~1~
Editor’s Page Dear reader, The organizational process of this journal started with finding a common theme. We found that all the pieces fell into one of two camps: hope or disappointment. Oftentimes, life seems to manifest itself in these two ways. Either things happen the way we want them to, or they don’t. Despite our circumstances, however, everlasting hope can always be found. The placement of the first and last pieces specifically speaks to this concept. Demonstrated in the first piece, oftentimes our situation is dependent on our perspective. Will you stay strong, and hold out hope, or will you buckle under the strain? The last piece speaks to the beauty of the world that we often miss out on. Sometimes hope can be clouded by disappointment; we need clarity. Every day we choose the way we see things. In your circumstances do you see disappointment, because it didn’t happen how you imagined it to, or hope because maybe there’s something even better about to happen? Sincerely, Jessica Campbell, Shannon Mooney and Joshua Warner
~2~
~3~
Behind the Scenes Many people contributed to the completion of this literary journal. This is truly a community effort and we are very proud of the lively writing and art culture Wheaton Academy promotes. We hope this journal will be a glimpse into the creative community that we are so thankful to be a part of at Wheaton Academy. Senior Editors: Shannon Mooney, Joshua Warner and Jessica Campbell Art Editors: Alexa Gum and Aaron Peabody Student Readers: Katie Bracy, Alex Kirchner, Julia McKee and Anna Neumayer Faculty Advisor: Matthew Browning Faculty Art Advisor: Sean McCallum
~4~
Table of Contents Yen………………………………………………………9 Gabrielle Demeritt Concerning the Dilapidated Barn at the Corner of North Avenue and Kirk Road…………………………………10 Shannon Mooney Line……….……………………………………………12 Aaron Peabody Actions of Consequence..………………………………13 Joshua Warner Cockiness.………………………………………………14 Jameson Brinks Child Soldier……………………………………………16 Aaron Peabody Dusty Passion..…………………………………………17 Ann Marie Bagge Elements and Principles...………………………………18 Alexa Gum Dear Maggie……………………………………………19 Katie Bracy Candle Heart……………………………………………20 Lindsey Benda Box..……………………………………………………21 Kat Maret Shakesperian Sonnet Number Six: The Storm …………22 Lizzie Wall
~5~
Untitled…………………………………………………23 Damaris Dunham Final Project ……………………………………………24 Jake Hoepner Birds of Pray: The Cardinal .……………………………25 Ryan Beck Untitled…………………………………………………27 Zoe Zheng Mother of The Year ……………………………………28 Tori Tellschow Face.……………………………………………………31 Maria Yang A Fairy Tale.……………………………………………32 Sela McClelland Returning.………………………………………………34 Shannon Mooney Untitled…………………………………………………35 SaRang Chung Happy Thanksgiving ...…………………………………36 Kelsey Cervenka The Noose ..……………………………………………38 Peter Rak Pencil Composition .……………………………………41 Cody Cox The Ford and the Go Getter……………………………42 Joel Swick Analog Photo Composition..……………………………43 Joel Swick
~6~
Ricky……………………………………………………44 Kat Maret Untitled…………………………………………………46 Alexa Gum The Refugees ...…………………………………………47 Gabrielle Demeritt Elements and Principles .……………………………….49 Aaron Peabody Closing Night..………………………………………….50 Amy Lazar Ceramic Composition .…………………………………51 Julia McKee and Lucy Tilly Untitled...…….…………………………………………52 Alexa Gum Two Empty Spaces .……………………………………53 Shannon Mooney Shape...…………………………………………………56 Stephan Neptune Roast Beef....……………………………………………57 Jason Zheng Painted Paper Mosaic ..…………………………………58 Ellen Bazzoli, Betsey Jones, Johnny Naskrent, Alex Riddle, Kate Schraeder, and Allison Spoelhof A Poem’s Questions ...………………………………….59 Nate Urban Pinecone in the Snow ..…………………………………60 Elaine Pszczolkowski Untitled…………………………………………………61 Megan Scanlan ~7~
A Box of Chocolate ……………………………………62 Jason Zheng Final Project……………………………………………65 Noah Van Dyke Our World Wiggles .……………………………………66 Nathan Andrus
~8~
YEN
By Gabrielle Demeritt
The doors shut on the night that is full of abstract could have beens. Empty exits are made as lights flash and keys turn. Blurred scenes of the night are a direct reflection of each and every mind. All is raw and possible, just beyond a window. If you want to be a part of it then slow it down, reach out your hand. This is simple in theory. All of it is most likely a feasible illusion, really miles away all along, you think. Time to break down. Maybe you should just sit in torture of want. At least it pushes you closer to what you’re looking for. Even if it’s but a figment of your own imagination. Wear your spirit on the outside. Then the kettle will scream and the rain will fall you think. But you know what? Thoughts can’t move mountains. They can’t make it happen. Body and soul are required ingredients and soon the question asked is, are you strong or are you weak?
~9~
CONCERNING THE DILAPIDATED BARN AT THE CORNER OF NORTH AVENUE AND KIRK ROAD By Shannon Mooney
Untamed grass like lions’ manes grow at the porous concrete foundation of this empty shell. Once teeming with neigh’s, or moo’s or bahh’s, this lesion breathes silently, releasing the occasional creak of a door that longs for human touch. The rusty door handles resemble the faded siding, unrecognizable from its original color. The roof caves in; the shingles await their downfall. The structure is surrounded by glistening new strip malls, fragile like china. There are plastic mannequins in the transparent windows, eerie faces with lifeless eyes. The malls mock the barn, the pot calling the kettle black. The stoplights next to the malls tremble like paper in front of a fan as the daring cars whiz by. Even the grass is brown, feeling weak, crushed underneath the plasticized frames of the temporary “architecture”: commercial paradise.
~ 10 ~
Next to all these the barn, this monument, stands strong against the forces of wind and time.
~ 11 ~
Line by Aaron Peabody [digital photograph]
~ 12 ~
ACTIONS OF CONSEQUENCE By Joshua Warner
Cars drive by—everyone busily doing their own thing, nobody realizing the consequences their actions hold. One car speeding, late for work ends the life of an unfortunate soul. Nobody realizes the consequences their actions hold; one mistake, one moment of carelessness ends the life of an unfortunate soul trying to live life. One mistake, one moment of carelessness and a nation crumbles at the touch. Trying to live life for one’s self is dangerous. A nation crumbles at a touch— —it makes one stop and think, for one’s self is dangerous and it could be you that is dead. It makes one stop and think, one car speeding, late for work and it could be you, that is dead, while cars drive by—everyone busily doing their own thing.
~ 13 ~
COCKINESS
By Jameson Brinks
There was a slight drizzle as the crowd looked on, that October night, and just cold enough that when the ball would meet the bat it stung, like a bumble bee in the summer. Kyle Kozac, voted most valuable player from ESPN was on deck, looking across at his fellow teammate, inching off of second as if he had something to hide. He picked up one bat, then another, and if that wasn’t enough he went for a third. Raising them up and swinging with all his force, while his biceps glimmered in the lights from the stadium and calves bulging as he took a step. He turned around not much interested in the game, although it was the World Series, and just happened to be the last inning of game seven. He looked into the stands smiling at all the fans, counting which ones had his jersey on, pondering on his MVP award, remembering his glory. This was shortly interrupted by his teammate who had just struck out, leaving the game up to him. One at bat, one swing, and one hit for Kyle to be able to say “World Series champs”. This was no big deal for the MVP, as he remembered all the times as a kid when he was needed to win the game and not once did he fail his team. Kyle slowly walked to the plate, pumping himself up in his head, but distracted by his coaches voice. Why would the coach want to talk to him? Why now? Kyle strutted over to his coach to get the last word on the pitcher before he stepped to the plate. This was not an ordinary talk with the coach. He told him that there was going to be a pinch hitter. Kyle smirked and walked back to the plate. The coach grabbed him, looked him straight in the eye, and said “I’m serious son; Matt has a better average against this pitcher than you”. Kyle took his bat and raised it over his head, with the same force he used to swing the bat, whipped it down over his knee and cracked it straight in half. He began stomping down each step to the dugout as if there was an elephant in the stadium, throwing the bat across the dugout. Cursing at every player that would even glance at him, let alone try to encourage him that it was only one at bat, which it was. He walked toward the end of the dugout near the clubhouse entrance, but stopped to stare at the water jug, just standing there in awe of this big orange container, getting closer and closer to it, as if he liked it. This was not the case, because about a second later that jug was on the other side of the dugout with all the water pouring
~ 14 ~
out and flooding dugout floor. The dugout went silent, and Kyle scrambled into the clubhouse where he sat and watched. Watched the batter who was supposed to be him, drive a single right up the middle, a game winning hit. “The St. Louis Cardinals are the World Series Champions” said the announcer on the TV. The whole team rushed the field, giving high fives, jumping up and down, and finally dog piling. While Kyle watched, sitting in the clubhouse, no one around, no one to cheer with, no one to talk to, but what did Kyle Kozac care. He didn’t get to bat, he didn’t get the game winning hit, all he was, was the MVP.
~ 15 ~
Charcoal Composition by Aaron Peabody [charcoal]
~ 16 ~
DUSTY PASSION
By Ann Marie Bagge
IT was on the shelf yesterday you could have sworn you saw it There amongst the other unattended parts of your life Yes there it is always one to-do list away from your attention But now it’s buried once again under what you’ll get to tomorrow a journey away from you Too deep inside of yourself in search of… What is it that you want? You tore your sword from the stone (a feat you were destined to do) and then stored it away For safe keeping allowing it to collect dust As it waits and waits and waits to be taken off the shelf. (a sword cannot sharpen itself.)
~ 17 ~
Elements and Principles by Alexa Gum [digital photograph]
~ 18 ~
DEAR MAGGIE, By Katie Bracy
Would you like me to bring the lavender soaps you used to like? Probably still do. I’ll be leaving this room soon you see, and I hope I get a chance to pack the scrap of candle with the wick practically all licked up. You know the one from that Christmas when we lost power? I think I saw you most clearly then, with the flame flickering under your cheeks… glinting in the corner of your eye as if a piece of your soul was peeking through the darkness of the room. I picture you like that, sometimes, when I’m half asleep and hemmed-in by stark white, a room where the only decor is men’s clean and uniform coats weaving in and out of yellowing decay as well, I see your candle sharpened face but without the patches of darkness around the eyes, you look different. I think I miss the dark patches.
~ 19 ~
Candle Heart by Lindsey Benda [digital photograph]
~ 20 ~
BOX
By Kat Maret
I am a box. A box holds books. A box holds pictures. We collect anything which is no longer useful. I am a one purpose box, a one use box: To hold a being. Closed eyes thin lips unused to an unsmile folded hands with a rosary draped over cold fingers. I hold tears. There is a queue to cry to me. To cry to a box, holding only bones, muscle, and flesh. Me, a box, unable to hold a soul, for its use is never over. It will last to see the mountains erode. The soul will audience the Lord’s return.
~ 21 ~
SHAKESPERIAN SONNET NUMBER SIX: THE STORM By Lizzie Wall
A storm, a mighty force dawns nigh tonight And drives the population to their homes; In every storm that comes I see the light As mighty roars and lightning here do roam. Oh, fearfull people may run now and hide: But I, I face this challenge, ever bold As storm clouds, dark and misty now reside Above my head to drown me in the cold. But I surprise this tempest with a smile That’s wild, exhilarating, free at last! I now stare down this gale that thinks it’s vile And face it, laughing at each thunder blast. And soon it sees that it can’t conquer me; For in Christ’s freedom, I can finally see.
~ 22 ~
Untitled by Damaris Dunham [oil painting]
~ 23 ~
Final Project by Jake Hoepner [digital photography]
~ 24 ~
BIRDS OF PRAY: THE CARDINAL By Ryan Beck
On the west Italian hillside laid a small Catholic church overlooking the Mediterranean. It was placed within rolling hills where one could smell the salt of the ocean. The church was made of cobblestones and had a bell tower three stories high. It is commonly known that the priests of the Catholic faith are not allowed to be married or have children. Well, in this little church, the priest did in fact have a daughter. In fear of her being discovered by the surrounding village, the priest hid his daughter up by the rafters in the bell tower. His daughter was no ordinary person. For a reason unknown to him, his daughter grew beautiful feathers. Instead of hiding his daughter all her life, he decided to share a part of her with the world. Every Saturday morning, the priest would climb the steps up the bell tower and pluck multiple feathers from his daughter. The priest said he took the feathers and gave them to the people who attended the service on Sunday morning. He began by doing this, but later found out that his daughter’s feathers were worth a lot of money. He continued to pluck every Saturday, telling his daughter how much the people loved the feathers. For years he had been going to the village market and selling them. The false love the daughter thought she was receiving covered up the physical pain of the plucking, and she continued to let her father take her feathers. One day as the girl was sitting in the window of the bell tower overlooking the ocean; she noticed a man and his child coming up the hills toward the church. The man knocked on the old door of the church and the priest answered. The man and his child wanted to buy some feathers that the old man was famous for. In his great greed for money, the old man climbed the stairs yet again to pluck feathers from his daughter. What the priest did not know was that his daughter had heard the whole conversation down below. Before the priest reached the top of the stairs, the daughter plucked all of her feathers, hundreds and hundreds of them. As he opened the door, the girl attacked him. He had been using her. She now knew that her father sold who she was and only cared for the money. She took the hundreds of feathers and in her disgust stabbed them into her father’s body. Every inch of his body was covered in her feathers. She picked her father up and kicked him out of the bell tower. As the priest
~ 25 ~
was falling, the feathers began to fill up with his blood and turned a vibrant red. He caught himself midair, and flew out over the hills and ocean. The daughter watched from the window of the bell tower in the church, and her feathers never grew back.
~ 26 ~
Acrylic House by Zoe Zheng [acrylic composition]
~ 27 ~
MOTHER OF THE YEAR By Tori Tellschow
The heavy weighted door of wood flew open, breaking the bonds of the locks which constrained me to this small apartment. I was like a princess locked in a tower, yet my so called “Prince Charming” was an ogre in disguise. The door slam thundered throughout the haphazard four walls that I was constricted to. My jail cell’s layout was one small living room, two minuscule bedrooms hugging the back wall, and a hardwood kitchenette to my right. I fumbled in step to the love seat in the far right corner in the living room. I melted into the tattered burlap strands that viciously rubbed against my shaven quads. Yet resting in a place of discomfort, I soaked in the silence. I am embraced by a love seat stripped of love. My boney fingers traced the outline of my scalp, herding the tangled pieces of blonde that have faded to a brownish grey back. My fingers came back to the front of my face, attracted to a place of pain. The light penetrating my retina comes faint, as my skin of black, blue, and yellow swelled like a mountain encasing the opening of the cave. Across the room, adjacent to the portal that could transport me and Kelli Ann from this living hell, my right eye sets sight on his twin, bruised. Weary, I laid stationary, warmed by the heat of the lamp head beating over my shoulder, foreshadowing the interrogation of torture that lies ahead. Our small apartment lied in turmoil, as the only semi-expensive object sparkles as it hung dangling from my finger, struggling to stay on. Lies raced throughout my head, beating the walls, destroying my selfconfidence. I combated the lies with constantly convincing myself I was a good mother. Kelli Ann was my entire life, the very breath I breathed. And without breath, death waits to strangle me as I turn the corner. My frail hands placed pressure on the arms of the chair, gradually growing two stories like a skyscraper. Standing, my eyes locked on my reflection that stood glaring at me, the only face that talked back. I still relied on the firm arm, since my body was unstable. The face glaring back taunted me, telling me that Troy Miller would be the thief of my baby, to save Kelli Ann from a horrid life living with an unfit mother. The reflection stood back, scanning me from the feet
~ 28 ~
up, noticing every flaw. Emotions of shame overwhelmed me, bringing me to my knees. My whole body shook violently from the torment encasing every aspect of my life; freedom was joke, a dream. Dreams are fantasy, never able to be reached. Yet to escape this hell, I pressed my eyes tight, ignoring the tears streaming, I envisioned a small log cabin in the country. This cabin would be mine, all mine; I would control who is allowed into my walls. And Troy Miller is far from welcome. My cabin would have a big green yard, with towering oaks proving shade while the love of my life plays, fiddling with mounds of toys, all the dolls, stuffed animals and My Little Ponies her little heart could desire. A genuine smile would be constantly plastered across her face. She’d be home, safe, with her mother. But I snapped back to reality to a devilish face laughing at my fantasy, mocking my dreams. Anger burned like a fire in me, kindling like heat flaming out of a furnace. I have lived in this apartment, locked, trapped no way out, and even if I had a chance to flee, Troy would go to court and win Kelli Ann. Why did I have to ruin my life when I was so young?! If only I had strong character, to stand up against my friends using ecstasy. But I was weak; therefore, I sat in orange, an orange that resembled a smashed pumpkin puked across the side of a home. But orange only lasted a month! People can change! I have changed!! But the face in the mirror shook her head; I let out a scream of defeat. No! But the hyena cried chuckling, denying my effort. Adrenaline consumed my body, as I rose, and sprinted to grab the lamp, and chucked the light at the mocking Devil’s face. The impact of the interrogation tool shattered the face into thousands of faces, all still jeering at my pathetic actions. I fell to strangle the facades in my hands. Blood poured from my palms, finally concealing the faces of torment. The pieces of glass pierced my nerves, shooting messages of pain throughout my entire body. I rocked back and forth from the bane. I reveled in my sorrow; the wooden entrance way became unlatched, entering an even greater devil. With a Budweiser beer held firmly in his left hand, three quarters empty, he set his sight on what was left of me, his wife. My right shoulder led to roll, as our eyes met. His veins grew four times bigger, as the whites of his eyes faded to a bloody scarlet. He slammed the beer bottle into the hardwood floor, as he crossed onto the carpet. He grabbed me, picking me up how an upset owner handles a worthless pup. His monstrous hands wrapped around my neck. I heaved for air, gasping for the little amount of oxygen while my windpipe collapsed
~ 29 ~
rapidly. My eyes started to bulge, and my face burned flames. Kelli Ann began to scream from the ruckus, being violently awaken from a dream. My eyes locked on Kelli Ann’s room adjacent to the kitchen. I savagely dug my nails into the bushes on his arms, breaking his release, causing blood to rush. I dashed to her room, flinging the heavily weighted wooden door open. I dug my body weight against the door as Troy pounded viciously, catapulting his large build against the entrance way. The door cracked open ever so slightly, more and more each time. Yet I pressed against the door steadfastly, sobbing, but deadlocked.
~ 30 ~
Face by Maria Yang [digital photography]
~ 31 ~
A FAIRY TALE
By Sela McClelland
Within each page is a new world, One only these covers can hold. Copies may be made, but still only This true one remains. It is as important to a child as Doll to her girl. The sensation created resembles That of the stomach flipping on a drop. Words scribbled, words spelled, words created; Words in these covers. The magic each page holds Keeps the child turning. What will happen next To the fairy? The unicorn? The princess? Expectations held high, exceeding That of even the general. Will they live? Will they be seized? The story unfolds, meeting prospects. Every force is conquered, every evil diminished. The child falls asleep, knowing all is well. Their dreams flit between the princess, unicorn, And the ever so powerful fairy. Awakened, the child succumbs To her own fairy tale. Nothing is perfect, evil is not overcome. The princess, a bird with a broken wing. She can’t find her way, nothing is of her majesty. The unicorn, a roaring tiger ready to devour Its prey. Sins of the world appear in its stripes. The fairy, her mother. Every slap
~ 32 ~
Bite, kick. She is no longer seamless. This is her fairy tale; Outside the covers.
~ 33 ~
RETURNING
By Shannon Mooney
To kiss you bruises my already wavering belief, shrouded by clouds where all I see is your sharp eyes, blue that bites my weary spirit. Now what is there left to say? Casting off our inhibitions our past recollections vanish from our minds: skeletons released from the closet. And now I hug your leather jacket which shakes awake this phantom limb. My will stands firm. I refuse to believe. I give myself yet another reprieve.
~ 34 ~
Still life by SaRang Chung [digital photograph]
~ 35 ~
HAPPY THANKSGIVING By Kelsey Cervenka
She’s like a little girl, counting down the days, hours, minutes until Santa Clause plunges down her chimney. This day in her opinion could not have arrived any slower even if time was at a standstill. A spiced pumpkin pie sits alone in the center of her oven sending the smell of Fall through her entire house. On the counter she carves the golden turkey, slices so neat and even you’d think she took a ruler to it. Juices dribble down to the carving platter below creating a pool of flavorful liquid soon to grace the turkey and mashed potatoes. The microwave timer beeps three times, interfering with the classical music playing softly in the background, but signaling that it’s time to remove the pie from the oven and replace it with her mother’s homemade butter rolls. She balances on her tiptoes as she extends her arm up to the top of the cupboard retrieving her finest china that rest upon the table only one time a year. The plates clank against the table as she begins to pile them with her hard day’s work. She drops into her chair and stares at all the empty placemats. Under the table, she extends a plate to her dog. He looks at her with eyes drooping as if he’s somehow experiencing heartbreak. She watches him swallow his slice of turkey
~ 36 ~
before he even has a chance to chew it up. She stares at him with eyes so full of emotion, you could almost see into the depths of her soul. “Happy Thanksgiving.�
~ 37 ~
THE NOOSE
By Peter Rak
Boys, rope, disaster. There were 10 of us, all boys. Little Nick brought out a rope: “Maybe we could play tug of war!” The venerated few, however, had a better idea. My older brother, Joshua, whom everyone respected as the fair and just leader, was approaching his 12th birthday. He deliberated with his companions – Pat, the sprinter, and Chintin, the 12 year old with the straggly start to a really impressive mustache – big deal. Chintin was the most heartless of the group and was generally avoided by common folk like me. He was, however, accepted into the council by Joshua. I suppose that the idea that followed came originally from Chintin’s foul mouth, but it was Joshua who spoke the verdict into action. We were in the middle of the cul de sac when he projected into many waiting ears, “Let’s tie somebody up in the tree!” What!?! By the time this reached me, all I could hear was “Noose.” In Pat’s attempt to justify the plan he explained that the victim would be hung upside down by their feet. “This could only mean a slower death,” said the voice inside my head. A death that is seen by the whole neighborhood. A death in which your legs turn ghost white from lack of blood. A death where numbness crawls towards your neck like a nest of spiders until you finally die of dehydration. By now we were all gravitating towards the perfect tree. It stood near the curb in front of my house – on the corner of the cul de sac. I got so caught up in my head I forgot that it certainly was not going to be me for the hanging. As the rope was being set up, Chintin’s authoritative voice calmly asked, “Who wants to be tied first?” No response. Seeing the hole in their plan, Joshua then stated, “It will only be for a few minutes.” This is when we heard the council’s deliberation on an issue for the first time. 10 of us in all, 7 of us who weren’t in the council. “It will need to be someone short,” said Chintin. 4 of us left – Kyle, Nick, Andrew, me. We all knew Kyle, if chosen, would probably go home crying and tell his mom. 3 of us – Nick, Andrew, me. Andrew’s parents seemed to somehow always discover what we did to their children, and we absolutely did not want to get on his parents’ bad side. 2 of us. After a while of deliberation, it was decided
~ 38 ~
that, since Nick originally brought the rope, he shouldn’t be roped up. 1 of us – me. I willingly gave myself over, for, despite only being 7 years of age, I knew that fighting and running would only delay the inevitable. My mind was racing: “What will they do with me? Let me pass out? Swing me until I happen to hit the tree trunk? How long is a few minutes? Will they leave me until a grown-up sees me and lets me down?” It seemed Pat and Joshua didn’t want to hurt me that badly, because they only tied the rope very tightly around the arches of my New Balance shoes rather than around my ankles. They all backed up and snickered as I helplessly tried to turn the hang into a handstand, but I soon find that I could not reach the ground. My eyes started to water. I was not crying, but apparently if you are upside down for long enough you tear up. Suddenly, they all got in a huddle 10 feet away. I heard whispering, and then they were gone. As I was being left, my helpless eyes met Joshua’s, but he kept on walking. He was like the Darth Vader that doesn’t kill the Emperor and leaves Luke to die. I was left alone next to the cul de sac hung upside down in a tree. “I knew it! I knew they would do something! Wait, wait Peter. Everyone knows that if they leave me here long enough, I will break and end up screaming; the whole neighborhood will learn about who committed the evil deeds. They can’t just leave me here forev…” Just then I saw a car come around the corner, but not just any car; I saw a car with black and white on the side and colored lights on the bottom - no that’s the top – colored lights on the top – a cop. For what seemed to be the first time in three generations, a cop was seen driving down Westfield Crse. Time stopped as I realized the magnitude of the situation. 18 eyes were looking through their bedroom windows to see what I would do next. Not only could I get my neighbors in big trouble with their parents, I could get them in trouble with the law. I am not sure what law is broken when a 7 year old is roped upside down in a tree, but I am sure it is illegal. “What do I do? What do I do?” The cop obviously sees me and is starting to pull over. Everyone’s faces pass through my head 100 mph. “What do I do?” Then it hits me, “These guys are my friends. It doesn’t matter what they did to me, they are my friends and I love them. My big brothers wouldn’t allow me to get hurt for the sake of a joke; they would only allow this to happen if it was for a good natured laugh. I can’t turn my back on any of them, not even Chintin!”
~ 39 ~
As the car door opens, my fourth tear trailing up my forehead reminds me that I am still upside down. I panic. I struggle with all my strength and adrenaline and barely manage to kick myself free before he reaches me. I stand up and am out of breath, but I all I am focused about is getting this guy away without any trouble. He is a tall, thin, blond man that looks very suspicious of a boy being hung in a tree. He looks nice enough, but anyone in a police uniform is scary, especially when you know something is very wrong. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Yea, I’m fine, that was just a big joke. It was just a fun little prank my friends pulled on me. They were just pulling my leg, haha.” I over did it, there is no way he is buying this one. “’pulling my leg,’ what were you thinking Peter?” “Are you sure you are ok?” “Haha, yea, everything is ok. There’s no trouble here.” Why can’t I keep myself from laughing? In the one moment when I absolutely have to trick a man, I am the worst liar. “You sure?” “Yea, I’m sure.” Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone. I couldn’t believe it. I walked inside my house, and my brothers immediately thanked me. They did this quietly, because getting in trouble with Dad was just as bad as getting in trouble with the cop. I nodded my head in acknowledgement and demanded that it was my turn to play Backyard Baseball 2001. They agreed with me, and they let me play whenever I wanted for the rest of the day.
~ 40 ~
Pencil Composition by Cody Cox [pencil]
~ 41 ~
THE FORD AND THE GO GETTER By Joel Swick
From the world to Farlen, Nevada Careers recently started. In a Ford are The Go Getter and the Brother Reunited from departed. A score and four is how long brother has known brother. 24 years, they grew up the same. “I miss bein’ in this Ford! It’s been such a long time.” “She missed you too.” “ This will sound odd, but how long have we been brothers?” “All our lives. You know.” “But have we spent all that time together? Did we grow up with each other?” “Of course! You remember, silly.” “But did we really? I think we did. At least I think I did everything I remember. I know I’m with you now, that’s real. But did I really get in this Ford? Or was I born here. Were we born here?” “Don’t be absurd, where did you get this nonsense!” “Are we really brothers?”
~ 42 ~
Analog Photo Composition by Joel Swick [digital design]
~ 43 ~
RICKY
By Kat Maret
Ricky drove into the parking lot of the rectangular brick building with a tall point projecting the cross into the sky. He steered his rust bucket into a back parking spot. He closed the door and made his way through the emptyof-people, but packed-of-cars parking lot. It was 9:13; church had been in session for 13 minutes. Still, he walked in and tried to silence the squeak of his converse. When he walked into the sanctuary, it was meet and greet time. Although everyone was talking, they seemed to immediately turn their heads slightly, or just simply their eyes, or even took a slight pause is conversation. He didn’t really know what to do so he sat down in the back row, finding a place that didn’t force him to sit next to anyone. The skirt and tie clad couple standing in front of where he was sitting turned to him and said, “Welcome to Covenantal Church. Son, I must tell you that we don’t wear hats in here unless you are a lady.” Ricky fumbled with his hat and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” But when he took his hat off the scolders’ eyes grew as if they had never seen blue hair before. They turned back around to face the pastor, both parties being quite embarrassed from the interaction. As the service continued, Ricky didn’t sit so scared as he did in the beginning. The man in the front wearing a blue suit and white dress shirt talked about love. Not the kind of love that he had always heard about: which was just an excuse to have sex. A love that was completely different and unusual to him. A love that didn’t want anything from you. A love that happened despite your faults. “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” Once the suited man closed his book and told everyone to pray, Ricky joined in, feeling lighter in his pew. A couple rows up, a young boy, seven or so, spun in his seat instead of bowing. He wasn’t looking at the clock or making faces at one of his friends, but he turned to look at this new creature that was in the boy’s normal home. The boy peeked his head over the back of the pew; just enough to catch sight of Ricky and Ricky noticed this immediately. The boy pulled his earlobes as far down as he could and smiled at Ricky. Ricky timidly flashed his nicotine stained smile and playfully stuck his finger through the hole in his own ear. The man next to the boy noticed that his son was not praying with the congregation and quickly nudged him to sit forward and fold his hands. With a quick glance to see what his son was so
~ 44 ~
distracted by, the man looked back and, as if he saw a demon itself, wheeled around back to his original position. Could he have been listening to the same sermon? Everyone’s heads raised and the service was over. As the people formed into their regular after church gossip groups, Ricky stood up and looked around to see if anyone was on their way to talk to him about being a visitor. One person was making his way towards him, but not the church welcome committee he had anticipated. The young boy came up and boldly announced, “Hi! My name is Zeke. Did Jesus make your ears that saggy? Look!” as he motioned down to a Uniball ink drawing of a star on his small forearm. “We match!” Zeke held up his crude drawing next to Ricky’s blue nautical star tattoo. As if Zeke's father could sense the interaction, he showed up next to his son and sternly said, “Go wash that off your arm right now before you go to Sunday school.” His father walked away giving no notion of notice of Ricky except a glance back to make sure his son had left. Zeke yelled to Ricky as he ran to the bathroom, “Bye! I’ll see you next week!” Ricky continued toward the exit when one last detour showed up. A man in a blue sports coat and black dress pants stepped up to Ricky and said, “Hello there, it’s nice to see you. We don’t get many of your kind here.” Ricky half smiled and as he glided by and said, “Really?” The man didn’t understand the implication behind his statement. Ricky let the door close behind him and he walked back to his rust bucket, giving up his first and only personal prayer. “Lord, don’t let Zeke ever grow up.”
~ 45 ~
Haiti by Alexa Gum [watercolor]
~ 46 ~
THE REFUGEES
By Gabrielle Demeritt
During the Soviet War in Afghanistan, 1983 All she saw were eyes. None of which she knew, none that looked at her with any sort of recognition. They were cold and blind. Still, she searched in vain for a familiar glance that would relieve but an ounce of the lonely burden she carried. The sun glared down upon the barren Pakistani landscape, offering no relief of warmth to the usual morning chill that bit through her tattered tunic. If Mama were here, she would wrap her up and offer her a steaming cup of cardamom tea. Mama’s soft whispers would sooth her worries as they watched the sun rise above the dusty mountains. But she was not here. She never would be here again. Her distant thoughts were interrupted by the whimpering of Fahran, her poor little brother of only six years. His piercing eyes gazed up at her as he nestled into her side. She wrapped her arms around him in a momentary surge of heartache. They were so far from home. But home was no more. They had no home. They had nothing. Nothing but each other and memories of a previous life they had once lived. The camp was now bustling. Children were crying and fighting. The lucky ones were laughing. They still had lives and families and homes. Either that, or they were too young to understand. “Asal, I feel empty, I want to eat,” the little boy whispered. She gazed down at his pleading visage, dirtied from the dreadful journey that was now behind them. Her only possession, he was her reason for survival. He spurred her will and determination. She cared for nothing else. She had no other cause for which to live. Holding tight to his grubby hand, she led him to the tents where scraps of bread and cups of rice were being handed out. She gave her own serving to Fahran and he devoured both. Someone was strumming the tanbour. A melody that she had heard only once before, very long ago. They sat in silence. For the better part of the day Asal sat and stared. Her brother had drifted off into a sound slumber upon her lap. She couldn’t help but to
~ 47 ~
think. She thought about the noise, the screams. She thought about her papa’s face. Her mama’s. She thought about tomorrow and the day after that. About each and every mile she and her brother had walked. She thought about her God. But thoughts brought pain and what she needed was strength. And so she sat, trying not to think. Trying to push the doom of feeling away which was her weakness. A nurse had been watching now for quite some time. What she saw was a boy, lost in a hopeless slumber. And a girl, a trembling courage upon her face, a certain fierceness in her blue eyes. But she was transparent. She recognized the pain, hidden away, that she had seen so many times in her own reflection. Asal looked up at the woman standing before her. Something about her resembled Mama. The same tired eyes and invisible smile graced her face. She sat down next to the two children. Asal pretended not to notice and looked past at the nothingness before her. But the woman took Asal in her arms. And that was all it took. In an instant, all the strength she possessed was gone. Her resistance shattered. She cried into the woman’s shoulder. She was a child again. One drop of humanity at a time rolled down her cheeks. She was alive again. And for but a few moments, she was home.
~ 48 ~
Elements and Principles by Aaron Peabody [digital photograph]
~ 49 ~
CLOSING NIGHT By Amy Lazar
Face still glorified with stage makeup, she trudges through the stillness of the parking lot as the blank moon begins to drag itself listlessly across the sky. Behind her lies a stage robed in emptiness, unless you count the brittle scenery, weary from weeks on triumphant display and doomed for teardown the next morning. Tonight she had dazzled in the soft glow of the spotlight, her soaring voice stirring the hearts of the audience, and then there was the applause, the bows and congratulations, the glamour of roses, the worship of younger theater hopefuls, the bliss like heaviness in the air before a summer storm. But the rain had fallen and the parking lot was already dry. What good is it being a star in a night so black?
~ 50 ~
Ceramic Composition by Julia McKee and Lucy Tilly [ceramic porcelain]
~ 51 ~
Card Deck by Alexa Gum [graphic design]
~ 52 ~
TWO EMPTY SPACES By Shannon Mooney
The boy knocked three times on the door. He stuck his sweaty hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from his right to his left foot. The cold November wind turned his ears red. The sun was just about to go down, turning the sky pink. Her father’s face appeared in the narrow window at the side of the door, and his eyebrows slanted down. “Please,” the boy mouthed. Her father paused then proceeded to open the door. He stepped aside to let the boy through. “Thank you.” He wiped his feet. Her father walked straight into the living room. The boy set his coat on the stairs and put his shoes in two empty spaces in the shoe rack. The boy sat in the love seat perpendicular to the father’s favorite rocking chair. The boy made sure to keep a distance from her father. The lights from the TV reflected in the father’s glassy eyes. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” the boy said. “Yes, it has been a while,” the father said. “One year, two months, and seventeen days.” “You’re counting?” “Yes.” “Me, too.” The TV flickered in the darkness of the living room. It was on mute, and the woman on the screen with the big smile mimed the product she was selling. “Why did you come here?” her father asked. “I came…” he started, “to ask for –“ “No.” “Just hear me out this time.” “I don’t need to.” “I know it’s hard,” the boy said, “It’s hard for me, too. Believe me, I understand.” “No, you don’t.”
~ 53 ~
“I loved her, too. Like a brother.” The boy looked at the TV. The woman now had a bigger fake smile. The father rose from his chair and shook the boy’s shoulders. “Then why did you do it?” The boy began to weep. Her father stared in anticipation of his answer. “You’ve already asked me that question. I told you I was sorry,” the boy said. “You think sorry is going to cut it? You think sorry is going to bring my daughter back?” “Nothing will!” the boy screamed. Her father let go of the boy and sat back in his chair. “You’re right,” he said. “Nothing will.” The father whispered her name in the silent room. The TV saleswoman lowered the price of the product. “How many times can I apologize?” the boy said. “I’ve done everything I could to pay for what I did and this is all that’s left. You owe me forgiveness, at least – ” “I owe you nothing!” the father said. “You can never understand what it was like. To look at my beautiful girl’s lifeless face destroyed by the accident, to feel what I felt, the pain.” “I can. I did.” “Not my pain.” “It was a mistake! Yes I know I shouldn’t have driven in that…state of mind, but I’m trying as hard as I can to make up for it.” The boy’s eyes were rubbed red over time, an irreversible red. The father breathed heavily and the boy sniffled. The woman on the TV was still trying. “So will you?” the boy asked. “Will I what?” her father asked. “You know what.” “I forgot. Remind me again.” The boy sighed. “Will you forgive me?” Her father stayed quiet. “Sir,” the boy added quickly. “Forgive you for what?” “Please.” The boy cried. Her father got up and faced the boy.
~ 54 ~
“Don’t make me say it. Please,” the boy said. “Say it.” The boy sobbed. “Say it!” The boy stayed still. He looked at his hands, the pink scar on the back of his hand, from when he reached over. To protect her. To stop the momentum. The father slapped the boy’s cheek. It flushed red to match his eyes. “Get out of my house.” The boy got up, grabbed his jacket and his shoes. As he walked out the door he heard her father. “You’re dead to me.”
~ 55 ~
Shape by Stephan Neptune [digital photography]
~ 56 ~
ROAST BEEF
By Jason Zheng
Absurdity? Like a promise Your soul needs to be freed instead of being Locked into a cage. Like a promise Without seasoning of time is like being Locked into a cage. Loyalty truly exists. Without seasoning of time is like being Roast beef through decades. Loyalty truly exists. Hey, have you met the hot Asian girl in green called Wasabi? Roast beef through decades Poor beef, you need some colorful decorations. Hey, have you met the hot Asian girl in green called Wasabi? An old man shakes his head and says, “Asian? Her feet are too big!” Poor beef, you need some colorful decorations. Your soul needs to be freed instead of being. An old man shakes his head and says, “Asian? Her feet are too big!” Absurdity!
~ 57 ~
Painted Paper Mosaic by Ellen Bazzoli, Betsey Jones, Johnny Naskrent, Alex Riddle, Kate Schraeder, and Allison Spoelhof [?
~ 58 ~
A POEM’S QUESTIONS By Nate Urban
Ah someone’s finally reading me. Hundreds have flipped past me not even bothering to care or discover what I contain. Can I ask you, how you happened to read me? Did you randomly open to this page or have you faithfully read everything so far? Did my shape or title catch your eye? That work of beauty next to me: Do you really think that its beauty could spill onto me? Am I just black letters and white spaces? Are you looking for a fountain of youth, where you would relive the days of your life to understand today? Are you seeking El Dorado, where you would find treasure, texture, and beauty? Are you Seeking Atlantis, the experience of another soul’s perfectly translated into the language of yours? I am none of these things. I am a map. I wonder how much more you could learn if you stopped interrogating and questioning words, and let words question you? The soil that covers the treasure chest is paper thin.
~ 59 ~
Pinecone in the Snow by Elaine Pszczolkowski [charcoal composition]
~ 60 ~
Patterns by Megan Scanlan [colored pencil]
~ 61 ~
A BOX OF CHOCOLATE By Jason Zheng
So fast, we were moving so fast. All the images on my camera were blurred to some light lines. My eyes were staring at the tiny screen where the sun was performing colorful magic. The radio station was being switched frequently from rock music to country music to classical music to K-Love... My hand was holding a Venti cup of Mocha Coconut Frappuccino, which was possibly my last cup of Starbucks for a while. Besides the smell of rich chocolate, coffee, and wildness of the summer, the shallow scent of cologne brought a cool breeze to the locked cabin. The van was running down the highway. I was on my way to the airport. I was on my way home. I still remember one year ago: I was on my way to Mianyang Airport. The windows were closed completely and it was hard to take a breath. Outside, rain was pouring down heavily and washing out the dirt piled up through years. The moment I looked through the window, I found a city which was so close to me that has built up my childhood. The sound of the raindrops breaking on the glass composed the harmony for typical Chinese love songs which were played by the radio stations all the time. The artists are singing about how they lost their love, and pretending to speak some English to label themselves as “an International pop artist.” I was holding a cup of hot Chai tea, but it turned into an ice crystal, cutting through my skin. I could not imagine what would happen in my future. I had no clue about the world I was stepping in, and suddenly, my worries, my fears, and my hesitation about whether I had made a right decision or not came into my mind. The car was running slow like a boat riding to the west while the river tries to pull it back. My point of view, however, had been fast forwarded, fast forwarded, fast forwarded... The airport. I unloaded my baggage, walked in, got a drink, bought a magazine, found a seat. My mother sat right next to me. It was dead quiet that you could even hear people’s heart beats. It was dead quiet because it was so
~ 62 ~
hard to tell my mom, “Bye mom, I will see you in ten months.” It was dead quiet but I could still hear my mom’s voice saying, “Bye son, take care.” We were just sitting there, and talking in awkwardly dead silence. Suddenly, I heard my name shouted from the entrance of the airport. “Jason!” The echo went around the airport. I looked up, and I saw my friends running down to me. They were all wet, and their brownish footprints were advancing towards me, and it seemed like they had not seen me for ten years. They gave me a huge, wet group hug, kneaded my face and played with my hair. “Please don’t leave Jason!” said Lucy. “Well, I know it is unrealistic now, but... but... Promise me you will take good care of yourself okay? And the most important thing, please don’t forget me. Always feel free to call me when you need to talk to someone! And email me the photos you take... And Skype me every weekend, okay?” I did not say a word. I nodded. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, my tears would stream down my face. I told myself, “Jason, you are a man! It is only going to be 245 days you can’t see your family or friends, you can do it! You are a brave man!” “Jason! You are going to bring a blonde girl back home next time, aren’t you?” Bob said, “Probably you can introduce me to some of the ladies... Well, she can’t be too tall. Similar to me is fine...” I tried to make my mouth look like a smile, my signature smile. I was afraid. I was afraid that next time when I came back from the United States, they would have their new best friends and they would not hang out with me anymore. I was afraid that they would forget our happy days and inside jokes. I was afraid to hear the word “friendship” because who knew indeed what it was all about. I was afraid that Americans would not like Asians because there were so many of us. I was afraid that people would not care what my name was but labeled me “A Science Math Genius Asian.” I was afraid that I would not make any American friends and in the end I would lose all of my friends in China... Then, an old woman announced that time was up with her out of fashioned tone. I reached for my carry-ons and walked, walked across the alert line, walked through the security, walked to the deep... The van stopped. I turned off my camera, put it in my bag and got out of the van.
~ 63 ~
The airport. I unloaded the baggage. I said goodbye to my host family. I tweeted. I Instagramed. I texted my mother saying I was at the airport. I messaged my friends saying I would be boarding soon. At last, I walked to a candy shop, and bought a box of chocolate.
~ 64 ~
Final Project by Noah Vandyke [digital photograph?]
~ 65 ~
OUR WORLD WIGGLES By Nathan Andrus
Our world wiggles it can’t stay still. The leaves, they shimmy in an uninhibited dance. The grass, immovable molds under our bodies, as insects crawl about it. The earth itself, rotates as if its got somewhere to go. The cars, transport people as cargo being perpetually shipped. The people, move to and fro in uptight busyness forgetting the beauty of our wiggly world.
~ 66 ~
~ 67 ~