Synecdoche 2021 by Vanguard University

SYNECDOCHE A

L I T E R A R Y

J O U R N A L

VOLUME 18 ZACH HILEMAN ELI LEMNA KYLEY MCAULIFFE IDALIS MOSCOSO NOAH SALES JULIA WEIMERSKIRCH

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon 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

Advisory Editor for this volume: Warren Doody

SYNECDOCHE Volume 18

A Literary Journal

2021 English Class

Vanguard University | Costa Mesa

Table of Contents

PART I - Poetry

Ethen Tucker, Corazón de Dios & Heart of God ~ 8 Isabella Perez, A Heart that Beats for You ~ 10 Alexa Garcia, Midnight Prayers ~ 11 Angelea Carrol, Crisis of Contentment ~ 12 Rachel Birdsell, A Poem of Where ~ 13 Elter Bright, Tense ~ 14 J. Luke Herman, The Canopy ~ 15 Madison Elizabeth, Alter of Books ~ 16 Asia Collins, One Burden's Thought ~ 18 Chelsea Mann, 11:28 ~ 19 Abigail Reid, He's as Strong as Gravity ~ 20 Julia Weimerskirch, What Happens at 3 in the Morning ~ 21 Alexa Garcia, 3am Thoughts ~ 22 J. Luke Herman, The Island of My Dreams ~ 24 Alexandra Niebaum, Grounding ~ 25 Jaden Massaro, The Keystone State ~ 26 Nicole Smolinksi, Anticipation ~ 28 Felix Albrecht, Poem for Mom ~ 29 Chelsea Mann, An Unheard Plea ~ 30 Alyssa Soria, I May Not Look Like You ~ 32 Elter Bright, To be Black is to be Like Our Hair ~ 34 Chelsea Mann, Quotidian ~ 35 Leah Rodriguez, Delicate Frame ~ 36 Jaden Massaro, Firebird ~ 38 J. Luke Herman, The Man in the Arena ~ 39 Leah Rodriguez, Tempest ~ 40 Jaden Massaro, Six Feet ~ 42 Abigail Reid, A Regard ~ 43 J. Luke Herman, The Castle of Glass ~ 44 Grace Israel, Poetry ~ 45

PHOTO EXHIBIT - Section I

Chloe Noelle ~ 48 Noah Stecker ~ 50

PART II - Creative Shorts

Chloe Noelle, A Lesson in Emotion ~ 54 Nicole Smolinksi, Renovations ~ 55 Matthew Kenslow, How I Got an Award-Winning Book about Autism Published at 23 ~ 56 Rebekah Pulaski, Continuing as Strangers ~ 59 Noah Sales, Garlic Fried Rice ~ 61 Julia Weimerskirch, Silent Lunches ~ 72 Rebekah Pulaski, Blurry Eyes ~ 74

Michael Angel, Nobody Likes You When You're 17... or Whatever Blink-182 Said ~ 76 Abigail Reid, Power's Out ~ 79 Sophia Trejo, Something Blue ~ 87 Laura Esther, from Moving On; Chapter III - The Circled Date ~ 91 Michael Angel, The Clock Cleaner ~ 93

PHOTO EXHIBIT - Section II Molly McDowell ~ 110 Kristian Davis Jr. ~ 112 Aly Highleyman ~ 114

PART III - Playwrights

Noah Sales, The Tragedy of King Saul ~ 118 Chelsea Mann, Cultivation ~ 123 Megan Luebberman, The Function of Family ~ 131

PHOTO EXHIBIT - Section III

Heather Marie Siracusa ~ 142 Matthew Holgate ~ 144

PART IV- Scholarly Works

Anthony Pooni, The Roman Consulship: A Different Triumvirate ~ 148 Alexandria Hurst, The Housing Crisis in California: When Progressivism Goes Wrong ~ 156 Noah Sales, Perichoresis and the Great Dance in Perelandra ~ 165 PHOTO EXHIBIT- Section IV

Em Christine Dodge ~ 174 Jack Pascua ~ 176 Alexandria Hurst ~ 178 Tabitha Eggington ~ 180 Emilie Bakker ~ 181

PART V- Music

Molly McAuliffe, je ne sais pas... ~ 184 Grace Brown, Façade ~ 185 Madison Spiegel, 4 A.M. Lullaby ~ 186 Gwen E. Lemna, A Song for the King of Mars ~ 188 Jameson Nizo, Quarantined ~ 190 Alexandria and Jedediah Hurst, bibliotheca discipulus ~ 192

Editor’s Letter In 2020, we watched as millions of human beings became sick. We were sequestered into our homes out of fear of spreading that sickness and ultimately millions of people died. At Vanguard University, we were sent away from our fortress of education and into this new world of Coronavirus that we had not experienced before. Our student body not only watched our nation suffered from the virus but from discrimination, violence, and social injustice as well. Granted, at the end of this year, we are a little bruised and bloodied but nevertheless we survived. Throughout this last year, one thing remained true: Vanguard University is a place where connections can be made that transcend distance and withstand a global pandemic. When you are surrounded by a support system and friends that care about the same things you do, everything involved in that seems a little bit easier. So, when the time came for this class to start, I could not have been happier with who I was going to be working with regardless of the position I would apply for. The students I had worked closest with over the last couple of years were those that make up this editorial board of Synecdoche. Through our struggles, through our hardships, the relationships developed at Vanguard University have been a stable foundation during this tumultuous time. Throughout the previous years of the publication of this journal, I believed the process was more or less the same given that the finished product (though different in appearance) is similar. Our original goal was to create a literary journal showcasing the best work of our fellow students, but it soon became clear that it was much more than that. This edition was produced during a global pandemic; its content includes work from our fellow students who were spread out across the country. The isolation, the meetings on Zoom, the request for submissions via e-mail – in short, the challenge of putting together a literary journal in this “new normal” that we are living in makes this one of the most interesting editions of Synecdoche to date. What was originally supposed to be a senior capstone course held in our normal classrooms on Vanguard’s campus, became a secluded correspondence via Zoom and email from our own private residences. Typically, going classroom to classroom to talk to students about submitting their work to this journal would be easy, but when there isn’t a classroom, what do you do? The answer: social media. Daily posts about what the Synecdoche team is doing

on Instagram, meet that team profiles, and even countdowns became the only means we had to reach out to our fellow students about this amazing project. This was by far the most important part of this process; if we didn’t have enough writers and artists that wanted to be considered for publication, we wouldn’t have a journal. Over time, what began as a slow drip from a faucet became a steady stream of submissions from students. Poetry flooded with emotion, stories that transported us from our small bedrooms and into other people’s lives, and beautifully written scholarly pieces. It seemed as though we were wrong, students actually were writing creatively and academically; and the pieces submitted to us truly are the best of our university. This last year, with all of the changes that have happened and spending many months working with this incredible team, it has caused me to reflect on my own life and my journey as a writer, as many of us here on the Editorial Board have done. So now, I hand off to you this year’s edition of Synecdoche. It is my wish that you would find comfort, excitement, beauty, and knowledge in the following pages. I know we have. ~Julia Weimerskirch Editor-in-Chief

PART I

Poetry

Corazón de Dios ETHEN TUCKER

Carga mi corazón con lo que carga tu corazón. Déjame sentir esa pasión que sientes tu; un fervor que nunca agota por su pueblo. Como sol de la mañana, ilumina mi alma. Toma este pobre corazón que te falla. Muéstrale misericordia sin fin Necesito que tu amor venga y queme la impureza qué hay en mí. ¡Mi corazón clama por ti señor! Este corazón ha sido destrozado por la iniquidad de este mundo pero busca al único que lo puede remediar. Escucha el llanto y clamor que sale de mi corazón, pura hambre y sed de ti mora en mí. Quiero que mi corazón palpite a tu ritmo. Ven despierta este corazón entumecido. Dale vida y sensibilidad Enséñale amar como tu amas Y a odiar con santidad toda maldad Deja que mi corazón escuche cada día tu voz, como una niña pegada al pecho de papá. Aunque éste débil corazón no aguante el peso de tu gloria, déjame habitar en los rincones de tu corazón. Que tu presencia abrasante me arrope en tu tierno amor (queme toda mi impureza) Quiero ser cambiada y renovada en ti mientras contemplo tu hermosura y santidad. Jesús pon tu corazón en el mío. Quiero desear lo que tu deseas. Quiero anhelar lo que tu espíritu anhela. Quiero cumplir los deseos de mi padre, y así decir que cumplí con mi deber aquí en la tierra.

Heart of God (Translation) ETHEN TUCKER

Bestow upon my heart what burdens yours. Let me share in the passions you feel; The fervor that never ceases for your people. Like the morning sun, caress my soul. Take this poor heart that fails you. Show it endless mercy. I need your love to come and burn the impurity that is in me. My heart cries out for you, Lord! This heart has been shattered by the wickedness of this world, But it seeks the only one who can mend it. Hear the cry that comes from my heart; Pure hunger and thirst for you dwells in me. I want my heart to beat to your rhythm. Come wake up this numb heart. Give it life and sensitivity; Teach it to love as you love, And to hate with holiness, all evil. Let me hear your heart every day, Like a girl clinging to her father’s chest. Although this weak heart cannot bear the weight of your glory, Let me dwell in the corners of your heart. May your burning presence wrap me in your tender love. I want to be changed and renewed in you while I contemplate your beauty and holiness. Jesus, put your heart in mine. I want to desire what you desire. I want to long for what your Spirit longs for. I want to fulfill my Father’s purpose, And thus, say that I fulfilled my duty here on earth.

A Heart that Beats for You ISABELLA PEREZ

Oh, heart of mine that sits inside, what is it that you long for? You laugh and cry, you smile and sigh, Not knowing what you long for. The memories stay, but feelings fade; This feeling that you long for. It’s this you pray, that God will stay, it’s Him who’s in the long haul.

Midnight Prayers ALEXA GARCIA

I’ve grown up in the Christian community, Attending Christian schools, Christian churches, Having Christian parents, Christian friends; I even claimed to be a Christian myself. But if I was living for myself, then how could I truly be a follower of Christ? July 27th, 2014 turned my life around. God met me at my worst, He met me in my sin; He told me I was welcome in His arms just the way I was. Little did I know that He would really clean me up and I would find a new life. Life began to have meaning. I finally had someone to turn to when everyone else had turned away. Someone I could trust with all my secrets, and passions, and my fears. It’s been 5 years since, But why do I feel like I drifted off and I’m not sure how to get back up? My Lord is my helping hand and I understand that, But it’s almost like I had forgotten who You always were to me. He never changes. I have. But He never does; I’ve taken comfort in that. Lord, forgive me. Unlike my first love who came and left, You promised to never ever leave me, And You have never been known to break Your promises. I want to fall in love with You, In a way that I have never loved before. I want my heart to race at the sound of Your name. I want to hear Your voice. Thank You for loving me when I don’t deserve it.

Crisis of Contentment ANGELEA CARROL

There are different forms of simply existing: One that requires you to scramble from each moment to the next, without a pause for thought and emotion. The other leaves you restless, as you squander time waiting for a moment to happen. Each are a facade of contentment. Both are a trick that we have bought into; A lie that says a fulfilled life is unattainable. There are times when the clock runs too fast, and others when the clock drags his feet, each tick more painstakingly slow than the last, And he seemingly refuses to finish the day. Yet, could it be that there’s something more? We crave more. Just when we think we know it all, there’s more, and still there is nothing new. Could this be Among the great paradoxes of life? That within the inevitable discontent of life is where we find contentment? Fulfillment within the Striving? And meaning within the existence.

A Poem of Where RACHEL BIRDSELL

When I walk through the garden, I am overwhelmed with nearness and lightness. So, my heart knows where As I walk with the Father; But a deceiver came in the night Where no light is found. He said to me, “Now, I do not know where I am inside my heart.” I run and hide to clothe myself in garments of shame and torment. The Father walks in the garden and asks, “Where are you?” But my realities of where are stolen.

Tense

ELTER BRIGHT

Tight lipped, Held breath; Tip-toeing As if a bomb might go off. Muscles tensed, Jaw clenched, Fists as well, As if any movement might disrupt What seems like peace, But in fact, is temporary.

The Canopy

J. LUKE HERMAN

Raining down Green leaves; How I feel Around these evergreens. I hint of sorrow, A nostalgic bliss. White trunks, Tall trees; It seems to me That I’ll never be Able to see What the leaves gaze upon From so far up in the canopy. Do I care? Yes. For what they see may be magnificent. What they see may be a successful surprise. My hopes and my dreams, Maybe that future is waiting for me, Just on the horizon, Above the canopy. No. For what they see may be abhorred. What they see may be a disastrous surprise. My fears and my nightmares, Maybe that future is waiting for me. But alas, One cannot see Past the canopy. And do we wish to know that which we cannot see? Or do we delight ourselves more in the journey than the destination? To what lies above The canopy.

Alter of Books

MADISON ELIZABETH

I’m looking around at all these books on the ground. There’s so much to read, where will it all lead? Attempting my best to write and respond, Adding to the foreboding bottomless idea pond; Feeling as though I may never establish truth, Till long past my youth. Then what will be left? Learning does my living theft! I’m always so stressed, Just trying to schedule some rest. How can I even truly remember? Doubt blows hard on my hopes last ember. Short bursts of joy when I erect an ebenezer, Are my only true breather. Why am I here with all these books? As I looked at a book, it took the shape of a rock. In shock my eyes were locked. My disbelief mocked, my mouth gawked, My logic was jolted by this unusual act of a book becoming a rock. Then suddenly amidst this scene, The LORD appeared in all His glory, so serene! My mind did falter, an idea quite unpalter; My heart was stirred to build an altar. For worship I must, Though I am but dust.

I need an altar for offering; A way for honoring The Holy King of my soul, The Creator who made my heart whole. And looking around, What do I find on the ground? Only many a book turned rock, Instantly, I regretted my intellect’s mock. For with what else would I raise adoration But with theological declaration, In understanding the incarnation? My heart lies prostrate in adoration. You resist all temptation, Modeling for me obedience’s determination. You, Jesus, save all creation from desolation, Bringing through your omnipotence the ultimate restoration. My mind is rejuvenated by revelation, And my soul is sustained by salvation. All of this is followed with the Spirit’s constant communication, Giving me grace for faithful declaration Glory, glory, glory, Holy, holy, holy.

One Burden’s Thought ASIA COLLINS

They love my voice, but no one stays. I pray for death and pray for praise, And if I die, I’ll live in fame, But if I stay, no fear to blame. I bet He’d be with anger and lash; I’d face His wrath in Aftermath. Hope to live. Hope I’m Found. A Burden and her Sound People see but they don’t yearn; They’re trapped inside, nowhere to turn. I ponder their deaths; I swear I’m good, And yet I’m left with hammers and wood. I make my house and bed to lie In search of feeling all glory, all pride. What’s left to cherish is dead, not found, The tales of Burden and her Sound. Please help me, I fall. I fall. I fell. Please help me in Heaven. Not Hell. Not Hell. My need for death is swarmed by grace Once God gives me the perfect pace. I take my time and see it through; I jog, I walk, there’s something new. I love the breeze, and so do they, The two creatures with much to say. That beautiful face with nothing but joy Is just enough to keep me poised. When nighttime comes and fear drains down, I look at them and hear my Sound.

At least to him, I’m not a burden, And to the other, it’s still not certain. But one thing’s true, just ask around, I will be Heard; I will be Found.

11:28

CHELSEA MANN

I’m always so tired. Oh, why can’t I sleep? The thoughts in my head swirl and puzzle the sheep. Like clouds, I’m surrounded, with fog in my eyes, Yet veiled behind vapor: my fear’s old disguise. Old pictures flow freely, like film from a reel; Still, none can portray how exhausted I feel. Each day’s a new scene, a new shot, a new take. But as always, it’s scripted – it’s not real, it’s fake. He watches and waits for the day that I’ll run, To arms of the Spirit and arms of the Son. And suddenly, one day, I’ll find myself there, Where sleeping means peace and a Father’s great care.

He’s as Strong as Gravity ABIGAIL REID

He’s as strong as gravity— Galivants with his head held high. View the world through his eyes: See only a woman’s chest, or thigh. Bosom puffed as broad as he can be, Occupying space, taking his fill, “Pair o’ legs, why don’t you smile for me?” It’s a sad life for Gravity Man. No, really! No one is falling into his bed—no one can. He’s as strong as gravity from head to toe, Which is, undoubtedly, the weakest force we know.

What Happens at 3 in the Morning JULIA WEIMERSKIRCH

It is three a.m. once again. My mind runs wild with thoughts And I can't quite comprehend. What is true? What memory is mine?  Why can't I connect these dots? For hours I'll ponder and pretend While my stomach tangles and knots. The knots make me sick and my mind begins to wonder... It is three a.m. and not a wink of sleep. My eyes adjust; darkness is now my light. The ceiling fan spinning in perfect harmony with my mind. The questions I avoid are on repeat, Circling and circling, Threatening to pull me into the darkness; I try to resist with all of my might. Before I see that I've gone too deep, I know that I won't sleep tonight. It is three a.m. and I'm overthinking. I promised tonight I wouldn’t shed a tear, But I think I was lying. I am lost in limbo, not even blinking. My mind is hazy, but it's still clear. Now I believe my heart is sinking. Why am I holding onto this much fear?

3am Thoughts ALEXA GARCIA

The middle of the night hits, And I realize I’ve stayed up too late. A gruesome thought in my head hits, My mind feels consumed by a weight. Thoughts of terror, And thoughts of great fears; Forsaken by my Carer, And drowning in my tears. An hour past midnight, And I can’t seem to fight. These lies that are given to me, Are ones I rebuke with all my might. Will I grow old lonely? Will I get my degree? It’s God who knows only, But for me, I have to see. What is the meaning of life? A question that hits my head. Is it gold? Or to avoid strife? These thoughts that linger, as I continue lying in bed. What about that one boy, The one whom I gave my whole heart? He played me like toy, And then pulled my insides apart. A secret sin no one knows about; One I can’t escape, Like there’s no other route. But it hurts me badly, Like a fall that ends in a scrape.

The lies become stronger As the hours pass by. Can I take this life any longer? Or will I surely just die? The demons whisper, It’s like I can’t hide, I see a black figure As I look to my side. But the spirits have no handle, They have no hold, Because the Lord is in control; He created me to be bold. When the thoughts overwhelm me And rob me of my joy I think of the hope I have in Thee, The One whom does not let the thoughts destroy.

The Island of My Dreams J. LUKE HERMAN

There is an island in my dreams. A place I sometimes swim to when in great need. On the beaches there is sand of a golden hue, Where the sound of the waves is like nothing you ever knew. Where the sunset paints a rainbow in the sky, Leaving vibrant colors of orange, red, pink, and yellow behind. Here on this island, I sometimes hide To get away from all the problems that I feel won’t let me survive. “An island, an island!” I cry out as I wade in the water of my mind. “A place of refuge! I can see it, hopefully it will be kind!” When I reach the beaches, I see the birds. Small green parrots that chirp and whistle as they fly. As I gaze at them, I remember the times I had seen them in blissful summer: Under the golden clouds where they flew so carefree and unconfined. There the water is crisp and clean, In the light of the setting sun does it reflect and brightly gleam. And as I walk to feel the water of the sun-soaked tide, Hear the birds and their countless cries, Watch the sun as it sinks into the boundless horizon, I remember the days when I needed the island, The island in my dreams.

Grounding

ALEXANDRA NIEBAUM

Find the things that are red: The exit sign, That man’s tie, The shiny shoes on that little girl. Find the things that are blue: There’s more things that are blue; My dress, her purse, the phone case left on the seat. The seat is upholstered in a rough gray. Gray. What is gray in this room? All the seats, the walls, the ceiling, the light fixtures, All different shades of gray. Hmm, let's move on. Yellow, this one’s tough. That girl has yellow hair. The highlighter in that woman’s bible is yellow. What else? I shouldn’t stare... Black, yellow and black like a bumble bee. What is black in this room? All the Bibles, the pastor’s suit, All the legs of the chairs. I feel my legs, I feel them bounce. My toes touch the ground as my heels hover Up and down, up and down, Faster than I can think or notice. My heels are just below my ankles, Which reach up to my calves. The bend of my knee is acute And my thighs rub against the thin fabric of my dress. All these things I feel, when feeling has gone away. Presence is a luxury, but I intend to stay.

The Keystone State JADEN MASSARO

As a little girl growing up in the Keystone State, My dreams were on paper and I was willing to wait For a house with a terrace and flowers in pots, And someone to share it and to share my thoughts. My dreams were coming true in the Keystone State. He was chasing rich thrills, but I didn’t mind the wait. In the monotone days, laughing with you was like color; I sketched a black and white future with a terrace and no other. I kept on dreaming of flowers in the Keystone State, I kept sketching our future and started counting the date. We’d paint the town red, I’d walk the aisle in white, You would smile from the side and… it would all be alright. But the ante was up that night in the Keystone State. When you went all in, I realized too late. For three years I had been betting on just enough, And by folding your hand, you had called my bluff. I stopped the bells and the ring in the Keystone State, But you’d left and come back with a flush and a straight. She was an ace in the hole and I had been out dealt, So, I walked red hot coals to tell you how I felt. I redrew my dreams in the Keystone State, And I finally saw why they’d seemed second-rate. All of my paintings had someone else in them; I put them up for the highest bidder to win them. But when I opened my eyes, you had always been there, Waiting to sit so you could pull out my chair. Only ten feet away, you waited years and miles, Looking over your shoulder to share a smile.

I was so busy dreaming, I overslept the train. You could have taken it, but you waited out in the rain. Now you’re here on one knee in the Empire State, Drenched in a gas station because you just couldn’t wait. Do I want to form an alliance with you? As long as it’s forever, absolutely I do. I wish I could tell that girl in the Keystone State To hold onto her dreams with a paperweight, Then look up from her drawing, across the room, To the life that they sketch, the flowers in bloom. The house is there waiting, but now that seems so small, Because the key was never the terrace or the flowers at all.

Anticipation

NICOLE SMOLINKSI

I can almost taste it on my tongue. So close. Years ago, I felt myself entering the cocoon, Prepared to wait patiently For my wings to grow. Now, now. I must be there. I must have transformed.

I feel my wings pushing up against the walls of the cocoon’s interior, Attempting to pry it open And let me out Into the world again. That must be where this bursting feeling Is coming from. Years of slow growth, transformation, preparation, quiet. Maybe it’s time to be released Once more; To stretch out, to let my wings take flight for the first time. The cocoon is cracking open. I am moments before my first flight.

Poem for Mom FELIX ALBRECHT

You are the guardian angel that was sent to protect; Your love and God's love always seem to intersect. You are slow to anger and quick to forgive; You show us how to act and teach us how to live. It’s evident that you are no stranger to pain. You’re not exactly broken, you somehow remain. Then when the morning comes, we come into the room; Nothing else matters like seeing your children bloom. You feed us til we’re full, our stomachs and our hearts, You comfort us with your arms while we’re falling apart. You keep us in your prayers, so that we will not fall, Through victories or failures, you help us stand tall. I may be an adult, but this will always be true: You are God’s blessing to me, Mom, thank you.

An Unheard Plea CHELSEA MANN

I sleep inside a warm embrace: A cavern I call mine. It’s become small as I grow big – To leave would be divine! I’ve listened to the voices of My fam’ly I’ve not met: What muffled sounds? They must be words That I do not know yet. My mother’s kept me warm and fed While I’ve grown in this place; I think she must be beautiful, Though I’ve not seen her face. I do not know what she says now – An operation here? I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m overcome with fear. We’ve been together for so long, My kind mother and I, Why would she try to snuff my breath? Does she want me to die? I can’t do anything to stop This fate that comes to me; I never had a chance to breathe Or smell, or touch, or see. A billion people like myself Have died without a word. And no one cries, for no one cares: “Those things, alive? Absurd.”

I don’t know why the people save The lives of plants and trees, Yet have no qualms with witnessing The deaths of those like me? Why do endangered beasts go free? Why do they get to live? Why, I am one that’s just like you – Where is this choice you give? Please hear the prayer of those like me – Those voices still unheard, That God would call His followers To make the lines unblurred.

I May Not Look Like You ALYSSA SORIA

You have hazel eyes, Skin that is the color of tree bark, Brown hair that fades to silver. I have brown eyes, Skin that is the color of the moon, Dark hair that fades to brown. At sixteen, you were saying your wedding vows, Laughing and having cake, Holding onto your children. At sixteen, I had a birthday party. I too was laughing and having cake, Holding onto my presents. You then made a brave choice to cross the borders of America. You were in the unknown, but you had to meet your brother on the other side; Having to leave everything, even your children, for everybody. I chose to go to college, even when people in my family didn’t know. I arrived on campus in the unknown, but I had to make it to the other side; Having to leave everything, even my home, for everybody. You cleaned, mopping the floors in a new house every week, To some it was little, but to you it was everything. Every night you made a warm cooked meal for everybody. I made pizzas and swept the floors, I made thirteen dollars an hour, Every night, I came to my dorm, a microwaved meal waited for me. I learned the challenges immigrants faced when coming to America, You experienced the challenges that came with coming to America: Not knowing the language, Adapting to the new norm, new lifestyle. I knew the language, but in the process, forgetting my culture. Growing up in the norm and living the new lifestyle, Not knowing the American dream as a Latina. But you knew the responsibility and foundation that could start, Not just wanting more for you but us. I wonder what the American dream is for me as a Latina, But I knew what the cost was and the foundation you laid for us, Not just for me, but for the family beyond me.

You tell me what home was like in Mexico in the kitchen, Creating symphony with the home when you talk about your homeland. You sing me a song with your stories. As I sit with you in the kitchen and remind me where I came from. I learn how far you’ve come from the other side; I now know the story of where we’ve come from. We are here in America holding hands, Telling the stories that were once our present. We are different but connected through the stories told. My little grandma, sing me the song again.

To be Black is to be Like Our Hair ELTER BRIGHT

To be Black is to be like our hair. If you know anything about Black hair, you know it looks tough and hard to manage. Isn’t that also how society sees us? To be Black is to be like our hair. Something you may not know unless you have Black hair is that our hair is actually very delicate. It’s easily damaged if not handled correctly. Similarly, Black people aren’t just how we appear. Black people aren’t the collection of the biases you attach to our skin. Black people are human and, just like our hair, humans are easily damaged when not handled correctly. To be Black is to be like our hair. Damage done to Black hair is not fixed with one deep conditioner. Just like the damage done to Black people is not fixed by one kneeling cop. To be Black is to be like our hair. That one deep conditioner may help, but ultimately you’ll have to change everything you’ve been doing to repair the damage. Similarly, the way this country has been treating Black people has to change in order to see any repair to the damage. To be Black is to be like our hair.

Quotidian

CHELSEA MANN

“I love you,” I have not said yet today; In fact, it’s likely been too long a while. “Good morning; tastes delicious,” I will say, And “please, drive safe,” with a wave and a smile. But words like “love” aren’t shared between us two, Despite the way you make me laugh and grin. Instead, I’ll gift some flowers that I grew And when we play a game, I’ll let you win. Although I may not speak the words outright, I love you every second, day and night.

Delicate Frame

LEAH RODRIGUEZ

Fingers trace the lines of a shape; Hidden valleys and ocean waves. In depths of coral, there is to be found Heaping bowls of sugary citrus mounds. Mauve puckered beads, Trails of forged roads Never seen or taken before, Bending with a driving force. Not to be unlocked, Never to be unclothed; Dilating eyes roving, Gathering intel as following constellations of sprinkled dots. A map unseen; Buried treasure yet to be discovered, Yet to be told. The gems and jewels of love overflowing between the mountains and hills Planted springs of ivory, Veins of injury, holding into hands of callous spells. Rubbing, pinching the blanket between, Hoping to spread peach pigment of mortification. Planted upright, Limbs disguised as vines. Softly, gently flowing with the slight tremor of wind, However, running down her spine Are words of abstraction, Not from her lips, But from others Telling her how to feel, What to think; That nobody will ever think to see her as a masterpiece, But more as early sheet writing from a drunken composer Never to find fame. Fingers trace the lines of shapes, Hidden valleys and ocean waves. In depths of coral, there’s to be found Heaping bowls of sugary citrus mounds. Her bones made of wax, Spindling yarn made from burlap sap.

Fingers long enough To play Rachmaninoff 's heart, Keys breaking under the weight Of hatred and burden that’s been misplaced. Her spine is shedding, Deflating with loose weight. The abstraction of the words Become decorations To her oil paint.

Firebird

JADEN MASSARO

Here’s to everyone who keeps their dream Like a bird in a cage. The midnight oil, a beam of light on the page; The broken romantics, the gentle fighters, The blinded painters, and quiet writers. Raise a glass and chase the flame, Sometimes a wildfire, a spark, a game. And when you burn your hand as you set the flame, When the smoke curls up and the ashes proclaim: “Light has to fight, dark is already there.” Remember the Firebird, ashes before air. Isn’t that all we can do? Light a candle so low and hot that it’s blue?

The Man in the Arena J. LUKE HERMAN

The man in the arena Stands alone. The bodies surround him, The bruised and broken foes, The blood that floods the floor, Reddens the yellow sand. The blades of the slain That tower above their fallen masters Like buildings in a long-forgotten battlefield. He takes his sword, A slender razor of steal, Holds it by the handle To polish its brutal edges. “I’m the man in the arena,” he scoffs, throwing his hand in the air, “Come and challenge me if you dare.” But the voice is not answered, The call never heard. For the arena is empty, And holds only one. “Come and face me.” “Come and fight.” “For death is what it takes, And to kill is what I desire.” And with a swing and a slash he cuts an invisible foe, Waiting for the day when someone will show; For glory and honor he will again bestow, To fill the void in his hollow soul. The man in the arena Stands alone.

Tempest

LEAH RODRIGUEZ

I have loathed you since sunrise. It seemed as though you were the reason nothing in my life ever went right; It's always been your fault. There’s no proof or evidence to back this claim but it makes it all the easier to set All the hatred, All the space, All the words of reclusiveness, of impious spawn on you. You are the setback, The drawback, The reasoning behind all my problems and I’ll forever love to blame you, To hate you, Justify me against you. No action or vocabulary is enough to spew the insanity you’ve caused, The insanity I live with day in and day out. ou are the trifling antagonist in this story and Y I’ll forever play the victim card because my ignorance of denial Will not play into the arrogance of your lottery. Jubilation and retreat across this destroyed ballroom; I feel at constant wits with you. As Vivaldi storm plays, The hailing against a seemingly perfect Summer's day, We dance in between all the chains of clashing flesh, Staining of tears, and water residue from Spring’s ultimate shower of bashful shame And in between the crushed petals. I find myself still dancing with you, Crawling back to you. I sprint, Feet pounding against the pavement, Lungs struggling for air, Heart palpitating against the cage of bones, Pores weeping blood.

I bleed. Collide with numbers, With dimes paradoxes of lies From the begging of weaklings criticizing and critiquing. We dance, Pulling and pushing, Grieving and celebrating. You have me under a hold, Under your thumb; Mocking laughter From such a sharp taunt tongue: The hailing against a seemingly perfect Summer's day. We dance in between all the chains, Singing lullabies of insults from my name. Residue of shame. Spring showers bring forth the fruitful manner And just as the last movement comes to an end, I’ll collapse in your arms waiting For our dance to start over again. Except from this point on, I’ll be leading and we’ll be dancing To your least favorite song.

Six Feet

JADEN MASSARO

Another time the sun would shine, But it’s given up on the empty street. Close the door, you know what for… Deep breath through cloth and count to six feet. Even though I want to know Friendly faces in 3D and full-scale, Got to stay one screen away; Hand to the glass, like a two-way jail. I keep on hoping for a grand re-opening, Jack in the cardboard box of my address. Keep on waiting, they keep equating: “Let’s stay still, we’re still making progress.” Moving in place, room to pace, News isn’t new, the paper’s blank. Out and about is a social drought; “Please don’t be polite.” “Okay.” “Thanks.” Quick, understand! We’ll be gloved hand-in-hand, Ready to go when changes come knocking. Simply said, just look ahead To the day when six feet can start walking.

A Regard

ABIGAIL REID

It materialized from some phantom memory—a lone ranger’s unsung history, But that remains frivolous. Thrust into perpetual snapshots That dim and fade, but feeling remains. Forgetting to thank— Cheeks puffed full with dollops of words, promptly swallowed, And made new with our letup of laughter bred from a whim. All this and more and more and more. Details expire, but we shall not.

The Castle of Glass J. LUKE HERMAN

There she sits, in her castle of glass. To go and meet her, Near impossible. To request her presence, Nigh improbable. There she sits, in her castle of glass. Within crystal walls she peers to look out. The suffering is her secret muse, No yearning to cry and shout. There she sits, in her castle of glass, We can see her clear as day. To break the walls, we could free her and run away. But to riot and stomp, Break and burn, To march through the barricades and throw down the porcelain portcullis, Would but release the dragon and the evil she has learned. A tumultuous rage wreathed in fire, Sharp teeth that bite and scream words of ire, An intruder’s welcome carpeted in lies, In deceit would our victory be defied. So, we watch in sorrow as she breathes in that dragon’s fumes, As she gives up her care and love leaving it outside to die alone. And we call out to her from outside the castle’s keep, The walls that can be broken remain unscathed and steep. A prisoner in an invisible cell she remains, Hears us scream and yell but does not let our love invade. To mouth one thing to us she allows: Words without pity, Words without warmth, Words that are ugly, That are uttered to scold. There she sits, in her castle of glass, Where she hides in those fragile chambers to breed her evil things. It’s over. It's over for us all.

Poetry

GRACE ISRAEL

Poetry is a song of words without music, Even though I always thought A song is just a song. One day a lady told me, A song was poetry made with musical instruments. Then in another, she stated that I should think about Making my poetry into songs. But, I think not all poetry should be a musical song. It always depends on the poet. Anything and everything can be written into a poem. Because poems are simply made to praise the Almighty, To uplift someone’s spirit, To encourage the broken, To enlighten the lost, To bring light to those who are ashamed, To bring amusement to the bored, And to help those looking to find fulfilment. Expressing poetry can paint a picture of something In which an artist is not able to paint with their paintbrush. Poetry can travel in time, Through touching someone, To bring them back to their roots. Poetry can describe a life someone has lived, To inspire future generations. One thing I will say is, Poetry will always exist in some way or form.

SECTION I

Photo Exhibit 47

CHLOE NOELLE

Regality

Caffeine Kaleidoscope

Mistakenly Beautiful 49

NOAH STECKER

PART II

Creative Shorts

A Lesson in Emotion CHLOE NOELLE

I remember the days of sitting in my mother’s arms. All I had to think about was which slide to go down at the playground and not forgetting my lunch bag on the counter. It was easy—being a child, I mean. My smile was bright. It’s always been bright. But the days passed like the storms: rolling through, not worrying about how wet or dry the world was, sometimes more beautiful than terrifying. I remember the days when the smile was fake. I fell into a pattern of numbness. Present how I should feel and maybe I would truly feel it. And one day I did. Then I felt it again. And then again, more frequently. I was dancing with my father, learning how to move with joy instead of dread. I remember looking at canvases when they were beautifully white. The dust was clearing. The gray was fading, revealing new colors. But, it’s so easy to go colorblind again. Something fogs your vision or creates a scratch in the eye. I’m back where I started, smiling bright, hoping it’ll feel real again. I’m falling into darkness. Fighting an abyss. It’s like a hug with no feeling, more like quicksand than an embrace. But, when I fell to my knees without energy to even scream, I heard it. The still, small voice said, “I am here.” When I could barely muster out the words, my hands began to rise. Tears streamed down my face. I could feel.

Renovations

NICOLE SMOLINKSI

I am a big, tangled mess of confidence and fear all entwined together. Some days I wake up feeling like I’m finally becoming familiar with the world, like I’ve finally lived in the big city long enough to know its streets and shortcuts. Like I’m finally feeling like a local. Other days, I wake up and think about all the tiny shops I’ve yet to visit and how I still can’t remember the best shortcut through crowded areas. I feel like a tourist in my own body, and I chastise myself for being back here all over again. Twenty-five years seems like a long time to get to know a place, to get to know yourself. But stores in big cities change often, and construction redirects your route to work depending on the day, and you could be a local of 25 years in a crowded city and still never be able to predict what will happen. I’ve been living in my “city-body” for almost 25 years now and I still come across days where I feel like a complete tourist, unsure of myself, my decisions, how my brain and soul work. Sometimes I’m even tempted to wish some shops inside were different. That maybe I could be less sensitive or more “life of the party.” That I’d enjoy big, exciting clubs rather than the big, exciting feeling of looking at the expanse in the night sky. I sometimes wish I could know every street corner of my soul by name and could choose every single shop inside my city. But we are plastic people who evolve like any smart city will. Character gets tested, and we must reconstruct it like old buildings needing a retouch. We learn more about the world and how we exist in it. Things change, and we must constantly relearn the back streets of our “city-self.” It is exhausting at times, but I guess that’s the price we pay for living in a vibrant city rather than a stagnant one. We are confusing, chaotic, vibrant, alive cities—the days we feel more like tourists than locals are not days to feel defeated, they are days to celebrate renovations.

How I Got an Award-Winning Book about Autism Published at 23 MATTHEW KENSLOW

“Go away, Matthew! You’re not our friend!” two fellow Kindergarteners yelled at me by the swing set with such bitterness in their eyes. There have been many more innuendos of discrimination from grade school to my college days. This is a story of perseverance and overcoming, not caving into what people have verbally beaten me with; an experience that got to where I am today: a person fighting hard against discrimination of any kind. I made friends, but how often would I “hang out” with them? Not that often. Some of my acquaintances were nice half the time and mean the other half. Even when I was around friends, I felt pressed against the wall, nervous to make any form of communication… unless they ask me first how my day is going; I love talking, but not intruding. Throughout my life, I recognized a set of catharses to help me make light of these situations. They included art, juggling, playing piano, and a couple more. I made up jokes and memorized the presidents just to be liked (besides, it was easy to memorize the president’s birthdays, death dates, and term dates by number anyway). However, of all the catharses that took me far, creative writing has always been one of the big ones. I used to get in a heap of trouble just for writing too much back in early grade school. Give me a one-page creative writing assignment, and I will give you a novella… with my own illustrations too. I loved creating stories and adding as much detail as possible so much, I had written a 32-page story by the tenth grade. When I got older, I would append hidden meanings behind names and places, as well as visualize various archetypes as colors to enhance the invisible, underlying messages. Writing became an art piece. I would always come home from elementary school (later middle school and later high school) and just type away for hours, writing small story books and movie scripts. I intend for each of them to be published, but have worked to no avail. About ninety-nine percent of the thousands of hours I have worked on my writing and art projects (as well as piano and juggling practice), I realize I have spent alone. My only social time with peers was at school. By my later years in high school, I became discouraged because I still could not find the strength to go up to a person and initiate a conversation. I always stood there waiting. Sometimes, they would start the conversation, but it only lasted all but a couple moments.

And then…high school graduation. June 20, 2013. That was it. It was too late. I spent my entire educational career, from preschool to 12th grade, spending time by myself and I could never go back to change things for the better. I remember

even in the middle of elementary school I wanted to go back in time to change my life along with every single academic year since. Nevertheless, I still loved creative writing and it gave me release from some of the sadness I constantly faced, day and night. Sadness was partly the source of sleepless nights — mostly, I hid my sadness from everybody and hundreds of people just believed I was a happy, smiling person at the time. I thought to myself, “At least I have all the friends I did make, even though I hardly spent any time with them.” In my first semester of college—the fall of 2013—I began writing again. I decided to let the main character have Asperger’s Syndrome. It was originally going to be a series of short stories simply published one at a time. Ultimately, it transformed into a novella, which turned into a novel, which turned into a hyper-novel, which I decided to finalize as a trilogy. Even then, I felt I sugar-coated a lot of things. I did not want to use my gift to write as a means to get back at people because I found myself so concerned about others, even the welfare of my past bullies. As the years and years went by, I could neither handle all the current discriminations, nor the painful memories of the past. I ultimately felt that it was my duty to make allegorical stories to expose what happens to people like me, even though we cannot help it; people just seem to pick on us when there is not a single reason to. Is it really funny when we cannot talk like you? When we cannot walk like you? When we are not as fast as you? If we look different? If we are more “intelligent” or “skilled”? In the interim, I encourage children to realize they have a purpose and to not let what others say get to them. I actually say that to them whilst juggling simultaneously in classrooms during my visits. God introduced me to my literary agent in Pennsylvania. He then encouraged me to just write a series of short stories where each story represents an attribute of living with Asperger’s Syndrome. Hence my anthology, Juggling the Issues: Living with Asperger’s Syndrome was born! I got right to work in July of 2016 and by mid-November 2017, it was ready! My aforementioned agent told me that he would make an electronic package for me and send it off to various royalty publishing houses. And then it happened! On March 2, 2018, I got a congratulatory letter from my agent. He forwarded me the contract to the publishing house that was interested in my book! A long, novel-sized story short, it was not until June 13, 2019, when I received the long-awaited package containing my first book. I opened that

package in awe. For the first time in my whole entire life, I held a book that I had written all myself ! Flipping through the pages, I thought to myself, “I wrote this…I wrote this!” My family, friends, and I could not be any prouder. Once it was on Amazon in July of 2019, I officially launched it on social media where it started going all around the world. Even an ABC7 anchor shared it on her Facebook page, and I got in communications with a news director in Idaho. I did tons of Google searches and found it selling on over twenty additional websites, such as Walmart, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones, Mighty Ape, IndieBound, and even eBay. It is a humbling experience. If there is anything I learned, it is patience and standing on God’s promises. Just because my past did not seem promising does not mean it will never happen. Just do not give up. I do not allow difficulty to stand in the way as some formidable obstacle. Whatever I put in my heart, I will try my best to get it done. If I can do that, so can you! Writing a book is a process. I am the sole writer, but I must not forget the team: the editor, the cover designer, the agent, and the publisher. I must always go into writing knowing that there will always be drafts, I cannot just write something in one setting (Trust me, I have tried many times in this whole process). I have to allow myself to shut off the laptop for the night and give it a little time then go over the entire work again. A person may need to do that a few times before it feels right. Then let the publishing house read it and have them offer their critiques. Work with them and not against them. Take some of their advice. Try and smoothly blend ideas together. For a little additional information, what I did after my first draft back in 2013 was give it to a few close friends whom I could trust. I allowed them to read it and report to me what they thought. I, Matthew Kenslow, went from hearing “Go Away! You’re not our friend!” and other forms of discriminatory slander to hearing "One of the best new Autism books," by BookAuthority, who gave me two awards last year! I went from a person being picked on to a worldwide-distributed author of a book that’s making a difference to so many people. Little did I know how much support I would gain on YouTube with over 600 subscribers and over 180,000 view. I am thankful to continue making a difference with such a platform. It is my love, joy, and passion to write. These are the things I partake in to not let Autism/Asperger's tear me down. I still have challenges I face, but I am not letting those stop me either, as I endeavor to minimize them as much as possible. And let this be quintessential proof that anybody can do whatever they set their heart and mind to do, despite having an “incurable disability.”

Continuing as Strangers REBEKAH PULASKI

I find it strange that you can see the same person every day for months and they can still be a stranger. These were my feelings about Daeun Kim, a talented sophomore in my high school art class. I had never spoken a word to Daeun, but I was completely intimidated by her. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for me though, I’m intimidated by everyone. But, when she sat down next to me on what would be a three-hour bus ride to Hurst Castle, it’s safe to say my social anxiety kicked in. We didn’t speak much in the first hour of the ride. She was somehow able to fall asleep in the aisle seat which made me envious since I’ve never been able to sleep on the bus. But, after a quick pit stop, we exchanged our first words: “You want to watch a movie with me?” I asked. “Yeah, okay.” I turned on my favorite movie of all time: Stranger than Fiction with Will Ferrel. I think she liked it, but it was hard to tell. I kept glancing at her to see her facial expressions during my favorite parts or the parts that make me laugh. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to finish because our teacher wanted to explain to us how we should act during the tour. While he was talking, we both looked out the window to see miles and miles of open grassland on one side and the never-ending sea on the other. I was startled by the gasp Deaun let out. “Sorry,” she said, “I just didn’t really see a lot of these views in Korea.” She must’ve seen the surprise on my face because she quickly explained that she had moved to Visalia in the summer of 2018, and she had known English most of her life. “No way!” I said, probably too loudly, “I moved here in the summer of 2018 too!” “Oh really?” she asked, “Where from?” Immediately I regretted telling her this information. She just told me that she moved here from an entirely different country, halfway across the world. And now I was going to have to tell her I moved to Visalia from a town three hours away. Nevertheless, I sheepishly described my hometown to her and to my surprise, she didn’t roll her eyes at me. Soon, we were touring Hurst Castle and I was relieved to not be making conversation with anyone. We were shown a short film in the theatre and to my surprise Deaun sat down next to me. I glanced over at her after it started, and I couldn’t believe it. She was asleep again! The movie started five minutes ago, and she slept for almost an hour on the bus. Who was this girl and how could she sleep so easily?

When the tour was over, we got back on the bus and headed to the spot where we would be eating. “I had a dream when we were in the theatre,” she told me, “I was Will Ferrel. What is that movie called? I need to finish it when I get home or else, I’ll never stop thinking out it.” My heart filled with warmth. She liked my favorite movie! She didn’t think it was weird! From that point on, our conversation didn’t stop. We told each other almost everything. She told me about Korea and how different she felt when she moved here. I told her about my family and where I’d be going to college. We talked about people from our pasts and what kind of music we listened to. When the rest of the bus had fallen asleep or fallen silent, she opened the notes app on her phone and we passed it between ourselves, like kids who pass notes in class and aren’t afraid of getting in trouble. You know what I think is stranger than seeing someone every day and continuing as strangers? Having a day like I had with Daeun, and not continuing as friends.

Garlic Fried Rice NOAH SALES

It was a humid Monday morning as the whirring of fans mumbled throughout the house and the sizzling of oil danced in the frying pans. He could hear his mother banging the metal pots together as she looked with her favorite spatula. He lied there in bed thinking about how they had moved to the U.S. a year ago from the Philippines. It had been one year since he started the fourth grade at Crown Hill Elementary School; a year of rushing to learn English or else he would be ostracized from the already-growing isolation he had been feeling. As a 10-year-old who emigrated from the Philippines to a new country, he was having a hard time adjusting to the culture shock. Now he had to start a new school year in the fifth grade. “Food is ready! You better get up soon! It’s your first day of fifth grade! If you aren’t down here soon then I’ll make sure that today won’t be your last, Joseph!” his mother yelled from the kitchen below. She always had a fiery temper, typical of the most loving Filipino mothers. Joseph rustled underneath the sheets as he heard the familiar voice of his mother wake him from his peaceful slumber; he had to face his fears once more and this time he had planned to overcome them. The door slowly creaked as he recognized the pitter patter of his mother’s flip flops, her typical weapon of choice. She made her way up the stairs quicker than usual. “Joseph, wake up. You’re going to be late, hah.” A thick Filipino accent penetrated the room, as her voice had found its way to pinch his ears. “No, five more minutes,” Joseph said dreadfully as he turned in bed and burrowed into the pillow face first. However, he could not avoid the familiar aroma of garlic as it had stung his eyes closed. He tried to wrap himself in his blanket but to no avail, this scent had been proven to be impervious to his failed attempts. The smell was a growing reminder to his alienation that he had been feeling for a while already. Fwoot! A short, shadowy figure raised its arm in the air like the flying bat lady of Filipino legend and the sun’s rays chased her away as the blinds flew up. Left behind in the monster’s wake was a short little brown woman who looked quite peeved. The noise startled Joseph as he peeked under the blankets to see Mother Mary dangling down as his mother stared at him. He saw her blue nursing scrubs against her Hello Kitty flip flops. However, the contrasting color palette of her clothing only made him more afraid of what he had planned to do.

“Five more minutes? No, in five minutes you better be downstairs ready to eat.” her voice was lightening to his ears. “You better get up or in five minutes you will be running downstairs, hah”. “Ma, I-I don’t feel good...” he tried to come up with an excuse to stay home if he could. “Oh, you don’t feel good? Well, I’ll give you something to not feel good about!” She bent down to grab her pink flip flop and Joseph noticed at the last minute as she wound up her arm. “Ma, ma. I’m getting up!” he sprouted from the sheets as his mother lowered her arm. “Anak, you can’t be late today. Come, let’s eat before I tell you one more time!” she yelled patiently. Nonetheless, it was better than the next yelling he would have gotten if he stayed a second longer. He had even thought about the possibility of her attacking him with her flip flop, which drove him to get up with quicker results. As he dressed himself for the school day, his thoughts raced through his mind like the quick flopping noise of his mother down the stairs. The word “Anak” echoed through his mind when he got ready for school. It was a Filipino word of endearment that a parent would call their child. His mother had been saying it more often after his father passed away a year before they moved to the state. He left them alone together, his dream unfulfilled. Despite this, Joseph’s mother was able to find a nursing job at a hospital after she finished her accelerated program in the Philippines. However, she had to work the night shifts in order to take care of Joseph in the morning, they were all they had and she had done her best for her son. Backpack filled, pants zipped, and shirt ironed, Joseph made his way down to the kitchen. He followed the scent of garlic and saw his food plated with fried rice. He looked at the food with a newly found disgust as he anxiously shuffled the mints in his pockets, which was his last defense. If he wanted to fit in at school then he cannot smell like garlic and the other random spices that a typical Filipino household uses. “Ma, can I stay home?” his voice trembled as he approached her growing, towering figure in the kitchen. “Stay home? Stay home? And then what? You stay home forever? No, you’re going to school unless you’re dying.”

“B-but ma-”

“No 'buts' unless it is your butt on that seat. Now eat,” she ordered him as he rushed to his favorite seat. He knew not to dawdle too long when she had given an order. “You better finish before the bus gets here.” With such ferocity, two fried eggs slapped the browned-garlic fried rice as two slices of crisped spam slid next to it. He looked down at his plate as it looked back at him and he pushed it away, disturbed by what he had seen. Once again, the garlicky scent of the fried rice had pinched his nose in revulsion. He had to tell her, no matter the costs, even if it means breaking from his typically reserved nature. If he wanted to fit in at school, then he must be able to tell her. He had to resist her fiery backlash if he wanted to survive. “Ma...” his voice trailed off as it hid for its life. “Anak, you are already speaking, what?” Her accent had grown rougher as she noticed the growing unease of her beloved son. It was a stupid plot of him to act as if he was okay, but he could not have had hidden it worse than he did. “I-I’m not that hungry...” he forced out as he had spoken the greatest of taboos: he had refused food in this household which meant to refuse life itself, which indicated that he had already given up. The stove’s vents grew quiet as the oil to calmed down; they waited for the impending explosion to happen. The kitchen became trapped in time, controlled by the powerful presence that commanded the house. The short Filipino mother stood at the top of the food chain as she looked down at Joseph, who trembled at her stare. “M-ma, I don’t want to eat this...Can I just have toasted bread?” What was left of the little courage he had, he forced it out before the silence overtook him. “You want toast, hah?” She made him sound like a fool, but entertained his request. She took off her apron like a warrior ready to blaze it out in hand-to-hand combat; the young boy shook as tears flooded his eyes. Her silence was louder than any of her prior yelling. He should have kept his mouth shut with the food and gotten ready for school, but he was too late. He stared ahead at the table, afraid of turning around and seeing what his mother would have done to him. She lifted her hand near him and her shadow caused him to flinch as she grabbed his plate of food. He expected a 'palo palo', or a whooping, with her hand upon his rear, but was instead bewildered at his mother’s complacency to the deadly situation.

Ding! His time was up as she unmasked her presence and her shadow loomed behind him. His stomach grew quiet in submission to this intimidating power. He prepared himself for the inevitable palo palo as she grew closer. He clenched his eyes shut as he heard an object being placed on the table, most likely her weapon of choice. “Here, Anak.” Her voice seemed to lose its power as he opened his eyes. She had set a plain plate of toasted white bread before him. The beige bread made his mouth drip with dryness. He questioned if he made the right choice, but he had already committed to avoid eating his typical breakfast. That was the first step in his plan to transition to American food. He carefully grabbed the bland piece of crunchy bread, which stunned his mouth and confirmed what his eyes had seen. Even with butter, the toast had tasted like nothing compared to all things he had eaten. His mother stared at him with disbelief and retreated to the kitchen as he ate in crunchy silence. Her back was turned from the dining table that was a few feet away from her but it had felt like a growing abyss to the both of them. “Salamat po, ma.” Joseph thanked his mom, as he got ready to finish up before leaving for school. “Walang anuman, Anak." She responded. “Ma, I’m going to get ready to head out.” “Okay.” “Is everything alright?” He noticed her loss of spunk, which seemed to bother him. “Anak...” “Yes, ma?” “Was something wrong with my cooking?” He had never heard his mother ask him a question this peculiar. “No, ma.” “Then why didn’t you eat it? Why’d you ask for plain toast?” “I-I...” he stuttered because he was afraid of telling her the truth.

“Yes?” She looked upon him tenderly

“The food makes my breath stink...” “Stink? It gives you bad breath, hah?” “Yeah...” “Is that why you ask for toast? So, you won’t be stinky?” \ “They make fun of what I eat at school, ma. I’ve been eating alone at lunch because my food isn’t like theirs.” “Oh, okay. I understand, Anak.” And just like that his mother’s typical ferocity was quenched. Something was missing when he went to school that morning, but he couldn’t quite pin what it was. It was either the empty lunchbox or his mother’s reaction to what he did. Nonetheless, Joseph had thought that this was the right direction if he wanted to fit in at school. ~~~ After the passing of his father, Joseph’s new found excitement to begin his first day of fourth grade had turned to despair when he slowly realized that he did not fit in. “Hi everyone, this is Joseph and he will be joining our class today.” The teacher had him stand in front of the class and he felt like an animal being observed at the zoo. “Hi, Joseph!” “Hi, everyone,” he waved shyly as he tried to hide his accent, though a few kids chuckled when they heard him speak. “Alright class, make Joseph feel at home. This will be your seat.” The teacher gestured towards a chair next to a toothless boy with ruffled brown hair. Joseph grabbed his pencil bag and notebook after he had put his backpack away in its own personal cubby. He took his seat and the entire duration of the teacher’s lesson was coupled with this strange child staring at him. Ding Dong! “Alright everyone, it’s time for lunch! See you back at class. Joseph, just follow Jared and he will lead you to the lunch tables,” she said as she directed him to his

peculiar neighbor. “Hi, Joseph. I’m Jared.” A toothless grin welcomed him. “Hi, nice to meet you, Jared,” he tried to say with his cleanest American accent. “You have a really cool voice!” the boy said in excitement. “Oh, thanks...” “Come follow me, it’s time for lunch!” Jared gripped his lunchbox. The ruffled, toothless boy led Joseph to a lunch table with a few of his own friends from other classes. “Hey everyone, this is Joseph,” Jared stated as the group welcomed Joseph. “Hi...” “What’d you bring for lunch?” Jared asked as he took out his yellow dyed twinkie, beige sandwich, and juice box. The rest of the kids had similar lunches with different sandwiches and Oreos littered throughout. The children began to trade their different snacks as Joseph looked on in amazement. His mom would be fuming if she found out that he traded his food for a yellow, sugary, cake, tube looking thing. “Oh... for my baon I brought garlic-fried rice and spam that my mom made for me” “Bah own? What?” Jared asked. “Sorry, we call our lunch 'baon' in the Philippines.” As he opened the container at the table, everyone began to make faces of disgust when they smelt the harsh garlicky scent. They were all perplexed by the slabs of spam and oozing egg yolks. “That’s c-cool, Joseph...” Jared stuttered as he watched Joseph slide pieces of spam, ketchup, and garlic rice into his mouth. “Do you wanna try some?" “N-no, thank you,” Jared and his friends scarfed down their food and made their way to the playground in a rush. “We’ll meet you at the monkey bars when you’re finished!”

“Oh, okay” for the moment Joseph was oblivious yet he knew he was alone. ~~~ The school year approached its final weeks. Since his first day of school, Jared and his friends began to slowly leave Joseph to eat by himself. They did not even want to trade their food for what he had. Nevertheless, this had become the norm for him, but the ever-growing isolation compelled Joseph to finally ask Jared why they avoided him. He wanted to know their reasoning and did not want to start the same cycle during his fifth-grade year. “Hey, Jared?” “Mm-yeah?” Tuna fell out of his mouth as he chugged his juice box. “Are we friends?” “Bro, we sit next to each other in Ms. Pree’s class. Of course, we’re friends! Duh.” “Do you like me as a friend?” “Yeah, you’re cool. As long as you don’t have cooties we’ll always hang out.” “Yeah...” his accent slipped as he replied but Jared noticed that he was more reserved than usual. “Are you okay, Jose-” “Jared, hurry up! Christian is the lava monster,” a little boy screamed from the playground because Jared was taking longer than usual. “I’m hurrying up! Sorry about that Jared. Meet us at the playground when you’re done!” Jared began to run off but was stopped beforehand. “Wait, Jared.” “Huh?” “It’s been like this the whole school year.” “What do you mean?” Jared noticed Joseph’s accent growing rougher and became concerned. “I’ve noticed the faces, laughter, and how you all are in a rush to leave me at the lunch tables...”

“Oh...” “Did I do something wrong? I’m still trying to figure out everything here” “No, you didn’t. If you did then we wouldn’t be friends or hang out on the playground.” “Then why do you all seem to be in a rush during lunch?” “Well...it has to do with what you eat...” Jared sheepishly replied, he couldn’t lie to. "Joseph..." “Huh?” “Your food. It looks gross and smells really weird. We’re not used to t hattype of food.” “Oh...” “Don’t take offence though, we still want to hang out with you.” “Okay.” “Lighten up bro! I’ll meet you at the playground!” Jared ran off as Joseph was given a revelation. Soon after he looked up and saw Jared dangling from the monkey bars, Joseph got up and threw away his untouched food into the trash. ~~~ He didn’t have to tell her everything, but his simple statement about the food spoke loudly to her that fateful morning. He had gained the audacity to ask for something different and she obliged without a fight. A week had passed since his first day of fifth grade and every morning he had eaten a plain American breakfast with typical American lunches and snacks at school. Joseph would wake up happy now that the kids were hanging out with him at lunch and happily traded their food for his. However, he noticed his mom slinking away in the kitchen whenever he would come down for breakfast. Her typical vibrant morning fire had been replaced with a dull energy, reminiscent of her extremely melodramatic Filipino soap dramas. He hated watching their overblown acting but it was different with his mother. She seemed to be deeply hurt, but he brushed it off.

Today, he had done his normal routine and made his way downstairs to the

kitchen for breakfast before school. As always, his mother tended to the now quiet kitchen, which oddly disturbed him more than that Monday morning. This eerie silence peeved him to the depths of his soul as he tried to ignore it. On Monday, Joseph started think about the agreement he made to trade his Oreos for Jared’s twinkies last Friday. However, he felt convicted and couldn't stand his mother's painful acceptance. “Morning, ma.” He sat down on the cold wooden seat and waited for his mother’s delayed response. “Morning.” “Here’s your toast and eggs,” she had broken the silence as the plate slid in front of him. “Thanks, ma,” the pricking continued. “Uh huh,” she responded with little effort as she walked around barefoot in her blue scrubs. Her dead resolve reflected itself in the still kitchen. Joseph knew what he had to do, but did he have the strength to do it? He had already insulted her cooking and was given mercy. There was no spanking, just silence between them since that day and that was a worse punishment. “M-ma? D-do we have leftover rice in the fridge?” He mustered the courage to restore order to the kitchen. “Yes, Joseph. Why?” his mother responded with much spark. “C-could I have some garlic-fried for my baon today?” He loved his mom too much and had to bite the bullet. It was twinkies or his mom, and he could never have had traded her for anything. “Hah?!?” “Please, ma.” “Of course, Anak!” she slipped on her pink Hello Kitty slippers and grabbed her favorite spatula, the one with a little heart-shaped chip at the edge. Her raging fire returned suddenly as the kitchen began to dance to the tune of her cooking. She composed the oil and rice into a symphony as the garlic forced its way into the mix. The vents of the microwave hummed with delight as Joseph watched his mother’s joy overtake him. The garlic fried-rice wasn’t finished without the additions of two perfect fried eggs and spam. Minutes before the bus

came, she slid the food into one of her favorite glass containers, wrote on a piece of paper, and chucked Joseph out of the house. As he was heading out, he heard the rushing pitter patter of her flip flops as she gave him a big hug. Of course, she did it before the bus came to spare him of embarrassment. She slipped him a bag of shrimp crackers as he walked down the driveway to the bus stop nearby. “Love you, Anak!” she yelled as he got in the bus and he smiled back as he waved her goodbye. "Love you too!" Joseph waved back. Once he got to school, he couldn't wait until lunchtime. Ding Dong! “Alright class, I’ll see you in 35 minutes.” His teacher said to the whole class. The fateful time arrived as he took out his food, his friends noticed it and began to slowly drift away. “Okay, Joseph. I have two twinkies to trade for your pack of Oreos...” Jared glanced over at the glass container in front of Joseph. He had grown accustomed with Joseph’s new lunches and was surprised by the sudden reversion. “Sorry, I don’t have any Oreos today. But my mom packed some shrimp crackers if you want to try some?” “Um...I think I’m fine” Jared quickly replied. This time he stayed longer with Joseph because he was curious about the sudden change. He began to eavesdrop when he noticed Joseph taking out a note from his lunchbox. The note read: Mahal Kita, Anak. Joseph’s smile was brighter than the sun and Jared was rather perplexed as to the occasion, “What does may hal keeta, a nack mean?” “Oh, it says 'Mahal Kita', which means 'I love you' in Tagalog. My mom wrote it for me because she loves to cook.” Joseph translated and decided to keep the meaning of Anak to himself. “Woah, that’s really cool!” Jared’s never really heard much outside of English and the occasional Dora episode that would come on at home in the morning. “Yeah.” “So, your mom likes to cook that,” he said gesturing towards Joseph’s food.

“Mmhm.”

“And you like it?” “I love it.” “Well, I can’t argue with you on that. Can I actually try one of your shrimp crackers?” Jared’s curiosity began to prick at him. “Of course. But it is a little weird.” Joseph handed a small, curled white chip. Jared shoved the whole thing in his mouth as Joseph stared in disbelief. He chewed and chewed and chewed, very similar to a cow. Then finally with much contemplation he exclaimed, “It’s not that bad, Joseph!” “Thanks,” he replied as they both chuckled, since this was new for the both of them. “Jared, we need five people to play this round of catch the tiger!” A boy from the playground called out to him. “Coming!” He inhaled his food as fast as he could. “Well, I’m going to head off to the monkey bars if you wanna join after! I’ll try some more of those shrimp crackers later!” Jared ran off with his toothless grin. “Okay! I’ll be there in a bit!” Joseph smiled as he unpacked the rest of his lunch. Joseph found himself alone once again, but this time it felt different. He opened up the container as the eggs, spam, and garlic-fried rice smiled up at him and he smiled back. The scent of garlic wafted from the container and danced in his nostrils with much delight. This was definitely better than plain toast. THE END

Silent Lunches

JULIA WEIMERSKIRCH

Silence. I remember looking at those around me and watching what the other students were doing. The girl in front of me would pick up her milk carton, take a very large gulp, and then sit the carton back down in exactly the same place. I watched as she did this for her entire meal and often found myself wondering if her carton of milk was different than mine because it seemed as though hers was never ending. The boy sitting to my right had a sandwich that smelled strange. It was overfilled and overflowing with a grey, mushy substance. With every bite he took, I watched as more and more of this substance sloshed out and fell, splattering on the table. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I wanted nothing to do with it. Silently, my fellow students would open their lunches, examine what sandwiches their parents had packed them that morning, and even turn to those next to them and swap snacks. Apple sauce for fruit roll ups, gummies for gushers, you know, all of the important things that every kid should have in their lunch box. They did this all without making a single sound. I didn’t know how, but it seemed as though the entire world was silent to me. I looked down and examined my brown paper bag that had my name written carefully in black cursive on the front. The careful flow and curl of each letter was obviously the work of my mother. Because my mother packed my lunch for me that day, I knew there would not be any Debby cakes, only carrots. I pulled out my sandwich, two pieces of toasted bread, slightly burnt, with several thick slices of cracked pepper turkey between them. My favorite sandwich, another sign that my mother packed my lunch that morning. A Strawberry Kiwi Caprisun, and like I knew there would be, the slimy carrot sticks with nothing to dip them in. Not even hot sauce. A small lunch, but it was just enough to get me through the day before I went home to an even better lunch that I would get to share with my mother as we watched The Doodle Bops. I placed everything on the grey, sticky lunch table in front of me and looked to the teacher that always sits with me, Linda. It seems as though she follows me everywhere, to all my different classes, to any meetings, and even when I need to go to the nurse’s office. Why didn’t other students have a Linda? Looking around the prisonesque room, I noticed there were students staring at me. This was not out of the ordinary for me, but I guess I didn’t understand why. “What’s happening?” I asked. “What do you mean?” Linda replied with a smile that seemed to stretch from one ear to the other across her face, revealing perfectly white teeth. “They’re all looking at me.” I said, my hands shaking. The idea

of being stared at, even now sends a chill down my back and makes me break out in a cold sweat that seems to exist only under my armpits. “I think they just don’t understand,” she said. “Understand what?” I replied. “They don’t understand that you can only talk using your hands. You’re the first deaf student to ever come to this school! It’s actually very exciting, but because you are the first, they haven’t learned about you and they’re seeing you at lunch for the first time,” she said this and gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t think I like lunch very much.” I said then opened my sandwich bag and began to eat, allowing myself to slip back into my silent world and pretend that everyone around me hears exactly the same things I do. Nothing.

Blurry Eyes

REBEKAH PULASKI

There’s no other feeling like the feeling of waking up on the day you are moving out the house you grew up in. It felt like the opposite of Christmas. The lack of sleep left me exhausted and there was still so much to do. Half of the house wasn’t packed and soon my high school’s football team would be there to help us move our big items. One of the perks of living in a small town is everyone cares when you leave. It’s like the whole town is losing a family member. So, when my dad broke the news to the football coach, he insisted the team would help with anything they could. The downside to this, of course, was the fact that all the boys from my school would see the Barbie dolls my mom refused to let us get rid of. My boyfriend at the time got there early. From the second he arrived he was busy with anything my dad asked him to do. I hardly spoke to him that day. Which, looking back, is probably a good thing because I would have cried in front of all those people and I don’t think I could have gotten over that kind of embarrassment. My mom still talks about “how helpful Victor was that day” and how “we wouldn’t have made it without him.” I still admire him for that. We were only sixteen and he still showed up for me. My dad left at about noon to get burgers for the helpers at the only restaurant in town. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I still didn’t think I could force myself to bite into that burger. I was so nervous for the end of the day and the thought of a completely new city and new school made my stomach churn. We were sitting in the fellowship hall of the church I grew up in, at the tables I had seen at every potluck. I could feel my mom watching me from across the room, waiting for me to eat. She had moved when she was my age too. The situation was scarily the same. She grew up in a tiny town up north, then had to move to the exact city that we were moving to now. I’d be attending the same school she did; the same school she complained about feeling lost and alone in. I knew she felt guilty for making me go through the same thing. She cried when she told us the news. With the feeling of her eyes on me, I bit into the burger. I didn’t want her to worry about me. While I was walking across the small lot between the church and my home, my friend’s car pulled up to the curb. I had forgotten my pajama bottoms at her house after our last sleepover two nights ago. As I walked towards the curb, she ran out of the car towards me at an unnecessary speed. The hug I received

knocked us both onto the hard desert ground. I knew she’d cry. I had known Jordyn since kindergarten, and she’s made a big deal out of anything she possibly could. To my convenience, her mom called her to hurry up and “get her dramatic butt back in the car right now.” If only I had known how fast our friendship would fade, I would’ve held on a little bit longer. Finally, the time had come. The truck was packed full, and my home was completely empty. The room I had slept in my whole life was void of any sign of my life there. I hoped the next family that moved in would think of me as they painted over my sky-blue walls. I said my goodbyes and got into the passenger’s seat of my sister’s car. She was silent and let me choose the music. I knew she felt sorry for me but neither of us have ever been good at sharing our emotions with each other. So, I looked out the window and cried to myself, watching my hometown disappear with blurry eyes.

Nobody Likes You When You’re 17...or Whatever Blink-182 Said MICHAEL ANGEL

Maybe I'm writing this at midnight because I'm procrastinating on homework, or maybe I just want to talk about it. One pillar I was raised on was selflessness. I feel like it's something we all should really learn and teach, but when taken to the extreme, it gets a bit out of hand. Believe me, I know. I'm not knocking anyone who tells you to treat yourself, or the people that are emotionally unavailable because they put others first before themselves (even when that other person is in the wrong). Trust me, I've been both of those people. The people that tell their friends to go to sleep before 1 a.m. and take time to rest, but are crying on the inside, I see you. The people that tell their lonely friend that they deserve love and will find the greatest partner in the world, but put themselves down and bury themselves in insecurity, I see you too. The easy thing about self-love is telling other people to embrace it; the hard part is embracing it yourself. Before I make this a cliché, let me tell you guys a story. My junior year of high school was extremely hard. I was neck-deep in homework every day, I was only getting about 4-5 hours of sleep per night (while getting up at around 6:30 a.m.), and felt emotionally and mentally drained. So many things were going on in my head all the time. Loneliness, the struggle between procrastination and the fear of failure, and an overwhelming feeling that I wasn't worth anything crept up on me every day I came home from school. The weather felt bitter every day; it made me bitter. January to May was uncomfortably cold, and that year Palmdale didn't start getting warm until after the school year ended for some reason. Not to mention, I slept on a futon for the majority of my high school life, and at around this time, my body was rejecting it. Lack of sleep and an uncomfortable place to sleep are a dangerous combination. Every day I woke up not wanting to wake up, and it was tough. I realized I was going through a depressive episode, so I tried to combat it. I would try playing video games, which surprisingly, didn't help at all (even though I love video games). Netflix binges, YouTube, playing music, all were no help. I remember for about two months straight I would get home from school, put my backpack down, and lie on the couch underneath the same blanket. I would just scroll through the three pillars of social media: Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat over and over again to try to distract myself. When I was done with one, I would go back to the other two, and I would do it over and over again. One late night around midnight, I lied down, put in my earbuds, and listened to music. I tried comforting music, sad music, loud music, everything. No change.

I was a sucker for writing poetry at the time too. And yes, it was sappy and sad and pretty much what you would expect from a sad teenage aspiring writer (I still have that notebook and have thought about burning it, but decided against it. Who knows what's in there now? Maybe I could use it in the future). Anyway, bottom line, I was borderline depressed, and nothing helped. It had gotten to the point where I stopped trying to fight it and just let it be. If I was gonna be sad, at least I'll do it on my own terms. It's hard going through a depressive episode, but it's even harder when you realize you can't fix yourself. As I woke up every day, tired, relenting being stuck in the same old cycle every day, I came to terms with my emotions. I realized that yeah, I was sad—possibly depressed. I've never been diagnosed with depression, so I use that term sparingly, but I believe based on who is reading this, you probably understand what I mean. Regardless, it kinda hurt to realize nothing I was doing was working, and that I was hurting myself mentally by trying to avoid how I was feeling instead of accepting it. I was just trying to shove through it. It was like trying to fill a hole with dirt, but the more dirt you put in, the hole just keeps getting deeper. The end of it feels much farther than when you first started, and there's no bottom to it. And yes, the truth is, there really is no end to it, just constant beginnings. Each beginning of a depressive episode can feel different from past ones, or they can feel strikingly similar. People never truly know; they just know they're there. It's similar to smelling something that you can't quite put your finger on, but you know you have smelled it before. But, coming to terms with that pain and constant tug your emotions have on you gives you an advantage in overcoming it. Emotions aren't necessarily our enemy; I know media everywhere (books, shows, movies) tend to try to shove that down our throats. The coolest characters are always the stone-cold killers; the ones that have been through so much that in the end they feel nothing (shoutout to Itachi). But emotions aren't the enemy, they're your friends. Yeah, some of them are jerks, others are nice, but they all come around the times you don't really expect them. Over the years, I just stopped trying to avoid the beginnings of depressive episodes. It's about deciding to overcome them, and by embracing the fact that you are depressed, or sad, or in grief, you're creating a gate to unlock. The only work left is to find the key. Sometimes that key is hard to find, other times it's easier. But waiting around the gate won't open it; you'll just be sitting next to it knowing how to open it, but not opening it yourself. That's what I did during my junior year of high school. It's not fun. After the constant mornings of not wanting to do anything at all—even exist—I accepted that I was experiencing depression. It may have been minor, or worse than I thought; I still don't know. Nevertheless, it was there, and I didn't like

it being there. I realized I couldn't fix it myself, so I put my non-poet pants on and was blunt with myself and those around me. They told me what I needed to hear: that I was loved and appreciated, and that the things I was going through were temporary, that once I figured out how to fix them, I can put in the work to overcome them. I too started telling myself what I needed to hear. I can't exactly say what those things were because every piece of advice is different for every person, and I don't think what I told myself is helpful because of how specific it is. To cope, I started to write more. I would write paragraphs on how I felt, and what I was feeling about a certain aspect of what was driving me nuts. Afterwards, I would try to formulate those feelings into songs. That way, I kept my mind busy while dealing with how I was feeling at the same time, so I would come to terms with my emotions and move on from them. Now, this probably won't work for everyone, and it might not even work every time I go through it, but it helps me try. One thing I can say is that going through these times repeatedly throughout the years has taught me that while depression may not end, the person that experiences it doesn't either. I'm still Michael Robles, I still love music and writing, and making others feel loved. Humans, by default, are emotional beings. Why reject that? I learned to live in a balance between accepting my emotions and not letting them get the best of me. This balance allows me to share things like this with people (even though it is rare when I do). It allows me to say "much love" to you all (and I know I've said that to at least a few people reading this). The junior year me from high school is still in me, but I have come to terms with who that person was back then, and know the good and bad traits of him. If you asked me if I would remove that time from my memory if I had the chance, I would say no. Yeah, he was way too emotional at times, but he also had some pretty damned good times. Beating Fallout: New Vegas for the first time? I would never take that away from him. Performing music for the first time ever? I wouldn't trade it for the world. It's moments like those we tend to forget about when going through depression. They get clouded in the constant thoughts of telling ourselves we're worthless and that we don't deserve happiness. In reality, I know you do; I know I do. Selflove is one of the most important types of love, and no one should be robbed of it, especially by themselves. I still struggle with self-love and recognizing my worth. These past few months were pretty tough in that field for me, but I almost always circle back to knowing that I deserve more credit than what I or some people give myself. The same goes for all of you as well (don't get sappy on me, remember, we're trying to avoid that).

And, I have been back in that position of depressive episodes since then, but I've learned through experience how to overcome them little by little. One thing I learned about myself is when I go through these times I will stay awake as late as possible, trying to keep myself busy because I knew if I went to sleep, I would have to experience the same emotions and force myself through them the next day. The cycle I went through junior year kind of scarred me, so I'd try my best to avoid it by not sleeping at all. That lack of sleep would eat me up in the morning and I would be too sluggish to do anything for the day, so I'd lie around and do nothing until it was late, then it was time for me to make myself busy again. So, I now know that when I stay up late trying to occupy myself with any task in sight, I know a depressive episode is coming or I'm already in one. Sometimes these times are harder, other times it's easier. But the good side of it is that each time I overcome it is another time I didn't let it get the best of me.

Power’s Out

ABIGAIL REID

The silence made her think of camping. All of the small ambient noises that wafted into her room reminded her of the thin walls of a tent. She reminisced over the distant crunching of dirt and twigs, the occasional guffaw from the people in the next campsite over, and the amalgamation of wildlife chit-chat. She thought, during those nights, that her ears were so keen as to pick up the miniscule pitter-patter from the ants outside of the tent. Despite power-outages being a monthly occurrence for Helen’s apartment complex, her roommate, Wendy, never seemed to adjust to this fact. The power had only been out for a minute before Wendy barreled through Helen’s door, clutching her phone while its flashlight lit up the entrance. “Did the power go out?” she said while shining the flashlight in Helen’s eyes. “Did it? I couldn’t tell.” Helen glanced at the box fan propped up in her window, emitting neither air nor white noise and smirked to herself. “You’re so funny.” Wendy proceeded to whirl herself around, creating a strobe light effect from her flashlight, and left the room without closing the door. “Close my door!” Helen called from her pathetic pose in bed. No answer. Just darkness. Helen sighed and hoisted herself up to close the door. Moments like these reminded Helen of how much she took things for granted—things like electricity, notably. She certainly wasn’t as dramatic as Wendy, but she did feel a pang of aggravation whenever she flicked on a light switch only to be greeted (taunted, more so) with more darkness. Helen had trained herself to fall asleep to silence because of these recurring power-outages, but she still preferred the drone of her box fan. After massaging her face gently, Helen slumped herself into a supine position and pulled the covers over her head. From her open window, a bird warbled inconsistently. It would sing one verse in a long, sustained trill and then alternate into furious chirrups, each one as staccato as the last. Helen had never heard a bird sing at night; she knew it was common, but she had never experienced it before. She knew Wendy would throw a fit if she had to endure this bird’s concerto. Helen chuckled softly as she imagined this scenario. She knew the bird was going to distract from any hope of her getting a full night’s sleep, so she reached for her phone. A notification showed that she had

received a text from Ben. Helen’s heart jumped as she gazed at the screen. She quickly put her phone screen-down on her mattress and pressed her hands to her face. ~~~~~~~~ It was late June and Helen was visiting her local grocery store for some more milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch—by Wendy’s demands. If Helen wasn’t so accommodating, she would’ve told Wendy to go herself after she got home from work, but she knew that she would rest on the couch for about five hours as soon as she stepped into their apartment, and never actually make it to the store. It was easier for Helen to take initiative and get the groceries. The crisp air emitting from the freezer section chilled Helen’s skin. She lightly rubbed her arms to ease her goosebumps. Helen continued to peruse the aisle languidly, each brightly-colored box zipping past her eyes, forming one big coagulated rainbow. She didn’t know how it happened—she thought she was the only one in the aisle, but before Helen could brace herself, a sudden brute force knocked the Cinnamon Toast Crunch from her underarm. Catching her breath and tearing her gaze from the refrigerators, she noticed a man crouched down picking up a carton of almond milk from the linoleum flooring by her feet. “Oh my god,” she muttered, “I’m so sorry-I didn’t even see you.” The man stood up, inspecting his milk, chuckling nervously, “Oh, don’t even worry about it. That was all on me. I wasn’t looking either.” He hoisted the milk up under his arm and fidgeted with his glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose, which were slightly askew. He looked as if he was in his early twenties and had floppy brown hair that naturally quiffed to the right side of his head, some of it drooping down to his eyebrow. His neck seemed to jut out forward, making it appear longer than usual. Helen couldn’t tell if he was aloof or simply had an oblivious air about him. Helen awkwardly scooped up her box of cereal, “Hey, that almond milk is pretty durable.” The man shot a glance under his arm, “What? Oh, yes. Exactly the reason I buy it.” “Do you regularly drop almond milk? Is that, like, a thing for you?” He laughed, “You’d be surprised how many snafus this stuff has caused me.” “Snafu! Now that’s a word I rarely hear in regular conversations.”

“Oh, I try to slip it into as many conversations as possible—regular or not.” Helen sharply exhaled out of her nose, amused, and looked down at her feet while tucking some loose strands of hair behind her right ear. She glanced back upwards after gaining some confidence, “Do you know if almond milk tastes good with Cinnamon Toast Crunch?” The man smirked slightly, “You know, I never got around to trying it, but I think the two would complement each other well.” “Yeah...” Helen paused, fishing for words, “Almond milk is kinda sweet, right?” “Most of the time. It depends on what kind you drink.” “Ah, I see,” Helen found herself at a loss for words again, but she didn’t want this moment to end; she had come so far and never connected with a guy this attractive this long before. Without restraint, Helen asked the question, “Do you think I could get your number?” She held her breath. The man hesitated, his eyes darting to the side quickly and back onto Helen’s face. After shaking his head as if trying to emerge from a trance, he finally said, “Uh, sure. Sorry—it’s been a while since I’ve done something like this.” He robotically reached for his phone in his back pocket with his free hand. Helen’s heart was racing as she grabbed her phone as well, “What’s your name, by the way?” “Ben,” he replied as they discreetly exchanged numbers. Once numbers were given and stored, both gave each other one last glance before heading their separate ways. Helen returned to her car, her hands clammy and a bit shaky. She had done nothing so ambitious before, and she felt surges of adrenaline pumping through her body. She reflected back to every line of dialogue she spoke, dissecting everything down to her inflection. She recalled the last look they gave each other and his somewhat expressionless face, despite the weak smile and wave he gave right before he turned the opposite direction. Helen decided to not linger on this aspect as much, seeing that they had just met, and what first interaction isn’t awkward? Especially if it begins with slamming into each other at a grocery store? Helen couldn’t wait to return home and recount her experience to Wendy. She started her car and left the parking lot. Midway through her journey home, she realized she forgot to buy milk. “Wendy?” Helen called as she shoved her way through the front door. She

slipped off her tennis shoes by tugging the heel with her toes, and swiped them to the left of the entrance, neatly resting against Wendy’s ratty Birkenstocks. “Wendy?” Helen called again while straining for the light switch. It had grown quite dark when she returned home, and no lights were on. Helen heard movement from the couch and a soft mumble. “Wendy,” Helen walked towards the couch and peered over it where she found a dark mass sprawled out on the cushions. “Wendy.” She said flatly. Helen reached her arm over the back of the couch to nudge her. Wendy started with a loud snort and frantically flicked her head side to side, “Wha-who’s that? W-what’s going on?” “I got Cinnamon Toast Crunch, as per your demands.” Helen tossed the box of cereal on Wendy’s lap, “I’m guessing the power went out again.” Wendy sat up, rubbed her eyes and yawned, “Yup. I would’ve been mad, but I kinda became narcoleptic.” “Long day at work?” Helen retrieved some candles from the kitchen cupboards and started lighting them. “As always. Hey, thanks for the Crunch, by the way.” “No problem. You’re gonna have to eat them dry for at least a day or two. I forgot the milk and I can’t make it back to the store until Wednesday.” Wendy plopped three squares into her mouth “Oh, that’s okay. I can eat these things like chips.” “You think I don’t know that?” Helen brought a lit candle over to where Wendy was sitting, her hand cupping the flame. “How was your day?” Wendy said in-between crunches. “You know, it was business as usual until...” Helen paused and stared at Wendy in excitement. “... Until... what?” “I met a guy,” Helen flexed her shoulders upwards, as if she was cringing.

“What? Helen? Are you serious? Oh my god!” Wendy shot up from her relaxed pose, still grasping the cereal box, her fingertips glistening with cinnamon and sugar. “Yeah, we kinda ran into each other and hit it off in the frozen aisle, then we exchanged numbers—all that.” “This is so exciting! And you just... carried the conversation?” Helen nodded, “We’re going out. Tomorrow. He texted me right before I got home.” “What’re you gonna do? Get food?” “He suggested this coffee shop on Grizzly Street? It’s called, uh-” Helen looked at her phone, “Coaster.” “I thought you hated coffee?” Wendy hoisted herself up from the couch and rested against the kitchen island where her phone was sitting. “I mean, it’s not my favorite. But I bet they’ll have tea or something.” “Hmm,” Wendy shoved five more cinnamon toast squares in her mouth before folding the cardboard flaps closed and placing the box inside the pantry, “Coffee or not, I’m still incredibly proud of you for getting out there.” Helen smiled, “Hey, I’m not that much of a homebody.” Wendy wiped her hands together, sending a cloud of sugar into the air, “You d id go to the store today.” “Exactly!” Helen let out a resounding laugh. Wendy yawned again, “I know it’s only 8 P.M., but I think I’m gonna turn in. You better keep me updated on everything from this day forward.” “Can’t keep any promises.” Helen winked at Wendy as she started blowing out candles, using one as her guide to lead her into her room. Once there, Helen followed her usual bedtime routine and slumped herself on her bed. She checked her phone. No new notifications. Sighing, Helen plugged her phone in and settled in for a long night of restless sleep. Helen watched the sun slowly rise from her window. Her box fan softly hummed

from the windowsill. The power had turned itself back on at around 3:30 that morning and it startled her at first, but then comforted her. She did manage to catch at least an hour of sleep before the sun shined its eager rays onto her closed eyelids. The date with Ben that day raided her mind. She hadn’t been on a date since her second year of college, which was three years ago. Once the clock hit 3:50 P.M. (which felt like it took a week), Helen began leaving her apartment. Wendy, like a hyperactive child, clung to her side, incessantly shrouding her with words of affirmation. Helen managed to brush her off and entered her car and drove away. Helen’s drive was smooth and greeted her with no traffic. Her music wasn’t helping her nerves, but she couldn’t withstand the potent car-silence. After pulling into the parking lot, Helen sent Ben a quick text saying that she was at Coaster and rested her head against her steering wheel. She checked the time on her dashboard. 4:15 P.M. She was five minutes early, which didn’t help the mounting pressure in her chest. She felt her palms perspiring and found herself wiping her hands on her shirt for the fourth time in a row. She checked the clock again. Still 4:15. She could’ve sworn that thirty minutes had passed. Helen sucked in a big gulp of air, held it in, and exhaled shakily. Once the clock hit 4:20, Helen had already formed three new hangnails on her left thumb, index, and middle finger. She started biting her thumb feverishly until she tasted something metallic. She took her thumb out of her mouth and noticed blood seeping out from her hangnail into the linings of her cuticle. “Dang-it,” she muttered. She fumbled with the glove compartment until it dropped open and grabbed the last napkin that was shoved in the very back. Helen began applying pressure to her thumb with the napkin and started biting her lip. The time was 4:25. The napkin was now in a crude tourniquet over the open wound as Helen used her right hand to check her phone. No new messages. He’s just five minutes late, she thought to herself. It’s not a big deal. Helen’s car was still running with the music on. She knew she ought to turn her car off to save on gas and battery life, but something about rolling her windows down and listening to the birds singing and the distant chatter of people vexed her. Helen found herself scrolling relentlessly on her phone. If someone asked her what she was looking at, she wouldn’t know the answer. She was powering through Instagram as if her life depended on it. Pictures of friends on her home page started mutating themselves into pictures of horrendous blobs, posing smartly. She found herself pausing at times and allowing her vision to blur so everything became a big blob. Helen wouldn’t even know this was happening until she was trying to escape her clouded vision. This phenomenon came naturally to her. She would discover herself completely separated from reality and attempt to

trudge her way back. She thought she was merely “staring off into space,” but she always returned hollow. She started subconsciously categorizing these moments as episodes, of sorts, and would brush them off after they would occur. Helen peered at the dashboard. 4:30. Time seemed to quicken. She wasn’t sure why that was—it felt quite slow ten minutes ago. Helen checked her phone again, and still, nothing. She knew that she should probably text Ben and ask him where he was, but she didn’t want to seem too inquisitive. He probably got gas—that’s why he’s a bit late. Helen decided that she needed to turn her car off if Ben were to take any longer. Once her windows were rolled down, she turned her key and took it out of the ignition. The hum and soft vibrations from the engine ceased, and Helen was left with the cool afternoon breeze from outside. Biting her lip, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. Helen rested her elbow on the middle console separating the driver and passenger seat, and rhythmically drummed her fingers on the worn leather. It was 4:35. She thought at 4:40 she would text Ben and ask him where he was. She noticed a dull ache setting in the front of her skull and started kneading it with her left hand. Her makeshift tourniquet had fallen off sometime during her wait, unbeknownst to her, and blood started to pool along the crevices of her thumb again. She felt a warm liquid resting below her left eye once she removed her hand from the bridge of her nose. She wiped it with that same hand and immediately noticed the liquid’s red hue. “Jeez-wha-?” she groaned as she scanned the floor of her car for the old napkin, but found no luck. She opened the glove compartment again, but to her dismay realized that her lost tourniquet was the last napkin. Realizing that Ben could be there any second while she still had blood on her face, Helen frantically checked the carpet, cupholders, any open space the napkin could have fallen into. She slid her seat all the way back so she could have ample room to search. She lifted up the carpet on her side and ran her fingers through the fuzzy fabric underneath. All she felt was loose crumbs. She adjusted her seat back to normal and opened the console next to her. A plastic straw and a few pens. Helen groaned louder and inspected the inside of her sunglasses holder. Just her sunglasses. She slid her seat back again. Lifted the carpet. Still loose crumbs. She thought she should check her glove compartment again. Reaching from her slid-back position, she strained to open the compartment. Just the owner’s manual and her registration. She tapped the sunglasses holder. Sunglasses, still. She lifted the carpet from the passenger’s side. A small spider

scurried from underneath, but that was all that was there. A hot tear slipped down Helen’s right cheek as she decided to check the console next to her again. Each time she was greeted with loose crumbs, a plastic straw, pens, sunglasses, and the owner’s manual. She thought that if she checked one more time, it would appear as if it’s been in front of her face the whole time. It was now 4:45 and Helen was still going through her search-cycle, her face completely wet with tears. The bleeding had now stopped on her thumb, and began to dry. Helen was getting tired, mainly from how hard she was sobbing. She finally ceased her frenzied search, and slumped herself over the wheel. Her heart was racing. She thought she was having a heart attack. She had completely forgotten about Ben when she finally checked the time. She picked up her phone and saw that he had texted about five minutes ago. Helen wiped her cheeks with her right hand and unlocked her phone and opened Ben’s message which read: “Hey, I don’t think I can make it tonight. Sorry.” Helen slowly lowered her phone and gazed out her open window. The sky was preparing for sunset as a plane flew across. The black arrow shape became a blurry dot as she continued to look up. The blue sky was a watercolor background and the plane was a drop of black paint that was accidentally spilled onto the canvas. Helen watched as the plane left her field of vision, and she slowly crept back to reality. She grasped her keys, turned the ignition, and left the parking lot—no music to accompany her. ~~~~~~~~ The rogue singing bird continued its rhapsody as Helen lifted her head from her pillow. The room felt like it was spinning for a moment after she saw the notification from Ben, so she had to rest. After speaking words of affirmation to herself, she mustered up the courage to look at the message. There, on her phone, the message, in all its glory, read: “Hi.” Helen looked up and stared at her wall in disbelief. She began to feel her eyes muddy up, but stopped herself. She drew her attention back to her phone and deleted Ben’s contact. Right as she placed her phone on her nightstand, she heard her box fan slowly jump back into life. She heard Wendy’s joyful exclamations from down the hall. Helen smiled as she slowly slipped into a peaceful sleep.

Something Blue SOPHIA TREJO

The glowing red numbers on the digital clock read 2:27 A.M. as Jade shoves articles of clothing into a duffel bag. She moves silently and quickly as she goes around the spare bedroom collecting her things. The moon shining through the floor to ceiling windows acts as her only source of light. When she opens the doors to the walk-in closet, Jade uses her elbow to move the large, clear, vinyl bag that contains the white dress aside to retrieve the rest of her clothing. Once the bag is zipped up, Jade pulls a black hoodie over her pajama shirt and ties her hair in a quick ponytail before her hands cover her temples. The cold metal of her engagement ring feels refreshing against her heated skin. The large rock on her finger serves as another weight on her shoulders. She looks around the large empty guest room as the throbbing of her temples only becomes more prominent. Jade catches her reflection in the large TV hanging on the opposite wall and she closes her eyes and taps her fingers on top of her head in contemplation. Before she is given another second to reconsider her options, the vibration from her phone on the bedside table snaps her back to the present. As Jade picks up her phone from the small, marble table, she sees a text message that reads: “I’m outside.” Without a second thought, she brings the strap of her duffel bag onto her shoulder, and with her shoes in hand, goes straight towards the exit of the suffocating bedroom. Jade keeps her eyes on the white door to avoid looking at the perfectly white vanity with an array of wedding items as if they will look down at her in disgust. As she walks past the vanity, the corner of her duffel bag collides with the edge of the table and causes some things to rattle and fall to the ground. All her movements become frozen at the noise ripping through the room to mock her attempt at a silent escape. Jade slowly turns around on her heel, believing that if she makes no sudden movements the damage won’t be as bad as it sounded. To her relief, nothing looks broken and only a couple items are on the floor by her feet. Jade drops to her knees to quickly pick up the items and put them back. The quicker she puts the things back, the quicker she’ll be out. In her hands she holds a small perfume bottle, a sapphire necklace, and her veil. Something old, blue and borrowed. Jade looks up and sees the vinyl bag hanging by itself on the rod through the open doors of the closet. Something new.

Once she’s back on her feet, as quickly and quietly as she can with shaky hands, Jade arranges the items back on the vanity. She puts a picture frame right side up again but does a double take at the photo inside. They’re standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, one arm around each other while the other is extended beside them in a grand gesture. His smile in the photo seems bigger than the landmark itself. The thought of knowing he’s sleeping peacefully right at this moment at her parent’s house, no doubt in his mind he will become her husband in less than 24 hours makes Jade’s stomach turn with guilt. He deserves better than this. Pushing her feelings into the back of her mind, she puts the frame face down on the vanity without a second thought and returns to her mission out of the door. Out in the hallway, Jade tiptoes her sock covered feet past the door where her hosts are sleeping, careful to have one hand tightly gripping her shoes close to her chest while the other around her bag to avoid another mishap. She looks over the banister at the spacious living room below; it is certainly bigger than the closet of the apartment she had before meeting him. The couch wraps around the perimeter of the room, the amount of decorative pillows almost makes it impossible for anyone to sit on it. The TV takes up a third of one of the walls and below it is a fireplace adorned with family pictures. Was it odd to wish that she would have had a picture of her and her fiancé on there one day? Her face scrunches up every time there is a creak in the hardwood floor boards as she continues her way down the hall. Jade lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in once she’s successfully past the door. Once she’s made it downstairs, Jade pushes past the door that leads to the massive kitchen and lets it swing behind her as she makes headway to the back door of the house. As she reaches for the handle, her hand hovers over it for a second before retracting her hand back as if it was a burning flame, scared to get burned. She reaches for it again, but this time only goes halfway. Jade closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You know,” The voice behind her makes the hand that was out in front of her fly straight to her mouth. “The front door makes less of a squeaking sound when you open it.” Jade quickly turns around to see her future mother-in-law leaning forward on her elbows on the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. “Been meaning to call someone to get that fixed.” From what she can make out from the moonlight, Carol is dressed in a baby blue robe and a coffee mug to her lips. Her gray hair is slightly messy from sleep and her facial features relaxed. Jade’s anxiety grows at her calm demeanor. Her eyes widen in a panic as she tries to think of something to say to her.

“Carol,” Jade swallows harshly to try to control her breathing. “I was, um, going for a late-night s-stroll. The m-moon is very beautiful tonight-” She is silenced by Carol’s hand being raised to dismiss her excuses and gives Jade a pointed look. “No need for any of that.” Carol sets down her mug on the counter and straightens her back. “Coffee?” Carol nods her head over to the coffee pot on the counter. “No, no thank you.” Jade wonders if the older woman could hear her heart beating out of her chest. “So... what are you doing up at this hour?” Carol sighs before she brings the mug back up to her lips for another sip. “You know, Jade. I somehow had a feeling I would find you in this position.” “I’m not sure what-” “Don’t play stupid.” Carol’s ceramic mug makes a loud noise as she brings it down onto the marble countertop. “Money won’t buy you happiness, Jade. Neither will marrying into the upper class make you upper class. The sooner you realize that, the better.” “I’m not marrying into your family for the money if that’s what you’re implying.” “Oh, please.” Carol let out a scoff. “A young woman with your background? I don’t buy it for a second.” “My background?” “Do you really expect me to believe that you’re marrying my son for any other reason than money? He said he met you while you were working at a bar for crying out loud.” Jade looks down at the engagement ring on her fourth finger and notices how it is still able to sparkle from the minimal moonlight through the kitchen window. “I love your son.” Jade says in a whisper, as if she was saying it more to herself than to his mother. “And yet, here you are. Bag in hand the night before your wedding, leaving him at the altar to look like a fool. Does that really seem like something a person who loves him would do?” “I’m doing it b ecauseI love him.” Jade looks up and sees Carol with her eyebrows furrowed, clearly not expecting that answer. “He loves me, I know that for sure, but I can’t compete with his family, with you. You clearly don’t like me, let

alone want me to be with your son. All these months, I’ve been nothing but nice to you, yet you still give me the cold shoulder. There's no way we could co-exist.” Jade sighs deeply at her confession. She thinks back to the trip to Paris with her fiancé. It was the first time she went outside of the United States and the first time he said the infamous three words to her. At that moment, the world around them seemingly disappeared and they were the only ones on Earth. Jade has never loved anyone before, so she’s never had to deal with the agony of letting them go. So why start now? “But you made me realize something, Carol. I don’t care what you think anymore.” Jade lets out a breathy laugh at her realization. “I love your son and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. He’s sweet, and funny and the nicest person I’ve ever met. And the best part is, he doesn’t see me for my economic status. So, whether you like me or not, I’m going to marry your son tomorrow. Not because you think I’m a freeloader or shallow, but because we love each other.” Jade adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder, the weight of her bag seems lighter as she finishes her rant. She’s surprised that Carol hasn’t interrupted her yet as she continues, “Despite your negative feelings towards me, I hope to see you tomorrow at the wedding. If not for yourself, then for your son’s happiness.” The door handle feels cold in her hand as she goes to twist it open, yet she removes her hand again for a different reason. Jade turns around and heads towards the direction she originally came from. “And where do you think you’re going?” Jade looks over her shoulder to look at Carol before saying, “I’m going to use the front door.”

from Moving On Chapter III - The Circled Date

LAURA ESTHER

After putting out his cigarette, Alex handed George a gold key, then placed his hand on his shoulder before walking over to his car and driving away, leaving Mary Lou and George standing in Emily’s driveway looking at her house. “Do you want to walk to the house?” said Mary Lou in a careful manner. Mary Lou understood that just standing in Emily’s driveway was an emotional moment for George. There was just silence for a brief moment, then Mary Lou glanced over at George, and noticed he was staring at the key in his hand that Alex had just given him. “Sure,” said George timidly. Mary Lou nodded at George, then began to walk with him to Emily’s house, being careful not to pass him but to walk slowly with him. As they walked towards the house, which was a bit far away, Mary Lou would glance at George then back at the house from time to time. The entire way there, George said nothing, and neither did Mary Lou. But this was not unexpected of George because Mary Lou was absolutely sure Emily was the one thing on his mind. Emily was her best friend since college and George was her fiancé. As they reached the steps to the front door, George stopped. “Do you want me to go with you?” said Mary Lou softly. George looked up at the house, saying nothing. For a moment, Mary Lou thought that he was going to cry, but he didn’t. “Just don’t leave, okay?” spouted George nervously. “I won’t,” said Mary Lou profoundly, in the hopes to reassure George that she wouldn’t leave his side. George led the way up the stairs, then placed the key in the keyhole, turning it slowly. George then gave the door a bit of a push, which made it squeak. They walked into Emily’s house carefully. They touched nothing in the house, they just looked at everything in silence as if it were a priceless painting hanging on the wall of a museum. As they looked around, they noticed the neatly organized

books on the shelf, the dirty dishes that were still in the sink, the stack of mail on the table, and a picture of George and Emily at the beach hanging on the wall. As George walked over to look at the picture of them, he remembered everything about that day; it was the day he asked Emily to marry him. For a brief moment, he felt happy, but it quickly faded away when he noticed Emily’s calendar that hung on her fridge. Mary Lou followed him, but made sure to stand a step away from him. There was complete silence in the house as George put his hand over the date that Emily had circled. “She was just there for an interview that day,” thought George. The date was September 11, 2001. “I’m so sorry George,” said Mary Lou in the gentlest way she could. Then out of the silence, George began to weep as he fell to his knees.

The Clock Cleaner MICHAEL ANGEL

“You aren’t enough for me.” Dwight mouthed the words over and over again. He could still hear Alison’s voice, but the more it echoed, the less familiar it got. He was talking to himself again in the silence of his flat. The radio’s volume was low and all that played was a jazzy tune, reminding him to go to sleep. He didn’t want to; he was too stubborn. He got more and more stubborn with age. That’s probably why she left too. It had been a little more than a month since she officially divorced him and left him for good. But time couldn’t stop him from those words ringing in his head over and over again. Dwight stumbled as he stood up from his bed. His olive-green overalls were unhinged from the top as they hung from his waist. He held the bottle of vodka in replacement of her hand, and walked over to his flat’s wide, wall-sized window. The streets of Brent, London were empty. The autumn of 1921 was nearing, and with it came the cold isolation of loneliness for Dwight. He felt a soreness in his back, reminding him of how old he was. He was sickened by it. Sickened by himself. Fifty-eight years on this earth and nothing to show for it, not even his wife anymore. As he looked out into the empty streets of London, his reflection stared at him. He saw the balding man in the reflection and groaned. Before he could notice anymore, he stumbled away from the window, his hand on his back to make it easier. “You’re a disgrace,” Dwight whispered to himself. As he walked back to the bed, he noticed the alarm clock sitting next to it on the nightstand. It read 11:37, and Dwight groaned again. Not just at the time, but at the pain, too. His body was fighting him from the inside, as if a whole other person was trying to break out of him. He placed the vodka bottle on his desk and walked out of his bedroom to the bathroom. Dwight trembled in an attempt to grab his toothbrush, but the mirror distracted him. He looked at the old man again. The more he stared at him, the more he hated him. The old, washed up face staring back at Dwight forced him to notice the wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks, the crow’s feet underneath his eyes, the dry, aging lips beneath the peeling skin. Everything he saw he grimaced at. His eyebrows narrowed in anger, until finally, he broke. Dwight yelled at the mirror and punched it, shattering the glass. Silence overtook the bathroom, until all that Dwight heard was the buzzing of the lamp. Dwight grabbed onto the sink for

support, until his drunkenness overtook him, and he fell to the floor. He stayed there for the night, too stubborn to move. Dwight awoke the next morning with pain all over. His aging back woke him up, shouting at him with soreness. As he started to come to, pain from different areas of his body reminded him of last night. Dry blood resided on his right hand’s knuckles and the floor, and his head was pounding with a hangover headache. He made his way to the bedroom again, where the radio was still spouting the jazz music, which just felt like noise to him, only this time, his hangover amplified it ten times louder. The clock read 6:25, and he knew he would be late to work… again. After taking thirty minutes to change into another set of overalls, brush his teeth, and drag himself out the door, Dwight walked to work, or at least he tried to. The hangover was making it hard for him to think straight, and he could still feel a sense of drunkenness as he walked. As he made his way down the streets of London towards the Big Ben palace, he reminisced on how him and Alison used to walk to their own respective jobs. They would make coffee in their own thermos cups, pack their lunches, and be on their way, arm in arm. He would drop her off at the Aberdeen Press newspaper office and would go to the Big Ben, where he worked as a clock cleaner in the top floors of the tower. The work was awful, having to clean the rustic gears and dust the room constantly, not to mention his supervisor was a grade A arsehole. But seeing Alison afterwards always made it worth a hard day’s work, especially since his body didn’t let him move around as he used to. For more than twenty-five years, Dwight and Alison were happy. She was his better half, he used to say. Alison always put him first, and she did it out of the goodness of her heart. She was always so generous, which is what made him fall in love with her in the first place. If there was a sick puppy in the road, she would be by its side in seconds, Dwight thought. He loved that about her because he couldn’t bring himself to be how she was, but she loved him for him. No one ever really did except for her. She saw the goodness in his stubbornness; she could talk him down from his anxious episodes and be the one he needed to give him reassurance in the harsh realities of life. Yeah, they were poor, but their love for one another made the concept of wealth nonexistent. At least, that’s how it was for a while. That changed over the years in her heart. She had always rolled with the punches. Whether it was unpaid bills or Dwight’s own personal angst taking over, she smiled through it. Unfortunately, their twenty-year age difference made her question what exactly she deserved in life.

“I never owned a brand-new purse, Dwight,” Allison said in frustration one day. She was right. He never bought her anything to show his appreciation. Eventually, his appreciation for her got masked by his own personal agendas. She stopped caring, and he didn’t think a single thought about it. Instead, she left in surprise, and he had to deal with it. Dwight fiddled with his coat pocket as he walked down the streets of London, feeling the chilly autumn breeze blow past his face. His fingers felt dry and his breath wreaked of vodka underneath his gray scarf, but the warmth of the alcohol kept him from feeling too cold. London was bustling at seven a.m., with everyone scrambling to and fro for the workday. By 7:45, he had made it to the Big Ben. He sluggishly walked through the double doors of the tower and saw his supervisor standing in the middle of the lobby. He was a big, burly man and always wore the same three-piece navy-blue suit with a burgundy tie. His head was mostly absent of hair, with just a few strands combed over the side. His arms were crossed, and he had a stern look in his eyes. “You’re late… again, Dwight.” The man’s voice was deep and angry. “I know, Barry, my apologies.” Dwight’s voice was fatigued, both from walking so much and from having to hear his boss’s voice say the same thing over and over again every weekday. Barry let out a deep sigh, as if he were already tired of hearing Dwight speak. “I don’t wanna hear any excuses, just clock in and go. You know your place.” He pointed behind him, signaling him to leave. Dwight sighed and walked past Barry to the clock-in machine. The lobby was bustling with workers; secretaries, businessmen, and janitors all walked through with some purpose completely absent from Dwight’s mind. He wrote down his arrival time and as he placed his timecard into the punch-in machine, he overheard two janitors talking behind him. They were trying to whisper, but that was rather difficult to do in such a bustling atmosphere. “Isn’t that Dwight,” one asked. “Yeah, he doesn’t look so good. I heard his wife left him,” the other said in a low tone. “Wow, at his age, I’m surprised he’s still standing.” The two laughed and went on their way, talking about some things and others.

Dwight sighed again and worked his way up the tall, ever-growing staircase. He took every few minutes or so to catch his breath, and once he finally reached the floor he was assigned to, he sat down on the ground to rest. The room was dark and barren, with nothing but the massive clock’s gears making noise. His cleaning equipment resided in the corner of the room. He placed his lunchbox and coat down by the tub of clock cleaning supplies and grabbed the large bottle of greasing oil and sponge. Since the clock has been turning for several decades, the gears got awfully rusty over the years. So, clock cleaners like Dwight had to grease the gears to make sure they turned smoothly. Twenty years of doing this, and Dwight got tired of it in two. After cleaning the gears in his station, he went on to dust and sweep the room. After two hours, Dwight was tired, and decided to reach into his coat for his flask he had stored rum in. After a few sips, his body began to feel warm in the cold, desolate clocktower. He placed his wrinkly hand on his dry cheek and panted. “What in the bloody hell am I doing here,” Dwight whispered to himself. His emotional fatigue was more than enough to make him want to leave. He decided to grab his coat and scarf and walk toward the empty backroom staircase. He made his way down the stairs and slipped out of the giant palace without a single soul noticing. After getting away from that glorified clock, Dwight decided to walk to the park him and Alison used to always go to. Every now and then, he took a sip out of his flask, feeling the rum rush through every inch of his body, giving him a sense of warmth, but not enough. The park was full of children and their mothers, all walking along the stone paths and grassy field, some throwing pieces of bread to ducks, others sitting with umbrellas and clinging to one another to withstand the cold September breezes. Dwight stood along a hill that overlooked the park and watched as the citizens of London lived their lives. As he took occasional sips from his flask, he wondered if Alison might have allowed him to drink as much as he had been since she left. She’d probably be disgusted, he thought to himself. Dwight rested his back and leaned on a tree by the park’s lake. The tree’s leaves had begun to change colors, some even falling to the ground already. Fall had come early this year, and a luring sense of loneliness hung over Dwight’s shoulders. As he sipped from his flask more frequently, he started to realize how little he had left to lose. Thanksgiving was going to be lonely; just the word “Christmas” alone sounded hollow and unfamiliar in his head.

“What can I even do anymore,” Dwight questioned himself. His tone was deprecating and empty. His flask was nearly empty. With each sip he took, his body was starting to heat up much slower than when he started. “If only I can turn back time.” “What was that?” Dwight heard an American voice respond from behind him. He turned around to the side of the tree and noticed a man in a long black coat and short top hat standing beside him. The man was young and had a shiny smile. Slightly long, wavy black hair sat underneath his top hat and was swept back. He was rather handsome and fairly tall. “Sorry, just thinking out loud,” Dwight said with embarrassment. His face flushed and he gave a half-hearted smile. “Don’t be, we all believe we can, ya know.” The man’s voice was smooth and friendly. “Believe we can what?” The man chuckled. “Turn back time. Isn’t that what you said?” Dwight raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. “Oh. Yes, I guess so. Sorry, my name is Dwight. Dwight Morgan.” He reached his hand out and shook the mysterious figure’s. “Nice to meet you, Dwight,” he said with a smile. “You’re awfully apologetic, aren’t you?” “Haha, I guess so. My wi- uh, ex-wife said it was one of my flaws.” Dwight caught himself mid-sentence. He scratched his face nervously. “I see. Tell me, Dwight, why do you want to turn back time? Or rather, wish you could?” He got closer and stood next to Dwight as they both overlooked the lake of the park and its visitors. Dwight, slightly caught off guard, stumbled on his words. “Oh uh, I mean, well. I wish I could’ve been better. My wife left me not that long ago.” “Oh, I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

“Yeah, it was. Well, still is. She told me a man my age should have more to live for. Said I wasn’t enough for her. So, she left.” “That’s bullcrap—oh! Excuse my French.” The man chuckled again and pulled out a pocket watch. He took a quick look at it and put it back in his pocket quickly. “That’s a nice watch ya got there,” Dwight said. “Oh, thank you, gift from a friend.” Dwight nodded and continued to peer out at the park. Couples walked here and there, some with kids. He let out a sigh of regret. He thought about how him and Alison talked about having kids when they were younger, but their age difference didn’t give them the opportunity to. She was a full twenty years younger than him, and he never really wanted kids. Now, he wanted them more than ever. Or at least, he wanted to have one with her more than ever. He realized he had been frowning and caught himself. “Say, what is an American doing in London?” “I study astronomy, actually. And today is the day of the Great Junction.” “Pardon?” “It’s the day Saturn and Jupiter align with the sun. it’s quite beautiful if you think about it, actually. I wanted to take my telescope to the top of the Big Ben palace and see it.” “I see…” Dwight had a confused tone in his voice. He was poor and not very educated. So, just about everything the American said went over Dwight’s head. “Very interesting…” The man turned to Dwight and lowered his voice. “Dwight, if you truly had the chance to turn back time, would you?” Dwight looked taken aback by the stranger’s question. I met this man two minutes ago, why is he asking me such questions, he thought to himself. But he thought about it again, and paused. “… in a heartbeat.” The man nodded and smiled. “Well, Dwight, I have an opportunity for you.” He reached into his pocket again and pulled out his pocket watch. Dwight didn’t notice how detailed it was at first, but now he saw how finely crafted it was. The body was pure gold with wave-like designs etched around

the surface, with a single eye crafted on the center of the back. The front of the watch was a light beige, with black roman numerals counting the hours, and the hands were finely crafted gold, both extremely detailed. There was a top button, like all watches, but unlike others, this one had two buttons on the side: a pause button and a play button. Dwight looked at the two buttons confusingly. Nevertheless, he couldn’t take his eyes off of how gorgeous it was. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” the man said, breaking Dwight’s trance. “Yeah, it really is,” he said, happily. “This watch is different, though. Look.” The man fixed his top hat and faced the tree. He looked around suspiciously, as if to assure no one was watching them. He then hovered his hand over the tree and began to motion it in a counterclockwise circle. Just then, before Dwight’s eyes, the tree began to shrink, as if it were aging backwards. Wait, no, it is aging backwards, Dwight thought. His jaw dropped as the tree’s leaves began to restore into their lush, green state, slowly turning into seeds as the tree’s trunk shrunk and shrunk, until all that was left was a small plant not even a meter high in the ground. Dwight was speechless. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Before he could speak, the man raised his finger. “Wait, look again,” he said. He hovered his hand over it again, this time moving it clockwise, and the tree grew. It grew and grew, leaves turning green, then brown and yellow, then falling, and growing back again. It happened over and over again until the tree itself began to wilt and its trunk gave out, hunching over, eventually collapsing in death. Once again, he moved his hand counterclockwise and restored the tree back to its original state… or age. The man smiled back at Dwight. “That… that… no that couldn’t possibly happen,” Dwight exclaimed, dumbfounded. His eyes were wide and his jaw basically on the ground by now. “Dwight… I want you to have it. You want your wife back? If turning back time will do so, you can have it.” The man’s voice was serious. “You… you have a deal, mate.” “Now, getting it will be painful.”

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Dwight thought for a second, and finally answered. “I said in a heartbeat, didn’t i?” The man smiled, tossing the pocket watch over and over in his hand. “Well, congratulations. You will now be the owner of the Eye of Cronus.” Before the man could speak again, Dwight had to reassure himself. “Wait… all of this… it was real right? How do I know you aren’t pulling my trousers?” The man leaned closer to him. He then opened his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. To Dwight’s awe, the chain of the pocket watch was actually connected to the man’s chest, as if it were going through his skin. He buttoned his shirt and closed his coat. “Does that prove it?” “Yes…” “Alright, Dwight. What will happen next is going to be… painful. To give you this, you have to do something. Here.” He then tossed the watch to Dwight, the chain extending from his chest to the watch. The pocket watch felt light in his hand, but it felt natural, as if he was meant to hold it. It fit his palm perfectly, and rested comfortably between his fingers. “You have to change the time to six p.m., that is actually 17:00 in Coordinated Universal Time.” Dwight could barely understand what was going on. Was this magic, he thought to himself. He didn’t care, it was wondrous. “Okay, six p.m.” “Good, now, press the pause button.” Dwight pressed it, and in an instant, all time around them stopped. Every person, every duck, every object, stopped in their places. The fall breeze was gone; even birds had halted mid-air. Dwight looked around in amazement, unable to believe what was happening. “Now…” Dwight looked back at the man, catching his attention. “Press the play button.” “Okay,” Dwight said excitedly.

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“Oh, and Dwight… it was a pleasure to meet you.” Dwight nodded in agreement, and pressed the play button. In an instant, Dwight’s eyes widened at what he saw. In a matter of seven seconds, Dwight experienced every memory of his life. From birth to death, Dwight was forced to live through every single moment. He experienced being a baby again, crawling towards his mother in their rusty, Birmingham home. He experienced leaving his small home to go to London and work in the big city. He experienced falling in love with Alison all over again and marrying her in a small cabin outside of London. Alas, he also experienced losing her again, and feeling the pain in not being worth enough for her to die with. He also experienced death, which, unsurprisingly to him, would have been in just a week from drinking. But, not anymore. Now, Dwight had time in his hands. After the seven seconds had finished, he had awoken in the same place he and the mysterious man were in the park seconds prior. Everything was still frozen in place; every life form and object had remained completely still, frozen in time. Dwight fell to his knees and caught his breath. He stood back up, leaning over the tree trying not to throw up. “What the… what was that…” His voice was exasperated and tired as he tried his best to breathe again. As he slowly recovered, he noticed the pocket watch was still in his hand, only the chain led to his own body. He followed it underneath his coat and overalls. He took his coat off and unhinged his overalls to reveal his shirt. To his surprise, the chain was now connected to his chest, although when he tugged on it and yanked it, it didn’t hurt or pull at his skin. Instead, the chain extended and retracted as he pulled back and forth. This is sorcery, he thought to himself. “It worked,” he said. “Hey, what was your na-” Before Dwight could finish his sentence, he realized the mysterious man was gone. He looked everywhere, but to no avail. He had left as quick as he had come. Dwight examined the watch again, grazing his index finger over the finely etched gold. It felt different now that it was his. As he walked around the park again, he pressed the play button once more, and in an instant, everything began to move just as it all had before. Mothers and their children laughed again, the ducks swam, and the birds flew. The world began to carry on its daily duties. Dwight looked at the watch and the tree, and his eyes widened at an idea. As best he could, he hurried home. He passed through the bustling streets of London and arrived at his flat. Once inside, he took off his coat and walked to the bathroom. When he turned on the light, he looked in slight disappointment at the shattered mirror and dry blood

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on the ground. His mind flashbacked to last night, wishing to forget it. But now, he could. He walked in front of the mirror and stared at it. He then raised his left hand in front of it, and held the pocket watch in his other, just as the man did. While still slightly skeptical, he slowly rotated his hand in a counterclockwise motion, and watched in amazement as the mirror’s fragments started to slowly form back into their original shape again, moving backwards in time to before it was broken in the first place. Dwight laughed in amazement and looked himself in the mirror. His laughs slowly dwindled, however, as he saw that same old man in the mirror again. He looked at himself curiously and examined his face. He looked at every wrinkle, every skin peel, every bump and wart that had grown on his face as age grasped its ever-growing hand over him. Finally, he held his hand out in front of the mirror once more and moved it counterclockwise. Right before his very eyes, he watched as his face changed. His wrinkles slowly started to disappear, the crow’s feet under his eyes became lighter and lighter until they disappeared, and his skin became less and less peeled. As he moved his hand, his bones felt less weak, and his body didn’t feel as shriveled. He grew slightly taller and his entire body felt stronger. Brown hair began to grow on his head, and he felt healthier. He looked at himself in the mirror, and the Dwight Morgan from before was completely gone. The Dwight Morgan he now saw in the mirror was the same Dwight Morgan that had married Alison twenty years ago; the same one who had dreams of retiring wealthily with his wife. For the first time in what felt like years, Dwight genuinely smiled. He began to laugh in the mirror and couldn’t take his eyes off of himself. Eventually, he walked out of the bathroom and turned to the kitchen. He examined all of the old and expired food throughout it. Just then, he grabbed the molded loaf of bread on his countertop and moved his hand counterclockwise. In seconds, the bread was healthy again. He did the same everywhere, and laughed while doing so. Happiness overtook his flat as the old man Dwight Morgan was gone, and in his place stood a younger, healthier Dwight Morgan. He spent the day aging and reverse-aging things, turning things old and young over and over again. As he did so, he turned on his radio and danced all over his flat, having the time of his life. At one point, Dwight opened his fridge to grab the bottle of rum, but once he looked at the bottle, he realized he had no urge to drink. Instead, he danced the night away. The only thing missing was Alison. He looked at the pocket watch and noticed it was already 11:30 p.m. So, he decided to shower, change, and lie in bed, something he hadn’t done in over a week. While laying down, he looked up at the ceiling, and examined the pocket watch’s every crevice and etch. He knew what he wanted to do now, and he couldn’t wait for the next day. That night, Dwight slept peacefully.

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The next morning, Dwight decided not to go to work. Barry wouldn’t even recognize me, he thought to himself, so what’s the point? Instead, he decided to sleep in, and woke up at around ten a.m. He brushed his hair, brushed his teeth, and changed into clothes that didn’t contain olive-green overalls covered in dust and grease. He grabbed an old gray shirt from his closet and aged it to before it was ripped and over-worn. He did the same with a pair of black slacks and black dress shoes that he used to wear when him and Alison went dancing years ago. He then put on his coat and joyfully left his apartment. While walking down the streets of London, he felt something absent from himself. It was the pain. There was no more joint pain, no more back pain, and the emotional pain he felt every night had seemed to feel less heavy. Alison, Dwight thought to himself, I’m ready. He stopped by a flower shop on one of the main shopping districts where radios blared jazz music and London city-goers purchased gifts for their beloveds and children. A young woman and her daughter stood behind the stand and greeted Dwight. He smiled at them and picked out a bouquet of roses and tulips, two of Alison’s favorite flowers. He paid the woman and gave the daughter a smile. As he walked off, Dwight ran his hand through his hair, feeling a sense of confidence that had been absent from him for years. He smiled and walked with his head high as he reached another store near the heart of London. As city-goers passed by Dwight, he walked inside and decided to purchase a bottle of wine. Wine was very rare for him, as he only drank it with Alison on special occasions. After happily purchasing a bottle of white wine, Dwight made his way down the main streets of London towards the housing districts. As Dwight walked down the streets, he felt his heart beat faster and faster, and his nerves began to make him tense. He hadn’t seen Alison in a month. What will I even say, he thought to himself ? He walked with the flowers and wine in hand, and thought over and over about what she would say about how he looked now. “She said I wasn’t enough. Maybe now she’ll reconsider,” he muttered under his breath. After a twenty-minute walk, he arrived in front of her doorstep. It was the house the two had bought as a married couple, that she had taken ownership of once she had left him. The yard was well-taken care of, with a green hedge by the brick staircase. The house itself was rather tall with two stories, and was an eggshell-colored white. It was clean and felt like home to Dwight. He felt as if he were coming back from a place he had never known, and he was glad to be

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home. He slowly approached the door, and hesitantly raised his fist to it. After taking a few seconds, he knocked three times. For a moment, there was silence, and Dwight shuffled his feet in worry. But, after a while, he heard footsteps. A familiar voice called out, saying “Coming!” The door slowly opened, and Dwight saw her. He smiled at her face, and while nervous, was joyful to see her again. He looked at her beautiful face, her aqua blue eyes and soft, wavy brown hair that rested on her shoulders. She was wearing a light blue dress and heels. A strand of hair hung over her face near her eyes, and he wanted so badly to brush it away and kiss her, but he knew he couldn’t yet, at least. Before he could speak, he noticed her expression had changed. She wore a face of shock, and Dwight had realized that she didn’t know he had changed. “D-Dwight?” Her voice was confused, and she sounded as if she were choked up. Her eyes were raised, and she held onto the door, not opening it completely. “Alison,” Dwight said happily. “Hello.” “W-what… why… You look different… younger…” Alison could barely speak. “I changed; you have no idea how. I don’t think you’d believe me,” he laughed softly. He took a step closer to go inside, but as soon as he did, Alison took a step back hesitantly. This worried Dwight, and his smile slightly shifted, but he accepted and stayed outside. “Can I come in?” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Why? I just… I love you Alison. I want to be enough for you. And I think I can. I know I look diff-” Before Dwight could finish his sentence, he heard another voice from within the house. It was a man’s voice that was unfamiliar. It was deep and young, or at least younger than Dwight. “Who’s at the door, love,” the hidden voice asked. But as soon as the question was asked, a hand appeared above Alison’s and opened the door wider. It was a man in a white tee shirt and boxers. He looked closer to her age and had a scruffy beard with wild hair. He was well-built and had a confused expression on his face. “Who is this?” The bottle of wine slipped from Dwight’s hand and fell to the floor, shattering into a million pieces, with yellowish liquid escaping to the ground. Everything

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felt as if it were happening in slow motion, and Dwight’s entire body tensed up, frozen in place. “Wait a minute,” the man said with a smile. “Are you, are you Dwight?” He started to laugh. Dwight’s face got hot as his smile disappeared. His heart was in his throat, and his legs felt weak, just as they had if he were twenty years older again. “What… what’s so funny?” His voice was shaky, and he couldn’t find any other words to say. “It’s just, I can finally put a face to it. She’s told me so much about you.” “Shaun, stop,” Alison interjected. Her face was serious now. She held onto the door, as if searching for something to support her. Dwight looked at her, and back at the man, who now started to walk backwards towards the living room. The man grabbed a bottle of what appeared to be Scotch and poured some into a glass. Dwight dropped the flowers, this time, willingly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Just that, I can finally see the loser face to face. I didn’t think I ever would. You look much younger than fifty-eight, though. She said you were bald-” Just before the man named Shaun could say anything more, Dwight walked through the house and pushed him, spilling the glass of Scotch. Alison shouted Dwight’s name, but he didn’t hear her. Immediately, Shaun punched Dwight in the face, forcing him to fall over. Dwight’s ears began to ring as he looked at the ground, blood dripping from his face. The wooden floor made memories relapse from before everything changed. In the distance, he could hear Alison screaming at them both to stop. Dwight felt a weight in his coat, and reached for it, realizing the pocket watch was still in it. In that instant, Dwight didn’t feel like the helpless old man he was just one day before. Instead, he felt power, he felt a sense of strength he hadn’t felt in over twenty years. Alison was gone. She wouldn’t accept Dwight for who he was anymore. If that was the case, there was nothing to lose, he thought. He looked at the watch one more time, and slowly got back to his feet. He glared at the man who stole his wife and walked over to him. Dwight grabbed him by the neck and stared him dead in the eye while holding the pocket watch in his pocket, his index finger rubbing the watch in a clockwise motion. All he felt in

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the moment was anger, and he stared in Shaun’s eyes as Shaun slowly started to get older and older by the second. Shaun looked at Dwight in complete confusion and disarray of what was happening. Wrinkles started to appear on his face, and his body began to shrivel and shrink as he begun to age years and years in just a matter of seconds. He aged and aged until he became an old shriveled man, and eventually nothing but dust in Dwight’s hands. Finally, Dwight let go, and felt the dust of what used to be Shaun in his hands, and he rubbed it over and over in slight disbelief of what he had done. As he rubbed the residue of what was once a human being in his hand, he felt a sense of power he never felt before. He started to smile, thinking about just how powerful the Eye of Cronus was… how powerful he was with it in his possession. Something came over him in that moment, and just for a second, he felt a bit of regret, but that seemed to leave just as quickly as it came. As he continued to feel what was left of Shaun, his eyes trailed over to the pile of dust. What could I do, he thought to himself ? For a moment, he didn’t hear anything, and he felt as though he couldn’t speak. Seconds later, he snapped out of it, and noticed Alison screaming in horror. “WHAT DID YOU DO,” she screamed. “Shaun?! SHAUN?!” Dwight got up from his knees and slowly walked over to her. She backed away from him into a corner and fell to the ground, crying. He reached out his hand, but she repeatedly tried to push him away. He stared at her with a completely blank expression, eventually placing his hand on her cheek as she breathed rapidly, hyperventilating. Tears fell down her face as he stared at her, and he looked up at him, terrified. Dwight looked her in her eyes once more, and whispered to her, “I’m sorry. I have to let you go, my love. The time will come when we will meet again... maybe in the future, or the past.” He wasn’t sure what he would do now that his actions finally took motion. That feeling of power overtook him completely, giving him a sense of gratification and an urge to strive for some sort of high only the most influential people in this lifetime can feel. He rubbed his index finger over the surface pocket watch in a clockwise motion again, but as he watched her age, he stopped. Something came over Dwight. Was it mercy? No. Some sort of pressure in his heart made him feel reluctance from allowing himself to kill her. She wasn’t Shaun, he thought to himself. She just wanted to be happy. In an effort to try to find some sense of humanity left in himself, he paused. He rubbed his finger once again, but this time, in a counterclockwise motion. He stared as she slowly reversed in age in his hands. She slowly turned from forty-two years old to twenty, then to a teenager, then to a child, and eventually, into a newborn. He stayed knelt down in front of her and stared at her for hours.

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Hours later, Dwight wrapped her in a blanket, and walked out of the house in the London nightfall. In a blank-minded trance, he walked for miles and miles until he was in a completely different, random neighborhood. His arms were shaky, and the nerves of what had happened made him keep walking. The streetlights were rather faint, and the housing district was completely empty of anyone. He checked his pocket watch, it was 11:30 p.m. again. Finally, he came to a house, one that was beautifully decorated outside, and seemed fairly wealthy. The hedges were trimmed in shapes of animals, and a tree in the yard slowly started to let go of its red, yellow, and brown leaves. Dwight couldn’t bring himself to let her suffer, not in another lifetime. If he wasn’t enough for her, maybe he will be in the future. Maybe he won’t. Nevertheless, if she was going to live, she was going to live happily, not impoverished. He approached the doorstep and placed newborn Alison on the ground in her blanket. He then knocked on the door and walked away. Dwight walked on, saying goodbye to Alison, and the last of his humanity, forever. He stared at his pocket watch, thinking about the possibilities both ahead and behind him.

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SECTION II

Photo Exhibit 111

MOLLY MCDOWELL

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See You Tomorrow, Dad

Skipper

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Waitin' for the Train to Come 114

KRISTIAN DAVIS JR.

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ALY HIGHLEYMAN

Superstitious Reflections

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PART III

Playwrights 119

The Tragedy of King Saul NOAH SALES

Two teenage boys enter an empty room.

JONATHAN. David, look upon my purple robes! DAVID. How royal you look, good Jonathan! Blessed be our brotherly fellowship, O Prince of Israel. JONATHAN. (Proceeds to put the royal robes on David.) Don’t mock me, David. We know who the proper king is. DAVID. How do I look? JONATHAN. Missing the golden hat. Here let me call forth one of the servants! DAVID. Why do you have three hats? JONATHAN. One for each part of the day. The morning crown, the afternoon crown, and the late evening crown. David: Wait, Jonathan, the good herald appears. GOOD HERALD. Prince Jonathan of Israel, it has come to our attention that King Saul demands a meeting with you in the throne room. JONATHAN. What is this about? DAVID. Something does not seem right. JONATHAN. Have no fear, David. Take leave and I will assure you of what is happening within the kingdom. SAUL is alone in the Throne Room waiting for JONATHAN. A tall man enters and is gilded with luxurious clothing and a jeweled crown standing in an empty throne room.

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KING SAUL. O’ tattered king that I am. Spurred by righteous fury against Him who crowned me. Pathetically thrown aside to the dogs of the Earth because of my rightful obedience towards the Most High. Yet I am treated as the most low.

Picks up a golden hand mirror. O’ how my face has been carved by the coursing rivers of my kingship for the little years I have ruled. How my broad shoulders are dwindling into dust. My tall esteem now shortening under His wrath. For what do I hold this crown? To be mocked?! To be put on display?! Throws mirror onto the ground and it shatters. How they sing, “Saul has slain his thousands, And David his tens of thousands” Seal your lips you dogs! These God forsaken beasts who looked upon me with joy and delight. Chanting “Saul their Savior! Saul the Conqueror!” Me! Their Chosen King! Hypocrites! And this is my crown? Tosses aside the crown and robes. O’ how my kingdom and dynasty be damned and shattered! I have done the best for Israel. The people praised me until that charlatan Samuel spoke out! He was led astray by a little shepherd boy of whom my own armor was loose; for the garment of a King is not so easily fitted to one of such upbringings. And now he orders that I be removed of mine. No. Picks up the crown and clothes himself. How amusing since it was God who handed me this title. Yet who was it that led this kingdom? Me! This crown fits perfectly upon my head. O’ how the jewels shine their countenance over me. Yet he ridicules me against my own people and slipped away to raise up a new king. And cursed be the seed of Jesse for he has corrupted mine own. While my kingdom crumbles, my own son coddles up to my usurper. That poor, wretched sheep was lured into my hand, he was snatched away by my own household. Pity! I have driven that he be killed by my own hand. For how can a new king rise if he is lowered into Sheol. Let it be so that I swear upon mine crown. I, King Saul, will not be easily cut down. Look now King Saul, the good herald appears. THE GOOD HERALD and JONATHAN arrive. THE GOOD HEARALD leaves. JONATHAN. FatherSAUL. It is King Saul.

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JONATHAN. Yes, King Saul. You’ve ordered my appearance? SAUL. Yes. JONATHAN. And what of it? SAUL. Son, this kingdom is a grain of wheat within the abyss of weeds. In order to maintain control, I must uproot those who want to steal our power. This is your crown and look how it shines upon you! JONATHAN. King Saul, the crown’s weight cannot rest upon my feeble foundations. Only God may choose who is King. SAUL. And God abuses his power by planting a rebel in our midst. JONATHAN. A rebel? Who? SAUL. A certain young shepherd boy of ruddy looks. You have grown quite close to him. JONATHAN. Father, you don’t mean brother David?! SAUL. You must assassinate him in order to secure our dynasty. JONATHAN. Yo-you are ordering me to slay my best friend? The husband to my sister, Michal. You are humoring me. SAUL. Jonathan, come close. [JONATHAN comes to his side] Look upon this great throne room. These gold engravings and riches given unto us. This is yours. JONATHAN. No, this is God’s. And if he chose David to be the next King then we will obey! SAUL. Where did you hear of this? JONATHAN. From Samuel and from David himself. SAUL. What? How dare they. Those insolent, treacherous fools!

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JONATHAN. Father, think this clearly. As long as the Lord lives, I will not harm a hair upon David. SAUL. You! Leave! Leave! LEAVE! Agh! Curse this terrorizing spirit!!! JONATHAN exits and as his father starts to scream in agony due to a spirit terrorizing him. There is no one except SAUL in the throne room. Off to the side, JONATHAN meets with DAVID, who is attempting to enter the throne room. JONATHAN. David, please you must leave. DAVID. I cannot leave, my brother. Look, your father is in agony and as the harp player I must soothe his anguish. JONATHAN. It is dangerous, David! He will kill you. DAVID. Then you think lightly of God. Have faith brother. I will be fine for the Lord will not let him lay his hand on me. JONATHAN. May the Lord compose your song to quell the King’s suffering. JONATHAN exits off the stage and DAVID enters the center of the throne room. SAUL is crying on the ground, his robes and crown cast aside. SAUL. From one cursing spirit to another, David approaches me! DAVID. King Saul, I have come to soothe your agony. SAUL. The only agony I have is your presence. AGH! SAUL continuously yells in pain. DAVID takes off his outer robe and lays it on the ground to sit upon next to SAUL. DAVID. [To himself ] Lord bless this harp within my hands to play your melody. [To SAUL] Lord, lend thy ear upon mine suffering, listen to my pain and my heart’s groaning, you who delivers us from wickedness. Cast your love and wrap us in righteousness. We are sinful men who have turned our face, bring us back to the throne room of your grace. SAUL begins to get up and walks over to the throne, a spear lies against it. DAVID continues playing the harp and singing with his eyes closed. SAUL. May my hand preserve my kingdom.

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DAVID opens his eyes and quickly dodges the spear. The spear is lodged in the wall behind David. DAVID. King SauSAUL. Cursed be the Lord! Guards, capture David! SAUL’S guards come in and attempt to catch DAVID. The flames that light the room are blown out by a mysterious wind and DAVID escapes under the veil of the shadows. JONATHAN [sneaking in]. David let's go! Michal is waiting for you outside the walls. DAVID looks back in pain as he exits the throne room and offers a prayer but Jonathan tugs at him to move. JONATHAN and DAVID exit. SAUL. AGH! Light the torches! Where is he! AGH! [falls to the floor in anguish] Lord, when did I make that wish to be king! Cursed be this tormenting spirit and now David is gone. END

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Cultivation

CHELSEA MANN

PRIMROSE DOGGETT, a 30-year-old woman who has worked on her family’s farm her entire life. CODY DOGGETT, her 17-year-old younger half-brother from the city. A quaint farmhouse kitchen. In the middle of the stage is a dining table and chairs; on the table is a book. Along the back wall are counters, cupboards, a stove, a fridge, etc. The exit on the left leads to the inside of the home, while the exit on the right features a back door that leads outside. There is a window on the wall revealing a large sprawling countryside. PRIMROSE enters from stage right through the door, carrying some heavy buckets with only a little strain. PRIMROSE. Good mornin’, world! Hello! Anyone awake up there? These buckets of milk ain’t gonna carry theirselves! Well, at any rate, I ain’t about to carry ‘em anymore. Where is that dagnabbin’ little brother, anyway? What’s the point of havin’ him here if he don’t do nothin’? PRIMROSE glances around and sees a book on the table, which she picks up and absentmindedly flips through. PRIMROSE. What’s that kid left out now? Another one of his books? Huh… look at all these blueprints. He gonna build a house or something? Or… what’s this -- an apartment building? He’s always got all sorts a’ books on all sorts a’ different things. What’s the name of this book, anyway? Architecture… something-or-other. Building buildings, huh? Well, I built the barn myself. I know a thing or two about building buildings -- it ain’t so hard at all. Well, that one’s not bad at all. This one could use some more support. And won’t that let in a draft? I could fix that by just throwin’ up a wall right there. That’d do it, sure; and then-CODY enters from stage right through the door, clutching a couple books and a handful of drooping flowers. He is studying the former intensely and does not notice PRIMROSE at first. CODY. Hey, Dad, I’m back! I-- Oh. Morning, Prim. I didn’t know you’d be here. Were you reading one of my-PRIMROSE. No. I just found it out here. You need to stop leavin’ your stuff out, you know.

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CODY. Oh. Sorry. Let me-PRIMROSE. Oh, my word! Cody Doggett, what on God’s good earth are you holding? CODY. Um… more books? I was reading all about some scientific-PRIMROSE. Not those, for heaven’s sake! I’m talking about the weeds in between your fingers. CODY. Wh-- these? Oh, no! They’re flowers, see? I’ve never seen any like them before, so I thought I’d bring them back to the house. I was gonna put them in, like, a vase or something, you know? Just to brighten the place up, what with Dad being sick and all… PRIMROSE. Gimme those. They’re weeds, plain n’ simple. CODY. Hey, those are mine! And you didn’t even look at them! Besides, I’ve never seen them before. Don’t you think that’s something PRIMROSE. The reason you ain’t never seen this before is ‘cause I pick all the weeds, most days. Since you’ve gotten here last month, all I’ve had’s more work, fer some reason. Now, get that other bucket and stick ‘em here in the ‘frigerator. Leave ‘em out for even a minute, n’ you’ll get bitter milk -- that’s a lie if my name’s not Primrose Doggett. PRIMROSE tosses the flowers onto the counter and collects one of the milk buckets to put into the refrigerator. CODY, grunting, takes the other bucket with much more obvious strain and attempts to do the same. CODY. Ha ha, really funny. Hey, you know why that is? The milk thing, I mean. I looked it up in my books, and they said that it’s from all the bacteria in the cow. As soon as the milk comes out, the bacteria starts eating all the sugar. That’s why the milk will get all gross and bitter if you don’t chill it right away. PRIMROSE. Eh, bact-eerie-uh this and that. You’ve got chores to do. So no more a’ this book-readin’ n’ weed-pickin’ stuff in the mornin’. What with Daddy sick in bed n’ all, we’ve got one less pair of hands for things. So you’d better start makin’ yourself useful. CODY. I’m sorry. It’s just that... I don’t know how to work on a farm, you know? I’ve lived in the city with my mom my whole life, and I’ve never even seen a real chicken before, let alone a horse. I’m kind of out of my element, that’s all.

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PRIMROSE. Well, I ain’t about to hold your hand. CODY. I know. It’s just… maybe I can do some other things? PRIMROSE. Like what? CODY. I don’t know. Something that wouldn’t get in your way. O-or something to make things easier for you. Hey, that’s it! Why don’t I cook you some breakfast? Have you eaten yet? PRIMROSE. Eh, just a bite. Daddy’s usually the one who cooks, when he ain’t sick or tired. I ain’t never been very good at it. CODY. You know, I used to cook dinner all the time, back when my mom and I lived in the city. I always had to play chef, and I tried to have something on the table every night when she came home from work. I think I was getting pretty good at it, until… well… PRIMROSE. She died. CODY. ...Yeah. Anyway, um… I could probably teach you a thing or two, if you want. About cooking, I mean. PRIMROSE. Wait, teach me? You know you’re on my farm, right? If anyone’s got a thing to learn, it’s you. CODY. Well, it might be your farm, but I’m pretty sure this is my kitchen, now. Let’s see what you guys have on hand… ah! Do you know what this is that I’m holding? PRIMROSE. Sure. You flip yer hotcakes with it. CODY. It’s called a spatula. PRIMROSE. Spat-you-what? You’d better not be spittin’ into my food, or you’ll sleep in the barn, you little-CODY. No, no, no! This tool here is called a spatula. Here, take it. Now, this here is a ladle. You use it to serve things, like soup. But you probably knew that. Anyway, this here is a grater, which looks like a cowbell but actually-PRIMROSE. What are you tellin’ all this to me for? You’re the one that’s cookin’, not me.

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CODY. I figured we can teach each other things. I’ll teach you to cook, and you teach me to… uh, farm, I guess. PRIMROSE. Who said anything about teachin’ you to farm? That’s something you learn yourself. Ain’t nobody taught me, and ain’t nobody gonna teach you. You just suck it up and do it right, ‘fore you pay for it. You’d best write that down, ‘cause that’s the only lesson I’m teachin’ you, make no mistake. CODY. Oh… alright. A-anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, we might as well both know how to make something nice. I’m sure Dad would appreciate it. As they talk, they begin to cook breakfast. CODY starts taking out food from the fridge and preparing the stove, while PRIMROSE mainly gathers utensils and flatware to set the table. PRIMROSE. Come to think of it, what do you know about the old man, anyway? You’ve only known him for a month by now, but you’ve gotten used to callin’ him ‘Dad’ pretty quick... CODY. Yeah, I guess so. It’s just that... I’ve always wondered what my real dad was like, and even though he’s a little more cowpoke-y than I imagined, he seems like he knows a lot. After seeing so many of my mom’s boyfriends come and go, it’s nice to meet a guy that’ll actually stay, you know? I just wish we could have met under... better circumstances... PRIMROSE. Your mama ever talk about him at all? CODY. Yeah, a little. Not much. Just that he had a farm, and a wife, and four daughters. She didn’t get to know that much about him in that week they were, well… together. Secret fling and all. You know, come to think of it, when am I going to meet them? The other sisters, I mean. I’ve been here for a month but they’re never around. PRIMROSE. It’s ‘cause they up and left a long time ago. They all got their own families and such. CODY. You didn’t want to go, too? PRIMROSE. Go where? CODY. To make a family of your own and stuff. You know, get married, have babies -- all those things that grown-ups do.

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PRIMROSE. No, I meant go where? The farm’s the only place I belong. CODY. How do you know? Have you tried going out before? PRIMROSE. And what, leave Daddy behind? He can’t afford to hire anybody to run this place. I’m all he’s got now. CODY. And me. PRIMROSE. ...Yeah, I guess so. For now. CODY. For now? What do you mean? You’re not sending me away, are you? PRIMROSE. ‘Course I’m not. But you’ll leave when the time comes. In fact, I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’re itchin’ to go to some fancy college by next year -- seventeen and all. CODY. Well, yeah, of course. Mom always said it’s important to get a real job, and I agree. PRIMROSE. ...Are you saying that this ain’t a real job? CODY. What? Oh, no, I just meant that-PRIMROSE. Do you know what it takes to do what I do? I’ve been runnin’ this farm for longer than you’ve been alive. Ain’t nobody told me how to do it. Daddy’s been hard to help ever since that fall from the tractor, and the sickness in his bones setting in besides. Mama up and left us when I was barely twelve years old, n’ wouldn’t even tell us why. Just ‘pick who you wanna live with,’ she said. Now it turns out she’d caught him in bed with your mama; maybe if she’d just said that, I wouldn’t have been left to raise three sisters on my own -- just so they could up and leave this blasted heath for a better life! Oh, but me? I stayed; I stayed out of spite against them, and her, and maybe the whole world. I’ve lived with the old man for thirty years, and I’ll be damned if I leave this place before him! It’s the least I can do; no, it’s the least anyone can do -- imagine everybody just standing up one day and leaving you. Oh, God! Why imagine when everyone’s done it already? And one day, Daddy’ll pass into sweet Heaven with your mama, too, and ain’t nobody’ll be here for sad, stupid old Primrose, on her sad, stupid old farm. But you know what? Maybe it’s for the best that way; the farm’s the only thing that won’t leave me, isn’t it? (Pause.) God, put that stuff away, already! Just stop yer cookin’ n’ readin’ n’ flower-pickin’; it ain’t worth nothing to nobody in the end. Now clean this mess up, before the farm goes bottom-up already.

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PRIMROSE starts throwing the food back into the refrigerator. CODY. ...I’m sorry. I-PRIMROSE. God, don’t bother. You came here ‘cause your mama died, n’ all you’ve got is yer sick daddy n’ a screwed up sister. It ain’t your fault yer family’s the way it is. CODY. No, I meant that I’m sorry about what happened to you. My mom shouldn’t have forced her way into your family, and your mom should have told you the truth about what happened. Most importantly, our dad shouldn’t have made you run this farm on your own. You were just a kid. PRIMROSE. Eh, it hasn’t been all bad. Having you here for an ear is one thing -- that wouldn’t happened without some good, old-fashioned adultery. And anyway, there ain’t no point in cryin’ over spilled milk. Happens too often ‘round here to be worth anything. CODY. Just because it happens doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to clean it up. PRIMROSE. What, you’re gonna try and fix our childhoods? Unless you’ve got the blueprints for a time machine in those books a’ yours, you’re gonna be out of luck. CODY. All I’m saying is that you don’t have to be stuck here. PRIMROSE. I ain’t stuck; I’m loyal. CODY. Loyal? Loyal to what, Primrose? Dad? The farm? You know, I don’t think you actually want these things; I think you’re just scared of the possibility of people leaving you. PRIMROSE. What’s a ‘possibility’ about it? It’s happened, ain’t it? Mama, my sisters -- they all left me. Daddy stays for me, and I’ll stay for him. You wouldn’t understand. CODY. Actually, I think I do. Every guy my mom brought home would pull the same ‘buddy buddy’ routine on me, and I’d always wonder -- just maybe they would stay this time. Maybe I would finally be the kid who had a dad like everybody else -- only for them to leave a few months later. I know what it’s like to have people leave. Hell, my mom’s gone too -- forever. But you aren’t alone, Prim. Your sisters are still here for you; I’m still here for you.

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PRIMROSE. If everybody’s so ‘here for me,’ then why’d they leave at all? CODY. I don’t think they meant to leave you. They probably wanted you to come with them. No one wanted you to be trapped here. PRIMROSE. Alright, say that what you’ve said is true. What’s Daddy gonna say? He’s worked to keep this farm so bad for so long; I can’t be the reason he loses it. CODY. You wouldn’t be. And anyway, I think he’d rather give up the farm than see you be unhappy -- don’t you? Chances are, he’ll follow you like you follow your sisters, and no one will get left behind. PRIMROSE. ...I dunno. I don’t even know what I’d do, even if I did know where to go. All I know how to do is work the farm. CODY. Well, I have plenty of books for inspiration! Do you want to flip through some of them? PRIMROSE. Eh... CODY. Come on, maybe something will interest you. PRIMROSE. ...Oh, alright. Maybe just a few. But only for a look. CODY. How about this one? Government and politics? PRIMROSE. Hmm… nah. Too many dumb people. CODY. Okay. What about this one -- are you interested in science or medicine at all? PRIMROSE. Nah. Too many smart people. CODY. English? Business? Acting? Architecture? Health? Or maybe-PRIMROSE. Nah. Nah. Nah. Wait, wait, that big, long one there! The book with all the houses in it. Lemme see it again CODY. Hm? Architecture? Sure, here. PRIMROSE. You know, I was just lookin’ through it this mornin’, n’ I said to myself: Primrose Doggett, you could make plenty better houses than this! I

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mean, look here. This one would need more support beams right here. Otherwise, it’ll come crashing down on your tractor in the night. And this one’s built out of the wrong stuff. The cows’d get so cold they’d never let you hear the end of it! CODY. You can have this book, if you want. I think you’d get a lot out of it. PRIMROSE. ...Thanks, Cody. CODY. Of course! I tried reading it, but it got a little confusing. Especially the part-PRIMROSE. No, I meant thanks like… thanks. CODY. ...Oh. You’re welcome. PRIMROSE. Kind of a shame I stopped breakfast; the table’s all set and everything. Well, almost all set. You know, really looking at ‘em now, these weeds might actually be flowers after all. CODY. You think? PRIMROSE. …Yeah, I do. PRIMROSE puts the flowers in a vase and sets them in the middle of the set table -- a final centerpiece. PRIMROSE and CODY look at it proudly, putting their arms around each other’s shoulders as they stand side-by-side. Slowly, the lights go down. THE END

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The Function of Family MEGAN LUEBBERMAN

CHARACTERS: FATHER: 50 years old, tall man, layback, relaxed, at ease- average placating husband. MOTHER: mid 40s woman, anxious, paranoid, frantic- average demanding wife. DAUGHTER: 17 year old, tall and lanky- wearing all black with a classic rock shirt- average angsty teen. SCENE ONE: In a shabby living room with furniture scattered around, perhaps a couch on its side, a few boxes and suitcases half-packed, a single antique lamp sitting in the middle of the room on a coffee table. The Deerings are in the process of moving out of their house due to a flood. (FATHER talks on the phone while MOTHER and DAUGHTER pack boxes and then FATHER gets off the phone and speaks to them.) FATHER . Hello, ladies, we need to move out as quickly as possible to the hotel so the plumber can fix the issue. He is on his way to inspect the property but from what I described to him, he said it sounds like a burst pipe. We could begin to experience a lot of flooding in the house, more than the hot spots and dampness on the floor that we noticed this morning. MOTHER. We’re trying to pack some things to take with us, but it’s not like I want any of this stuff to be ruined by water damage! DAUGHTER. We can’t take everything with us, a lot of it will have to stay. Maybe even drown, who knows. (FATHER and picks up a box.) MOTHER. No! They have to go in order as numbered. If we get the boxes mixed up then we will never find our stuff again once we get to the hotel and everything will be messed up! FATHER. Okay, I will try to do my best for you. Just direct me to where everything goes. There are so many different sections of boxes you’ve made that it’s near impossible to differentiate them all.

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DAUGHTER. I don’t see why it even matters. Just throw it all together in the car. They’re just things. If you take too long the boxes will soak up the water on the ground and be ruined anyway. The living room floods more every minute, can’t you feel your shoes getting wet? Soon we’ll be swimming. MOTHER. Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The water isn’t rising from the broken pipe that fast. Is it? (FATHER moves to lift up another box.) Be very careful with that box! It has all the fragile ceramics from the bookshelf ! Nearly everything is glass and extremely breakable. DAUGHTER. You’re taking ceramics to the hotel? What’s the point of having all that stuff anyway? MOTHER. So I can remember everything. (FATHER continues to gradually move a few boxes and suitcases to the car/offstage to the right.) DAUGHTER. Human memory is far from perfect. Everything fades into oblivion eventually. FATHER. Which section does this box belong to dear? MOTHER. That holds the first set of my snowglobes. Just set it here at my feet, I’m still packing that section right now. DAUGHTER. All we’re gonna have to do is unpack everything again. The more you wrap stuff up, the more work we’re going to have later. All of this won’t fit in the hotel room, let alone the car. Just throw everything in and wish it luck. (DAUGHTER throws something in the box with a clatter/crash) MOTHER No! You have to be more careful than that. DAUGHTER. Do I? (DAUGHTER throws something else in with a shattering sound.) FATHER. Now dear, listen to your mother, and continue packing. My socks are completely soaked already. (FATHER takes off his shoes momentarily and wrings out his socks.) DAUGHTER. We need to throw out more anyway- what a hoarder you are mother.

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(DAUGHTER walks over to the lamp) Like this antique lamp- it doesn’t even light up anymore. It’s trash. MOTHER. Don't you dare throw that out! I got that lamp on my eighteenth birthday. It has special memories. I’m sure it was worth so much back in its day. DAUGHTER. It’s useless now though- a lamp that doesn’t light up is useless. It belongs in the garbage. (DAUGHTER picks it up and tries to make away with it but MOTHER tries taking it from her- they wrestle with it back and forth, each trying to take it from the other.) MOTHER. You are not getting rid of that-- honey, tell her! FATHER. Let your mother have the lamp. We don’t have time for this nonsense. DAUGHTER. I will not, she needs to learn to let go of things. Material possessions are meaningless, just like life. (Phone rings and FATHER answers it, listens, and then hangs up.) (MOTHER gets the lamp from the DAUGHTER and definitively sets it back on the table.) FATHER. Bad news everyone, the plumber has looked at the grounds around and thinks that several pipes have burst, with more possibly on the way - as a sort of chain reaction. The more time that passes, the more pipes that are likely to burst from the pressure. You both really need to hurry with the packing! This is not good, not good at all... DAUGHTER. Well if she wasn’t so meticulous with everything we might be done already. (DAUGHTER exits- going to stage left (the rest of the house) and then comes back a moment later.) There’s a waterfall in the bathroom now. Water just spilling from the ceiling. FATHER Are you serious? A waterfall? That sounds very bad- maybe I should go look at that(FATHER pats his forehead with a handkerchief, wearing a worried expression.) DAUGHTER. It’s nothing, the entire house is becoming more and more flooded. (FATHER decides not to go check and reaches for another box).

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MOTHER. That’s not nothing! Please be careful, I don’t want anything to break! DAUGHTER. It won’t be the end of the world if something breaks. You keep useless junk, for no reason. We don’t have a lot of time- pack what’s important. You can’t take any of this with you to the grave. MOTHER. It’s all important! And it could be buried with me! The most precious things could go with meFATHER. Now both of you stop speaking like that and continue packing. You’re right that we must pack what’s important. The water is now up to my ankles and rising quickly! But we must try to remain calm and finish this as fast as possible. (FATHER rolls up his pant legs, and then rolls up MOTHER’s as she continues to pack) DAUGHTER. All this water- I think it’s fitting. A watery death for our house. MOTHER. We don’t want this house to die. Imagine the cost! FATHER. Right now I’m just worried about getting out of here ourselves, not saving the house. Do you see how much water there is now? It’s rising very quickly! (FATHER takes out a ruler and measures the height of the water) MOTHER. This was the place I’ve lived my entire life. My mother lived here and my grandmother andDAUGHTER. It’s old. It was bound to have issues eventually. Nothing lasts forever. FATHER. The ceiling is beginning to drip! MOTHER . WHAT! (FATHER whips out an umbrella and holds it above MOTHER. There is the sound of water dripping.) FATHER. Are you two going to be finished soon? The ceiling is literally raining! How much longer can this all last?

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DAUGHTER. No, I doubt it. She’s too busy wrapping her collectibles in a thousand layers of bubble wraps. Like you can protect against true destruction and the inevitability of time… (Sound of a rupture- and the spraying of water) MOTHER. Now the sink has burst as well! Water is just filling the kitchen. DAUGHTER. I don’t think there’s any hope for the kitchen- or this house. FATHER. Please, both of you, hurry! The house will soon be crumbling on top of us at this rate! Just pack the essentials. MOTHER. I am packing them! But I must be careful not to damage anything. You know how much this antique perfume bottle costs? DAUGHTER. I’m sure more than this house. But I wouldn’t say it's a necessity. (MOTHER scoffs looking upset, before stuffing it in the box.) MOTHER. Antiques are special. They have the aura of others’ lives. DAUGHTER. An aura of the dead you mean. You bought some dead lady’s perfume bottle. MOTHER. It was a rare item! FATHER. (a little too harshly) Continue to pack! Can’t you see that our house is falling apart? How could you be arguing about something so stupid right now? (Silence from MOTHER And DAUGHTER, who are stunned.) I’m sorry. I’m concerned about the water. Our entire house is full of it and soon the living room will be as bad as the rest of the house. (Phone rings- FATHER answers it, while propping the umbrella up against the wall to partially cover MOTHER, listens, and hangs up.) The plumber now says that there is a potential sinkhole forming below our house that is causing all the pipe bursts and leaks. He is advising us to get off the property as soon as possible, and I, for one, agree with that advice. This place has become too dangerous. Let’s go. (FATHER gestures them out the door, half pushing and pulling them both) MOTHER. Not yet! Just one more minute! (MOTHER begins to pack more rapidly, in a rush) DAUGHTER. Someone really hates this house. Perhaps it's haunted with all

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these objects from the deceased. MOTHER. Don’t be ridiculous… Ghosts aren’t malicious- are they? (Loud crumbling and rumbling noises come from below them. MOTHER jumps back from where she was standing.) Oh my heavens! The sinkhole has begun to form right in the middle of the floor! I nearly fell in! (EVERYONE stares at the center of the stage in awe.) DAUGHTER. It’s come to swallow us whole, just like time consumes endlessly with malicious intent. FATHER. We’re leaving- NOW! (More rumbling- EVERYONE staring at the middle of the floor. FATHER ushers everyone out the door (stage right)) (THEY all exit. Stage goes dark.) SCENE TWO: The Deerings stand outside. The sound of crickets fills the air and the lights are dimmer on stage, with everyone standing in the middle- the spotlight only on them. MOTHER. We’ve barely gotten a few boxes into the car. I just can’t leave all this behind. The vinyl sofas- the set of dishes commemorating 1985 music concert-oh the lamp! FATHER. You don’t need any of it- your daughter is right. In the end, they are all just things. DAUGHTER. Death comes to all. FATHER. Well I wouldn’t say exactly that but - we all got out safely, that’s what matters. MOTHER. (gasps) Just one thing- I swear. There’s one thing I must save still! Everyone, stay here! (MOTHER breaks away from them and runs into the house (into the dark and off stage.) FATHER. No! What are you thinking? (More rumbling, and sounds of the house collapsing.)

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DAUGHTER . Oh my GodFATHER. I’m going in after her. DAUGHTER. You can’t! The house is collapsing into the sinkhole! Why - did she - do - that. FATHER. I don’t know. I really don’t know. DAUGHTER. (upset/crying) I tried to tell her that it didn’t matter, that they were just things. I didn’t mean it- I didn’t want death - not to all, not to us. FATHER. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, or anyone’s. The house was old and it was time to let it go… DAUGHTER. The house. Not mom. FATHER. No, no… That’s not what I meant. Of course not, and she’s probablyDAUGHTER. I just wanted her to realize that I’m more important. FATHER. What do you mean? DAUGHTER. I’m more important than all those collections, antiques, and random stuff that she owns. Growing up, she always loved the things around her but not me. What would she show off ? The rare ship clock that was on our wall, or the books she got signed by some famous author. Never me- I was never a thing to show off or appreciate. Not something to be proud of and speak about to everyone. It was never me. FATHER. Oh honey, I’m sure that(Enter MOTHER from the dark, holding a large photo album) MOTHER. I’m here. I made it. I got it. DAUGHTER. Mom! (All three hug desperately.) FATHER. Don’t ever do something like that again. MOTHER. Alright, I promise I won’t.

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DAUGHTER. You made it out. I was sure when the house seemed to collapse that… MOTHER. No, and I’m sorry to make you worry. I just thought I needed to get this- if anything- from the house. DAUGHTER. What is it- what is the one thing that you risked your life for? MOTHER. It’s this- a photo album of all of us. These are the photos of our summer trip when you were little. See there- that’s you in the polka dot bathing suit. And your father’s over there just laying on the sand. I took the photo as the water lapped onto my feet. I was partially standing in the ocean to get this angle. DAUGHTER. I’ve never seen these before. MOTHER. Well- to tell you the truth- before I had taken everything off the bookshelf I had forgotten that this was even there- behind all the collectibles. This was the only time I ever made a photo album- I figured it was too much work afterwards to repeat. FATHER. I remember that you two had so much ice cream later that day that both of you were sick to your stomachs the rest of the trip MOTHER. Not true! Only for a few days were we sick-- besides, it was hot! We had to have ice cream. DAUGHTER. I remember now. He warned us not to eat so much, but we didn’t listen. FATHER. You were both ever so stubborn- and still are. I’ll have to try harder to get a word in edgewise. DAUGHTER. I suppose this was worth saving. Though at some point you have to realize that we’re right here. MOTHER. What do you mean? DAUGHTER. You hold onto a lot of stuff-- but they’re just things. MOTHER. I know that now….

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DAUGHTER. It’s too bad the house is gone. MOTHER. It helped get rid of some things though; I did have way too many things. FATHER. The antique lamp didn’t even light up. MOTHER. No, I suppose it didn’t. Stage slowly fades out- grows darker- with the family silently admiring the album. THE END

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SECTION III

Photo Exhibit 143

MATTHEW HOLGATE

Waves into Huntington

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Mt. Shasta

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Shiprock, New Mexico, the most enchanted

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Havasupai 147

HEATHER MARIE SIRACUSA Diligence

Frame of Reference 148

Still in the Passing

Joy 149

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PART IV

Scholarly Works 151

The Roman Consulship: A Different Triumvirate ANTHONY POONI

Introduction Throughout Roman history, no power except the Emperor has had the ability to exert a tremendous amount of influence over all aspects of Rome like the consulship. The power of the consulship peaked in the Roman Republic and waned during the Roman Empire. Marcus Tullius Cicero (consul of the year 63-62 BC), Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (consul of the year 60-59 BC), and Gaius Julius Caesar (consul of the year 59-58 BC) have proven themselves to be worthy of a seat among some of the most powerful characters in history. The two consuls, elected annually, had the power of kings and were only inhibited by the attitude and agenda of their co-consul. Until the Roman Empire, Rome utilized a pseudo-democratic system that resembled the separate, co-equal branches established in the U.S. Constitution. Furthermore, the consuls were civil and military magistrates that held absolute discretion outside the city walls and harbored very few restrictions within Rome itself. As time passed and Rome forcibly transitioned into an empire, the consulate became a title that the emperor assumed for purely self-gratifying reasons. Scholars writing about the consuls of Rome generally agree on their basic functions, however Francisco Pina Polo and W.B. McDaniel have surprisingly contradictory opinions on how the consuls represent their office in practice. Pina Polo argues in The Consul of Rome: The Civil Function of the Consuls in the Roman Republic that the civil duties of the consuls are the most important. The emphasis placed on the character and civil duties as opposed to the consuls’ militaristic duties helps shed light on the consuls as men that were required to be of impeccable moral character. Pina Polo furthers this belief by saying that “The evidence is sufficient to reveal the complexity of consular activities, whether mandatory or occasional, in such varied fields as religion, diplomacy, legislation, jurisdiction, colonization, and elections.”1 Pina Polo states that the person elected to the consulship must already be of great character or be morphed into one very quickly if said person is to be successful in their duty. Between the aristocrats and plebians, the consulship needed to bring out the best qualities in both of these men to continue the successful functioning of the Roman Republic. Though not always successful in its objective, the consulship was able to draw out the good characteristics in prideful men and further uplift the characteristics of good men. Unlike Francisco Pina Polo, W.B. McDaniel’s book, Cicero and His House on the Palatine, presents the argument that even those in high offices may do questionable things to garner power or create a legacy. McDaniel comments that,

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This passionate desire -- it was hardly less than that -- of a man who had won the highest honors the Roman people could bestow, to neighbor himself with his social superiors, should not pass uncommented upon in any honest discussion of Cicero’s character; that this desire should lead him into debt, into political entanglements, into a barrage of caustic comment, is only the more significant.2 This debt that McDaniel describes foreshadows the approach that Julius Caesar later takes of lavishly giving gifts to fellow politicians to garner a strong political following. Though Caesar fell into significant debt and ruin due to his political addiction, Cicero used intrigue and influence to propel him further into success. McDaniel further discusses Cicero’s decisions and values by saying that the basis, of [his] desire is, after all, I think, a simple one. To Cicero, the home was the temple of the family, and the family, after the state, was a man’s reason for the high exercise of his faculties.3 McDaniel’s interpretation suggests that Cicero bought a house in an aristocratic neighborhood for the sole purpose of proving to the Roman elite that he had the power to do so, furthering the claim that the drive for a legacy can lead to questionable actions from the virtuous. Though W.B. McDaniel points out a critical piece of human nature— the tendency towards non-virtue—he is incorrect in concluding that the most important piece of the consulship was power. Instead of the quest for power, the character of the individuals elevated to the rank of consul was what determined the fate of the Roman Republic. Cicero’s Consulship Cicero began his consulship in 63 B.C. with a deadly plot against his life from his political opponent, Catiline. In The Life of Cicero, the biographer Plutarch begins with the plans of Cicero’s rival: Catiline wished to obtain first a strong base of operations, and therefore sued for the consulship; and he had bright hopes that he would share the consulship with Caius Antonius, a man who, of himself, would probably not take the lead either for good or for bad, but would add strength to another who took the lead. Most of the better class of citizens were aware of this, and therefore put forward Cicero for the consulship, and as the people readily accepted him, Catiline was defeated, and Cicero and Caius Antonius were elected.4 A bitter miscalculation of Catiline presents itself. Catiline was under the impression that the people of Rome would simply fall into line behind his political agenda with no recourse or questions. Unfortunately for Catiline, the people of Rome wanted no part of his plans for Rome. Men such as Catiline were both jealous and threatened by a plebian upstart who rose to the highest office in Rome through his character and skills as an orator. Knowing this, Cicero chose to harrow and antagonize his political opponents. Due to this unconventional

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method of garnering attention, Plutarch further states that Cicero’s use of banter “against enemies or legal opponents seems to be part of the orator’s business; but his indiscriminate attacks for the sake of raising a laugh made many people hate Cicero.” 5 The undoubtable political savviness of Cicero led to widespread approval from the people of Rome as a leader that climber out of humble origins into insurmountable success. The Senate, on the other hand, was displeased at the unprofessionalism of some of the remarks of a man that was co-leading Rome. All of these things led up to Cicero being betrayed and forced into exile for a time after his consulship was concluded. Later, Cicero came home in the sixteenth month after his exile; and so great was the joy of the cities and the eagerness of men to meet him that what was said by Cicero afterwards fell short of the truth. He said, namely, that Italy had taken him on her shoulders and carried him into Rome. 6 The return of Cicero with praises from all of the Roman populous displays how loved and respected Cicero was among the common folk. This infatuation with Cicero turned him into an even more loved and respected figure in Rome which came with many advantages. The responsibilities as consul for Cicero were predominantly focused on dealing with the Catiline conspiracy and a smaller portion regarding Julius Caesar. Plutarch emphasizes this by saying “[Caesar] was a young man still and at the very beginning of his rise to power, but in his public policy and his hopes he had already entered upon that road by which he changed the Roman state into a monarchy.” Through Caesar’s guile and tact, His designs were still unnoticed by the rest, but to Cicero he had given many grounds for suspicion, and yet no hold which could lead to his conviction, although many were heard to say that he had come near being caught by Cicero, but had eluded him. Some, however, say that Cicero purposely overlooked and neglected the information against [Caesar] through fear of his friends and his power, since it was clear to everyone that the other conspirators would be included in Caesar’s acquittal, rather than Caesar in their punishment. 7 Cicero has a choice to make: ignore Caesar’s wrongs and focus on Catiline, or split his focus and surely fail on both fronts. Whether or not Cicero truly was privy to Caesar’s plans, keeping order, stability, and the law were much more pressing concerns for Cicero at the time. Even more profound within Cicero’s choice was the exertion of the virtue of prudence. Due to this prudence, Cicero was able to successfully deal with Catiline without falling out of favor with Caesar. In totality, Cicero was an honorable man and consul who carried out his duties to the best of his abilities and, in spite of radical opposition to his power, succeeded far beyond anyone’s expectations.

Pompey’s Consulship We shall now turn to another political celebrity, war savant, and soft-hearted statesman: Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. More commonly referred to as Pompey, he never had the renown of Cicero or Caesar, yet was able to secure a spot in the Triumvirate alongside Caesar and Crassus. With this clout, political celebrity status, and capacity as a war savant, Pompey secured his spot in the consulship. Unlike his father who was hated by the Romans, “no Roman ever enjoyed a heartier goodwill on the part of his countrymen, or one which began sooner, or reached a greater height in his prosperity, or remained more constant in his adversity, than Pompey did.” Pompey was one of the most active and animated Roman politicians of the time while also remaining grounded in His modest and temperate way of living, his training in the arts of war, his persuasive speech, his trustworthy character, and his tact in meeting people, so that no man asked a favour with less offence, or bestowed one with a better mien. For, in addition to his other graces, he had the art of giving without arrogance, and of receiving without loss of dignity.8 In this portion of The Life of Pompey, Plutarch gives attention to the various positive aspects of Pompey that everyone could agree on. Only later in the biography does Plutarch also recount the illicit relationships Pompey took part in throughout his life. Aside from Pompey’s personal character, he led a very complex political career beginning with his position in Sulla’s dictatorial regime. “Pompey was compelled to punish those enemies of Sulla who were most eminent, and whose capture was notorious… he suffered as many as possible to escape detection, and even helped to send some out of the country.” Though Pompey had to kill the most pronounced opponents to Sulla, he still showed mercy to many of Sulla’s “enemies” which provides evidence in support of Pompey as a gentle-spirited man of good quality. After Sulla’s passing and a multitude of military victories for Pompey, he was awarded the consulship. Though Pompey was highly favored by many people, he was still able to be easily duped by both of his counterparts in the Triumvirate: It was not on this account, however, that men thought him admirable and great, nay, they considered this circumstance a proof of his splendid distinction, that Crassus, the richest statesman of his time, the ablest speaker, and the greatest man, who looked down on Pompey himself and everybody else, had not the courage to sue for the consulship until he had asked the support of Pompey. Pompey, moreover, was delighted, since he had long wanted an opportunity of doing him some service and kindness, and therefore granted his request readily and solicited the people in his behalf, announcing that he should be no less grateful to them for such a colleague for the consulship.9

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Notwithstanding, after Pompey and Crassus had been elected consuls, they differed on all points and “were constantly in collision.”10 These two men of great respect in Rome had their own niche areas to operate in and Pompey used his military prestige to appeal to the people which was a brilliant tactic because Pompey’s political expertise was rudimentary at best. In the Senate, Crassus had more weight; but among the people the power of Pompey was great. For he gave them back their tribunate, and suffered the courts of justice to be transferred again to the knights by law. But the most agreeable of all spectacles was that which he afforded the people when he appeared in person and solicited his discharge from military service.” 11 Plutarch explicitly states here that Pompey’s influence over the people due to his perceived moral character was a critical reason why Pompey became consul. Crassus was tasked with fighting Rome’s enemies and the Senate, while Pompey’s civil duties propelled him to greater fame and reputation. Upholding the justice of Rome and appealing to the whole populous garnered Pompey great favor. Both Cicero and Pompey were predominantly known for their characters exemplified through the office of the consul. On the opposite side of the spectrum of moral characters is that of possibly the most famous of all Romans: Gaius Julius Caesar. Caesar’s Consulship Of the most controversial and talked about characters in history, Julius Caesar’s long-debated decisions have been and will be commented on for many generations. As a candidate for the consulship, Caesar devised an ingenious plan. This policy was to reconcile Pompey and Crassus, the most influential men in the city. These men Caesar brought together in friendship after their quarrel, and by concentrating their united strength upon himself, succeeded, before men were aware of it, and by an act which could be called one of kindness, in changing the form of government. For it was not, as most men supposed, the quarrel between Caesar and Pompey that brought on the civil wars, but rather their friendship, since they worked together for the overthrow of the aristocracy in the first place, and then, when this had been accomplished, they quarreled with one another.12 Plutarch perfectly documented the spark that propelled Caesar to both consulship and dictatorship. Friendship with Pompey was the root of all the success and eventual problems that circulated around Caesar. The eventual civil war of Rome that resulted in the murder of Pompey by an Egyptian assassin solidified the fact that Caesar had absolute rule and authority within the dictatorship he

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created. Without Caesar’s cunning and thirst for power, the consulship would have remained a significant and respected office. With the downfall of the Republic, Caesar morphed all the head offices of Rome into one title. Caesar’s formation of the Triumvirate, the alliance between Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus--the three most powerful men in Rome at the time--was adored by the people of Rome and became extremely potent in all political affairs. Caesar, however, encompassed and protected by the friendship of Crassus and Pompey, entered the canvass for the consulship; and as soon as he had been triumphantly elected, along with Calpurnius Bibulus, and had entered upon his office, he proposed laws which were becoming, not for a consul, but for a most radical tribune of the people; for to gratify the multitude he introduced sundry allotments and distributions of land.13 The appeals to the people of Rome certainly aided in the positive view of Caesar while in the consulship. Along with his strategy of appeasing the masses, Caesar utilized fiery rhetoric against the Senate to paint the Senate as departing from the good graces and interests of the people. In the senate the opposition of men of the better sort gave [Caesar] the pretext which he had long desired, and crying with loud adjurations that he was driven forth into the popular assembly against his wishes, and was compelled to court its favor by the insolence and obstinacy of the senate, he hastened before it, and stationing Crassus on one side of him and Pompey on the other, he asked them if they approved his laws. They declared that they did approve them, whereupon he urged them to give him their aid against those who threatened to oppose him with swords. They promised him such aid, and Pompey actually added that he would come up against swords with sword and buckler too. At this impulsive and mad speech, unworthy of the high esteem in which Pompey stood and unbecoming to the respect which was due to the senate, the nobility were distressed but the populace were delighted.” 14 Caesar used the power, prestige, and voice of the office of consul to denounce the Senate and appeal to the mob-like tendencies of the Roman public. Though this shows Caesar’s dictatorial tendencies, it also shows the transformation of the office of the consulship from the law-maker and defender of Cicero to the political celebrity of Pompey now to the overly ambitious Julius Caesar. The policies of Julius Caesar were unbecoming of a consul and because of the sudden, dramatic increase of power in the consulate, Caesar was conspired against and eventually murdered for his part in perverting the respected office of consul for his own personal achievement.

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Conclusion The forceful transition into the Roman Empire during Julius Caesar’s regime highlighted an important change in popular beliefs at the time. The populous that elected the consuls chose Caesar because of his perceived attack of the nobility as well as pushing the Senate to concede power so that he could more thoroughly guide Rome as consul. What nobody, except maybe Cicero, could have expected was for Caesar to proclaim himself emperor and take all of Rome into his own hands. As the Roman Republic died, the Roman people began to lose faith in the officials that they elected. Though men such as Cicero and Pompey primarily used the consulship for good, Caesar left no ambiguity in his thirst for glory and power. It is extremely surprising that Rome lost faith in men of good virtue and chose someone as ambitious as Caesar to usher in the future of Rome. This fatal choice for the Roman Republic showed the fragility of the government’s balance of power. Polybius, a prominent Greek historian, stated that if focused solely “upon the power of the consuls, the government appeared to be purely monarchical and regal.”15 This simple observation from Polybius became reality when the people focused on what Caesar could do with more power rather than how he could abuse it and not be checked by the Senate. The consulship became a vessel for whoever held the office and also amplified both the virtuous and malicious desires of the consuls. For some men, the consulship brought out their inherently good characteristics that were traditional for such a high and respected office. On the other side of the spectrum, the consulship was deformed into an extension of the consul’s will and ambition. Whether it was Cicero or Caesar in office, the consulship affected and was affected by every man in its office. As the consulship turned into a conduit for maliciousness by Caesar and the Roman Republic fell, people were left to wonder why their way of life that had worked for centuries suddenly shattered. The consulship only survived through traditional, virtuous Romans that filled the office. Caesar was neither virtuous nor a traditionalist which is why the consulship failed under his oppressive conquest. The consulship was meant to exemplify the epitome of Roman standards; when men of less than exemplar characteristics maneuvered their way into office, disaster was the only logical conclusion for the Roman Republic.

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Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Francisco Pina Polo, The Consul at Rome: The Civil Functions of the Consuls in the Roman Republic (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 4. W.B. McDaniel, “Cicero and His House on the Palatine,” The Clas sical Journal 23, no. 9 ( June, 1928): 652. W.B. McDaniel, “Cicero and His House on the Palatine,” The Clas sical Journal 23, no. 9 ( June, 1928): 653. Plutarch, “Life of Cicero,” in The Parallel Lives, trans. Bernadotte Perrin (Cambridge: Loeb Library Classical Edition, 1919), 109. Plutarch, “Life of Cicero,” 151. Ibid., 169. Ibid., 133. Plutarch, “Life of Pompey,” in The Parallel Lives trans. Bernadotte Perrin (Cambridge: Loeb Library Classical Edition, 1917), 117. Plutarch, “Life of Pompey,” 169. Ibid., 169. Ibid. Plutarch, “Life of Caesar,” 472. Ibid, 473. Ibid., 473-475. Polybius, “Rome at the End of the Punic Wars,” in The Histories trans Oliver J. Thatcher (Milwaukee: University Research Extension Co., 1907), 166.

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The Housing Crisis in California: When Progressivism Goes Wrong ALEXANDRIA HURST

The state of California finds itself in a unique position between two extremes. Within its borders and scope of influence are a strong and prosperous economy, and a people in crisis due to an instable and unsatisfactory housing environment simultaneously. The housing crisis has been described by thought leaders and the populace alike as one of, if not the largest, problems the state faces today.1 This essay will unpack the history and roots of the crisis, including theories regarding contract cities and freeway protests, with a particular focus placed on controversy surrounding state regulations and inclusionary housing programs. Then, the current state of the crisis will be examined, addressing others topics such as homelessness and the housing cost burden. Finally, the question of the future will be considered, looking into hypothetical approaches to reduce homelessness and examples of strategies taken internationally from which leaders can learn. Furthermore, legislative attempts and successes will be referenced and discussed, tying together a holistic analysis of what some consider to be a nearly unsolvable problem. To begin, the history of the housing crisis can be traced as far back as the 1950s. In 1954, the so-called “Lakewood Plan” became California’s first contract city.2 A contract city contracts with others for municipal services. For instance, as Lakewood paved the way for this new style of local government, they contracted with the county Sheriff ’s Department for the enforcement of traffic laws within city bounds. At first glance the phenomenon of contract cities do not have a direct correlation to the housing crisis. Yet, the contract city strategy can be identified as an early cause of excruciatingly high housing prices, as these suburban areas were able to incorporate as a city with a lower population than would normally be needed and thus, instill rules and regulations to maintain their classic character.3 As they did so, they made these areas less accessible to low income populations and more difficult to build in. This is sometimes seen as the first step toward the modern crisis of housing. Also in the 1950s, however, were the San Francisco freeway revolts, in which the residents organized into an anti-freeway movement and fought against the development of 7 out of 10 proposed freeways.4 From the anti-freeway movement can be traced the anti-growth movement, a mindset which allowed for further housing regulation which has curbed efforts to build under the umbrella of environmentalism and putting a stop to growth for growth’s sake.5 As anti-growth challenges increased, the number of building permits issued dwindled from an average of 215,585 units per year in the 1970s to 110,581 units per year in the 1990s.6

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When the communities of California determined themselves to be against development ventures which threatened their ways of life and the physical layout of historic and sentimental neighborhoods, a number of regulations were put in place. These regulations, though broad in what they cover, fall into two main categories: environmental and land-use. The two very often overlap, and for the purposes of this essay will be considered under the same umbrella. Environmental regulation can be described as the laws which protect the natural environment and ecosystems from pollution or damage by development. Similarly, Calder from the Cato Institute defines the role of land-use regulations as, “control[ing] the development of private land through use, density, design, and historic preservation requirements.”7 Studies have shown that any variant of government regulation upon housing increases housing cost in both home ownership and rental.8 The history of the crisis does not end there, nonetheless. Perhaps rooted in contract cities and freeway revolts, California’s housing situation was exacerbated with controversial legislative attempts. These attempts are often tied together in a broad policy approach known as inclusionary housing.9 Inclusionary housing tends to be mandated in city zoning codes, building permit requirements, and city or county ordinances. The overarching goal of inclusionary housing policy is to demand more affordable housing. For instance, many inclusionary housing programs include criteria for income eligibility and restrictions on the resale and rentals of the units.10 Yet Shneider of CityLab suggests, “critics, namely developers and some economists, say the policy reduces the overall supply of housing, thus raising prices.”11 Though demand continues to increase, the inclusionary housing policies remove incentives and increase barriers to development which ends up decreasing supply. When demand outpaces supply, the prices go up. The supply and demand dynamic, so ably demonstrated by inclusionary housing policies, has effects on the housing markets aside from price as well. In cities which put these policies into practice, one study shows that over time the number of multifamily housing starts increased by 7 percent.12 This same study showed that when inclusionary housing practices are mandated, housing producers increased housing prices in more affluent markets and decreased housing sizes in less affluent markets. In other words, rich communities end up paying more than ever before for their homes and poor communities are given less living space than would normally be considered satisfactory. In California resides both the affluent and the impoverished, leading to the manifestation of this occurrence. Therefore, in addition to a simple lack of housing altogether, the housing that does exist targets the local market. Where there is housing for the middle class and above, the prices are high and continue to rise. Where there is housing for the lower class and those in poverty, the sizes of the units are small

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despite the fact that multiple families living together is becoming more and more common. Despite the previous findings, the nature of the problem is not quite so easily solved. Inclusionary housing is controversial because of the challenges presented in pinning down its exact effects. Other studies find contrasting results, stating that inclusionary housing policies do lead to higher housing affordability and describing a lack of evidence that less inclusionary housing policies are tied to lower prices.13 One major example of environment regulations can be found in the California Environmental Quality Act, also known as CEQA. This act from the Reagan age allows anyone to object to housing and development projects, and while originally used sparingly it has evolved into a dreaded tool to put seemingly reasonable projects on the chopping block.14 While it is often viewed negatively by developers, proponents of the act argue that it maintains the health of the public and the land.15 Furthermore, the act provides accountability and requires developers and government officials to adopt transparency regarding the full effects of projects on the environment and surrounding communities. Those in favor of the act, and others like it, take the stance that maintaining high quality of life is more important than meeting high standards of modern housing demands. They debate the act’s role in the housing shortage and instead credit it with maintaining such lovely Californian scenery. The roots of the problems with housing may be arguable, but the crisis is not. The issue is real and current, as proven by the most recent data available regarding the state of the state. The Legislative Analyst’s office describes the housing issue in terms of four concerns.16 First, the state is building less housing than there are people who need housing, and this demand leads to high housing costs. Second, Californians are spending more on housing than the rest of the nation by far, increasing the poverty rate and impacting low income households. Third, the state needs more housing assistance for low income households than it has the resources to handle. Fourth, the state has a high population of homeless individuals and residents, draining resources and posing a humanitarian issue. Frankly put, California is not building enough housing. The California Department of Housing and Community Development estimates that California must build an additional 180,000 new housing units every year to keep up with demand.17 Despite this need, the department reports that for the last ten years the state has built an average of 80,000 new housing units each year. Other estimates are more dire. California Senator Weiner has commented that the number is “quickly approach[ing] 4 million homes—equal to the total deficit of the other forty nine states combined.”18 The Orange County Register reports that California needs to build between 1.8 million and 3.5 million housing units by the year 2025 to meet demand, yet at the time of the study 97% of the state’s cities and counties were behind in permitting to build the units.19 The Register

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also reports that while developers blame the city zoning and permit regulations, the cities blame the developers for a lack of willingness to build where the housing is most needed. While the exact numbers are contested, the shortage in supply of housing is clear. This leads to higher housing cost and, subsequently, greater housing cost burden. Housing cost burden is a state in which more than 30% of total income is spent on housing alone, such as rent or a mortgage. Individuals are severely cost burdened when 50% or more of total income is spent on rent. The CalBudget Center reports that in California, approximately two to three households out of every five are cost burdened.20 Furthermore, the same report shows that one in every five households are severely cost burdened. When looking specifically at low income household affordability, the number jumps to four out of every five households facing cost burden, more than half of which are severely burdened. Housing affordability does not change depending on the region of the state, but people of color are objectively more severely affected than others. According to the CalBudget Center’s data of housing burdened households, two out of three were people of color and more than one out of three were of Latin descent specifically. These numbers are significant, even though it seems that a similar problem exists nationally and not exclusively in California. Nationwide, estimates are that in 2017 nearly one in three households were cost burdened.21 Even taking this into consideration, California has a notably higher percentage of households facing cost burden than the rest of the nation. With the proven strain of housing costs, the need for affordable housing in the state is greater than ever. Yet just as the demand for housing is outpacing the state’s rate of supply, the need for affordable housing and low income housing assistance exceeds the resources available. The California Housing Partnership’s 2020 report found that due to federal tax reform, California’s Low Income Housing Tax Credit housing production and preservation has fallen by 13% statewide.22 The report also showed while the average median income of state residents has increased only 8% since 2000, the median price of rent has increased by 40%. Furthermore, of households considered Extremely Low Income, 79% are severely housing cost burdened. Yet the Legislative Analyst’s office states that only approximately one of four low income households are receiving housing vouchers or living in subsidized affordable housing.23 The extraordinarily high cost of housing and the lack of resources or measures to provide affordable housing or housing vouchers from the state government has led to a crisis in homelessness closely tied to the crisis in housing. Though many years in the making, each of the housing issues the state is struggling with has begun to culminate. In one year, the homeless population rose by 16%, and the state now has an estimated homeless population of approximately

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151,000 individuals.24 As there are an estimated 552,000 homeless in the nation, experts‘ best guesses are that California holds more than 1 in 5 of every homeless individual in the United States.25 As if the sheer numbers were not bad enough, the United Nations has compared the disgraceful tent encampments in the state to slums in New Delhi.26 The homeless population is disproportionately African-American by demographic, and half of unsheltered homeless self-report that the cause of their homelessness is unstable mental health. However, not every homeless case can be chalked up to mental health issues. They cannot even be attributed solely to joblessness. In fact, in 2017, 13% of San Francisco’s homeless population were actively employed, and in 2018, 10% of San Diego’s homeless reported active employment.27 The state government is very aware of each of these major housing concerns, but homelessness appears to be the focus. Governor Newsom has, on several occasions, addressed the need for answers and President Trump frequently calls for California to take more drastic action. In the last year session alone there have been hundreds of bills introduced to both legislative houses with intent to lessen the weight of the issue. For instance, AB-3122 was introduced on February 21, 2020, and proposes that in the regular assessment of development intentions for each county and city, potential sites for emergency homeless shelters and temporary housing are also required to be identified.28 Governor Newsom also called for state-owned properties to be given to local governments as temporary shelter spaces to get the homeless into shelter.29 But attempts to fight the crux of the issue—the problems with housing as a broad problem—are much fewer and have less broad support. SB-50, introduced in December of 2018, would have streamlined attempts to build multi-family housing on eligible parcels of land (areas with large amounts of jobs and transits) and made the projects exempt from certain regulations under the California Environmental Quality Act.30 After more than a calendar year of amendments and readings, the bill was refused passage. Hope for effective legislation to address the housing needs continues to lie in bills with little chance at being chaptered, particularly when many such efforts were postponed with the recent emergency of Covid-19. AB-3107, for example, is young and has no co-authors as of yet, but would allow affordable housing to be built on land zoned or designated for commercial use.31 Its progress in committee was postponed on March 16, 2020. With deep-rooted conflict, overwhelming current challenges, and legislation prone to band-aid treatment, what might California’s future look like? Public policy history and analysis is of little use unless it is used to anticipate and plan for the best possible future. Next, possible steps to be taken will be discussed. First will be immediate possible approaches to homelessness, followed by a discussion of the need for regulation reform and suggested next steps for

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inclusionary housing programs. Then, California’s situation will be compared to those of other countries in an attempt to understand what others have done to conquer similar challenges. There is no question that the homeless population requires immediate attention, and in the face of a worldwide pandemic the situation is only exacerbated and brought to the forefront of the mind. Given the statistics about the number of homeless with serious mental illness, preventative measures to homelessness in the future will need to look like better mental health care statewide. This may include long term plans for increased homes or live-in care. More urgently though, is the need of the people currently on the streets. While the pandemic has panicked many without homes, the long term effects and surrounding circumstances of the shut-down may present a unique opportunity to get people into stable shelter. First, the health crisis has forced the government to move forward with assistance measures more quickly than usually seen, reportedly spending $800 million into serving the homeless population since the beginning of the outbreak.32 Second, the pandemic has placed strain on the tourism industry and threatened small tourist businesses such as hotels.33 Third, experts have long recognized permanent supportive housing as the most stable and longest term solution to housing, but the regulatory barriers to building permanent supportive housing make the venture difficult, expensive, time-consuming, and often unrealistic.34 These factors combine to create the unusual opportunity for failed hotels, unable to reopen or wait out the storm of the pandemic, to be transformed into cost-effective permanent supportive housing units. Additionally, improving the housing situation in the state will require regulation reform of some kind. Though debates continue of the extent of regulations as the cause of the housing shortage, there is no question that it is a contributing factor. In order for more housing to be built, particularly affordable housing for low income residents, regulatory measures such as the California Environmental Quality Act must be lessened or restructured so that environmental friendliness is no longer an excuse for anti-growth measures which drive housing prices out of reach for California residents.35 Similarly, the scope of influence of inclusionary housing will have to be deeply researched and taken into account. Past programs have to be updated to take into account the current reality, which is not enough housing and too many barriers to overcoming the shortage. One suggested plan to update would incorporate a three part strategy including zoning reform, land value tax, and more housing subsidies, each serving a purpose and working in tandem to set California on a path toward a redeemed housing market.36 Whether the aforementioned three part plan will be accepted by state leaders or not, one thing is clear: the public’s attention—and therefore the attention of leadership is far more focused on the obvious disaster of homeless people

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living in tents on the streets and under freeways than on some of the root causes, such as mental health and the fundamentally broken housing market in the state. But looking to other countries with relatively solved or reduced homelessness, one sees immediately that getting at root causes has to be the overarching goal. For instance, in Finland, homelessness was solved by bypassing short term solutions such as shelters or requiring the individual to get a job first. Instead, people are placed in permanent housing first and foremost.37 Similar measures are taken in Medicine Hat, in Alberta Canada. There it is reported that no person goes more than 10 days before being provided permanent housing.38 Both measures make sense and prove that quality of life can be improved and money can be saved by getting residents into stable shelter. However, California is not able to take such measures unless the shortage of housing is first solved. The government cannot give the homeless apartments or homes that do not exist. In conclusion, though California is considered one of the strongest economies and most innovative governments in the world, the state leadership has fallen hopelessly short of keeping up with (much less solving) a crisis which strikes at the very core of their constituents ability to live freely and well. California has a long history of housing shortage, beginning with the subtle discrimination of early contract cities and developing into environmental and land-use regulations which slow housing projects down and decrease incentive. Inclusionary housing programs designed to ease the strain are controversial and may only worsen the lack of affordable housing. These factors lead to high rates of homelessness, increase the commonality of cost burdened residents, drain state resources, and demand that legislators spend more and more energy attempting to keep a homeless crisis at bay. If the state hopes to come back from the depths of these consuming challenges, major adjustments will have to be made to the structure of regulation and the government mandates to further provide incentive to developers and to best increase supply to meet demand.

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Notes 1. Mark Baldassare, Dean Bonner, Alyssa Dykman, Rachel Lawler, Marisol Cuellar Mejia, Vicki Hseih, “Californians and the Housing Crisis,” Public Policy Institute of California, December, December 2019, https://www.ppic.org/interactive/californians-and-the-housing-crisis/. 2. “The Lakewood Plan,” City of Lakewood, accessed April 21, 2020, https://www. lakewoodcity.org/about/history/lakewoodplan.asp. 3. Conor Dougherty, Golden Gates: Fighting for Housing in America (New York: Penguin Press, 2020), 202. 4. Katrina Schwartz, “What Would San Francisco Have Looked Like Without the ‘Freeway Revolt’?,” KQED, August 2, 2013, https://www.kqed.org/news/105321/ what-would-san-francisco-have-looked-like-without-the-freeway-revolt. 5. Virginia Postrel, “California’s Housing Crisis Has Anti-Growth Roots,” Bloomberg Opinion, May 20, 2018, https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2018-05-20/california-s-housing-crisis-has-anti-growth-roots. 6. Erin Riches and Jean Ross, “Locked Out! California’s Affordable Housing Crisis,” California Budget Project, May 2000, https://calbudgetcenter.org/wp-content/ uploads/0005lockedout.pdf. 7. Vanessa Brown Calder, “Zoning, Land-Use Planning, and Housing Affordability,” Cato Institute, October 18, 2017, https://www.cato.org/publications/policy-analysis/zoning-land-use-planning-housing-affordability. 8. John M Quigley and Steven Raphael, “Regulation and the High Cost of Housing in California,” AEA Papers and Proceedings 95, no. 2 (May 2005). 9. Benjamin Schneider, “The Ultimate Primer on Inclusionary Zoning,” CityLab, July 17, 2018, https://www.citylab.com/equity/2018/07/citylab-university-inclusionary-zoning/565181/. 10. Gary Binger, “California Inclusionary Housing Reader,” Institute for Local Self Government, 2003, https://www.ca-ilg.org/sites/main/files/file-attachments/resources__California_Inclusionary_Housing_Reader.pdf. 11. Benjamin Schneider, “The Ultimate Primer on Inclusionary Zoning.” 12. Antonio Bento, Scott Lowe, Gerrit-Jan Knaap, and Arnab Chakraborty, “Housing Market Effects of Inclusionary Zoning,” Cityscape: A Journal of Policy Development and Research 11, no. 2 (2009). 13. Ann Hollingshead, “Do Inclusionary Housing Policies Promote Housing Affordability? Evidence from the Palmer Decision in California,” Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, December 2015, https://www.lincolninst.edu/sites/default/files/pubfiles/hollingshead-wp15ah1.pdf. 14. Thomas Fuller, “Why Does It Cost $750,000 to Build Affordable Housing in San Francisco?” The New York Times, February 20, 2020, https://www.nytimes. com/2020/02/20/us/California-housing-costs.html. 15. “CEQA Frequently Asked Questions,” Planning and Conservation League, accessed April 26, 2020, https://www.pcl.org/campaigns/ceqa/ceqa-faqs/. 16. “California’s Housing and Homelessness Challenges in Context,” Legislative Analyst’s Office, 2019. 17. “California’s Housing Future: Challenges and Opportunities,” California Department of Housing and Community Development, 2018. 18. “SB-50, Third Reading,” Senate Rules Committee - Senate Floor Analysis, 2020. 19. Jeff Collins and Nikie Johnson, “California Needs More Housing, but 97% of Cities and Counties Are Failing to Issue Enough RHNA Permits,” Orange

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20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33.

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County Register, last modified December 10, 2019, https://www.ocregister. com/2019/12/09/losing-the-rhna-battle-97-of-cities-counties-fail-to-meet-statehousing-goals/. Sara Kimberlin, “Issue Brief: California’s Housing Affordability Crisis Hits Renters and Households With the Lowest Incomes the Hardest,” California Budget & Policy Center, 2019. Sean Veal and Jonathan Spader, “Nearly a Third of American Households Were Cost-Burdened Last Year,” Joint Center for Housing Studies of Harvard University, December 7, 2018, https://www.jchs.harvard.edu/blog/more-than-a-third-ofamerican-households-were-cost-burdened-last-year/. “California Affordable Housing Needs Report,” California Housing Partnership, 2020. “California’s Housing and Homelessness Challenges in Context,” Legislative Analyst’s Office, 2019. Bill Tarrant, “California Will Use State Properties as Homeless Shelters,” World Economic Forum, February 19, 2020, https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2020/02/ california-homeless-housing/. “State Of Homelessness,” National Alliance To End Homelessness, last modified 2020, https://endhomelessness.org/homelessness-in-america/homelessness-statistics/state-of-homelessness-report/. Matt Levin and Jackie Botts, “California’s Homelessness Crisis—And Possible Solutions—Explained”, CalMatters, last modified January 8, 2020, https://calmatters.org/explainers/californias-homelessness-crisis-explained/. David Wagner, “Thousands Of Californians Are Working While Homeless, And Many Don’t Want Their Boss To Know,” KQED, last modified 2018, https://www. kqed.org/news/11690325/thousands-of-californians-are-working-while-homeless-and-many-dont-want-their-boss-to-know. Housing element: emergency shelters, temporary housing, and supportive housing, A.B. 3122, California Legislature, http://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200AB3122. “On the Heels of State of the State, Governor Newsom Highlights State-Owned Properties Available for Emergency Homeless Housing, Calls on Cities and Counties to Partner with the State,” Office of Governor Gavin Newsom, State of California, February 21, 2020, https://www.gov.ca.gov/2020/02/21/on-the-heelsof-state-of-the-state-governor-newsom-highlights-state-owned-properties-available-for-emergency-homeless-housing-calls-on-cities-and-counties-to-partnerwith-the-state/. Planning and Zoning: Housing Development: Streamlined Approval: Incentives, S.B. 50, California Legislature, https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200SB50. Planning and Zoning: General Plan: Housing Development, A.B. 3107, California Legislature, https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200AB3107. Matt Levin, “Nearly 900 Placed into Hotels, Motels - a Fraction of California’s Homeless,” CalMatters, April 4, 2020, https://calmatters.org/housing/2020/04/ california-coronavirus-newsom-homeless-hotels-motels/. Kelsi Maree Borland, “California’s Tourism Industry Among Most Exposed in Nation,” GlobeSt, April 17, 2020, https://www.globest.com/2020/04/17/californias-tourism-industry-among-most-exposed-in-nation/?slreturn=20200325200553.

34. Ehren Dohler, “Supportive Housing Helps Vulnerable People Live and Thrive in the Community,” Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, October 11, 2017, https://www.cbpp.org/research/housing/supportive-housing-helps-vulnerable-people-live-and-thrive-in-the-community. 35. Thomas Fuller, “Why Does It Cost $750,000 to Build Affordable Housing in San Francisco?” 36. Jenny Schuetz, “To Improve Housing Affordability, We Need Better Alignment of Zoning, Taxes, and Subsidies,” Brookings, March 16, 2020, https://www.brookings.edu/policy2020/bigideas/to-improve-housing-affordability-we-need-better-alignment-of-zoning-taxes-and-subsidies/. 37. Alex Gray, “Here’s How Finland Solved Its Homelessness Problem,” World Economic Forum, accessed April 26, 2020, https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2018/02/how-finland-solved-homelessness. 38. Justin Salhani, “Four Countries The United States Can Look To When Fighting Homelessness,” ThinkProgress, June 29, 2016, https://archive.thinkprogress.org/ four-countries-the-united-states-can-look-to-when-fighting-homelessnessa2a43e2cc396/.

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Perichoresis and the Great Dance in Perelandra NOAH SALES

C. S. Lewis is a beloved writer by many for his fiction and Christian writings. I am enamored by his numerous works and tie-ins to his Christian faith within many of his writings. Perelandra portrays how Lewis melds his love of the imagination and faith through the journey of Ransom, which connects to the theological doctrine of perichoresis. Perichoresis, or the dance/movement of love, is a theological term that describes the Trinity and the dynamic movement of God within our reality. Is it a possibility that Lewis’ Perelandra was an attempt to reflect the nature of this doctrine? Perichoresis helps to explain the nature of man’s free will and God’s preordination, and is synonymous with Lewis’ Great Dance metaphor. Ransom’s extraterrestrial adventures are brought under the will of Maleldil and he is invited to act against or for it, yet Maleldil’s plan will always have been planned despite Ransom’s choice. The characters of Perelandra reflect the acceptance of God’s invitation into the Great Dance, or joining, with God’s movement. It is akin to how God is the Lead-dancer and his movements are preordained, yet he invites us of our own free will to submit to his movements. Therefore, it could be stated that Ransom, Weston, and the Green Lady are the agencies by which the reflection of man’s free will and God’s preordination are one and the same. In analyzing these characters and the Great Dance within Perelandra through perichoresis, one can see how Lewis reconciles free will and preordination through Ransom’s journey. Regarding Perelandra, many critics touch on the nature of man against the backdrop of God’s will and the Great Dance. However, perichoresis offers a theological perspective to what critics have already recognized, and it provides a further perspective on Lewis’s metaphors like the Great Dance. However, without stating it, some non-theologians were very close in emphasizing the importance of the nature of perichoresis within Lewis’ Perelandra and the unity of the two wills in the Great Dance. Therefore the theological discussion of perichoresis runs parallel to many of the issues that are revealed in the Great Dance in Perelandra. Numerous theologians have written articles on the understanding of the doctrine of perichoresis and man’s will. Jurgen Moltmann and Daniel Stramara are respected theologians who reflect many of Lewis’ sentiments about the Great Dance, despite no direct connection between them. Stramara helps to solidify and give weight to Lewis’s theological implications. In Stramara’s article, “Gregory of Nyssa’s Terminology for Trinitarian Perichoresis,” he remarks on the oneness of individual will and predetermined movement of God (Stramara 261). To him, perichoresis is an ever-moving dance of love that is inviting, submissive, and exalting. The concept of perichoresis does not “vitiate the respective individuality and incommunicability of each” of the persons (Stramara 259). Such is seen

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in Lewis’ portrayal of Ransom and the Green Lady’s submission to Maleldil. Maleldil does not tread on their free will but invites them into his will. Moltmann’s article, “Perichoresis: An Old Magic Word for a New Trinitarian Theology,” acts as an explanation of God’s transcendent nature upon the world, which is also reflected in the nature of man and His invitation of grace (Moltmann 118). Perichoresis sits upon the dynamic, yet constant nature of God within the world. Moltmann emphasizes a need for man to experience the sensual richness of creation in order to understand the true nature of God, but it is not possible without the gift of grace (Moltmann 113). Such could be related back to Ransom’s sensual experiences upon his landing in Perelandra and Maleldil’s invitation. Moltmann continues to build the concept of perichoresis into the unity of time and space, body and spirit, and God and Man (Moltmann 125). God moves in a way that He wills but creates an open space through grace for all creatures to join in the movement, or in other words, free will. The open invitation to dwell in perichoretic harmony with God is predicated upon preordained grace and mediated by human free will. These theologians offer a deep-theological perspective that easily ties into Lewis’ Perelandra. The parallels between the concept and Lewis are compelling and reveal an unexplored conversation in the current criticism of Perelandra. Several articles touched on the submission of will and its theological weight that Lewis portrays in Perelandra. Though they are very close they seem to hit just shy of the mark and offer a look into Lewis’s familiarity with perichoresis. Richard Clarke’s article, “Paradise Retained: C.S. Lewis on the Nature of Knowledge, Reality, and Morality in Perelandra,” hits the closest in resolving the nature of free will and predestination with an emphasis on the Great Dance in Perelandra. He too argues that the two wills are inherently one and the same within reality. Lewis’ Space Trilogy, especially Perelandra, serves as a taste of the present reality for the Christian worldview (Clarke 64). The intricacies of the crafted worlds, characters, and ideologies contain truths of the present reality. Clarke’s reasoning reflects some aspects of the perichoretic nature of reality and asserts that creation is inherently good in its role, despite its corruption (Clarke 64). Clarke speaks much on the free will of humanity through Ransom and co. but little on the grace of God due to the corruption of the world. To be out of the movement of God is not good and without the invitation of grace, then there is no reconciliation or true liberation of creation. Clarke equates the perfection of Perelandra to our world’s inherent goodness, and it is within creation’s capacity to act freely without grace. In Christopher Scarf ’s book, The Ideal of Kingship in the Writings of Charles Williams, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien: Divine Kingship Is Reflected in Middle-Earth, his chapter, “Lewis and the Hierarchy,” gives a great discussion on free will and obedience. Scarf ’s main point hinges on the open space of love that calls for obedience in God’s order of creation (Scarf 92). His argument hits many perichoretic attributes without delving into greater depth,

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but he gives context about an obedient and loving faith for God, which is dependent upon free will. Lewis’ Space Trilogy point towards what a paradise retained may look like, but our world is short of the goodness of God’s vision. However, the critics may be focusing more on the movement towards goodness, and he ties in brilliant points about Ransom’s revelation within Perelandra. On a similar note, Sarah Eddings in her article, “The Use of the Vertical Plane to Indicate Holiness in C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy,” gives a great overarching perspective from all three books within the trilogy. Her focus was unique in how she centered upon the actual spatial direction of objects to reflect a spiritual direction. Eddings’s emphasis was on the submission of man’s will within the physical realm which is indicative of their spiritual state or closeness to Maleldil’s will (Eddings 33). She argues that the physical imagery of spatial direction pertained to the holiness of Maleldil and whether one submits under Him. What she does not specify was the distinction of Maleldil’s will as preordination and the invitation of open space for creation to freely join in. With her analysis of the theological implications of Maleldil’s will and creation’s will, I thought that she would give a focus on the nature of the Great Dance, but she only offers a brief mention. Eddings references the theological brevity of the Great Dance rather than its expansive offering that could build upon her focus on Lewis’ imagery of spatial movement, or direction. However, Eddings does well in noting the importance of Lewis’s theological implications and in her focus on the spatial imagery that reflects submission under Maleldil through the Space Trilogy. Moreover, Monika Hilder’s article, “The Packed Reality of Heaven: C.S. Lewis’s Imaginative Re-Education of the Modern Pilgrim,” argues that Lewis’ Space Trilogy is his realignment of the Christian’s perspective of the human identity. Hilder focuses on Lewis’s practice of employing storytelling and biblical worldview as a way to portray the present reality of heaven for the Christian believer (Hilder 96). Ransom and the Space Trilogy is a representation of Lewis reimagining the view of the spiritual battle that Christians go through in their faith. Ransom’s experiences are said to represent the true reality of what was supposed to be without the present corruption of sin. She touches largely on the perspective of the believer in relation to Lewis’ development of the different worlds and Ransom. Notably, she does touch on the Great Dance’s fulfilling nature and the celestial love that encompasses all of creation, but stops there (Hilder 102). Her observation of the theological interdependence of creation upon heaven is an important thing to note. Her focus on the present reality of heaven and the metaphysical implications are done very well in extracting Lewis’ purpose of his Space Trilogy. However, it could have gone deeper into the nature of God that is portrayed in Maleldil and Deep Heaven. The interdependent essence of creation could be related back to the perichoretic relationship of the Trinity and its implications for the worlds that Lewis created.

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Other critics speak on the ecological roles of creation, particularly the placing of humanity. Matthew Dickerson and David O’Hara co-authored Narnia and the Fields of Arbol: The Environmental Vision of C.S. Lewis, and their chapter, “Perelandra: Creation and Conscience,” offers a look into the ethical roles for creation. In their conversation, they state, “all rational beings participate in creation by affirming their place in creation, and all beings have natures that long to grow into perfection,” (Dickerson & O’Hara 184). Such is drawn from Ransom’s journey across the cosmos, but more could be discussed on how the Great Dance draws all of creation into perfection. Dickerson and O’Hara draw parallels to Moltmann’s perichoretic concepts when they state, “Their [Perelandran’s] encounters with the divine in nature will take place entirely at a tangible level” or sensual experiences (Dickerson & O’Hara 188). The two critics draw from the concept of perichoresis but do not emphasize its importance alongside the Great Dance. However, they do give an in-depth analysis of Weston’s existence and Ransom’s through an ecological perspective. Weston’s existence as the Un-Man seeks to equate all of creation into an equal playing field, thus rendering the hierarchy and God into a convoluted mess (Dickerson & O’Hara 194). To build upon their statements, the danger of Weston’s universal equality spurs danger for the Great Dance since it is based on a hierarchy of roles, not superiority. If creation is made equal with God then there is no movement or plan within the universe, which the two authors could have incorporated that into their ecological discussion of Perelandra. In contrast to Weston’s attempt to disrupt the natural order of creation and destroy the perception of God, Ransom serves as the salt to preserve its truth. However, in this plan for preservation, Ransom has a choice to preserve the ecological order of Perelandra. The co-authors state, “Lewis’s Ransom is an enacted answer to that belief: if we fail to care, God may set things right, but we will have acted with impiety,” (Dickerson & O’Hara 195). By this statement, the co-authors recognize the freedom of human choice and God’s preordination in an ecological manner. The co-authors offer an ecological perspective into perichoresis without directly addressing it. However, the displayed hierarchy in the Great Dance and the concept of perichoresis would help to further outline aspects of their ecological thinking. Alongside the same line, other critics highlighted the importance of analyzing Lewis’s concept of gender within the hierarchy of creation, particularly focusing on Eve. In Benita Muth’s article, “Paradise Retold: Lewis’s Reimagining of Milton, Eden, and Eve,” she states that, like Milton in Paradise Lost, “Lewis, too, displays a strong commitment to free will for all humanity, regardless of gender, and to the implication of the theoretical possibility of an unfallen creation…” (Muth 24). Lewis’s Perelandra purposes to demonstrate the agency of humanity in preserving paradise through the new Eve or The Green Lady. The

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Green Lady discovers her role on the planet and freely chooses a path that, unlike Eve, preserves paradise. Parallel to Eden, the woman is given free choice to determine the course of their paradise and the Green Lady’s recognition of her role reveals the freedom in it. Thus, Muth starts a discussion that, unbeknownst to her, runs parallel to the perichoretic nature of the Trinity. For example, she draws into the necessity of free will and willful submission (or subordination) under God’s goodness that is displayed through the hierarchy of creation (Muth 28). She states a compelling observation on how “Eve is subordinate to Adam and accepts that role voluntarily and happily as a part of her love for him” and is not demeaned or made inferior in importance (Muth 29). Muth’s focal points on gender run parallel to the perichoretic relationship within the Trinity, where a hierarchy is situated between the persons of God. Neither one is greater than the other, but there is a willful subordination for the higher beloved. In this case, the Green Lady’s willful acceptance of her role is a restoring image of Eve’s failure. Furthermore, her observation of human agency within the realm of creation offers a perspective on God’s grand plan for the universe. Furthermore, critics give guidelines on approaching Lewis’s works and his literary perception of the world. In Grace Tiffany’s article, “C.S. Lewis: The Anti-Platonic Platonist,” she touches on the nature of Lewis’s writings and how he was influenced by Platonic thinking (Tiffany 357). She highlights Lewis’s attempts to portray Christian truths through many of his writings and their Platonic influences. In the context of the research, she gives a necessary guideline on how to approach Lewis’s literature. Many of Lewis’s writings act to impart the truth through means of reflection as seen in his metaphors (Tiffany 359). Rather than stating the obvious fact, it must be experienced or drawn in a light that makes it experiential for the soul. Her statement can be drawn upon the metaphor of the Great Dance and other imagery within Perelandra. What occurs in these crafted worlds is meant to point towards an absolute good by Lewis. Therefore, Tiffany states, “None of these imagined heaves has any Biblical authority” but literary imagination are tools that “we are given for seeking heaven” (Tiffany 366). Tiffany’s perception helps in the conversation on perichoresis and the Great Dance metaphor within Perelandra. The Great Dance serves as a tool to imagine the perichoretic nature of God and creation, which gives reason to focus on its importance in the conversation of the critics. Therefore, I would propose that Lewis’s reconciliation of free will and preordination is done through his metaphorical use of perichoresis in the Great Dance. The characters of Ransom, Weston, and the Green Lady act as constituents to demonstrate the perichoretic nature of God and creation within Perelandra. Ransom serves as the main player to demonstrate the entrance into the Great Dance. When Ransom argues with the voluble self about the battle set by Maleldil, he states, “What was the sense of so arranging things that

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anything really important should finally and absolutely depend on such a man of straw as himself ?” (Lewis 117). By Ransom’s question, one can note a certain dilemma about the will of man and God. Ransom recognizes his role in God’s plan alongside his free will to not act as an agent for it. But Maleldil has made room in His movement for Ransom to join Him in His plans, though it seems planless to Ransom. Ransom’s act of joining is predicated upon the submission of his free will through faith in Maleldil. The actions of the Green Lady and Ransom determine the preservation of paradise, which God preordained for them to decide. However, he does not know how to proceed but questions if this was what Maleldil was planning. Ransom’s doubts ceased when he concludes, “All that was being demanded of him was a general and preliminary resolution to oppose the Enemy in any mode which circumstances might show to be desirable…‘to do his best’” (Lewis 117). Ransom’s resolution is predicated upon the action of free will and faith. It is a submissive recognition of God’s movement working through his free choice. The perichoretic movement lures him in as he recognizes God’s plan and his own will in it. Furthermore, this statement is fulfilled by one of the voices on the mountain stating, “‘All that is made seems planless to the darkened mind, because there are more plans than it looked for... Set your eyes on one movement and it will lead you through all patterns and it will seem to you the master movement...There seems no plan because it is all plan: there seems no centre because it is all centre. Blessed be He!’” (Lewis 184). Ransom’s prior revelation is fulfilled in the Great Dance. The act of setting your eyes on the perichoretic movement reconciles God’s preordination and man’s free will. Ransom realizes, “Each figure as he looked at it became the master-figure or focus of the whole spectacle, by means of which his eye disentangled all else and brought it into unity” (Lewis 184). The statement on how each figure became the master-figure evokes the perichoretic invitation of free will in God’s plan. Ransom became the “master-figure” by which God gave him the freedom to direct the fate of Perelandra. However, God remained the lead dancer as He ultimately directs the movement of creation. In his actions, Ransom is brought into a greater depth of unity with Maleldil as he recognizes his own role in the world. The division of free will and preordination is blurred by Lewis as a man of straw was made the master-figure. Therefore, it stands to reason the need to bring the concept of perichoresis into this discussion because it illuminates Lewis’s attempts to align the will of man and God. Through a perichoretic lens, Weston serves as the opposing current towards the entrance into the Great Dance. As God draws in all of creation into his movement, the Devil lures creation away. During their early conversation, Weston hints at a certain movement when he states, “There’s such a thing as the main current...It’s a question of surrendering yourself to that — making yourself the conductor of the live, fiery, central purpose — becoming the very finger

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with which it reaches forward” (Lewis 76). His statement vaguely represents the movement of perichoresis, which is entered through willful submission and by invitation of God. However, Weston’s version deviates by aspiring for the invitee to be the lead conductor of the movement. There is no subordination, no exaltation, or love for another but only oneself. It contrasts the hierarchical movement of the true Great Dance, where the lesser beings are given importance, but God remains the lead dancer. Weston argues that man should become the lead dancer or manipulator of said movement. Such temptations are what Weston used against the Green Lady in order to lure her out of Maleldil’s will. However, in a paradoxical fashion, Weston serves as the necessary means to mature the Green Lady by opening the capacity of her free choice to step out of Maleldil’s movement (Lewis 109). His offering of another movement outside of God’s was planned for her to exercise her free will. It is in this temptation that the perichoretic movement is intensified as another movement attempts to counter it. She is invited to remain in the movement of Maleldil or join the Unman. She, like Ransom, stands at the center of the universe and has the choice to direct its course by God’s design. While Ransom serves as the agent to enter into the perichoretic movement of God, the Green Lady serves as the agent to remain in it, and Weston is the force that challenges the perichoretic movement. Therefore, perichoresis helps to illuminate Lewis’s imagery of the Great Dance within Perelandra. The theological concept serves to portray the preordained movement of God and man’s free will.

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Works Cited

Clarke, Richard L. W. “Paradise Retained: C. S. Lewis on the Nature of Knowledge, Reality, and Morality in Perelandra.” Sehnsucht: The C.S. Lewis Journal, vol. 11, 2017, pp. 63–98. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/48579654. Accessed 19 Nov. 2020. Dickerson, Matthew, and O’Hara, David.“Perelandra: Creation and Conscience.” Narnia and the Fields of Arbol: The Environmental Vision of C. S. Lewis, University Press of Kentucky, Lexington, Kentucky, 2009, pp. 182–207. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt2jchzg.11. Accessed 20 Nov. 2020. Eddings, Sarah. “The Use of the Vertical Plane to Indicate Holiness in C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy.” Mythlore, vol. 34, no. 2 (128), 2016, pp. 33–45. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26816033. Accessed 5 Nov. 2020. Hilder, Monika B. “‘The Packed Reality of Heaven’: C. S. Lewis’s Imaginative Re-Education of the Modern Pilgrim.” Sehnsucht: The C.S. Lewis Journal, vol. 12, 2018, pp. 93–120. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/48579687. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020. Lewis, C. S. Perelandra. Samizdat, 2015. Ebook. Moltmann, Jürgen. “Perichoresis: An Old Magic Word for a New Trinitarian Theology.” In Meeks, M. Douglas. Ed. Trinity, Community, and Power: Mapping Trajectories in Wesleyan Theology, 2000, pp. 111–126. https://oimts. files.wordpress.com/2013/01/06_1997_moltmann.pdf Muth, Benita Huffman. “Paradise Retold: Lewis’s Reimagining of Milton, Eden, and Eve.” Mythlore, vol. 37, no. 1 (133), 2018, pp. 23–44. JSTOR, www. jstor.org/stable/26809322. Accessed 30 Nov. 2020. Scarf, Christopher. “Lewis and the Hierarchy.” The Ideal of Kingship in the Writings of Charles Williams, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien: Divine Kingship Is Reflected in Middle-Earth, 1st ed., The Lutterworth Press, Cambridge, United Kingdom, 2013, pp. 83–98. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/j. ctt1cgf7k7.12. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020. Stramara, Daniel F. “Gregory of Nyssa’s Terminology for Trinitarian Perichoresis.” Vigiliae Christianae, vol. 52, no. 3, 1998, pp. 257–263. JSTOR, www.jstor. org/stable/1584502. Accessed 30 Nov. 2020. Tiffany, Grace. “C. S. Lewis: The Anti-Platonic Platonist.” Christianity and Literature, vol. 63, no. 3, 2014, pp. 357–371. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26194758. Accessed 30 Nov. 2020.

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178

SECTION IV

Photo Exhibit 179

EM CHRISTINE DODGE Little Friends

Through a Glass 180

Stormy Days (Fort Sumter)

181

JACK PASCUA Absorbing

Poppies 182

ALEXANDRIA HURST

Daydream

Time Suspended 183

TABITHA EGGINGTON

A Glimpse of Abe and George 184

EMILIE BAKKER

Miniature World

185

186

PART V

Music 187

je ne sais pas...

MOLLY MCAULIFFE

je ne sais pas...

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188

Façade

GRACE BROWN

Verse I-VI-IV-I-V You walk with swagger down the hall And when they see you, people call. Seems like the whole world bows at your feet; It’s a shame they don’t see what I see. Pre-Chorus II-VI-V, II-VI, II-I-V You put on thisf açade, Actin’ so above it all, I know who you are. Chorus I-IV-I-II-I-IV-VI-IV-I-V I know, I know the real you, Not the one you’re pretending to be. I know, I know the real you, And he’s not the one that you want them to see. I know, I know the real you, Not the one you’re pretending to be. I know, I know the real you And oh, lucky me, there’s more fish in this deep blue sea. Verse II-VI-IV-I-V

You broke my heart and put it in a song. Thought my pain was catchy and they all sang along. Why did it take me so long to see You were no good for me? So just let me be. Bridge x3 VI-III-II-VI-I-VI-V And you, you keep on pullin’ me in, And I can’t get you out of my head.

189

4 A.M. Lullaby

MADISON SPIEGEL

4 A.M. Lullaby

Score

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191

A Song for the King of Mars GWEN E. LEMNA

Prelude: This song is a fictional narrative written in a futuristic society where people have moved to planets when Earth ran out of space and space travel was as easy and common as a train ride. People’s class level and jobs are dictated by the planet they reside on. If it helps, think of the districts in the hunger games (but this is not what gave me the idea). The only planet that did not work, contained the top 1% of people in society. This planet was Mars.

I’ve heard tales Of men on one planet, Who flew and sailed To a shore and began it. There was a time Where travel gave fruit, And life had rhyme; Where lands would dispute They had everything but time. Their lives were full And busy and new, Their lives were exempt From this planet of blue. This planet Neptune Is for the lower class. We’re called the Fishing Tool; No time to raise a glass Or for teachers and school. No time to rank class With money that pools. I have no motivation. No education. No future. No past. I have today, Just like yesterday, Just like tomorrow, Just like every day.

192

The King of Mars Declared that society Shall always be steady, Shall always be this way. But if I may, I'd like to disagree. You see, Back in the day, Not just one would say “This ought to be,” But society made way, And history was made; Democracy had say. People had a choice. I like that choice gave chance, Made change. I’d like a choice. We need a chance To raise our voice, To make a stance Against a man, Highest in society, With no need To practice sobriety. We need not Have any more propriety Towards this ludicrous, meticulous, anti-piety society. Hear my voice, Listen to my song! Remember your choice To sing along To his song.

193

Quarantined

JAMESON NIZO Quarantined Let me out Jameson Nizo

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194

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195

bibliotheca discipulus

ALEXANDRIA AND JEDEDIAH HURST

*To be sung in the style of a Gregorian Chant Long ago, in times distant past Stood tall a great library, its holds vast; And all the books of Alexandria, nay, the world Were meant to be sheltered therein, as indeed many were. But hark! That library is gone now And naught remains, as even the ashes are swept away. First came the fires of a civil war, then next the plundering of radicals, And now the great and legendary Library of Alexandria is gone. But fear not, my friends, for its equivalent has returned! A new repository of knowledge and literature; And surely all the world shall rejoice, For this Wikipedia has achieved what once was lost! But halt, what is this? This miraculous repository is forbidden! Distrusted, marked as duplicitous, viewed as a harbinger of deception; Its very reference is forbidden and discounted in the great halls of academics! How can this be? How can we have come to this? The answer is simple, my friends, and lies in the very structure of this digital library: For any who so chooses may add to this library at a whim, And may present any mistake or deception as the truth— Or so is supposed. You see my fellows, this repository is protected; This vast expanse of knowledge kept safe. Wikipedia is guarded all hours of every day! Hark! Surveillance has saved the day! The requirement of sources and bibliographies Here is made to protect and ensure integrity. Why then? Why ban the modern Library of Alexandria? With the guards in place and the integrity upheld, Why must we prevent our students from learning the most useful of lessons? Why can’t we encourage them to learn to identity well supported arguments? And differentiate them from falsities? “Why don’t the children read?”

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Asked day after day after day, The blame going to the electronics, Yet here are the children, enthusiastic to learn And banned from our generation’s library. Is every book in every physical library truthful? Is every argument made in person accurate and well rounded? Why are students expected to think critically there, Yet thought of as naive when on Wikipedia? It is an injustice to students everywhere. Give us back our Library of Alexandria!

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Acknowledgement The Synecdoche 2021 team began this journal in the middle of a global pandemic, from the messy bedrooms, couches, and desks of six soon-to-be college graduates. The final journal is the zenith of countless hours of emails, reading, editing, and more emails. We are incredibly grateful for the dedication and passion of this year’s team, a team whose origins are as diverse as the journal, from transfer students from universities across the nation to students in different majors (or with double majors), whose individual passions range from teaching, law, creative writing, and scholarly works. We would like to thank this year's team: Zachary Hileman, Elijah Lemna, Kyley McAuliffe, Idalis Moscoso, Noah Sales, and Julia Weimerskirch. Special thanks to the English department for their unwavering support in publishing a student-led journal every year and providing feedback to their students on how we can continue to improve and grow: Warren Doody, Laurie Hatch, and Jennifer Russum. We also want to thank the professors at Vanguard University whose passion and kindness championed the students writing that have been published, including the various adjunct professors whose impact does not go unnoticed: Crystal Couch, Kyle Durham, Mary Frandson, Shana Koh, Ona LaMotte, Karrie Preasmyer, James Prothero, Matthew Walker, Amanda White, and Heidi Zameni. The journal would be impossible without the hundreds of submissions from students across varying departments at Vanguard University and especially the students whose hard work and creativity are coming to fruition in their publication in Synecodoche: Volume 18: Felix Albrecht, Michael Angel, Emilie Bakker, Rachel Birdsell, Elter Bright, Grace Brown, Angelea Carrol, Asia Collins, Kristian Davis Jr., Em Christine Dodge, Tabitha Eggington, Madison Elizabeth, Laura Esther, Alexa Garcia, J. Luke Herman, Aly Highleyman, Matthew Holgate, Alexandria Hurst, Jedediah Hurst, Grace Israel, Gwen E. Lemna, Megan Luebberman, Chelsea Mann, Jaden Massaro, Molly McAuliffe, Molly McDowell, Alexandra Niebaum, Jameson Nizo, Chloe Noelle, Jack Pascua, Isabella Perez, Anthony Pooni, Rebekah Pulaski, Abigail Reid, Leah Rodriguez, Noah Sales, Heather Marie Siracusa, Nicole Smolinksi, Alyssa Soria, Madison Spiegel, Noah Stecker, Ethen Tucker, Sophia Trejo, and Julia Weimerskirch.

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We dedicate this journal to all past, present, and future students who will continue to express their creativity and passion through literature.

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Synecdoche Team

“Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough." - Emily Dickinson Julia Weimerskirch Editor-in-Chief

"Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works." - Virginia Woolf Idalis Moscoso Managing Editor & Scholarly Committee Member “But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself." - C. S. Lewis Noah Sales Production Editor & Scholarly Works Editor

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"No half-heartedness and no worldly fear must turn us aside from following the light unflinchingly." - J.R.R. Tolkien Elijah Lemna Copy Editor “Every wrtier is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull." - Rod Sterling Zachary Hileman Creative Works Editor & Photography/Art Committee Member

Kyley McAuliffe Photography/Art Editor & Scholarly Committee Member

"Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning." - Maya Angelou

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Synecdoche 2021

Articles inside

Alexandria and Jedediah Hurst, bibliotheca discipulus

Chelsea Mann, Cultivation

Jack Pascua

Noah Sales, Perichoresis and the Great Dance in Perelandra

Em Christine Dodge

Goes Wrong

Megan Luebberman, The Function of Family

Michael Angel, The Clock Cleaner

Laura Esther, from Moving On; Chapter III - The Circled Date

Sophia Trejo, Something Blue

Rebekah Pulaski, Blurry Eyes

Abigail Reid, Power's Out

Michael Angel, Nobody Likes You When You're 17... or Whatever Blink-182 Said

Julia Weimerskirch, Silent Lunches

Noah Sales, Garlic Fried Rice

Rebekah Pulaski, Continuing as Strangers

Matthew Kenslow, How I Got an Award-Winning Book about Autism Published at 23

Jaden Massaro, Six Feet

Nicole Smolinksi, Renovations

Leah Rodriguez, Tempest

Abigail Reid, A Regard

J. Luke Herman, The Castle of Glass

J. Luke Herman, The Man in the Arena

Jaden Massaro, Firebird

Leah Rodriguez, Delicate Frame

Chelsea Mann, An Unheard Plea

Chelsea Mann, Quotidian

Elter Bright, To be Black is to be Like Our Hair

Alyssa Soria, I May Not Look Like You

Felix Albrecht, Poem for Mom

Nicole Smolinksi, Anticipation

Jaden Massaro, The Keystone State

Julia Weimerskirch, What Happens at 3 in the Morning

Abigail Reid, He's as Strong as Gravity

Alexandra Niebaum, Grounding

Chelsea Mann, 11:28

Asia Collins, One Burden's Thought

J. Luke Herman, The Island of My Dreams

Alexa Garcia, 3am Thoughts

Alexa Garcia, Midnight Prayers

Ethen Tucker, Corazón de Dios & Heart of God

Madison Elizabeth, Alter of Books

J. Luke Herman, The Canopy

Isabella Perez, A Heart that Beats for You

Angelea Carrol, Crisis of Contentment

Elter Bright, Tense

Rachel Birdsell, A Poem of Where