to plants, my father knows the best way to care for each one of them. He seems to know just how much water each one requires. Depending on whether it is an outdoor or indoor plant, he can determine how much extra love a plant may need. He can sense when the plants have outgrown their pots and wastes no time in placing them in a much bigger one so that it has room to grow into its fullest potential. When they begin to wilt, he discovers how he can best rejuvenate them so that they don’t wilt away. They are his prized possession, he claims. His babies.

Saturdays and Sundays were the best days. Those were the days my dad was able to take work off. On those days, we would hardly be caught inside. My mother would no longer need to push my siblings and I out the door. Instead, we were begging our dad to come out with us, to which he happily obliged. All the neighborhood kids would come over, also excited that my dad was home. Since he was available to watch us, we had the freedom of not only playing in the front of the house in the mini driveway that was shared amongst the five neighboring houses, but we also had the freedom to venture to the sidewalk. Looking back, that small stretch of sidewalk barely had any space. But, to my imaginative eight-year-old mind, that little taste of freedom was more than I could ever ask for.

My dad would be standing in the driveway, perfectly positioned to not only watch over those who wanted to stay close to the house, but also to watch over those who were eager for that little snippet of freedom that was the stretch of sidewalk.

The perfect position, just like the perfect amount of water, sunlight, and dirt that he composed for his beloved plants, so did his efforts as a father fit the necessities of his children. We were his prized possessions.

The pots fit just right. The measurements were correct. But that’s the thing: they were. My dad forgot to change the pot. With plants, my dad had the foreknowledge of sensing when his original formulas needed changing. With great thought, he would experiment to discover how he could best adjust to the plant. Not only this, but

he was quick to grasp when a pot was becoming much too small for the plant. Without much thought, he would find a different home. He failed to understand how applicable this was to children.

I was his little girl. His chiquitita. His firstborn. There were times when he would hold out his hand and say, “You used to fit right here.” I would laugh, unsure what to say as he looked at his hand, reminiscing on the days he was able to keep me close to his heart.

Before the sun was up, my dad and I would be lacing up our running shoes and out the door. We would run until I couldn’t run anymore. There were even times he would have to carry me, which I permitted with no complaints. In those times, my legs would be hurting so much I would ask my dad to take me to the doctor.

“Take me to the doctor, Daddy!” He mimicked, laughing to himself.

And yet, nothing was more exciting than those father-daughter dates. We would go to dinner, any place I desired. Then, to a nearby store where I had the freedom to choose any new toys my little heart yearned for. He spoiled me and had no regrets doing so. At least, that’s what I think. If he did have any regrets, he never told me so.

The pot still fit, then. And then, suddenly, it didn’t.

Soon, there were no more heart to heart father-daughter talks as he struggled to bring up topics that would pique my interest. Simple activities no longer occupied my mind. School, boys, familial issues… those were the topics that filled my mind. However, those were ones of which he had no experience discussing. Suddenly, the solution of the water, sunlight, and food did not equate to the desired solution. Soon, morning runs came to a halt as my schedule became increasingly busy. I was now running with other people – friends, boyfriends, and so on. I was no longer begging for his time. He was begging for mine, but silently, without a word.

Soon the father-daughter dates were put on an inevitable hold as another person began to fill that space. I now had someone else to spoil and shower me with affection. My dad remained silent, watching from the sidelines, willing me to notice.

The equation didn’t fit. He was unable to craft the perfect amount for each variable. And I failed to realize his true intentions.

All I could see was the time he failed to give. The long hours he spent trying to provide a steady home for me was dismissed as all I knew was that those were hours he wasn’t spending with me. Those significant moments – races, performances, concerts – he was missing them. While I was provided with everything I needed physically, the one thing I so deeply desired was the one thing he failed to provide: his presence.

Any time we talked, conversations were full of lessons and life teachings as he could not quite pinpoint how he could talk to me. His little girl – his chiquitita – was no longer infatuated with barbies and baby dolls. So, he resorted to not only lessons, but jokes and teasing, which I could never gracefully accept. I no longer desired the bantering that he and I would engage in. Rather, I wanted more emotionally intellectual conversations, ones where I could gather that he cared more about my emotional well being than he did that I was physically prepared for the challenges I would face in adulthood.

Too late, he realized that I had become a young lady. And he didn’t know what equation to use.

He realized too late that the pot was too small. It wasn’t until I broke it and found myself a new one that he realized things may not exactly be the same. The equation did not result in the same solution it had ten years prior and I failed to notice his silent pleas – his attempts to maintain the relationship that he once had with his little girl, the one that could fit in the palm of his hand. The equation no longer fit. And, for the life of us, we could not craft one adequate to fill both our needs. And so the pot remains too small, broken, on the side of the road, unattended.

In My Perfect World J.

Luke Herman

There would be castles of gold and mighty fountains of silver, The guard would hold bouquets of white flowers as they marched toward our enemies, And they would shake hands on the war-torn battlefield, Planting trees of gilded fruit on the red sacred land to which our ambrosia shall be made,

And no tear shall fall from the world’s beaten poor, For there would be plentiful and wealth for all, Food would pour out from bulging cornucopias, And shelter’s great warmth would caress all the needy and worn, The abandoned babe shall not perish from the world’s cruel nature, And shall suckle from the tit of the lion, While the wolf licks the spittle from their rosy cheek, And never fear,

For in my perfect world none shall ever fear, For everlasting peace there would be, And good will towards all, Would ring true in my perfect world, But alas,

One might think this to be my desired paradise, But they are mistaken, For I have but a single selfish desire, One impossible to attain lest wishing upon a star’s magic really come true,

A single wish that I’d ask for in my perfect world, A wish to bring back all of those who I miss, So that I can see them all again and reminisce, Reminisce about the happiest times we had back in our glory days, And in my perfect world I could sit with them in hallowed halls, Dine with them while we are served feasts fit for a king, Talk about tales of woah which hadn’t yet graced our ears, A second opportunity to learn new things about those I love, And in my perfect world I would sing to them sacred and holy songs,

Ones from the times when we’d all still known each other in the world of the living, Hymns of the forgotten kind, Their seals of time now broken, For those who remember that hold the key, Breathe again,

And in my perfect world I’d ask all those who I’ve brought back what they might regret, Wondering if the sorely lost have such feelings still gnawing at their faded souls, And I hope that I do not get an answer, Because in my perfect world, The only regret they’d have, Is the sorrow of lost time together, Now shattered with my single wish, In my perfect world, Would my selfish desire be so selfish?

Love Yourself?

Hannah Sutherland

Loving yourself has become popular, and rightfully so. Liking how you look in the mirror. Appreciating your features, embracing your once thought to be flaws, as beautiful. Smiling at your face in the mirror, instead of picking and pulling at the places you wish to be smaller or tighter or less wrinkled. Saying kind things about yourself. How healthy your skin looks in this light. How perfect your legs are for your body, your stomach to hold your food.

And as much as I want to join in on this, I get caught on one question… What if your body doesn’t seem to love you back? What if your body causes you so much pain and suffering it seems impossible to love?

You see, my body doesn’t work how it’s supposed to. My immune system attacks my once healthy joints and muscles. My ovaries cause near-unbearable pain. My heart beats too fast and makes me sick. I get red rashes on my face, and itchy sores on my scalp.

I don’t know how to love a body like this. Sometimes, I stare hard in the mirror, and all I see are my health problems. I try to love my face and how it looks, but a red rash stares back at me. I try to love my arms and legs, but the joints in them are swollen and pained. I try to love my stomach, but it cramps and bloats and throws my food back out up my throat. Or it keeps me shut in the bathroom on the toilet, shaking and sweating, chills down my back and arms.

I try to love my face and skin, but I’m sprinkled in sores, red and peeling. Sores in my mouth make eating sometimes burn. Sores in my scalp make showering difficult. My eyes stare back at me but one is red and sees only blurs of light and color.

I can’t stand up too fast, but I can’t sit still for too long.

I’m only 19 years old but I move like I’m 80. Which leads me to ask…

Is this body lovable? Is my body lovable?

When I feel this way, upset with my body that seems to do so much wrong, I try to remember what it’s done right.

Because when my heart beats too fast and makes me sick it slows itself down again. When sores spot my face they heal and fade. When my eye gets red and my vision blurry, it clears up again. When my hands and legs shake they eventually calm down. When my throat closes up and I can’t breathe, my body fights for air until I’m able to take a breath.

For everything my body does wrong. For every way it has hurt me. It has saved me also.

And for that I say my body is lovable. My body is beautifully and wonderfully made. And despite its flaws I choose to love it.

When I say messed up; a mistake; unlovable, God says “beautifully and wonderfully made.”

Meltdown Jenna Bolar

A hurricane rages through my mind

Hundreds of sounds attacking my eardrums

I hear snatches of conversation, but their meaning eludes me, I feel people, pressing in on me, their emotions flooding my brain they hit me like a dagger

I know nothing,

Only the pain and suffering of this moment

I see people and colors and light, but none of it comes into focus I vaguely feel the tears pouring down my cheeks

And hear sobs, not quite recognizing them as my own I am trapped in a prison, stuck in my mind,

I know not how long my sentence will be,

How long until I will be released, shaky and with tear-stained face, To be my own master, once again.

Malaika Muderhwa

Misery J. Luke Herman

Drowning in the dark, The call of some seemingly lost and hopeless thing, Scratches at the gates of your mind, Crying out the woes of the soul, And while you stand inside the safety of your walls, You can’t help but hear that siren’s call. Wailing in the dark, Crying from the shadows, You know what she has done to you, Will that really be enough, He tarnished your pride, you know. They continue to waste your time do they not, You listen intently at the noises from the deep, And though you try to turn the other way, Your feet begin to move without your will, Slowly toward the gates, And though she held you too, Content with her soft and pure touch, It was all you ever needed.

Drifting away, As you wander toward that creatures bitter call, Come now and join me, Join me in the dark, Let go of her, She does not know, Your misery, Now that you have made it at the gate, And even still though you cannot see it, You turn the latch and lift the heavy deadbolt, And walk out into the darkness beyond, You search the shadows to find the voice’s owner, But it was never there, The gate closes behind you, As you try to run back and beat it, But once your hand hit the closed doors, You understand now,

That what you strayed from cannot be regained till harmony found again,

When you crawl back from, The misery you followed beyond the gates of content.

Mismatched Socks

Hannah Sutherland

There’s a boy whose right sock doesn’t match his left one. But what does it matter if his pant legs cover them? But even if they peeked out where his shoes meet the hem of his pants, it would make no difference. Because his friends would think it fun and unique. They loved his crooked smile. His messy hair. The way his cheeks flushed soft pink, meeting over the bridge of his nose. The reliant tap of his fingers on his desk, his locker, the lunch tables.

People think he’s stuck fashionably in another time, lately wearing his pants a size too big, with a thick belt holding them up. A long sleeve and messy hair completes the look. In class he sits quietly and listens, but his eyelids flicker and droop. His eyes darted back and forth.

He sits sometimes with his hands folded together, girls thinking him a gentleman. And the way he holds a hand to his stomach when he laughs gives him an air of contentment. His classmates think him witty and mysterious, as he misses classes frequently yet never seems to get penalized for it.

Always joking and laughing, you want to know him. You want to be someone that he knows. You want to share in his joy and mystery.

But what if you knew something about him that he’s afraid to share? Something known only by his family and closest of friends.

What if you knew he was diagnosed with a lifelong condition that affects him daily? Chronic illness, autoimmune…

What if you knew that his socks didn’t match because he hasn’t the energy to find a pair in the morning?

What if you knew his hair was messy because the joint pain in his hands makes it impossible to brush? His smile crooked because it’s a weary attempt at disguising all of the pain he’s in. What if you knew his flushed look was actually a hot rash across his cheeks?

What if you knew his fashionably oversized style wasn’t planned on his part, but actually the result of dramatic weight gain and then loss from his many medications. And the long sleeve shirt was to cover the many marks on the crooks of his arms from blood tests and IVs.

What if you knew his eyelids droop and flicker because he stays up late into the night tossing and turning because of his pain? His hands actually folded because they long to rub at his sore muscles and joints but he doesn’t want to let on that something is wrong with him.

A hand held to his stomach when he laughs is because it hurts almost constantly as a result of a mix of strong medication and IBS.

What if you knew he misses class so often because of doctor’s appointments, ER trips, and hospital stays? His constant laughing and joking an attempt at covering his failing health. Would you still long to be his friend? Would you still think him charming and attractive? Or would you do what he fears, and back away? Would your perception of him change quickly from admiration to disgust as it sometimes does when people figure out he vomits because of his medication? Would you stay faithfully by his side through his trips to doctor after doctor?

Would you give up on his friendship because you can’t handle the stress of him always barely hanging on, never knowing how he’s going to feel day-to-day? Don’t change how you see him just because now you know the whole story; don’t distance yourself from him just because now you know the reason for his messy hair and fatigue.

Why would you shy away when you learn he has a condition he has to live with for the rest of his life? Why do you never text him now, or invite him over, or ask him to go to a party with you? Why do you now desert him when you know his health is at its lowest?! What has changed?! He’s still the boy with a crooked smile and loose fitted jeans! Why is his diagnosis too hard for you?

Don’t run away because you don’t know what to say to him. This boy with the many IV prick marks hidden under his long sleeves. You liked him before you knew he was sick, so why wouldn’t you like him now…

Don’t be wary of the heart monitor he now has to wear, don’t stare at it and walk by. Ask him. Ask him how he’s doing. Ask him if he wants to hang out, don’t let this knowledge of his diagnosis now hang hauntingly over your head. Don’t make mean comments about his weight gain or loss. Don’t treat him like he’s different.

Now that you know his whole story, try to remember that he’s still just the boy with the mismatched socks.

On the Big Day

Megan V. Luebberman

A special day like this one, What more is there to say?

My heart does sing affection But, falters day to day.

Time went by so quickly. You used every chance to show Your love so clear and so strictly… Is your love something I know?

The sentimental, loving things Proceed from you with glee. I hear each bright, young morning How much you do love me.

So long in wait for honesty, My hope grew faint and weak. The past romances failed to see: It’s sincere love I seek.

One claimed to care with twisted lies. Another walked away. The third just simply didn’t try, Had nothing much to say.

Yet, you write notes inside my lunches, Sing softly when I’m sick in bed, You know just what my favorite song is, And kindly, often kiss my head.

No matter what my thoughts proclaim You are not false in any way

I’m overjoyed you feel the same No longer will my fear hold sway.

Today, along the aisle true I marry just the right man, who Declares the truest love there is, And I am so glad to be just his.

ACT I

Our Town: A Timeless Piece

Amanda Hay

“No curtain. No scenery.

The audience, arriving, sees an empty stage in half-light. Presently the STAGE MANAGER, hat on and pipe in mouth, enters and begins placing a table and three chairs downstage left, and a table and three chairs downstage right. He also places a low bench at the corner of what will be the Webb house, left.

“Left” and “right” are from the point of view of the actor facing the audience. “Up” is toward the back wall. As the house lights go down he has finished setting the stage and leaning against the right proscenium pillar watches the late arrivals in the audience. When the auditorium is in complete darkness he speaks.” (Wilder).

This is how the play begins—a nearly bare stage, the audience arriving to find the Stage Manager still setting up what little fills the space, feeling confused about why things are not already prepared, and wondering if they made it into the right theater. This is followed by an explanation from the character of the Stage Manager of what the play is, who directed and produced it, which actors will be performing, the date and time of the setting, and a description of the town. Talk about atypical! There are few other productions in which audience members receive such rawness and nakedness. Everything is left out in the open— nothing fancy, no secrets, no need to try to figure it out, just a clear explanation offered for the taking. At the beginning of Act II, the Stage Manager even goes on to explain that the first act was called the Daily Life, the upcoming act is called Love and Marriage, and the third act is hinted to be about death by his statement, “I reckon you can guess what that’s about” (Wilder). We know the rules, and there exists a sense of trust and relationship between the performers and the audience members. At many points in the play, the audience and players are one, without the barrier of the fourth wall usually found in

ive theatre to keep us apart; the actors instead speak directly to us. Though this may bring a sense of comfort to audience members, the candor does serve to mask the significance behind the play. Like many great works of art, Our Town’s greatness can be deceptive. A bare stage, spare language, and archetypal characters do not exactly scream an exciting night at the theatre, and trying to engage an audience in this way was even more unheard of at the time of the play in the 1930s. How can a play that is so simplistic make an impact? The hope of playwright Thornton Wilder was that, by stripping the play of everything nonessential, he would provide a profound significance toward the main themes of life, but not everyone felt this way upon seeing the play. When the play first opened in Boston, the reviews were so bad that they had to cancel the second weekend of shows. However, when it opened just a few months later in New York, it was an immediate hit and won a Pulitzer Prize for that year. Though the play has since become a classic in the world of theatre, it continues to boggle the minds of some audience members and readers who cannot get past its simplicity and struggle to notice its greater significance. In Our Town, Wilder dove into the rawness of acting, thought, and speculation, opposing many of the happy and entertaining smash hits that came before the 1938 drama. He was said to have found theatre at the time to be too soothing, missing the bite of life. Most of the theatre of the late 1800s to early 1900s fell into the category of Vaudeville, filled with segments of comedic songs, dances, and acts that provided a show-y, surface-level, uplifting form of entertainment without a thorough plotline. Even the straight plays of the early 1900s that did have a thorough plot-line focused instead on extravagant sets and larger-than-life stories. Theatre artists took advantage of all of the tools up their sleeve in order to create works that were as mesmerizing as possible. As a radical and visionary, Wilder decided to challenge the potential of theatre. Ridding the piece of any spectacle that theatre at the time was known for, he sought to bring value and weight to the simplest events of our daily life.

Wilder wanted to offer answers to the question of “What is the relationship between the countless ‘unimportant’ details of our daily life and the great perspectives of time, social history, and religious ideas?”

He hoped for us to discover what is actually significant about one’s making breakfast, one’s engaging in a domestic quarrel, one’s loving, and one’s dying. All of the events so central to lives around the world are explored in Our Town. The play’s significance across cultures shows that it is much more than an American play, for it is able to capture the universal experience of being alive.

With this, a key to the significance of Wilder’s Our Town, as well as his other works, is his touching on important, universal paradoxes. One important paradox from the play is the fact that society does little to help its own ignorance or help its suffering members.

Simon Stimson, a helpless alcoholic of the town, who we learn in Act III committed suicide, was offered nothing but a rumorous reputation and avoidance from his community. When speaking about his public drunkenness, one of the ladies, Mrs. Gibbs, tells her friends, “The only thing the rest of us can do is just not to notice it.” Though this is sometimes a laughable moment in the play that Mrs. Gibbs brushes over, as anyone saying such words would probably do, the reality of her words is also chilling. They show the difficulties that come with aiding those in need, with discussing mental illness, and with interrupting our own routine to reach out a hand despite controversies in a society that tells us to just keep hurrying and keep being happy. Many of us get so caught up in getting from one point to the next on our own path that we ignore those who have fallen behind until it is already far too late for them.

Not only does Our Town cross cultural barriers, but to an even greater extent it is able to cross generational bridges unlike any other piece of art. Though written almost a hundred years ago with a simple story, Our Town is anything but dated. On the contrary, it is timeless. Simple yet profound, it speaks to anyone who gets the opportunity to witness its story—the story of life. It is sentimental, yet also filled with genuine sentiment. As Donald Margulies explains in his forward for the 2003 publication of the play, though at first glance Our Town may seem uneventful, the event of the play is actually quite significant: it’s life itself (Margulies). Margulies explains in further detail his assignment of reading the play to his undergraduate playwriting students at Yale University. After a semester of studying what makes a good play, the students read Our Town at the end of the semester, and at many

times they miss the mark at first, dismissing the play as no good (Margulies). Margulies describes the invigoration he gets from helping his students better understand the play’s true significance (Margulies).

Like many who have dismissed this play, I was too young the first time I read it. I thought I understood it, yet found it to be quite boring and uneventful. But being in the production during my senior year of high school, playing the role of Mrs. Webb, my perspective on the play and understanding of it certainly shifted. As much of the story follows the themes of “coming of age,” it was beautiful to be a part of such a play at a point in my life when I actually was “coming of age.”

Taking steps in my own first love story at the time, I saw myself in the character of Emily, yet was cast in the role of her mother, which offered me a strange sense of the duality of these roles—how all mothers can see their own story in that of their daughters as they watch their daughters grow up.

Something I further learned in my experience working on the piece in high school was that the expression of life and death, past, present, and future as simultaneous phenomena is an unavoidable realization in Our Town. One clear example of this is the audience’s introduction to the character of Joe Crowell. We see Joe enter as a young newsboy, chatting with the folks of the town. Such a simple introduction turns eerie when the Stage Manager informs us of young Joe’s future, explaining that he got a scholarship to MIT and graduated at the top of his class. “Goin’ to be a great engineer, Joe was. But the war broke out and he died in France. — All that education for nothing,” (Wilder). Like life itself, Wilder is capable of confusing his audience members with the introduction of such cruelty. He does not hold back, always reminding us of the realities that are around the corner. Yet, even though we are warned that death will come at the end of the play, we are still unprepared for it when it comes, much like in life. Wilder certainly did offer us the true bite of life that he hoped would come across in the piece.

As one person is born, another dies. As one person is married, another is widowed. As one person finds young love, another quarrels with their spouse of fifty years. True to the play, and true to life itself. The cycles and shifts are continuous, simultaneous reminders that whatever we have today is not promised tomorrow, despite our

choosing to ignore this fact until it comes to fruition. We see the characters onstage feel their regrets at the loss of a loved one as stabs to the heart and can relate to them in undeniable ways. We see the characters who have passed away grieving the loss of their life now that it is no more. They repent for not having really taken the time to look at everything and appreciate it, and we tremble at the thought that this could be us too.

The play takes us on a ride with characters who live their lives without truly appreciating the moments that life offers us. They go through the motions, following the patterns and tasks required of them, moving quickly from step to step, ignoring any disruptions to the ebb and flow that keep us moving forward. When we see Emily in Act II about to get married, she fearfully goes to her father, asking him, “Why can’t I stay for a while just as I am,” (Wilder). In these very moments, she is grieving the loss of her childhood, wishing that the charmed state of childlike joy and naivety could have lasted longer and fearful of the harsh realities of the adult world. As audience members, knowing that we have wondered this before too, we are heartbroken right along with her.

We see a parallel to this scene as Emily joins the dead in the new part of the cemetery in Act III. She wishes to go back to earth, see the living, and experience a moment of life one last time. She goes back to her twelfth birthday despite being told by the other dead that it will be too painful. Upon her return, she suddenly realizes that everything is moving far too fast, and the living are not even taking the time to look at one another. She cannot bear to watch any longer, as she carries the burden of knowing that she is now gone, yet no one is savoring being with her while she is there. She herself regrets not understanding such things while she was alive and says goodbye to all of the things she wishes she had appreciated more when she still had them.

The evident difference between the dead Emily, witnessing a life that she once had but no longer does, compared to her family members going through the motions is shocking. The scene of Emily’s return highlights beautifully that, aside from simple design elements, the emotions of the characters throughout the play are also kept generally simple, especially those of the living. Emotions run deep rather than wild, opposing other plays that display people losing their minds

in foreign cathartic experiences. Our Town exposes the simple, true emotions that society allows us to have. Feeling our emotions too strongly, letting our emotions get out of hand, and questioning the meaning and purpose of why we are doing what we are doing are all unheard of by most, both in the play and in our contemporary world. Death is what allows Emily to see past the veil, and the unfortunate reality is that so few of us are trapped in the veil until we die. In their famous exchange, Emily asks the Stage Manager “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?” He replies, “No…The saints and poets, maybe—they do some” (Wilder). Even those who express the utmost patience, clarity, thought, and gratitude can only reach a small portion of understanding of life before it is gone. Our Town grips our hearts as we realize this right along with the characters.

The play ends with Emily returning to be with the dead and expressing to them that they were right—it was too painful to go back and see the living. Emily speaks with her mother-in-law, who also sits among the dead.

“EMILY:

Mother Gibbs?

MRS. GIBBS:

Yes, Emily?

EMILY:

They don’t understand, do they?

MRS. GIBBS:

No, dear. They don’t understand.” (Wilder). These are the last lines we hear before the Stage Manager’s final good night at the close of the play. Every time that I have watched or performed Our Town, this ending has never failed to make me cry and leave me breathless. At the beginning of Act III: Death, the Stage Manager prefaces that the people in the cemetery who have passed away are very different. He states, “Some of the things they’re going to say maybe’ll hurt your feelings—but that’s the way it is: mother ‘n daughter… husband ‘n wife…enemy ‘n enemy…money ‘n miser…all those terribly important things kind of grow pale around here (Wilder). But even with this word of preparation, the reality of what death has done to the characters does not hurt us any less. It is hard to see ourselves in these

characters, and to witness our own underlying anxieties, the ones that have been subtly lurking in the back of our mind, materialize in front of our eyes. The play ends much as life does, unexpectedly, without holding back reality and truth, lacking the twist of a happy ending entirely but instead exposing full rawness.

Our Town takes us through the scenes that we know all too well from our own lives—a mother and daughter quarreling about chores or clothing, a father and son discussing the responsibilities that come with being in charge of the house, the awkwardness of falling in love, the gossiping women of the town, authority figures attempting to keep everyone in line according to their own standards, the nerves that come with wedding days, and the torment that comes with the death of a loved one.

I see the play every few years, each time in a new stage of my life. After a new relationship, a new milestone, or a new death in the family, I can watch the play as if I am watching it for the first time, bringing a different perspective and understanding to my role as an audience member and a player in this thing called life. And with each time, I am always impacted just as strongly, but always in different ways, gathering something that I had previously overlooked and learning something new from the piece. As a connoisseur of both theatre and psychology, I love this play because it serves as an overview and discussion of the human experience, running through the emotions and thoughts that come with all of life’s happenings, all with live theatre as a vehicle for the discussion. It celebrates the miracles of birth and death and of the continuity of the human experience, searching for the universal and eternal that permeates all of our lives in unique, yet not so dissimilar ways. And my expectation is that this timeless work will continue to impact many generations ahead.

With this, I’ll leave you with the Stage Manager’s parting words for the audience:

“Hm...Eleven o’clock in Grover’s Corners. - You get a good rest, too. Good night” (Wilder).

Bernard Gerbanier, Thornton Wilder: University of Minnesota Pam phlets on American Writers No. 34, (Minneapolis, MN, 1964).

Brooks Athinson, “The Play,” New York Times, (New York, NY, Feb. 5, 1938).

Donald Margulies, Forward for Our Town, (New York, NY, 2003). Tap pan Wilder, Afterward of Our Town, (New York, NY, 2003).

Thornton Wilder, Our Town, (New York, NY, 1938).

Standing Still in God’s Presence Emily Visscher

pen-stains

Julie Eyerman

I’d like to think that poets who write in red pen ink use it in place of blood.

drawing life from the mind through veins to stain loose-leaf paper to write about things we know nothing about…

love & hate, life & death,

I’ve experienced so much and yet I know absolutely nothing.

Plea Of A Perennial Plant Jared Rhone

Take wind my musing woeful plea, For just an ask is this; Negate thou heart’s firm apathy, To cries you would dismiss.

Right here I stand, solemn and worn, Rooted within the earth, Though planted, trembling at the tool, Which aims to strike my hearth.

If in thy fleshy chest of skin, A heart of freedom flow, Then let me breathe, steer clear of thee, A Tree like me should grow.

Oh! Should my sap bleed endlessly, Chagrined thy soul remain. The riches from my scaly bark. Relish like rotten grain.

Give sight to those who dwell as well, Within my jailbird’s crown. The beasts of small-boned innocence, Turn from your vengeful frown.

The natives sift throughout my hair, To munch those thoughts of mine, And on that branch sprout fruitful minds, Where Joy and Love align.

But if our minds, compared can be, A principle should form. That if thy veins are as my roots, Our souls can find a norm.

The dirt which rests around our feet, Belongs to life of all, That ax, it strips, divides, This gift, from high, trying to fall.

Perhaps your pity melts away, When you gaze into me, You scan my skin and crucify, This blessed and cursed tree.

The wrongs that harbor in my kin, That burden of my flesh, To fail the son who slain for thee, A plight we both possess.

Think twice, to crack open my hull, A kind soul you will meet, And quiver as you ponder why, True Brothers are discrete.

So when the shadows slash your trunk, A stump both we will share, I hope the woodsman blunts the blade, And saves you from despair.

saltwater

Saltwater

H. O. Finch

it still stings the same as it did when I was younger

Emilie Nannenga

I peered through the dark glass, watching as we approached the waiting pair of yellow orbs. The chilly morning fog became a blanket around us, as the silhouette of my cousin’s car appeared, its headlights gently glowing through the heavy air. Mom cut the engine while I reached towards the back seat to grab my bags. Stepping onto the damp grass, I walked to the trunk, lifted it open, and gathered my life’s possessions in my arms.

Through the fog, I squinted as I saw another pair of lights crawling towards us. My Aunt Joan’s silhouette soon appeared next to my mom’s as she opened her own door and joined us outside. Rachel and Elijah made their way out of the stilled car, as I crammed my bags of clothes and paintings into the back of their car.

Slamming the trunk closed, I swung the passenger door of my cousin’s car open, and slumped down in the seat. I searched the floor, trying to find anything to distract the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. The clock read 3:13 a.m. I rubbed my eyes as I remembered the few short hours of sleep I had. Mom approached me, her footsteps softened by the dewy grass. I blinked through my bleary and exhausted eyes and looked up at my mom.

“I guess this is goodbye for now,” I said. I fidgeted the silver ring on my finger, breaking eye contact.

Mom smiled and her eyes shined as she looked down at me. “I’ll see you in a few weeks. My girl is growing up and going to college!” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.” I tried to smile, but couldn’t.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the reality that was seemingly happening before me. Only moments ago I said goodbye to my sleepy grandma and grandpa, knowing that it would be five months before I could see them again. Five months of not being able to drop over every week, just to have popcorn and watch a movie.

Grandma and Grandpa weren’t the only hard goodbyes I had to say. One of my best friends, Kate, left only days before, headed on her own path to Missouri. I wouldn’t see her until Thanksgiving. I remember the tightness of our hug, neither of us wanting to say goodbye,

before watching her drive away. I couldn’t hide the tears then.

After saying goodbye to countless friends, I could’ve assumed that it would have gotten easier. But, unfortunately, goodbyes still suck, I guess.

Mom bent to eye level, emphasizing her words. “I love you so much. And don’t forget the snacks I gave you.” She winked at me, grinning big.

“I would never.” I assured her, a smile breaking free on my face.

My cousin laughed beside me, getting up to hug Aunt Joan. Her husband, Elijah, also joined the embrace.

I hugged my mom tight, telling her how much I loved her.

I knew I would see her again in a few weeks, but then, another goodbye would ensue. Together, me, Elijah, and Rachel were headed out of our small town in North Dakota, making a stop in the middle of Montana. We’d arrive in the afternoon, and spend a few days with family. Shortly after, we would make the eighteen-hour drive to California which would begin my first semester of college.

I was moving across the country and away from everything I have ever known. Goodbyes were inevitable, but still a hard thing to say. I would only know two people in the entire state. I would have to begin the process of creating a life in a new environment. My mom and my stepdad would be flying out to help me move in a few weeks. I would see them for the weekend, and then I would have to say goodbye again. I wouldn’t see my mom for five months after that.

All these thoughts swarmed my mind. It seemed like I was saying a thousand goodbyes with this one word. But, this was a tender leaving. One that promised a reunion–the best types of goodbyes. I hugged my mom tightly against me. “I love you mom. And thanks for waking up so early.”

Laughing, Mom said “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Stilling, her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll see you later, Em. I’m so proud of you.”

And that was it, I would see her later. With that promise soothing the sting of goodbye, I firmly closed the door, resting back in my seat. We all waved to each other while we slowly pulled away from the driveway. As the fog wrapped around the car, and soft music played from the aux, all I could think about was how excited I was for our next hello.

Biscuit & Mr. Turtle

LoraLee Yates

Sinking Rebekah Pulaski

He felt fear like the ever-present sun

That bled onto the floor where he slept.

The rats ran under him

The worms above Warning, laughing, taunting.

They spin and run all the day long.

While he lays on the floor

Deciding whether to sit up, or let himself sink into Hell

Where the rats and the worms will be no more.

Sunken And Shattered Amanda Fagan

About the song: This song was inspired by a character in a work of fiction. It is from the perspective of a person who used someone close to him and refused to take accountability. His excuse for leaving and ruining his friend’s life was that his friend shouldn’t have expected anything more of him because, from the start, it was never a secret that he was selfish and cowardly.

I am from a land full of boundless sand, but two years ago I packed my things and left. Searching for something new across the ocean blue. Then I ran into you, the best person I ever met. The poor person whose life I wrecked.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known. You should’ve known I was never trustworthy. Now you know why I have to go. What we had was real, but it was temporary.

I know you don’t want this to be over. You’re searching for closure, but I’ve always been such a coward. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, so I’m leaving before I leave you more sunken and shattered.

You say it’s so unfair of me to just leave you there after everything the two of us went through. I’m leaving you in the rain because truth be told, I’m just so afraid you’ll never forgive me for all of the ways that I have wronged you.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known. You should’ve known I was never trustworthy. Now you know why I have to go. What we had was real, but it was temporary.

I know you don’t want this to be over. You’re searching for closure, but I’ve always been such a coward. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, so I’m leaving before I leave you more sunken and shattered.

All of my loose ends have been tied. I think it’s finally time for me to go. Maybe at a future point in time, I’ll find you once again. I can hope. I can hope.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known. You should’ve known I was never trustworthy. Now you know why I have to go. What we had was real, but it was temporary.

I know you don’t want this to be over. You’re searching for closure, but I’ve always been such a coward. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, so I’m leaving before I leave you more sunken and shattered.

The best person I ever met. The poor person whose life I wrecked. The best person I ever met. The person I need to forget.

Aged By the Tides of Time

The Blood You Boiled

Brandon Lustig

It was about 1 year ago, maybe a little more

You were reckless and selfish and I couldn’t hate you more

You took what you wanted and left me with nothing

You see my reaction and think that I’m bluffing

You can’t run away and you think that you’ve vanished

But I warn you no bad deed ever goes unpunished

Maybe an apology is all that’s required

But make it genuine before it backfires

I suggest it’s quick and don’t hesitate

Because I promise that one day it’ll be too late.

The Fun of Science

Megan V. Luebberman

Writing pre-labs for biology class was always so dull and I hated how tedious it had to be. I sat at the sleek black table of our school’s lab, in the tall bar stool chair. I spun the chair back and forth rhythmically, out of boredom. Explaining the hypothesis, purpose and listing the equipment of the experiments was simple. However, when it came to describing the procedure and methodology, my hand began to cramp up.

“Pre-labs are vital before each experiment,” Our teacher, Ms. Hanan, explained once again. “We don’t want to have any accidents in the lab, now do we? Safety is our top priority, we wouldn’t want any accidents or injuries–”

I thought that things might be more interesting if we did just happen to have one.

“–and after safety, our priority is to learn about science and have fun!”

Ms. Hanan always emphasized how fun science was, and brought her enthusiasm to every class. Last lab, we’d viewed a speck of yeast under the microscope–riveting stuff

“And remember, our next lab is located at our local Maxwell National Laboratory! They’ve kindly let our classes reserve a space next Thursday, to not only see inside a real science lab, but to conduct a rat dissection there–guided by one of their scientists. So, continue writing the pre-lab and don’t forget the conduct agreement essay. It must be 1,000 words or more. I know you’ve never done one of these before, so do your best and we’ll review them at the end.”

Ms. Hanan wanted to ensure that we would all behave ourselves in the fancy government facility. She wanted a lengthy essay describing how we would treat the laboratory once we got there as well as how we were planning to behave. She also wanted us to sign the bottom of it, as if that would make it more binding. Since we were a rambunctious class of freshman, I saw her point. Yet, it made even more work for me. I squinted hard at my paper and the half-written methodology list. The blank bullet points that needed to be filled in irritated me.

“You have about thirty more minutes to complete your pre-lab and essay.” Ms. Hanan sang cheerfully.

Thirty minutes was way too much time for such a menial task. My eyes roved around the room. Almost half of the students’ heads were down, concentrated on writing. The other half either typed away on their phones surreptitiously, or stared blankly off into space. Ms. Hanan sat at her desk, absorbed by her laptop.

I almost returned reluctantly back to my paper when I caught sight of Dirk Thompson across the room. He was one of those that looked vacantly at nothing in particular. He’d succumbed to the malaise of the classroom as well. Yet, the more I stared at him, the more entertained I became. Suddenly, I saw his broad-shouldered and brawny build in a new light. He wore a tight black school shirt and a gold chain around his neck. Under the desk, I peeked at his gray sweatpants and pristine white sneakers. From what I knew, he played on the school’s baseball team. We’d never had a face-to-face encounter, but… maybe he’d bump into me in the hall, causing me to drop my books clumsily and out of noble motives he would kindly… My head leaned on my hand, subconsciously supporting my daydreams.

“Macy! How is it coming along?” Ms. Hanan inquired with a startlingly high tone. She stood right next to me.

I jumped slightly and tore my eyes away.

“Great–good, it’s–going.” I nervously glanced between her and my paper.

“Were my instructions clear enough?” She followed my gaze. “I see you haven’t started the essay yet...”

“Oh–yes, very clear. I was just–thinking of my wording.” I gave her a strained smile.

“Okay,” She winked at me. “No worries. We’ve still got a bit of time. I was just checking on you.” Ms. Hanan smiled warmly and walked away to check on other students.

I shook my head to clear it, and beared down on the paper with my pencil. I began to write:

“On our trip to the Maxwell National Laboratory, I plan to be on my best behavior. I will treat the laboratory and laboratory equipment with respect and not do anything disrespectful with it…”

The dryness of my sentences killed even me. I didn’t know how to write a whole essay detailing the trip and my actions. Just two sentences seemed to cover it. I tried to continue on.

“Every scientist in the laboratory, I will treat with respect as well, and listen to all their instructions. I will not do anything I am not told to do. I will not go anywhere I am not supposed to go…”

I failed to see the fun in any of this and I was still nowhere near the word count Ms. Hanan required for this essay. Maybe if I began the essay again, and described every detail of how the day went, I could finish this pointless assignment. I began:

“This is how I expect our ideal day in the Maxwell National Laboratory would go, as we all, as dutiful students, adhere to the ethical and scientific protocol that we must:”

I had to use every word possible in order to make this work. I continued:

“Our class arrived, with bated breath, at the Maxwell National Laboratory. We all peered through the windows of the bus excitedly, but formed an orderly line to unboard. Once outside, I gaped at the magnificent government facility, its metal architecture gleaming in the sunlight. The big bold letters, announcing its name, stood in front of the building. I absentmindedly reached out a hand to touch one, but then drew it back respectfully–”

This narrative would surely please Ms. Hanan when I was done with it. It would contain both the fun of science she always talked about and emphasize my respectful behavior. While neither were quite the truth, this would convince her it was.

“A scientist in a white lab coat came out to greet us and introduced us to the place before leading us inside. Then we were guided through a series of cool metal chambers, with vacuum-sealed doors, after being searched thoroughly by security.

‘We’ve got to make sure y’all aren’t spies.’ The scientist winked playfully.

Our class walked with a modest pace along the long hallways we were instructed down. We allowed our teacher, Ms. Hanan, to go first in order to acknowledge her precedence. Though we passed many other laboratories with glossy glass windows, I only moderately glanced inside. I never strayed from the group, and kept my attention on the scientist’s instructions.

We arrived at our designated lab in good time and Ms. Hanan told

us to group into pairs. I paired up with—”

My eyes gazed in Dirk’s direction again and I sighed contently.

“—with Dirk Thompson. We donned on white lab coats of our own as well as safety goggles. The white table before us had an array of lab equipment, from beakers, to strange substances in test tubes, to bunsen burners. Directly in front of us lay a dead rat on a metal tray; prepared for our dissection. I grimaced at the rat, but thanked it silently for its sacrifice to science, remembering that my teacher always said to respect such creatures.

Dirk and I followed the directions of the scientist as we took up the scalpel and scissors, beginning the dissection. It was gruesome, yet fulfilling work. We exposed the muscles of the rat first. The pink flesh glinted in the lab’s fluorescent lighting. Next was the inner organs and bone layer. This proved trickier, as our movements with the sharp tools had to be even more precise.

Dirk and I, through clear communication as lab partners, maneuvered the tools adeptly and opened the rats muscles just the right amount to expose what we were to observe. We recorded our findings in our notebooks with immense detail–”

I yawned and looked at the clock of my class. Twenty minutes still remained! I took time and rapidly counted my words. To my surprise, my essay only had about 400 words so far. I pressed my pencil down onto the paper so hard the lead threatened to snap. Ms. Hanan couldn’t expect literally everything to go perfectly in a lab, right? Science mishaps happen all the time.

“–While everything had gone swimmingly up until that point, we did have a regrettable mistake in the lab. It happens to even the best of scientists.

As he pointed, studiously, with the scalpel at one of the rat’s inner organs we examined, Dirk accidentally pierced it. Some sticky bodily liquid squirted all over us. I squealed and we both backed away from the table quickly. The scientist rushed over and led us out of the lab. We followed him to an adjoining room where he left us to get cleaned up at the sink and put on new lab coats.

Once cleaned up, Dirk and I reflected on our mistakes and how we could describe this in our post-lab reflection. After a few minutes, our conversation shifted.

‘I’m just sorry to have startled you like that.’ Dirk met my eyes, then looked back down at the floor, biting his lip.

‘It’s okay, I squeal at everything.’ I shook my head knowingly, and

rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Should we head back in now?’ He asked.

‘Sure.’ I nodded.

We walked out of the room, but then I stopped short. To our right was our lab and to the left, a slightly ajar steel door that read ‘No Admittance. Authorized Personnel Only.’ Dirk and I exchanged glances. Both of us wore mischievous grins–”

Ms. Hanan was always championing curiosity as one of the most important qualities a person could have.

“I took a tentative step toward the door looming ahead, and Dirk followed in suit.

‘I’ve always wondered what they really keep in here.’ Dirk whispered conspiratorially. ‘My Dad claims they keep extraterrestrial things in here. You know–like aliens.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ I laughed. ‘But there certainly is something in there they don’t want people to see.’

The door also had several signs pasted on it. All of them displayed images with bright yellow backgrounds. One looked like an explosion or fire, another had a pointy star on it, and a third had several moon shapes connected to an inner circle. A small glass window at the top of the door offered a look inside.

‘Maybe we should just peer in quickly?’ I suggested nonchalantly.

‘Couldn’t hurt.’ Dirk shrugged just as casually.

We quietly padded closer. I stretched on my tiptoes to see inside. Dirk, strikingly tall as he was, could see over just fine. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Behind the door lay another long hallway lined with labs.

‘I guess there’s really nothing here.’ I said and stepped away from the window.

‘Wait a second,’ Dirk paused, looking intently through the window. ‘Look at that.’

I looked over once again and saw a scientist carefully carrying a cage containing some creature I’d never seen before in my life. It writhed disconcertedly inside, flapping wings and flashing claws. She seemed to have trouble holding onto the cage.

‘What is that?’ I shrieked in disbelief.

‘Let’s find out.’ Dirk declared, and he swung the heavy door open, rushing inside.

I followed quickly behind, not knowing what else to do–”

It’s probably not the best move to leave one’s lab partner by themself. Surely there’s a scientific rule about that somewhere.

“–The door clicked closed behind us, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. Dirk strode down the hall quickly and I had trouble keeping up. The scientist with the cage had walked into one the labs down the hall. No one else seemed to be around.

Glass windows on each side of us flew by as we picked up the pace, driven by morbid curiosity, an ill-advised motivation. Flashes of lab equipment passed by; lab equipment we’d never learned about in class. One lab displayed hundreds if not thousands of different colored liquids. Some bubbled whilst others oozed, and every single one sat securely stored in their respective containers. Another lab’s space contained vast metal machines with giant cogs and coils coming out of it from every angle. Their use was a mystery.

When Dirk came to a sudden stop, with a skidding sound from his sneakers, I ran into him. We both fumbled to keep our balance, then he pointed silently through the glass window he’d stopped at. The cage sat on a metal table and the scientist stood a ways behind it. She appeared to be studying the creature, but also had a horrified look on her face. We still couldn’t make out exactly what the creature was. Its features were too mangled and distorted to tell.

My eyes drifted to the rest of the room because I needed a respite from the horrible sight. However, the rest of the room provided more horrors. Cages of varying size lined the walls. Each holding something different, but equally terrifying. There were creatures made up of a majority of eyes and creatures with so many rows of teeth that sharks paled in comparison. I looked from cage to cage and grew more and more frightened as I went. My body shivered subconsciously, and Dirk took notice.

‘I guess the rumors were true… They are doing strange things here.’ He shuddered and reached for my hand. I squeezed his hand tightly in turn. The least petrifying cage I spotted held a great quantity of creatures. Thousands of small, pink balls of what looked like matted furs bounced up and down in their cage. They almost seemed like little worms, except for the shape. Their smallness and bright color were a small comfort amid everything else –” Science provided an endless amount of possibilities, this was another one of Ms. Hanan’s sayings.

“–Our heads both turned back to the scientist when she made a sudden jerk backwards. Somehow, the cage with the creature of wings and claws had burst open. It streaked across the air, raggedly flying and dive-bombing her furiously. She leaned back as far as she could and held up her arms for protection. Pushed against the wall of cages, there was nowhere else to go. The creature came down upon her swiftly and knocked her back with its talons. The scientist fell back into the cage and the one full of the fuzzy pink spheres broke open. Thousands of the pink creatures swarmed out onto the floor and began to collate around the scientist’s body.

When this happened, we finally broke out of our shocked state and began to yell for help. Dirk tried the door of her lab, but it was locked. No scientist answered our call. No one appeared to be in this sector of the facility.”

This is probably why lab protocol states that one should never do work alone in a lab in cases of emergencies.

“There was nothing more we could do except watch in horror for a moment longer as the once-benign pink creatures overtook the scientist. We couldn’t see what became of her because there were so many creatures swarming around the entire room. I drew closer to Dirk and we shook together in horror, but we could not bring ourselves to look away.

It was only when the creatures began to take interest in us through the glass that our minds began to function again. The thousands of pink monsters jumped and pinged against the glass. First, only a few, and then all of them. We stepped back quickly, but imagined they could not break through. That is, until the glass cracked.

Without further notice, Dirk, still holding my hand, yanked me down the hall at full speed. I stumbled but regained my balance quickly, as I heard the shattering of the glass window behind us. We ran in the opposite direction of the way we came in, further into the building.

Around corners and down more hallways we ran, never looking back. The creatures’ little bodies thumping along the ground bouncing after us can be heard echoing through the hall. It was a while before alarms sounded off. Then the lights of the building dimmed, and waned in and out. We still saw no one, but tried to find our way back to the front of the building by some alternative route.

When we finally did turn a corner and saw someone, we had a momentary breath of relief. It was another scientist standing in the middle of the hallway. We slid to a stop and called out to him. He walked slowly towards us

without answering. A sinister feeling crept up my spine and Dirk gripped my hand tighter.

As soon as we saw it, my blood turned to ice. Some of the pink fuzzies sat, attached, to the man’s exposed skin on his hands and neck.”

I get why proper PPE is emphasized now.

“The man continued steadily in our direction with no life behind his eyes. I was the first to move this time, tugging us back down another hallway. We skidded to a stop again, confronted by three more scientists overtaken by fuzzies.

‘This way,’ urged Dirk with desperation in his voice.

By then, our legs and lungs were burning from exhaustion. I tripped over myself several times but he helped pull me along. Now in a zombie-like situation, one couldn’t be too careful.

Somehow, we found our way back to the sector our rat lab had been in. At first, it was a small relief. The rats remained on the table, mostly dissected. We paused to catch our breath. Thumping accompanied by heavy steps sounded out near us. We turned to see most of our freshmen class, with our dear teacher Ms. Hanan in the front, staggered along with hundreds of the bouncing pink creatures.

Back the other direction, we sprinted. Most steps and thumps came from in front of them. Dirk saw a door near us and thrusted it open. We stepped inside and shut the door. Brooms and mops clattered behind my head as we squeezed together in the supply closet. There was barely enough room for both of us to fit in such a small space. In another situation, this would have been ideal.

We stayed silent in the closet as creatures and their controlled hosts traveled back and forth right outside the door. Eventually, after a few hours, the noises died down. We still dared not to move. My legs hurt from running and standing so long, but the closet felt the safest. I could feel Dirk’s heart beating through his chest, and that also provided solace. After a while, he looked down at me in silent understanding. We shared an intimate embrace for a fleeting moment. After the day’s events and many near death experiences, it felt amazing and —”

I shook my head and focused, repositioning the pencil in my hand. I needed to finish this in time…

“Dirk took up a broom and held it tightly.

‘We’ve got to find a way out of this building.’

‘I haven’t heard anything in a while but–I’m sure they’re still out there.’

‘There’s one way to find out.’ Dirk made movement towards the door.

‘Wait!’ I said a little too loudly. ‘I think we’re going to need something else to help. Grab a few more brooms.’

We snuck out of the closet quietly and ran to the nearest lab room. While he stood watch at the door, I rummaged through the supplies and found the right chemicals. Combining ammonium nitrate, zinc and hydrochloric acid, I created a flame on a paper towel and rushed it over to Dirk. We set each of the brooms aflame–”

Ms. Hana would likely be proud of that chemical reaction. My pencil flew across the page faster and faster. The end was in sight.

“We wielded the home-made torches boldly, but tried our best to avoid any contact with any creatures or people. We had a few run-ins with the flying monstrosities from earlier, but they were thankfully frightened away by the fire. Whenever a suspicious noise would come from around a corner, we quickly sprinted down another way. When we finally reached the door to the outside world we were out of breath once again. To our horror, we found that the door stood wide open. Much of the creatures had escaped.

We stood there shakily in shock. Then, with nothing else to do, we found the nearest payphone and called a cab. Neither of us could bring ourselves to speak about what happened. I contemplated everything I saw, the flashes of people being overtaken by the monsters was the most gruesome. I mourned the loss of our class and said a silent prayer for the world, in hopes that somehow it would not fall victim to all we had witnessed. I shut my eyes tightly in order to wake up from this nightmare come alive...”

I dropped my pencil ceremoniously on the table. My essay sat complete, in all its glory, on the table and just in time. It may have gotten a little crazy at the end, but that’s what is entertaining about a story. Logicality is thrown out the window for the sake of amusement. Besides, only my teacher was going to read it.

“Okay class,” Exclaimed Ms. Hanan. “Time is up!”

I looked at the clock and became puzzled. There was still another 10 minutes left on the clock. I glanced around the room once and blushed at seeing Dirk. He still stared off into space. However, most

eyes were on the front of the room.

“Now, as I mentioned earlier, we will have one of you share your essay.” Ms. Hanan looked pointedly at me. “Macy, how about you?”

“Oh–I don’t think mine’s that good.” I stammered hurriedly. “Maybe someone else should go.”

“Nonsense,” Ms. Hanan smiled encouragingly, “I’m sure what you have is great. I saw you busily writing away. Please stand up here and read it.”

I stood up slowly and edged my way to the front with the paper trembling in my hands. I imagined every student staring at me expectantly, but I didn’t look at the class to check. I didn’t have time, Ms. Hanan wanted me to read and there was no turning back now. I cleared my throat and read my essay as proudly as I could. My eyes stayed on the paper the entire time and my flushed face hid behind it. When I finished, there was a daunting second of silence.

I lowered the paper down little by little, peeping at everyone’s eyes that stared at me. My face grew hotter with every agonizing second. What would they all think? My heart got caught in my throat and made it hard to breathe. What would Dirk think?

Unable to bear another moment’s torture, my eyes compulsively darted to look at Dirk. He still sat in his seat towards the back of the classroom. Yet–his head was down on the table as he slept! By the looks of it, he had missed my entire narrative. Relief flooded my body but I was reminded that I was still in class.

“Well–Macy!” Ms. Hanan suddenly exclaimed, making me jump. She smirked at the entire class and then back at me. “That’s not quite what I was looking for but–you certainly made science fun!”

The Vessel of Life

Eden Pohl

The Ghost Jaden Massaro

I wandered the haunted house, clutching your letter

Searching every dusty room for the specters. But each is empty until I come upon a mirror

And there in the foggy glass, I saw her.

My nightly companion, in every dream

She smiles back then lets out a scream. Trembling, pale, and haunted, almost As though she had seen a ghost. I wish to comfort her, my hand to the glass

Through her tears she reaches out at last. Our fingers meet, cold and sharp like her tears

I long to comfort her, but I sense all her fears.

It’s true, I wouldn’t want to be trapped forever In a mediocre life where I’m no more pretty than clever. All of the bygone sunlight softly taunting Gliding alone no one to join even in haunting.

But a chilling wind rustles through my bones

This house may be the lady’s final home. As the realization settles like snowfall on a grave I see them finally, a shadowy wave.

Tears stream down her face in the mirror

But the streams make her vision clearer. A companion behind me raises a toast, “To death!” and for the first time, life is the ghost.

The Hero’s Dirge

Joshua Tribble

Though fire may fall And tears be shed

Though warriors die

And fields run red

Though courage and hope

Be turned to dread

To the last, I shall fight beside you

When friend turns to foe

And forsakes the Light

When trust’s sacred knot

Is no longer tight

When swords are drawn

And we go to fight

To the end, I shall stay beside you

If in chains we’re bound

And for freedom we yearn

If our enemies rise

And our cities burn

If we ride to war

And never return

Even to the death, I shall stand beside you

The Pieces of My Heart Mikyla

Bultsma

I believe that everyone has a box. The size of the box and its contents are unique to each person, but we all have a box in our heart. This box is filled with anything and everything a person doesn’t want to touch or see or even acknowledge.

For me, one of the current occupants of that box is the grave site that was my final semester of high school. Every broken piece of loss, depression, anger, and bitterness. The latter is particularly difficult for me to confess. My box was packed shut, locked, and left to drift away. And there it lay, contently unopened, for two long years.

Then, after what felt like a small lifetime, it got cracked open. Just a crack. Then out rushed every feeling and thought of disappointment, grief, frustration, and anxiety that had been dammed up for two years.

I suppose I had been attempting to lie to myself all along. I had accepted every piece of heartbreaking news for three and a half straight months without ever…losing control…having an outburst…I don’t quite have the words to properly describe it. I had cried endless tears…but never let myself truly grieve what I was losing. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that, since the circumstances were so uncontrollable, there was no need to grieve or to be angry. Who would I have to be angry at anyway? As a result, I had decided that I could be upset, distraught and sobbing, but I couldn’t –wouldn’t – let myself grieve properly and walk through every stage of the process.

So here I am. Two years later. My box has been broken open. I lost everything that I had been looking forward to my entire childhood. And everything I had come to anticipate in high school. I missed out on endless memories that should have been made. Endless moments.

Every person has to say goodbye to their childhood at some point and move into the next stage in life, but that is much harder to do when locked away in your own home.

Two years later, my box is open, and I don’t even know where to start, but here we go…

I heard how the number of cases was rising in Orange County. I heard that public schools were considering going online for a few weeks as a precaution. But that didn’t matter to me, I was leaving to go on a mission trip, and everything else could wait until we returned.

I heard a call come in. The Native American reservation was closing. Our trip was canceled. I heard the silence as the caravan pulled into a gas station, and the car was put into park.

I heard my heart break.

Later, I would hear more news: the school was going online. I heard the administration say that we would be back on campus after spring break. I would come to hear much more over the next four months, and I would hear my heart break a little more with each piece of news.

I lost so much in the months to come. First was the Spring Native American Reservation Trip, something I had looked forward to for three years. I lost the senior games. I lost my first and last prom. I lost Senior Ditch Day. I lost our Grad Nite at Disneyland. I lost the final milestones, events, memories, and months of my high school experience. Everything that made senior year…well, senior year. I lost the final farewell to all of high school and, with it, the proper farewell to my childhood.

Even now, it’s a challenge to look back and try to find something positive that I gained from this experience, because the only thing that comes to mind is every broken thing I was given as recompense. I gained my first understanding of a deep loss. In some ways, I gained perspective, but it’s not exactly a positive or optimistic perspective of life.

I gained an appreciation for tears: the happy tears, the sad cries, and even the broken sobs.

There is no substantial or tangible thing that was worth everything I had experienced. I have nothing I can point to and say, “This is what I gained.” But I believe that there is more to come. I know that the Lord takes brokenness and makes it beautiful, and I believe with every piece of my heart, that my God does not leave me to sit in my sorrows alone. He sits with me and holds me while I cry. He reaches out His hand, lifts me up, and walks me into a new strength in Him.

Even now, my heart is mending but I know that it is my character, my heart, and who I am in Christ, that will gain something from this. I do not know how to move forward in the grieving process, but I know that the Lord is the one who determines my steps and walks alongside me all the while. And one day, in my unknown future, I will be able to look back and see all that the Lord was equipping me with from this time forward.

The Rose

Jennifer Perez

I smile…

I laugh…

I hug…

Only the beauty of the rose being noticed

While it struggles to face the sun

Do they not see?

I want them to see…

But no matter what I do, They don’t…

At last a petal falls, A piece transforming into millions of droplets.

The petal wanting to be understood

To be heard

But there goes the wind

Blowing it further and further away…

Oh rose…

One day they will understand.

One day they will see.

The sun knows you’re trying…

Please keep on trying

The Songs They Used to Sing

J. Luke Herman

Do you believe the songs, my brother, The ones they used to sing, Down by the water on the beaches, While the sun drifted into the boundless sea, As the sky erupted into a thousand shades, The songs that they’d sing about the thousand kingdoms, About the golden trees, Where kings of old would ride out on steeds so bold, In a time where the very air they breathed culled all disease, When the land was without the taint of evil’s greed, Where peace was abundant and without end, They used to dance to those songs, My brother,

The very ones that echo on the winds from the sea, Their footprints would dot the sandy beaches, Bright fires would carry smoke into the twilight, And the ashes would sparkle in the starry seas of the night, And we would all dance together, sometimes, While we reminisced about better ages where those before us lived better lives, Brother, Do you remember,

Do you believe the songs they used to sing, Back in those endless days, Back when they used to speak of great kings, Back when the very air they breathed culled disease, I remember,

I know it was not a dream.

Brighton Peterson

The Submarine

Michael Robles

Thud.

Thud.

Thud…

The man’s fist pounded on the submarine’s two front windows, searching for a way to break the darkness that encompassed his vision.

“What do you see,” the man in the middle of the room asked, shuffling cards as he sat alone.

“Darkness,” the man at the window replied. “Utter…darkness.”

“How does it look,” the man with the cards asked.

“Frightening.”

He continued to pound on the window.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud…

As the pounding and shuffling continued in an almost pattern-like fashion, the door to the back right of the submarine opened. The iron door gave a loud creaking as it opened from its rusted place of origin, a young girl appearing in the doorway. She had a large smile on her face, and carried a joyful presence.

The girl skipped into the main room and began to walk in a circle around the man with the cards. Every step was calculated, yet smooth. She walked in a natural stride, her eyes directly on the ceiling.

Her boots clicked in a metronomic rhythm.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“What are you doing,” the man shuffling cards asked.

The girl was silent.

“Yoo-hoo,” he called again. “Little girl?”

Still, no answer. She continued to walk around him, encircling him.

“What is she doing,” he called out to the man at the window, making sure not to fumble his cards.

The thudding continued, falling into a pattern with the girl’s stepping.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Ask her.”

“I just did!” The man shouted. No answer.

“What do you see?” The man’s voice grew irritated as the cards slipped through his fingers. He noticed the Ace on the top of the deck. He smiled.

“Obsolescence.”

“What does it look like?”

The man continued to pound the glass. “I don’t know.”

“Well, how do you feel?”

“The same.” He continued to pound, not missing a beat.

“Ugh,” the man with the cards scoffed. “Little girl, can you explain to me why you are walking in a circle around me? It is making me quite dizzy.”

“Is it,” she asked, still staring at the ceiling. Her voice was soft and curious. “I’m just walking.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not like to run.”

“Why walk around me in the first place?”

“That is for you to determine, sir. I just walk.”

“Well, I take it because you are thinking of something? Something to make you pace?”

“No,” she said, still clicking and clacking with her boots rhythmically. “I can’t think.”

“You can’t?” He continued to shuffle.

“No.”

“Are you stupid?”

“No…I don’t think so. I just can’t.” She smiled.

“Well, I can think,” the man voiced pragmatically.

“I know you do.” She finally made eye contact with him as she stepped

in front of him in her circle. “That’s what you do.”

“You don’t know me!” He said, caught off guard. “I just met you!”

“Did you? I’ve known you for ages.”

He continued to shuffle. The girl kept circling. Suddenly, a groan was heard from the back right door. A loud, aggravated voice moaned loudly in irritation.

“Ugh!” it shouted. It was deep, bellowing, malicious. “That noise!”

The man darted his head to the back room, clutching his cards. The girl continued to walk in her circle with a smile, and the man at the window pounded without interruption.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud…

“Did you hear that?” the man with the cards asked no one in particular.

“Hear what,” both the girl and the man at the window replied nonchalantly.

“That voice. It was loud!”

“No,” the girl replied. “I cannot hear it,” she smiled.

“What! How?” the man asked. His shuffling became sloppy. “That walking! Kill her!” the voice bellowed again.

The man’s concentration was broken once more. “The girl?”

The voice paused before appearing once more, loud as ever.

“I said kill her!”

The man was confused. He could barely focus on his shuffling.

The girl stared back at the ceiling laughing. “What about me?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “The voice asked to kill you.”

She did not bat an eye as she continued to walk. “Kill me? Why?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“Kill her!” The voice from the room shouted. “Kill her!”

“My dear,” the man said, the cards almost breaking shuffle. “The voice is angry.”

“It always seems to be when I come…” she whispered.

“KILL HER,” the voice shouted. “KILL HER!”

Anger blared from the back right room. The man at the window continued to pound his fist. As the girl’s walk grew slower and tighter around the man with the cards, the voice grew angrier.

The voice shouted the words over and over. “Kill her! She doesn’t belong!”

The man dropped the deck of cards. He couldn’t take it anymore. The noises of all angles jumbled into his head.

Thud. Kill her!

Click. Clack.

Finally, he shouted, “Enough!”

The voice fell silent. The girl stopped smiling. Her feet stood directly in front of him. The pounding still continued.

“You must go,” the man said, King in his hand. “I’m sorry. You must.”

The girl looked down at her shoes. “Okay. It is time, I suppose.”

She silently shuffled to the back of the submarine. The iron door to the right shut, and she walked to the one on the left. To the door that led to the outside. To the unknown.

The iron door loudly opened and closed. Soon, sounds of water flooding into the exit tunnel whispered into the men’s ears, and faded as it drained.

The man at the window suddenly stopped thudding. A smile slowly grew on his face. “My word,” he whispered, giggling.

The other man stared at his cards. “What is it? What do you see?”

A short pause sat between them, only the man’s giggles replacing the absence of his pounding. “Peace,” he said.

“What does it look like?”

He stopped smiling. “Oh,” he said quietly. “It’s gone.”

He resumed pounding his fist on the window.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud…

Time is Digging your Grave - Inspired by Pawel Kuczynski

Taylor Steadman

It is only a matter of time

It is inevitable for all

Til your time has come

Til you are six feet under

As the pendulum swings

As the clock strikes twelve

Another day has past

Another day is gone

Who digs the grave: you or me?

Who gave me the shovel: you or me?

Everyone has a shovel in this game of life

Everyone’s pendulum swings until it doesn’t

Time is a precious thing

Time goes by too quickly

One second you wish to skip forward

One second later you plead to rewind

Death is not the end, it doesn’t mean it is over Death is not a goodbye, just a see you later

When the line goes flat and your eyes come to a shut That is when you know your time is up.

The same shovel that dug your grave is

The same shovel packing the dirt in

Don’t worry no one is forgotten

Don’t forget to look back at the life you made

On birthdays and anniversaries, you will be decorated

On the top of the grave, you will always be celebrated

This is not a goodbye, just a see you later

This is relocation, to something greater.

Time of Day

Jaden Massaro

I would fall on my sword for anyone who gives me the time of day, just as long as I don’t get in their way.

I’m terrified that everyone will forget me the moment I fall silent, I cease to be. So, I never shut up as I shut them all out before they can shut me down. They think I’m confident when I’m really just loud.

Behind all the noise, I’m paralyzed with the fear that the show of clever words will leave me here, tongue-tied and worn out with nothing more to give useless to everyone I gave everything to get in with. An unwound music box has no reason to exist.

I sometimes imagine that there’s a secret society where all my best friends meet to discuss how much they hate me. I walked in on their meeting, stopping no one in their tracks, so, I paid for a membership with the money for my own death tax knowing full well, they can drop the act anytime and drop the ax.

I fell on my sword for everyone to get out of their way, but it turns out all they wanted from me was the time day.

To My Brother Abigail Frank

As seasons change and we, ourselves, grow,

I remember the little things from so long ago.

Two munchkins trading candy on Halloween night, Or getting up at the crack of dawn for dear old Santa Claus.

You sit on the right, and I sit on the left; Making memories with you is something I’ll never forget.

Rentie Baker

To Yearn For A Yacht Jared Rhone

There are those men who yearn to buy a yacht, But in those plays, I have none with to buy.

A hard earned truth which pokes and still begs why, For so my efforts have surpassed all thought.

But still in my pockets doth that yacht wrought. The ship takes off, like a kite through the sky, The anchor tugs deep as my heart does cry.

Since I am bound by the sea’s endless naught.

The men that shall seek this fruitless treasure, Will like me, sign checks with their empty name, Starve at sea, as their dinghy sinks with shame.

Men of our birthright can’t know such pleasure. And though a man may sneak upon this ship, The hull will snap and chew the soul it grips.

Virtue Behind The Veil Jared Rhone

Why do hearts dwell in what their eyes desire,

How might conflict come from what this inspires? For this we say-an answer just is due, We chant to thee, in hopes to hear the Muse.

Wondering now she breaks from in her trance, The pupils dart and scan the room with glance. With glory and with grace she sips the tea, The silky white gown draping on her knee. The guests watch closely, much with vivid sight, Clock close on her as though she were a sprite. Their eyes did look upon her but did sway, Producing measured thoughts and some dismay, For they could not see clearly past her veil, The tulle revealing only her face pale.

There the dwelling men formed within the space,

Some smiths, some sirs, and some of the coalface, And poets too, and bakers in the midst, For even priests absorbed into the mix.

But none so focused on her true manner, The purity that bled on her banner, The light of her virtue they did ignore, The truth of her nature did only bore,

The qualm of her presence, now did she feel, The men-indifferent to her real appeal. She gathered herself, to walk and to leave, The room with a wind, would thrust up a heave.

And there went the cloth, the plates on the rise, Off went the veil, to the men’s great surprise. Her face barr(en) wrinkled, their tone turned to brine “You are a dead sun, for your light doesn’t shine!” And with their harsh words, the sun ran aside,

They hung up her veil, to plunder her pride. Away went the sun, they pushed out their source, Losses, no learning, with lack of remorse. How would they change and not throw out their light? Favoring candles that douse in the night.

Michael Robles

“Help me understand,” he mumbles to himself. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

He weeps himself to sleep every night. All there is to do is think, eat, sleep, repeat. Think, eat, sleep, repeat. Without a shadow of a doubt, I’m stuck, he thought. He’s been here for heaven knows how long. It feels like ages. Stuck in this never-ending box with nothing but a gray fleece blanket. In the never-ending box, there is nothing but darkness. But where the box ends, a never-ending glass wall begins. It’s unbreakable…believe it, he tried. On the other side of the box remains a dim ceiling lamp. It’s always been on, no clue as to why. The bulb never seems to go out.

Insanity already looks to be getting the best of him. It probably already has; he just doesn’t know it yet. You know, day and night, or what seems to be day and night, he wonders what’s past that glass. It seems like just a normal wall, but why put it here? It feels as though someone, or some people, are watching. Could it be an experiment? Or some sicko who gets off on seeing a man suffer in isolation?

He swears on what is left of his life that there are voices beyond the glass. Moans, groans, whimpers, even whispers, begin to surround him. No clue indicates where they come from, or how far they are; all he knows is they come from every direction.

“Could they be suffering, too,” he asks the glass regularly. It must be someone, no animal makes noises that sound so…human.

“Who knows?” The voice in his head whispers.

When he wakes up, he does his “daily” pace from one part of the box to the other. Before he starts, he always breathes onto the glass and smudges it with his finger to indicate his starting point. The voice in his head constantly asks him why he doesn’t just leave his blanket where he starts.

“Because it’s all I have,” the man says to himself timidly.

After the near eighteen-hundred seconds he took to pace, the smudge is almost gone, and at his feet is a meal. That’s another anomaly about the box. He never knows when he’ll get fed or how. Food just… appears. He’s tried to catch someone placing the food in the box,

but the plate always shows up in the place he isn’t looking. Whether it be behind him, or below him, it always appears.

“The magic hand never fails,” he says with a smile.

Though, the smile does not last long, as the “food” is the same meal that he had yesterday for breakfast, and the day before that, and the day before that. Even further, the “food” is not really food at all… just a light-colored slop with a spoon and a glass of water. He sits down from his paces and eats. The slop is awfully moist and hardly solid. It tastes like oatmeal without the oats. He forces it down his throat, and the lump of near-liquid nutrients falls harshly down his system. Once he finishes, he sets the empty plate and glass aside, lays down on the cold hard floor, and wraps himself within the fleece blanket: the only warmth he can feel in what feels to be millennia.

The next “day,” he awakens in a shiver. He’s cold, uncomfortably cold. As he wipes the crust from his eyes, he realizes something is missing. His raggedy gray shirt is completely exposed, as are his brown sweatpants. He holds his arms over one another, realizing what is missing. His fleece blanket is gone. He sits up immediately and tries to look for anything out in the darkness. He starts to pat his surroundings, but can’t feel anything soft and warm. His hands shakily search and search, only to be met with the cold, hard concrete.

“My blanket,” he mutters. “Where’s my blanket?” He looks to the left and shouts into the abyss, “Hey! Did you take it? Did you take my fucking blanket? Or was it you?” He asks as he turns to the right.

Nothingness surrounds him, but figures begin to take shape in his head. His breaths become much shorter in his rage, eventually hyperventilating. In a slow, gradual tone, he hears the mumbles and groans appear around him. Illegible groans grow in his surroundings, multiplying like flies. Before he realizes it, they become whispers. He tries oh so hard to make out what any of them are saying, but his ears fight against him; the words the voices speak are too low and crowded for him to comprehend. His heart beats faster than his mind races. He grabs his messy, unbrushed hair and starts to pull it violently in an attempt to calm the whispers. In his panic, he begins to pace quickly, back and forth next to the glass wall, watching the dim lamp that allows him to see into the nothingness.

He covers his ears in angst, closing his eyes as he walks.

“stop stop stop stop stop stop stop,” he mumbles over and over again. The whispers surround him in all directions, so much that not even pressing his left ear to the glass stops them. His madness surrounds him.

In his frenzy, the poor soul looks at the glass wall and notices his reflection. The voice in his head reminds him of one unbearable truth.

“You don’t recognize who you are, do you?” It asks somberly. Suddenly, anger takes the man by force and he approaches the reflection, his eyes glaring back at the glass. The whispers grow louder and louder.

“Was it you?” He asks the glass. He repeats it over and over, with each time getting louder and angrier than the last. He starts pounding his fist onto the glass, screaming as the whispers grow. The voices aren’t shouting, but remain as whispers at a much higher volume than what they should be. But suddenly, he notices something past his reflection; something that has never been there before. He sees a small, bright red dot in the glass past the lamp. He turns away from the glass slowly, whispering to himself.

“Who are you?” He says quickly and quietly in succession. His eyes are starting to feel strained. He hasn’t blinked in his entire tirade. The man falls to his knees, and begins to weep. He lies down, cold, and cries himself to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, he is shivering again. His eyes feel puffy from crying, and he wipes the dry tears from his cheeks, sniffling his stuffy nose. Next to him lies a bowl of the light-colored slop with a spoon and a glass of water. He looks at it and pushes it away from him. He sits up and notices the red dot still staring at him from the other side of the glass. He sighs and stands up. However, he feels lighter, as if he lost weight in his sleep. A slight groan from behind him catches him off guard, and he darts around. In the distance is a small, gray…blob. He can’t quite make out what it is, so he steps closer in its direction and squints. It’s a small silhouette in the shape of a person, looking as though it is fading.

“Is that a…person?” He asks himself. “I knew I wasn’t crazy!”

He shouts as his eyes widen with disbelief. He jogs in the silhouette’s direction calling out to it. “Hey, hey,” he beckons. “Hey, come here!”

Only half of its body seems to be visible, but a rising arm seems to be growing out of its shape. It looks to be crying out for help, drowning. It lifts another arm upward, reaching out for something that isn’t there.

Its groans get louder and louder, and after a few seconds of full-on running, something makes the man fearfully step away from the suffering humanoid. The groans didn’t seem…human, nor singular. They begin to multiply, and slowly, another fading silhouette appears next to the original blob. Another appears, then another, then another. The man turns around, and silhouettes begin to form everywhere. He pulls his hair again, his heart starting to race.

“No…” he whispers to himself anxiously.

He turns back to the red dot and lamp and darts toward the glass as blobs and silhouettes surround him in the distance. He runs to the glass and starts to tap it nervously, asking for help over and over again. Just then, he notices his hand in the dim light of the lamp. As he analyzes its curvature, it begins to lose its shape, and is morphing into a fading blur. The groans get louder and louder, and human silhouettes start to multiply everywhere behind and beside him.

He smacks the glass repeatedly with his open hand, and it begins to crack in front of him, only not where he is hitting it at. The louder the groans get, the more the glass cracks. He stares at the red dot, panicking, shouting for help.

“Hey! Hey! Whoever you are, whatever you’re doing, please! Help me, please!” He calls to the red dot.

In his pleas, his reflection appears. The closer he looks, the more he realizes that the reflection’s face and body are fading, too.

The glass begins to crack and crack and crack, as he begins to fade and fade and fade and fade.

He begins to lose consciousness, as everything begins to grow blurry. He can practically see through his own hands. He falls to the floor, his left cheek pressed against the concrete that begins to feel lighter and lighter as his eyes close. The whispers and groans stop. The dim lamp on the other side of the glass turns off, but the red dot continues to stare at him.

In his final breaths, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

As he lies in the abyss, he hears the words, “I know.”

Worship in the Old Testament

Kaitlyn Semsen

According to Webster’s dictionary, to worship means to express “extravagant respect, admiration for or devotion to” (Merriam-Webster). As I was reading this definition, I felt the word “devotion” resonate with me. What does it mean to be wholly committed to something? What do acts of reverence and pure love for someone look like? Research emphasizes that to be faithful and loyal to something is “an act of prayer or private worship…the fact or state of being ardently dedicated” (Merriam-Webster). Throughout the Old Testament, individuals who were dedicated and served the Lord had surrendered every aspect of their lives. Biblical stories are evident that to worship God is to rest and wait in submission to his authority. For example, in Genesis 12:1, “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country, your people and your father’s household, to the land I will show you.’” Abram had responded to the call of the Lord without knowing where God would take him. His response to God’s calling emulates how one should be obedient to God’s heart. Yet how is obedience an act of worship? Did Abram act this way out of fear or being afraid of God’s wrath? Hebrews 11:18 addresses Abraham’s love for God saying, “By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place…obeyed; and he went out, not knowing where he went.” Genesis 15:6 emphasizes how “he believed in the LORD; and he counted it to him for righteousness.” Abram willingly uprooted his entire family and lifestyle to walk in the way of the Lord. This Biblical figure displays how a pure heart of worship comes through a position of complete abandonment and surrendering of our own ways for God’s plan.

While Abraham demonstrates living a life dedicated to God’s heart, several characters in the Old Testament highlighted this. In the book of Exodus the writers detail the story of a man, Moses, who walked alongside God and led God’s people throughout the wilderness. In Exodus 17:12, when Moses fought against an enemy it states that, “When Moses’ arms grew tired, Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on, while they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down . In this way Joshua totally defeated the Amalekites.” Initially as I was reading this story, I was

confused as to why Moses held his hands to the sky. Was this a meaningful detail in the text? Was it custom for leaders to do this in battle? After extensive research, I learned that the action of lifting one’s hands is associated with surrender. According to an article, this showed that “Moses stood in complete surrender to the Lord. His upheld hands stood as an appeal to God for help. Without his surrender, the Israelites would not have won against the Amalekites (Teach Us the Bible). From a young age, I have always lifted my hands in worship. I have never thought about the significance or reason why I do this. In our modern churches, it is common for individuals to worship with their hands lifted or to bow on their needs. It is clear that both in the Old Testament and today, the position that we come before the Lord is intentional.

In a conversation with a former pupil, C.S. Lewis captures the struggle it can be to lay things down at God’s feet. He states, “You are certainly under the guidance of the Holy Ghost…the love that matters is His for you—yours for Him may at present exist only in the form of obedience. He will see to the rest” (Lewis). After reading this excerpt, I found myself sitting silently as tears rolled down my cheeks. For the majority of my life, I have been taught that if I was religious “enough” God would be faithful. In the past few years, I have learned the importance of having a relationship with Jesus. As a young child, I learned in church that I could retain a form of control over my life if I read my Bible or attended services consistently. I have realized that many forms of our modern worship are self-focused and self-pleasing. I realized that I have been trained to believe that I had to clean up my life or fix my heart before coming to Jesus. Throughout the years, I believe that we have lost sight of the most beautiful form of sacrifice. In Isaiah 1:18, the Bible instructs us to “‘Come now, let us reason together,’” says the LORD. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.’” I think that our modern churches are evidence that we have complicated the gospel. God simply asks that we bring our messy, dirty, sinful lives and set them before Him. Psalm 34:18 displays how in this act of complete surrender, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

For the majority of my life, I was taught that authentic worship could not be disorganized and emotional. I spent several years believing that Christianity meant concealing my anxiety, anger and disappointment. Yet C.S. Lewis highlights how it is a beautiful form of worship to simply sit before the Lord. I think that it is the most freeing and yet challenging concept of all to accept–God only requires our heart. I have learned that submitting my own desires, pride and beliefs is not an easy task. I know that as I walk through my life, I have to make a conscious effort to set things at God’s feet.

References

Lewis, C. S. (n.d.). Top 25 quotes by C. S. Lewis . A. Retrieved December 11, 2022, from https://www.azquotes.com/author/8805-C_S_ Lewis

Merriam-Webster. (n.d.). Dictionary by Merriam-Webster: America’s most-trusted online dictionary. Merriam-Webster. Retrieved De cember 11, 2022, from https://www.merriam-webster.com/

Moses Lifts His Hands to Heaven. Teach Us the Bible. (n.d.). Retrieved December 11, 2022, from https://www.teachusthebible.com/ Lesson.php?Lesson=moses-lifts-his-hands-to-heaven

The Mission

719 Lifetimes

Michael Robles

We are learners.

As humans, we don’t stop learning.

We will learn to our heart, mind and soul’s content, and we won’t stop learning until we are dead. But, we won’t remember most of what we learned.

It sounds intense, but it is true. The average person reads about twelve books a year, although most people would say they read even less than that. I know I do. But, extend that to one’s entire lifetime, and it adds up. I am 20 years old. If I were to start reading 12 books per year starting now, and I had an average of 60 years left in my lifespan, I would have read an average of 720 books by the time I die. Or, 719 since I would not have finished that last book once I croak. That scares me.

To me, 719 isn’t enough. I want to read more. I should read more.

In his mini documentary, How to Read More Books in the Golden Age of Content, director Max Joseph expresses his anxiety in the book-reading culture, and how he feels as though he doesn’t read nearly as much as he should. I felt the same way about my own life when I watched the documentary. As a junior in college, most of my day-to-day life is taken up by reading for classes, analyzing articles and academic journals, or reading the essays of other students for tutoring. By the time of me writing this, I was supposed to have read two novels for a class, but I haven’t even been able to do that (don’t tell my World Lit. professor).

I don’t know what I would do with the knowledge I would have if I read 719 books in my lifetime. I wouldn’t even be able to remember what happened in most of those books by the time I die. I can tell you the five books I remember reading in the sixth grade:

• Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

• Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

• Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

• Quarantine; The Loners

• Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero

Before you ask, no I’m not a Harry Potter fan. I read these five books through and through in one school year. However, I cannot tell you what happens in any of them. I can give you tidbits of information here and there, but the full storyline for every single one of those books has been erased from my mind in the past 8 to 9 years. Does that make these books irrelevant to my reading history? No. Does that make me a bad reader? Probably. One thing it does show is that even though I have very little memory of what happened in these books, the fact that I have read them says something about me as a reader.

It shows I had some interest in Harry Potter when I was a kid. I still remember the aesthetic and tone of Quarantine: The Loners, and really liked it. It was a teen dystopian drama, with sci-fi elements intertwined. I still love books like that. Those books are tied to me in one way or another.

However, I know for a fact those aren’t the only books I read in the sixth grade. Those are just the only ones I remember reading.

In his article “10 Stats About Learning Retention You’ll Want to Forget,” Will Thalheimer says that we remember about 10% of information we read. Most of what we read from books will be gone in a given time, whether we like it or not. Of course, our favorite books will stick. But, you’re probably asking me: “Why, Michael? Why must we read as many books as we can in a lifetime?”

The answer is: you don’t have to. You shouldn’t have to. But, reading is a different experience from any other form of media. I believe it is the key way in which we can truly learn. As a writer, I like to read novels not just for leisure, but to study how different novelists write. I like to study the writing styles they gravitate toward, whether it be casual or extremely detailed. I like to see how frank Ernest Hemingway is in his storytelling compared to William Faulkner’s extreme attention to every detail possible. I like to see how they build the worlds of their books, and whether it is done well or not. Reading for me is not just an experience. It is a separate life.

Every book I read, I like to think is a separate lifetime from my actual one, because the person I am when immersed in a book differs from the real me. My interpretations of the events, my emotional ties to characters, everything I know about myself changes once I begin a book. Then, once I finish that book, that version of me dies.

And the real me carries on the knowledge and experience I gained from it. Dark, isn’t it?

Not really. Every book I read has a lifetime and a different experience tied to it based on where I’m at in life. The version of me that read Slaughterhouse Five died and passed on the knowledge and experience to the real me. The same went for Hunger Games me, and The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger me. Even the me that read Cowboy Feng’s Space Bar and Grille had to have learned something. They all passed what they learned and experienced onto the me that is writing this article today.

My all-time favorite book is Joyland by Stephen King. I read it during the hardest period of depression in my life. It told the story of a college student who, after going through a breakup, worked at a small-scale amusement park and tried to start a new point in life there. There are the supernatural and mystery elements within it that King is known for, but it was considered one of his worst novels. But, the me that read it had a completely different experience from any other book I read, especially because he had depression and hardly wanted to wake up every day. But, once he finished Joyland, he died. And I absorbed the experience he gained. And I’ll never forget the feelings he had while reading it. The lack of belonging, the complete dissatisfaction with every point in his being. The pain. Joyland opened up his eyes. It made him start to perceive things in his life differently, how the pain one feels doesn’t shape you, but you can either grow from it or dwell in it. And he grew from it.

I don’t remember every single thing that happened in the book. I can’t. It’s been over four years since I read it. But, it shaped me. It changed me. What I learned from reading it gave me the knowledge of a short, but separate lifetime that every other book I read gave me as well. And I want to experience that again. I want to experience a new book over and over, regardless of if I will remember it in a year, month, or even day. I don’t want 719 different lifetimes I can look back on; I want more than that.

One quote I found while researching statistics on reading and memory is by Ralph Waldo

Emerson:

“I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they both have made me.”

I may not be able to remember the plot for every book I have ever read. But they still shaped me, both as a reader and writer. And all I know is there are far more than 719 more lifetimes waiting for me.

Rachel Birdsell

Vanguard University English Department Graduating Class of 2023

Synecdoche Literary Journal 20th Anniversary

Edition Editorial Team