Yahara Journal 2017 by Yahara Journal

YAHARA JOURNAL

A Fi n e A r t s a n d L i t e r a r y Jo u r n a l

2017

Editor-in-Chief Elva Kababie

Editorial Staff

April Albaugh Alexandra Christensen Kristin Foglestad Mariana Montgomery James Roufus

Book Design Kristina Karlen

Advisor

Doug Kirchberg

The Yahara Journal consists of Madison College student work. It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff, or student body.

Misson The Yahara Journal will support learning and creativity at Madison College through the publication of a print journal and the sponsorship of events and activities that facilitate growth in writing and visual arts.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prose Cheyenne Crowell-Moat • Puzzles, Frogs, and Mini ... . . . . . . . 7 Nan Bogue • Damaged . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Vic Gear • Through Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Rachel Otto • Extraordinary Pizzazz in an Ordinary Person . . 14 Yunzhu Shen • Memoir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Sara Hill • M. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Nicole Christianson • Modern Day American Nomad . . . . . .29 Amy Trees • Little Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Lena Marx • The Silent City: A Visit to Pripyat, Ukraine . . . . .33 Vic Gear • The Sea - The Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Kaci Sullivan • It's Going to be Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Poetry Sarah Hamilton • March Like a Girl. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Ciara Havlik • Modern Perception of the Mind. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Mai Neng Thao • Fifteen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Sahira Rocillo • The Hunter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Sahira Rocillo • The Love I Felt for You. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Orlando Melendez • God and Man. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Michael Jones • Orphans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Abraham Tapia • A Child to Come . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Blake Nathaniel Tucker-Jones • Natural Affairs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Blake Nathaniel Tucker-Jones • Darkness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Anahi Gallegos Valles • In Our Dear Country. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Art Tracy Wiklund • Moped Madonna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Luke Mosling • Change Without Warning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Luke Mosling • Tangible Thoughts of a Hungry Mind. . . . . . . . . . 61 Tiffani Lewis • Sir Bubbykins and His Alpaca. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Rachel Otto • Hare Hair. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Chuck Bauer • Magnolias . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Linda Camino • First Dream of Spirtual Growth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Brendan Kelley • Amber Brown Teapot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Miranda Fields • Native American Pinch Pot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Kaci Sullivan • The Burn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Kaci Sullivan • Hat Head. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 JD Bundy • Bye Bye Miss American Pie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Mary G. Phillips • Grief, Hope, Working it Out. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Axl Bradshaw • Fog. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Axl Bradshaw • It’s Rather Pink. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Michael Edwards • Frog Poisoning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Michael Edwards • Devil’s Foot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Josh Zytkiewicz • Jacs Corn Syrup #1. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Erik Hoffmann • Havana. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Joseph Clayton Mohr • Starvation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Christine Konen • Dwelling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Taylor Nash • Lady in White. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Puzzles, Frogs, and Mini-Marshmallows C h e ye n n e Cro w e l l -Mo a t

It was a nice day. Sunny. Warm. Any other day I would be in my room with my window open listening to the other kids play while I stayed with my paperback friends. But not today. Not since the day mom and dad called me downstairs. I hear the words over and over in my mind. Those same words that never stop. I wish they would stop. How does it hurt so much to be so empty, I wonder. The sun glints off of the long silver bars. The sun looks down on me, reminding me of all the days I spent putting together yet another puzzle drinking hot cocoa. “Carol, don’t forget her marshmallows. The mini ones,” he reminds. Those were always the first to go. Fished out like tadpoles and swallowed whole followed by the chocolaty drink that warmed my throat. I lick my lips. Then I remember. And I feel sick to my stomach. No more hot cocoa with the mini-marshmallows. My throat burns with unshed tears. I can’t breathe. I want to go home. Pretend that Mom never told me. Pretend that I never heard Dad crying in the basement. Pretend that I never wore the pink dress. Pretend that I never sat on that bench. Pretend that I never heard the song mom sang. Pretend that I never held my uncle’s hand as he shed the tears I would not. Pretend that I never heard the pastor preach. Pretend that I never watched them carry the big brown box to the long black car. Pretend that I never saw the sun reminding me of the puzzle piece I lost. Pretend that I never had to pretend I was OK when I saw my cousin crying into her sister’s shoulder. Pretend that I could drink hot chocolate without remembering the forts we built out of cushions and blankets. Pretend that I could do a puzzle without remembering his gruff yet comforting voice. Why, I ask the sun. Why do your rays shine so bright? Why do you remind me of the family reunions I spent listening to that voice interrupted by coughing? Why won’t you let me forget those words that never leave my mind? Those words. Those same torturous words that never stop. They leap to my mind like the frogs he loved so much. I long to sit on his lap with a puzzle strewn across the table. “These pieces are too small,” he’d gripe, “Cheyenne, hand me my glasses over there.” I loved those glasses. Thick. Heavy. Real. They were real. This was not. It couldn’t be.

Puzzles, Frogs, and Mini-Marshmallows I never said goodbye. I never got the chance to say goodbye. It’s not fair. Now who will tell me not to eat too many marshmallows and then pour more into my already full cup? Now whose frog collection will I gawk at? Now whose lap will I sit on and attempt to put together a 500 piece puzzle with? I struggle not to cry as I look down at the stone. No, it’s not OK to cry. Not here. Not now. Not surrounded by all these familiar smiling faces. No. Not until I am alone will I let loose the sea of grief held back by a broom. Only then will I stop pretending. How does the emptiness hurt if there is nothing there? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask a frog, because the sun’s rays are silent. ~ Dedicated to my grandfather Ray Moat

Damaged Na n B o g u e

It was a warm, tropical rain that mixed with Juan’s tears. He was 14 years od and wore a cheap, heavy, fake silver cross around his skinny neck. He stood alone in a small glen of trees about a mile outside of a large town in Puerto Rico. You might think that he is standing in a lush jungle, but it’s not like that. The trees are shabby, dirty from exposure to man’s inventions, and man’s intentions. In a small, paint peeling house in the town, another man’s tears fall, not like rain, but like a bottle that has been stopped up and has suddenly popped. This man is old and very, very tired. His wife lay dead on the grimy floor of some kind of heart or brain or general falling apart disorder. It wasn’t like they had a great marriage, undefinable anyway. He was weeping, not so much because she was dead, but because he would be next. Juan’s mother had turned so many tricks in her life that the smell of a man made her nauseous. The smell of Juan made her ill now. Everything made her sick. And so Juan was no longer her “charge,” no longer her anything. As if she’d ever given him much, but now there was nothing. The man got into his ancient car and drove into the jungle. He wanted to kill himself but wasn’t exactly clear on the method. Driving straight into one of those ugly, gray trees might work. But what if you didn’t floor it hard enough and just ended up more damaged than you already were? He sat, parked behind the wheel of the rusty car. His tears had now stilled, and an emptiness had settled where the water had been. The driver’s side window had been crookedly stuck part way down for years. The warm, tropical rain fell indifferently onto him as he slumped sideways with his neck and head leaning roughly against the window. Juan’s tears, too, had run their course, and he began to walk. When he came upon the man, they were both rather startled that another life had appeared upon their personal and tragic landscapes. Juan stalled, looked at him awkwardly, and paused on his walk to nowhere. The man slowly and painfully pulled his heavy head up and immediately laid it back down on the colorless upholstery. Juan carefully opened the door and quietly, surely began to repair the window and stop the leaks.

Through Space Vi c G ea r

The endless escape that is space. Here I dwell among the stars, the clouds of dark matter swirling, billowing. I have been alone for a while. Two years, seven ... perhaps ten years? I’ve lost track. Here, without the world, drifting in darkness and shimmering stars, all I have is my mind. I feel ageless, and in the mirror I look no older than when I first began my expedition. The only difference was the changing of my dirty blonde hair to a dark ocean blue, and my eyes after a while, began to glow. I’ve lost the drive to continue, but there is nowhere to land that I can safely breathe and walk about, and so all I can do is continue to look for a place to take refuge. Now I swim through the corridors of the expansive ship. It was built to house up to a hundred crew. But over the years, the men and women who left that distant planet all those years ago, died one by one. Thirty men and twenty-eight women besides myself, left Earth in hopes of finding a place to survive and carry on. Yet the little luck we had making it out off the ground did not follow us as we delved into unknown space. Just two years in, a strange illness spread. We didn’t know where it came from, or how it got into the airway system, but within a year, I and two others were the only ones left. The bodies of the dead had turned into statues of a hard silver substance that we had never seen before. We feared it would contaminate the living, and jettisoned them into the cold expanse of space. For a year or so more the two others lived with me, though we had stopped talking to one another. One of the side effects of the strange disease was an alteration to the brain that allowed us to speak through simple thought. Though, as the disease progressed, the incoming thoughts from my crew members became broken and eventually ceased altogether. The odd gift didn’t last for long. Soon, they turned into frozen statues as well and I watched as their forms were let loose into the dark void. My name ... what was it again? Strands of blue hair, glowing through the starlight halo my pale face. I’m cold. Tired. I no longer hunger for food, as my body is used to the empty feeling. Any energy I hold now seems to come from the glittering masses of strange matter outside the ship’s windows. Looking at the monitors and keeping up the computers has grown tiresome, but today...or tonight, there was something different. There was a blip on the screen. My eyes widened and took in the sights with conscious reasoning. It was like awakening from a long sleep, even though I had been awake nearly the whole time.

Vic Gear I pressed my fingertips against the screen, and within several moments lights exploded outwards into a transparent 3D scene. It was a planet. It was completely blue, save for green snaky fragments of what looked like land and silver clouds. It had the right amount of an oxygen act alike, and would make for a safe landing. There were also what looked like cities sprawled across the snaky parts of land. Life. With a reason in my being, I parted my lips and let out a gasp. My throat was parched and before I could utter a sound, I coughed with such force that my body flew backwards in the zero gravity. “C ... computer. Make preparations for landing.” The computer sputtered and coughed just as I had, before the 3D scene of the planet magnified the expanse of land, looking for a safe place to touchdown. It was amazing. Mountain peaks of gold shimmered before my eyes. It was quick, yet in my mind everything flashed before me in slow motion. In the back of my mind, I was reminded of my home. A place dying and yet still awe inspiring. Glimmering tears floated in the air as I wrapped my arms around myself, remembering those I had left behind, those that had been too sick to make the voyage. Sadness overwhelmed me, and for the first time in a long time, I wept for those that the strange sickness had killed, those that had passed back on Earth, and the likelihood that I was far from any other human being. I gritted my teeth as the ship responded to my command, and slowly the gravity from the planet began to weigh me down, yet the transition was oddly slow. I stood on shaking legs, and eventually collapsed to my knees. I grasped at the chrome handrails and grabbed for one of the many threads of memory rope that hung from the rails. I wrapped it around my waist, and it glowed a moment before locking me in place. The massive spacecraft began to shudder, as the ozone of the planet hit with a sudden jolt. As the ship flew to the surface, the craft heaved and shook from the suddenly heavier atmosphere. Lights throughout the main cabin flickered on and off, the sharp lights digging into the back of my eyelids – even though I had closed them long before. Though the memory rope kept me locked in place, I held onto the silver handrails with my left hand, so tight that my knuckles turned white. Gritting my teeth, I braced for what I believed would be a great crash when the shaking finally stopped, with one last jolt – as the landing gear hit ground. The lights flickered and slowly faded out, before returning with a brightness that caused my eyes to throb as they adjusted. Gasping, more out of fear then a loss of breath, I pried my hand away from the handrail.

Through Space With a candied electric procession of chirping, ringing, and shrill alarms, the ship's computer transmitted throughout the vessel the success of landing on a new alien planet. I sat there, staring blankly at the computerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s screen, as it showed the expanse of the landscape of the new world. I had been trained a long time ago on what to do when my crewmates and I were to land on an alien world. A whole list of protocols and rules to make sure the first breath of the new oxygen would be done safely, but it came up blank. Instead, all I could concentrate on was the rise and fall of my chest. I let out a shaky breath from past my gritted teeth, and stood. Unhooking the memory rope, I wobbled forward with a newborn's grace and determination. Reaching the door, I took a hand from the side rail, and placed it upon the doorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s key-space and the doors opened with a shuddering whine. With shaky steps I left the control room and stumbled down one of the many, long metal corridors. I passed by the sleeping quarters, and with each room I passed I remembered the faces of those that had lived within them. Like ghosts, I could see them floating within the rooms, picture them eating, laughing, smiling. Picture their forms cast in silver stone being jettisoned into space. Some had been empty from lift off, but they still retained as much emotion as those that had living persons within. Though I did not remember the way out, as my mind was still hung in fog, my feet took me where I needed to go. According to the computer, it would be safe, without aid, to breathe here. Yet there remained anxiety lodged within my chest. After what seemed like ages, I made it to the hangar, an expansive room with grey and copper plastered walls, tubes filled with space suits of copper and orange, and the many, massive pipes and cords that entered the walls on either side. The hanger was large enough to fit a small fleet of airliners, yet at the far end of the hanger was the exit room, for personal only. Here, were no handrails. Crossing the expansive space would be an effort. With tired legs, I stumbled forwards, hands stretched out. By some sort of luck, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fall and made it to the bright red door on the far side. On the wall beside it, was a plastic lid, and inside was a large red button. I blew away dust from the plastic lid before undoing the latch, and opening it. A bright red button that glowed dully gave off a recording, asking in an unending loop, "Press the button and stand five feet away from the doors," as they would open within thirty seconds of pushing the button. I pressed the button and stepped back, as white smoke billowed, the old metal door creaked open. As light streamed inwards from the alien planet, a metal platform lowered from the ship to the ground.

Vic Gear The heaviness in the air would take some getting used to, even though every breath I took felt invigorating. Standing on the solid land, I could see with sharp eyes that this place looked like a spitting image of Earth. Yet the colors here felt more alive, deeper, stronger. Not only was it the colors, but the sounds that reached my ears were something out of a dream. Surreal, as the silver-green clouds floated overhead. Two bright suns kept the land below warm, one to the west, the other lower in the sky, towards the north. I took one step, then two forwards, seeing the landscape stretch out as far as my eyes could see. To the south there looked to be a mountain range, and to the east were tall and thin things, that could have been trees or even buildings. I knew I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the only living being on this planet, and it could be that there were very intelligent creatures here, but I had no idea if they had yet mastered space exploration. For Earth, it had been a necessity of survival, but oddly enough only one survived. Me. I knew there were other ships in the making, and that our small group had been just enough to keep the ship in working order, as a test run. I remembered now. Just about everything that happened within the days before our dispatch. In the excess and never ending space, I could not be sure how far I traveled unless I looked at the interior of the computer room. I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t thought to check before leaving the ship. The forgetfulness of being out of time, in a place away from everything I had known for years, had changed me. I had once been a sharp participate, a scientist even ... a seasoned pilot, and astronaut. Yet, everything that would have come to me in half a moment's time, now seemed hard to recall. I sat in the grass, trying to recall my memories. It felt good to be on land again, to feel the breath of air and the sound of life around me.

Extraordinary Pizzazz in an Ordinary Person R a c h e l O t to

An elderly woman working at a garden center is knowledgeable about most plants, but she keeps none inside. Situated off of a busy highway, Jung’s is a bland brown building, one of five stores owned by the Wisconsin company, Jung Seed. With the exception of the spring season, it is a mellow place filled with plants both inside and outside. The store has an old-fashioned feel to it, where employees know the names of dozens of customers and the owner of the company stops by regularly. The lady with her hands on her hips is Betty, the houseplant-hater. She used to keep a few orchids in the windowsill, but she threw them away. She is staring tight-mouthed out the window at a customer who has not followed her advice on planting shrubs. They are now bringing in the skeletal remains of a Spirea bush. Betty blows a raspberry in disbelief before turning to give the nearest employee that disapproving I-told-him-to-breakup-the-root-ball look. Her facial expressions tell all. Talk back to her, and all she needs to do is give a look and you’ll know to be quiet. She hates the new work phones. Sometimes she has to take a phone call for the nursery department and needs to check to see if a certain tree is in stock. When she tries to put the person on the other end on hold, she accidentally hangs up on them. Having made that mistake a few times, she has learned to set the phone down so she doesn’t have to press any buttons. Not breaking five feet tall (even on tip-toes) and no more than 100 pounds soaking wet, Betty looks like a typical little old lady. Her hair is whiter than her turtlenecks. It curls and frizzes on humid days. She has great-grandchildren and a little dog named Frasier. She gets cold easily, so she always wears at least three layers of clothing. She can’t drive at night because she can’t see well in the dark. Once, she never showed up for work and the manager almost drove to her house because he was worried something had happened. Nothing had; she had forgotten she was supposed to work that day. Beyond all of these things, she is the opposite of ordinary for someone her age. Bird-boned and a little hunched over, she looks like a customer rather than an employee. Her skin has been baked by the sun many summers over. Her eyes are sunken in with age, giving her a tired

Rachel Otto expression, but her mere presence gives off an entirely different air. Betty has the energy everyone wishes they had. On long days where the feet grow tired after standing for hours on end, Betty refuses to sit down at any point, sometimes skipping out on breaks or eating her lunch standing up. She tells us she’s lost her pizzazz at the end of the day, but does not rest until she is home. If someone needs bags of topsoil loaded into their car, Betty hefts two forty-pound bags at once and tosses them into the trunk. If one of her coworkers offers help, she says she can handle it herself and won’t allow any intervention. She credits her once-daily Ensure drink to her ability to lift so much and says it keeps the weight on her bones. An avid snacker, she finds herself to be hungry every few hours and brings snacks wherever she goes. At work, they’re kept in a black-and-white Thirty-One lunchbox embroidered with “Betty’s Munchies” in purple thread. Usually on the counter in the bare root room, it sometimes gets forgotten there overnight. Its contents include anything that isn’t a banana — snack-sized bags of popcorn, a donut picked up from the gas station, and some of the packages of Scooby-Doo fruit snacks bought for her great-grandkids. Outspoken, Betty stands her ground in every situation. A police officer showed up to the garden center one day and asked to speak to the manager. She gave him a stern look and asked what he wanted with him, about ready to fight. Unbeknownst to her, the officer was a friend stopping in for a visit. Upon meeting up with the manager, he commented, “Geesh. You don’t want to mess with her!” It’s strongly believed that Betty could beat the snot out of anyone. Betty has found the fountain of youth. She has an attitude spicier than most teenagers, making it hard to believe she’s in her mid-seventies. Picky about where she goes for Chinese takeout, there is only one place she is willing to order from — Chang Jiang. In her opinion, rain bonnets look too old lady-ish and she doesn’t want to look old. She wants them to be designed with style, and not with frump. She rummages through three drawers before she finds the pair of pruners she wants, then starts at the far end of the rose section in the nursery and works her way closer to the store. On hot days, she brings a few bushes at a time under the overhang in a wagon to stay out of the sun. Within the first half hour she comes in for a Band-Aid or two because she always snags her skin on the thorns. Plastering them on her arms, she mutters a comment about how that always happens and goes back outside to finish the task.

Extraordinary Pizzazz in an Ordinary Person While extraordinary, Betty is still a relatable person. She hates the taste of water, eats oodles of soup in the winter, and enjoyed watching “The Lion King” musical at the Overture Center. She is a devoted mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Her great granddaughters often ask to make pumpkin bars when they come over and take all of them home. Though the pumpkin bars are a favorite of Betty’s, she admits she wouldn’t be upset if she only got one. She fed my dog crackers at the Christmas party two years ago because she was begging. The first winter after her husband died, she felt like she’d never survive. At night, she felt chilled to the bone and she went to Sears to see if there was anything she could get to help. An employee recommended a heated mattress pad for her, and she claims it is the best purchase she has ever made. Finally, at the end of the work day, she loses her pizzazz and wants to take a hot shower when she gets home so she can be ready for the next day.

Memoir Yu nz h u S h e n

In 2008, the year of the Beijing Olympics, my mom and I moved to Tokyo, Japan, from Beijing, China. I was in the fifth grade. Learning Japanese was a challenge, but making friends in my new school was even a higher mountain to climb. I wasn’t a natural at making friends and they asked questions, questions I was not prepared to answer. In their eyes, I must have seemed odd. Every time my new classmates asked me why I came to Japan, I stumbled and acted like I was hiding something. Why couldn’t I just tell them? I really didn’t know how to answer, and I didn’t know what answer they would accept. The other two Chinese girls who had transferred to the school both said they came to Japan because their dad or mom were Japanese. How I wished to say the same, but I couldn’t. My mom had taken me to Japan with her because she was persecuted for her beliefs and we didn’t have any guarantee what could happen to us if we stayed in China. I just didn’t have the guts to tell it to anyone. I was born in Beijing, but don't have much memory of my early childhood with my mom. Instead, I remember taking an endless bus ride every few months with my dad from the city of Beijing to the suburbs to see my mom in the Beijing Women’s Prison. She always had short hair, just like me. My dad always kept my hair neck-short because, as now I understand, he didn’t want to waste much time on my hair. My mom had the biggest smile on her face every time she saw us. And she would talk to me, most of the time on the phone, looking through the wall of bars and glass. My dad and I could only see her for an hour, or maybe half an hour, and then the police would make us leave. We would say goodbye and return to the city of Beijing, and live our lives without a slight trace of her, for a long, long while, until the next visit. Back in Beijing, my kindergarten classmates seemed convinced that they shouldn’t play with me because I didn’t have a mom, and somehow that was an unacceptable thing. I didn’t understand their logic. Neither did I understand the adults who decided to put my mother in prison. I thought a prison was for people who did bad things. Before my mother was taken, she was a teacher at Tsinghua University, the top university in Beijing. I looked up to her. My dad said they took her away because she practiced Falun Gong. I didn’t know what Falun Gong was. All I knew was she didn’t do anything

Memoir bad. But it seemed that “Falun Gong” was the very reason people kept their distance from us. I will never forget the day my mother returned. It was a warm, cloudless afternoon, just a little before our first summer break. My firstgrade class was having lunch. The sunlight sprinkled its flickering shadow on my desk through the big poplar tree outside the window. The classroom was filled with bustle of excitement as always. Then our teacher, Ms. Wang, called me out to the school gate. The class quieted down. Back then, when a student was called outside it meant that student was in trouble. I headed to the school gate in wonder, but then I saw my mom. She came back and came to the school right away to see me. Afterward, I dashed back into the class room shouting, “my mom came back!” again and again, skipping up and down like a crazy person. My classmates gazed in confusion. For the first time that I could remember, I had a mom in my everyday life, my mom. It was also the first time I could grow my hair long. She would braid my hair for me every day before school, just like everyone else’s mom. It was then, I started to learn about Falun Gong. On one weekend, my mom handed me a book with a blue cover and three characters that horizontally read “Zhuan Fa Lun,” or the spinning wheel of law. Inside, the book was full of words in Chinese characters. My mom said that the book would teach me the moral principles of being a good person. We read together. From the book, I learned about why people hurt each other, and why I shouldn’t be like that. Instead, I should think of others before myself. It was eye-opening. Three Chinese characters repeatedly appeared in the book, printed brightly in my mind even today: “ (zhen) (shan) (ren)” – truthfulness, compassion, and tolerance. “Zhuan Fa Lun” was the book of Falun Gong. Is this what my mom was arrested for? Believing in something that taught her to be a good person? I wondered why would anyone would do such a thing? I asked my mom. She explained, but I still didn’t understand. I had heard how ordinary people talked about Falun Gong. They said Falun Gong was a cult and that all the people who practice it would go crazy and kill people near them, even their own families, and they would kill themselves. … Just by looking at my mom, I knew none of those things were true. And the book of Falun Gong never came close to advocating violence. Instead, the book talked about why one shouldn’t kill, or do anything bad. But most people learned about Falun Gong through television and schools. Everybody then knew television was controlled by the Chinese Communist Party. Even as a kid in elementary school, I was conscious of the fact that

Yunzhu Shen the television had some kind of invisible and unspeakable authority. Still, the general public chose to believe what was said on TV without any doubt, or maybe they were just afraid to doubt anything said on TV. During this time, whenever anyone brought up Falun Gong, people would get nervous and desperately try to avoid talking about it or show extreme animosity toward it. The police even arrested Falun Gong practitioners, simply because of their beliefs. During that time, my family lived in a residential district under the district committee’s monitoring. Both the committee and my family knew this, but neither ever said it out loud. Every time any of us left the district, there were always people following us. They were cops in disguise, though it wasn’t hard to notice after a while. The committee would report my mom and the family’s whereabouts, as well as any trace of her practicing Falun Gong, to the government authority. My mom and I would only read the book at home and practice Falun Gong’s exercises with the curtain closed. The police came to our home many times, five or six of them, sometimes at day, sometimes at night. One time at night they came again. They split into two groups, and demand to “chat” with my mom and dad separately, Mom in the living room and Dad in the bedroom. I don't remember what they were "chatting" about, I was too young to understand. Still, I remember Dad’s worried look and Mom’s steadfast eyes. It was too crowded for me to be among them in our small home, so I wandered to the kitchen. Somehow what I saw that night I still can't quite forget. Facing the street outside, on the platform covered in a thick, oily layer of dust in front of the kitchen window, sat some kind of device. It looked like someone’s walkie-talkie. It must have belonged to the cops, I thought. But why would anyone leave it here? Did he forget it? What did he come into the kitchen for? There were so many mysteries in my head. The “walkie-talkie” light was still flashing red, projecting onto the window. I felt that something was going on unnoticed, and I still don't know what. Soon after that, we started to see the Beijing Olympics advertisements. That year, I was in fifth grade. Everywhere we went, there was the Beijing Olympics logo and catchphrases. Because foreigners would soon come to China “wanting to see how China has developed and how its democracy has progressed,” as the government advertised, my mom figured that the Chinese authority would start strengthening its oppression of the people’s speech again. She was looking for an opportunity to get out. With God’s help, she got a chance to go to Japan and left China safely.

Memoir After Mom temporarily settled down in Japan, my family started to plan my departure. The night before my plane to Japan, I came back from school and started packing. My dad restricted my luggage to one backpack, which meant I couldn’t bring my cat Mimi and my toys. I said goodbye to them, and to the home that I had lived in since I was born. My dad walked me to the residential district gate. “Where are you going?” The guard stared at my luggage suspiciously. “To her grandpa’s. We are spending the night there,” Dad answered quickly. “Oh,” he replied, his eyes still shifting between us doubtfully. “Goodbye Sir,” I greeted, as I usually did. We walked out of the gate trying to walk at our normal pace as best we could. We spent the night at my grandpa’s, and woke up before daylight. “I sewed few hundred yuan in your jeans’ back pocket. Just in case,” Grandpa said. Grandpa, Dad and I got to the airport. They walked me to the security gate and that’s the last I have seen them. Everything went perfectly just as planned. I got to Japan unnoticed by the monitor, safely. In Japan, Mom took me to the anti-persecution parade held every year in Tokyo. I never imagined one day we could see that many Falun Gong practitioners, hundreds of them gathering in public, proudly, marching to stop the persecution. It was a completely different world, a world where people had free access to information. I learned more about Falun Gong and the reason Chinese regime suppressed the practitioners. Falun Gong was actually popular in China before the persecution. Falun Gong was a traditional cultivation method and had been passed down privately for generations. When Falun Gong was first introduced to the public in the early 1990s, it was known for its power of healing illness and most people practiced it as an exercise, similar to the movements of Tai Chi. The Chinese government even advocated Falun Gong for its effective exercise. Then more and more people realized what really made Falun Gong effective was its idea of cultivation of the mind, following its principles of truthfulness, compassion, and tolerance, to achieve a higher level of being. Practitioners recognized Falun Gong as a spiritual movement. As the population of Falun Gong practitioners grew to over 100 million in mainland China in 1999, the leader of the Chinese Communist Party at the time, Jiang Zemin, felt threatened by it. In July 1999, Jiang Zemin started the massive suppression of Falun Gong. Not only did the government,

Yunzhu Shen which controlled the media, use it smear Falun Gong by creating fake news, practitioners were arrested and forced to give up their belief. That day I learned many cruel things that practitioners had endured: the prison, the labor camp, the brainwash center … they were tortured, abused, and even injected with unknown drugs that left many disoriented and with disabilities afterwards. Furthermore, I learned something that I wished was not true – the live organ harvesting. Falun Gong practitioners had secretly become the government’s largest organ “donor” pool in China. Practitioners’ organs were harvested, while they were still conscious. Not knowing the truth, thousands of foreigners from all over the world would go to China for organ transplants every year. It had become a business for the government. Compared to what happened to those practitioners, Mom and I were lucky. That day, I was so shocked that I didn’t know how to feel afterward. That day, a tiny seed was planted in my mind without my notice. I lived in the shadows for many years after that. I couldn’t fit in in my new school. The Japanese culture is known for its conformity. My way of doing things wasn’t exactly liked by my classmates. I was sometimes bullied. I couldn’t speak Japanese. Every day, I felt like I was stuck in this giant, sealed glass jar among my classmates who were talking, laughing, bonding while I stayed silent, disconnected. Almost everyday something in school upset me, and soon I did not want to go. Mom was on my side without hesitation: “If you can’t learn anything from that school, then it’s meaningless to go.” I got permission to stay home on school days. Instead of trying to make friends at school, I would stay at home every other day, watching “Friends,” Mom’s favorite sitcom on her DVD player. First I watched it with Chinese subtitles, then gradually I could watch without. Eventually I learned to speak Japanese, but I had long forgotten how to make a conversation. Looking back, I was living a life I didn’t want to live, not simply because I was miserable at school, but because I knew I wasn’t doing something I was supposed to do. Something was missing and I couldn’t figure out what. Things started to look up in high school. And I finally found out what was missing: the truth. All these years I have been avoiding facing the true reason that brought me here to this foreign land. I was so afraid to tell people that I was different in this way, that I would lie instead. And that is not what I was taught from my mother, or what I learned from “Zhuan Fa Lun.” The tiny seed took roots seven years ago, has sprouted.

Memoir And now, I’m here, studying in America. No matter how much of a hard time I thought I had at school, or how I struggled to speak Japanese in daily life in Japan, at least I was protected, under my mother’s wings and the Constitution of Japan. No one, especially the state authority in China, could physically hurt me under those protections. However, today, Falun Gong practitioners are still under persecution in China. Most people around the world are not aware of the oppression happening at all. There are still people who believe the Chinese Communist Party’s propaganda, that Falun Gong is “evil cult” and ought to be “destroyed.” Only by telling my story, can more and more good people know about what is really going on, and take action. I am not as brave as my mother, who stood up for what’s right under the great pressure that ordinary people can’t imagine. I’m not as brave as those thousands (and more unknown by statistics) of Falun Gong practitioners who were killed through torture or other means, only because they refused to sign the agreement of compromise – giving up practicing Falun Gong. But at least I can serve witness to the truth. By sharing my experience, I hope more people learn about Falun Gong and join the call to stop this 17-year crime against humanity. Falun Gong practitioners all over the world are trying to stop the persecution by telling people about it. They protest peacefully-petition, demonstration, parade…and never use violence. For 17 years, they have stuck to the same. I hope one day the persecution of Falun Gong will stop. I hope people will know the truth. I hope people will be able to practice Falun Gong freely in China again.

Sa ra H i l l

{Ed. Note: The following series of emails was submitted as part of our story contribution, although it seems a bit too real. Authorities have been notified in the event that this is evidence of a criminal act. If you have any information related to the following entry, please contact the local authorities.} M< blacddsdfsdfs > October 1 3:57 pm I saw you today. It’s been three days since you called. I know, I know. It was just coffee, but it seemed like we kind of had a connection. I left you alone, and that was hard for me. But I thought you’d call. We talked about that movie, remember? It seemed like you were going to take me. I even bought tickets when I got home, I was so excited to think maybe we could share some popcorn and then talk about how special effects are killing the industry. Ugh, you’re probably busy. Anyway, I promise I’m not weird. Just excited to see you again! Write me back! M. M< blacddsdfs > October 1 4:28 pm Oh man, you must think I’m obsessed or something, but I promise, I’m not. I was just thinking what an idiot I am. I forgot to tell you my number in case you missed it that night, it’s 7685724463. Also, you know, above is my email. Hear from you soon! M. M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 2 3:16 am I know you’re probably busy, but no phone call? Come on, I know you’ve at least got to be reading your emails, what with work and school and all that. Maybe my emails are in the junk folder? If you had given me your number, I probably would just see if that’s the problem. I’m pretty good with computers. I didn’t tell you that on our date, but I don’t like to brag. If you ever had a problem, I’d probably be able to fix it for you. I’m also really good with numbers. Do you need a math tutor? I’m available any time. Anyway, you’re probably sleeping. Call me! M.

M. M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 2 4:05 pm Listen, maybe we started off on the wrong foot. Can we start over? Meeting you was really good for me, I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Maybe you don’t believe in soul mates, and to be honest, neither did I. But then I saw you standing there in the coffee shop, waiting for me. You smiled like I’ve never seen anyone smile at me before. It was a ray of sunshine. Oh man, now I’m using crappy imagery. It’s the crappy imagery, isn’t it? Sorry, I hope you get the gist of what I’m trying to say. I think I’m in love with you. They say love at first sight, you have to hold on tight, etc. Baby, I’ll never give up on you. M. M < blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 4 1:24 am I had an idea. Sometimes you just have to go the way of all those romantic fools, like Romeo and that guy from the Fifty Shades thing. You know, you probably read all that stuff. That’s what’s so exciting about you. I followed you home. You looked really tired. I wanted so badly to come in and hold you, let you tell me about your hard day. But I felt scared, like maybe you weren’t answering me for a reason. Maybe you needed time to think about us. So I watched you. You really need to close your curtains, I worry about the neighborhood you live in. Anyone can just peek inside and see what you’re up to. They might know what television show you’re watching. They might know you’re alone. These ideas frighten me. I really hope you stay safe. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. M. M< blacddsdfssΩ > October 6 3:34 am You finally called! I’m sorry I called you so often, but I knew that you just needed me to remind you I was still around! Why are you telling me you don’t get my emails? That’s so weird. You really should let me come over and look at your computer, there may be something going on with that. You sounded distant. It hurt my heart. Almost as if you didn’t know who I was. We spent those hours together, laughing and making plans. I know, it was just one date, but COME ON! When you know, you know. Maybe I know. Maybe you just need convincing. Hahahahaha. Jk,

Sara Hill didn’t mean to sound aggressive. You’ll see it the way I see it. I know you will. Until next time, sweet love, M. M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 7 4:19 pm You are not being kind. You told me on the phone that you would meet me to talk about this, and you left me there alone. BLEW ME OFF! Made me look like an idiot. What is wrong with you? You don’t do that to a person! You don’t take their heart and just….fucking RIP IT OUT OF THEIR CHEST LIKE THAT!!! And now you’re not returning my calls! I got your number from your work, that’s not weird. It’s not like they are just giving it out to strangers! ANSWER ME, YOU FUCKING PIG. You FUCKING need to explain yourself. I am hurt that you could be so cruel and stand me up like that. M< blacdfsΩ > October 7 4:46 pm It must have been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry, I was emotional. You would never hurt me. You’re sweet like that. I probably got the time wrong, and now here I am, being a complete jerk. I’m sorry. I’ll see if I can make it up to you tomorrow. Please don’t read too much into that, I was just upset. Forgive me, M. M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 7 5:23 pm You didn’t take my suggestion. I see your blinds are still wide open. You always seem like that kind of person to take chances. So why are you so afraid to take a chance on me? I would give you the world on a silver platter if only you asked. M. M < blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 7 10:30 pm FUCK that. Maybe you just like TORTURING people. I saw you, dumb SHIT. You just sat on that stupid couch, stuffing your stupid face with chips, watching that mindless show. I saw you IGNORE my call, you flubing duck. You think I’m just going to sit here, hoping you’ll come around. YOU’RE TOO STUPID TO UNDERSTAND!!!! You think it’s funny, don’t you?

M. You sit there, obviously nothing flubing better to do, laughing at people who actually give a shot about people. YOU’RE THE FLUBBING DEVIL! FLUB YOU! You’re just like EVERYONE ELSE!!! I CAN’T STAND THE WAY YOU MORONS THINK YOU CAN JUST WALK ALL OVER WHOEVER THEY WANT, LIKE YOUR KING SHOT OF SHIT MOUNTAIN!! Someday somebody is going to TEACH you how it FEELS to be THROWN AWAY! Like GARBAGE! YOU ARE HUMAN GARBAGE!!!! M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 8 1:22 am I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. M< blacddsdfsdfsΩ > October 12 7:57 pm Things got out of hand. Sometimes I lose sight of what I’m really trying to do. I just wanted so badly for you to understand. I got angry. I promise, I’m not some sort of psycho, I just forget myself sometimes. I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got some big ideas. If you just give me a chance, I promise I’ll make you happy again. M < flubin g > October 13 2:56 am I saw you. I thought you saw me, too. But then you pulled the blinds down over your window. If you had known it was me, you wouldn’t have done that. I hope I didn’t scare you. I guess I’ll have to surprise you some other time. You must still be pretty angry over how I acted the other day. If you even read this. And the voice mails? You know how people can get when they are upset. You’ve got to know I was just hurt. I would never nail your cat to a tree, or whatever dumb thing that came out of my mouth. And boy, were they dumb! I bet we can laugh about it in the future. Pull your intestines through your neck? That’s probably not even possible. Hahahahaha. The things we say when we’re mad. LOL! Hey wait a minute….is this the end of our first fight? I told you we were meant to be. If we can handle this, we can handle anything. I love you, M.

Sara Hill M< flu

bing > October 14 1:13 am You must have blocked my number. I thought, sure, maybe you didn’t pay your bill or something. But then I SAW YOUR PHONE WHEN I CALLED!!!! AND STOP LEAVING YOUR BLINDS UP! THERE ARE DANGEROUS PEOPLE OUT IN THE WORLD, YOU CAN’T RELY ON ME ALL THE TIME TO KEEP YOU SAFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If you’re not going to play fair, I guess I’m not going to play fair. M< fl

ubing > October 15 2:18 am Never say never. You know that song, cruel to be kind? I don’t either, but I keep hearing it in my head, cruel to be kind. I’m being kind to you. You need to know life isn’t always fair, but sometimes… sometimes when you act like a SHALLOW BOTCH and THROW AWAY a perfectly good relationship, life will have a way to FOCKING PUNISH YOU! I hope it takes you just as long to pull your cat down as it did for me to nail him up. M< flubi ng > October 18 5:45 pm I can’t believe this. You have cried more for that stupid cat than you ever did over us. You want him back so bad? Boohoo, you stupid focking baby. M < flubi ng > October 19 8:27 pm I’m sorry. I realize he must have meant so much to you. I’ll make this right. Please don’t leave me. M< flubi ng> Check your back porch.

October 20 4:29 am

M< flubi ng > October 20 7:30 am You’ve got to be kidding. YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!! I could hear you screaming from the front yard. You’re so ungrateful! You know how hard it was for me to get him out of the lawn? Without waking you? YOU’RE INSANE! I try and I try and nothing is ever good enough for you, you spoiled brat! Cruel to be kind. You don’t respond to kind words and gestures. No…. neanderthals like you only understand one thing. You ungrateful, stupid moron. They say love and hate are practically the same thing. Right now, I hate you. You need to fix this. I’m coming over. No more games.

M. M< flu

bin g > October 24 9:59 pm I guess….I needed to email you again. I miss you. Sometimes we say and do things to the people we love, and there’s just no turning back. They stopped talking about you on the news. I miss seeing the photos they’d sometimes throw up on the screen. That’s when you were happy. When we were happy. I wish I could go back. I’d do it all differently, I promise. I would’ve given you your space. I know that now. And maybe you could have been more patient with me? I’m just saying, love is a two-way street, babe. The last time you spoke to me, you shouted at me. You told me you didn’t know who I was. See? You can be just as hurtful as I was when you’re angry. I wish you’d talk to me now. I am a coward. You are inches away from me, laying in my bed, and I can only write an email to you. You’re free to go my love, to heaven or hell, whichever you deserve. Death couldn’t even part us, I told you that we were meant to be together. Just not forever. It breaks my heart to admit it. My heart has been pulled in a different direction lately, and sadly, I think I must go. I will always hold a special place in my heart for you, I promise you that. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date waiting for me at the coffee shop. I’m excited to see if this is the one!

Modern Day American Nomad Nicole Christianson

At first glance, one might think he is a homeless person. Unshaven, wearing a tattered old jacket and dilapidated hiking boots, he walks the streets of Green Bay carrying a metal-framed field pack sagging under the weight of its contents. This probably leads most people to think he spends the majority of his time living outdoors. Just a few years ago, you would be correct in that assumption. For the last four decades he has traveled, never staying in one place more than a couple of years. His wanderings led him to every state west of the Mississippi River, and east of it also. Most people with this extensive of a travel resume would be wealthy or, at the very least, one of those retired couples roaming the country in a massive RV. This man, however, wandered with little money and even fewer plans. Nowadays, his age is causing him to stop his travels. He has decided to move back to his hometown. He has returned for the nostalgia, as this is where he always returned to recoup after the fast breaks he had been chasing in other places had not panned out. His father was long gone before he was born, a one-night stand without more than a possible first name. His mother has long since relocated to South Carolina to retire without bother from her children. For him, this is fine. She was an alcoholic, leaving him and his older brother at home to be raised by their sister, while she raised another glass of scotch at the local bar. He blames his motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s alcoholism for this neglect, which distilled in him a very strong dislike of alcohol and drugs, although he occasionally succumbed to nights of drinking in this hard-drinking town. Most nights did not end well, leading to fights with strangers and friends alike, and trips in police cars to sleep it off in detox or in a jail cell. When speaking to others, he does not make eye contact. This is not out of disrespect or disinterest but, rather, because he is so uncomfortable in his own skin. Even in the most casual conversations, he shuffles and stares at his feet like a child being scolded. Confidence only exudes from him when speaking about his interests. If a stranger brings up the subject of any travel, he perks up, glances for a second with his shy, cobalt eyes, and begin discussing the â&#x20AC;&#x153;must-seesâ&#x20AC;? in the area. For those he is close to, he likes to regale with tales of his travels. One story, told with an unexpected sense of wit and humor, is

Modern Day American Nomad about the time he fell asleep on a highway in a Southern California desert. He woke in an institution covered in bandages from head to toe, due to severe sun burn and a suspicion he was suicidal for falling asleep in such a hazardous spot. From a shack in Cocoa Beach, Florida, during a hurricane, a walk through the grand forests of redwoods in Northern California, white-knuckle driving though winding and slippery mountain roads of Colorado, going to war with scorpions at a motel water pump in Arizona, enjoying the scenery at a cheap pool-side hotel in Miami, to being stranded in L.A. for two weeks with no money trying to pan-handle a way out of there — good or bad, these unique experiences were the payout for a life lived in his nomadic way. His favorite place in the world was Lake Tahoe, California. He recalls how the water was so reflective and that, on any given day, one can go skiing or boating in the sun within an hour of each other. He’s slept under the Hollywood sign in California — yes illegal, but an experience unique to only a few in this country. His love of artifacts and coins worth money, and the elusive “overnight millionaire” pawn shop finds are favorite know-all topics of his. His expertise in bargain-hunting keeps him a regular at the old Army surplus store and resale shops in town. True to the modern-day American nomad as he is, he prefers trading to monetary exchange. He believes this to be a fair transaction. His thoughts on this are often contradicted by his wallet, stuffed with the scratchoff lottery tickets he hoards daily. He scratches them off fiercely when he knows no one is looking, knowing one day he will hit the big one. Daily, he walks his companion, an agreeable old collie named Shadow. He goes to the county park nearby and leads the dog off the paths. Ignoring the “stay on the path” signs, he knows treasures like old lost coins, arrowheads, and relics are not on the beaten paths. He speculates where to go next, imagining that he will find the unexpected on his unofficial treasure hunt. In the quiet of the woods he reflects on other places he’s been that were similar, and wonders if he should go back to those places for better luck. Along their walk, he comes upon a stream. As an old habit he scans for coins, in his modern-day treasurer hunt. A sliver of copper catches his eye. He bends slowly reaching for it, picking it up out of the stinging cold water of the stream. Holding it to his eye to inspect it, rolling it over in his hand, he realizes it’s an ordinary penny. He does not discard it, but instead puts it protectively in his field pack — for another trade, perhaps.

Little Tree A m y Tre e s

The twin saplings that stood waist high were the first to go sleep. Quickly changing colors and dropping their leaves while the other trees were still green. “Go to sleep, Little Tree,” whispered the wind. “I’m not tired,” said Little Tree. “The twin saplings have fallen asleep,” whispered the wind, “and now it’s your turn to go to sleep.” Little Tree stood between two old trees that towered high above him with broken branches. The leaves on one old tree turned from green to yellow and the leaves on the other old tree turned orange and red. But Little Tree remained green. “Go to sleep, Little Tree,” whispered the wind. “I’m not tired,” said Little Tree. “The two old trees have fallen asleep,” whispered the wind. “The twin saplings have fallen asleep, and now it’s your turn to go to sleep.” All the other trees began to change colors, while the two old trees dropped their leaves and went bare. Some trees had green and yellow leaves. Other trees had orange and red leaves. There were trees with brown and orange leaves. And trees with gold and brown leaves “Go to sleep, Little Tree,” whispered the wind. “I’m not tired,” said Little Tree. “All the other trees have fallen asleep,” whispered the wind. “The two old trees have fallen asleep, the twin saplings have fallen asleep, and now it’s your turn to go to sleep.” A few branches of Little Tree’s leaves began to turn yellow while all the other trees began to drop their leaves and go bare. “Go to sleep, Little Tree,” whispered the wind, its breath causing Little Tree’s leaves to flutter. “I’m not tired,” yawned Little Tree sleepily. “All the other trees have fallen asleep,” whispered the wind. “The two old trees have fallen asleep, the twin saplings have fallen asleep, and now it’s your turn to go to sleep.”

Little Tree

Each day, more and more branches of Little Tree’s leaves began to change colors. Starting with the branches on the south side and moving toward the branches on the north side. Until one day, Little Tree’s leaves were completely yellow. “Go to sleep, Little Tree,” whispered the wind. “I’m not tired,” whispered Little Tree sleepily. “All the other trees have fallen asleep,” whispered the wind. “The two old trees have fallen asleep, the twin saplings have fallen asleep, and now it’s your turn to go to sleep.” And finally Little Tree fell asleep. “Good night, Little Tree,” whispered the wind.

The Silent City:

A Visit to Pripyat, Ukraine Lena Marx You are taking a vacation through Europe and you arrive in the former Soviet Republic of Ukraine in early spring. You walk the cobblestone streets of Kyiv, the golden-domed capital city, and buy some local tchotchkes at the market on the Maidan – the main square where the Orange Revolution was born. On the website titled “100 Things to Do in Kyiv” you find a dubious suggestion to visit the town of Pripyat, located in the exclusion zone of the infamous Chornobyl Disaster. “Yeah, right,” you think to yourself, but you pride yourself on being an explorer-enthusiast. After a quick online transaction your account is $50 lighter and you become a proud owner of an electronic ticket for a Pripyat tour. A day later, seriously questioning this last decision in the name of morbid curiosity, you arrive at the far end of the regional bus terminal in Kyiv, where a rounded yellow bus is shivering from old age, poor maintenance and the cold March drizzle. “Hello! I’m Misha. I will be your tour guide,” says a voice behind you. You turn to see who it belongs to. The man before you is middleaged and thin, wearing a navy windbreaker and khaki pants. His English is not terrible, but the thick accent is mildly distracting. “Where is everyone else?” you ask, looking around. You two are the only people at the starting point of the excursion. “Not popular time for tour. Not till summer. Today is just you.” “You’ll drive the bus with just one passenger all the way to Pripyat?” you ask with surprise. “Of course. Bus doesn’t know how many people inside,” Misha says seriously. Can’t argue with that logic, you think, already beginning to like your laconic tour guide. He walks around the front and, after a beat, the rusty accordion door of the bus opens with a loud squeak and a series of clangs. As the old bus put-put-putters down the road, leaving the capital city behind, you learn, that Misha used to live in Pripyat and worked as an engineer at the Chornobyl Nuclear Power Station some five minutes outside of town. He talks about when the accident happened in the Reactor Number Four and how, when the plume of radioactive dust hit the sky, the

The Silent City: A Visit to Pripyat, Ukraine dosimeters all over Europe began sounding the alarm. Here Misha looks away into the distance and you wonder if he is finished talking on the subject. “I wasn’t working that day. My wife and I opened all the windows in the house. We were spring cleaning, before May Day. It was warm April afternoon and many young women had babies in their strollers, walking to park near my home.” Misha pauses again. Then he says something in halfwhisper, so quiet, that you ask him to please speak up. “So silent,” he finally repeats. “They were so silent for so long. Moscow gave order to evacuate Pripyat after a whole day went by. So many people would live today if Soviet government told the truth. But they were so very, very silent.” You nod your head sympathetically, but really, selfishly, you thank your lucky stars that on April 26, 1986 you were on the opposite side of the planet, far from radiation, evacuation and obliteration in this god-forsaken Ukrainian town. At last, the bus reaches the top of the hill and you finally see it. This forgotten city, Chornobyl’s sad little sister, the town of Pripyat. She emerges in all her bleak – beauty – gray buildings scarred by rust, slashed by the dark bare trees. Far in the distance you see an arch of the sarcophagus covering the Reactor Number Four at the Chornobyl Nuclear Plant. It’s astonishingly new among this frozen-in-time landscape, grimly crowning the town below. The bus abruptly stops at what looks to be a checkpoint with two Ukrainian policemen and a plain link chain strung between two low concrete posts, serving as a gate. “Is there a problem?” You ask your tour guide. “No, no problem. I take care of it,” says Misha, getting out of his seat and heading toward the policemen. You sit up straighter on the edge of your seat, wondering if your trip might be over before it even began. Misha is talking to the two guys in blue uniforms, who sound dismissive and annoyed in their native language. Misha nods, then hands them a clipboard and they suddenly become significantly friendlier, shaking his hand and opening the chain-link gate. When Misha returns to the bus and takes the driver seat you ask what he showed them. “Five dollars,” he answers with a small smile, helpfully converting the local hryvnas into the currency you are familiar with. “A bribe for entering the radioactive exclusion zone outside of scheduled tour hours.” You pass the guards and enter the town of Pripyat, population – zero. The whole place reeks of Soviet uniformity – gray sidewalks on either

Lena Marx side of the buckled road, straight lines of the practical buildings. No time for architectural flourishes. No money for high esthetics. Pripyat will live out her lonely years dressed in every shade of monochrome. It seems it’s just you and your guide in this ghost town today, when you step from the bus and onto the crumbling pavement. Pripyat looks like the episode of one of those “Life After People” shows, except there isn’t much life here. Everything seems frozen, paralyzed – even the bare trees stand unmoving, as if sketched with a coal on an eerie backdrop. Air itself feels thick with the tragedy and heavy with silence. You strain to hear anything – a chirp of a bird, a bark of a stray, anything at all. But there is only the rustle of last-year leaves under your boots and the howling of the wind through the empty windows of gray buildings. They stare at you with contempt, accusation, mistrust, their blind eyes boring into your soul. “Pripyat was young when it happened,” says Misha dolefully. “Only 16 years old.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s talking about a sick child, not an abandoned city. “They built her for the Chornobyl plant workers and their families, but she didn’t have long.” You walk quietly, shamelessly gawking into the empty eye sockets of broken windows. Suddenly, Misha points to a large, gray, three-story building with a crumbling mural of young smiling pioneers in red ties. “A school. My kids went here.” Those words give you a fleeting image of what it must have been like 30 years ago, when this town bustled with life, taught children, celebrated holidays and looked forward to the future. Now it’s all crumbled, like the decaying mural on the school wall. You ask if you can go inside the school, but immediately kick yourself for being so insensitive toward your guide. For you, this town is just an odd choice of a tourist destination for Misha, it’s filled with real memories, losses and regrets. “Sure,” he says to your surprise. “Only be careful. The buildings are not too safe now.” You weight the risks and decide that, heck, you’ve come this far. So the two of you walk through the hole in the boarded-up front door and find yourselves in the alma mater of Misha’s children, Pripyat School #1. Inside the school, it smells of rotten wood, mold and standing water. The roof is caved in several places, making you regret this idea once again. You take the long hallway with blotchy walls, plaster having fallen off in

The Silent City: A Visit to Pripyat, Ukraine clumps here and there. The first room on the right is a classroom – small and light, with the windows along one side. A dozen of wood-and-steel desks are haphazardly crowding the space, covered with what looks to be several decades of dust. The walls still bear the omniscient presence of Communism with curled up propaganda posters, framed Soviet Anthem, red banner with hammer and sickle, even a large board with a list of names – presumably the class students – and some motivational socialist messages serving as the border. “People were given two hours to evacuate,” Misha says as if reading your thoughts. “They said we can return in three days, so nobody packed much. Later, when radiation settled, the looters came and took what they wanted.” Ostensibly, they didn’t want the Soviet posters. You step carefully on the crumbling, uneven floor, littered with dozens of lined notepads. Bending down closer you can see the careful handwriting of unpracticed hands and your eyes start to burn. Must be the dust, you think, giving your eyes a vigorous rub. Or maybe it’s the bitter sight of the lost potential, strewn about on the ground making your eyes burn. Misha is standing at the door, patiently letting you satisfy your curiosity of the careless tourist. But you are done sight-seeing and ask to cut the tour short. Your guide nods and heads outside. Once outdoors, you walk faster, not wanting to delay your return to the old round bus that somehow seems like a safe heaven. By now your eyes are so used to the utilitarian neutrals, that when a pop of bright yellow appears in the grass, it stops you in your tracks. Misha stops beside you and you can tell that he saw it, too. It’s a single dandelion, that arrived weeks before its time and now wobbles carefully in the dead grass. It should symbolize hope and the rebirth of nature, but in this ghost town the bright yellow flower looks completely out of place, almost obscene. You get up quickly, feeling foolish for stopping to look at the flower, for leaving early, for even coming on this depressing tour, and head toward the bus. When you finally reach the rusty accordion door and turn around, Misha is still a few paces away. He’s holding the yellow dandelion in his hand, kneading it heartily with his long fingers until it’s nothing but mush, then throws it on the ground. You mentally applaud your quiet tour guide for taking an action against this ridiculous flower that dared to grow among death and decays, living where thousands of families could not. Pripyat is a forsaken city, that will forever serve as a reminder of

Lena Marx the great Soviet failure, the failure to protect its people in the face of the man-made disaster through brutal deceit and the silence of those trusted to speak for the nation. You take in this deserted place one more time before abandoning it like everyone else did long ago. Pripyat stands there â&#x20AC;&#x201C; crumbling, hopeless and silent. So very, very silent.

The Sea, The Trees Vi c G ea r

As I faced the warmth of the amber sun, the breeze of the lambent sea tussled the individual strands of my hair not tucked away in the bun atop my head. When reaching out with outstretched fingers, I swear that if I had stood onto the tips of my toes, I could reach the fluffy clouds that lazily wafted by. Although the brine of the sea was strong in the air, it lay far beyond the rolling emerald hills, the fields filled with waving sunflowers, and the tilled fields filled with wheat. From this height, I could see beyond those fields, past the small ruddy town, past the little brook that giggled and fell down a hill before being swallowed up by another sea made of white, twinkling trees known as Alabasters. These trees winked and sparkled, much like starlight when the sun slept, and glimmered like polished crystal found smooth in a meandering river. In the crow’s nest, a small tower made of stone and wood, I sat just a half hour away from the ruddy little town of Raven. There was my home, my birthplace. It was quaint, made of old stone and new timber — a town that had been ransacked, destroyed and rebuilt several times over in the past two centuries. For the past hundred years, though it seems as if the pirates have either forgotten us or found fatter, greener pastures. The crow’s nest was not alone — old timbered buildings surrounded the watch tower, that the guard would take turns sleeping in, eating, and breathing, all the while keeping their eyes towards the sea. My father, and his father before him, were watchmen, and his father’s father, before that too. It would have only been natural that I too become part of the watch. But, as the years passed and the pirates never showed, the once respected station as watchmen became less glamorous, less cared for. The timber buildings became derelict with time, as the families and watchmen moved back into Raven, leaving only one line of watchmen to care for the now crumbling tower, and the collapsing buildings — like the washing away of sand castles by the tide. I have two brothers, one tall, one short, but both unimpressed by the old crow’s nest. Both unimpressed with watching the sea and taking in the silence of the saffron sun. And so it has fallen to me, the first woman to take up the task of watch. But as my father had passed on – now nothing but a memory tumbling through the briny waves of the sea — I no longer have any company. An island alone, even when walking down the cobbled

Vic Gear streets of Raven. I often think to myself, that in the absence of fear, our town has grown fat, and whenever gazing out at the horizon I swear that Raven will one day lure them back. I try to lure my brothers to come to the crow’s nest, but their concern for me reaches only so far. The old lore is all I have now, and while their voices sing quiet in my head, they are far from dying, far from dead. The stories of old buxom banes, of pirates from lands far and bizarre, of the dreaded pirate captain Illicyian and his rotting skeleton crew. The stories of old gods, and old powers, that were seeped into the very land itself. Many say, the lore is erroneous, and made up to frighten children grown too headstrong. Often, I hear my brothers calling me headstrong. But all I do is smile my toothy grin and tell them: “Well, you say then I’ll never give in. And so, for me, it be a sin if I did not.” They close their eyes, and shake their heads. Again, I would grin. Even when I doubted myself. Another day, another sunrise. The amber sun arose from her slumber in the sea, now casting brilliant rays of red and orange over blue and green. I opened my eyes, feeling the warmth, uncurling myself from the small cot in the crow’s nest. I look out to the sea and in disbelief I see a mirror where should be a rippling, living thing. The sea stands still, and as I stare, a stifling warmth suffocates me — no breeze, no brine, no cool to suffice. It is then that I see that shadowy silhouette on the horizon. My heart sinks, while simultaneously leaping for joy — the vindication, oh the vindication. I was right! Oh, gods, I was right. I feared it to be Illicyian. Quickly, I reach upwards to the old iron bell hanging above my head suspended by a small beam and pull the rope. But the rope snaps after one tug, and the clapper inside hits the bell once before causing it to crack in a loud thudding whack. A small flurry of rust falls upon my ruddy hair, and I exhale sharply, coughing in a fit. I look up again, and the silhouette has grown larger, but now with it detail becomes observable. It is not Illicyian’s pirate ship, but sails unknown to me, a strangeness just as concerning. On the back of the massive ship were sails of coal — translucent with glowing orbs that floated behind them. When I looked too strongly, my soul leapt to my throat, banging on the backs of my teeth to escape, but I grit my teeth hard, looking away from the sails. The bow was long, slender, the hull dark, glittering like snake scales. No, it was not Illicyian but something far worse: Immortals of the lore of Raven, the oldest enemy and her keepers were demi-gods, immortals who dined upon the greedy souls of man. They also had a lust for Alabasters as well: said trees were believed to be as old as time, and capable of being formed into great weapons of

The Sea, The Trees power — for they were containers, the remains of the old gods. Of course, as I hurried down the ladder I wondered even if I reached Raven in time, what could I do? I was but the daughter of an old watchman, who spent hours staring at the sea. Who would believe me? A young girl who daydreams, who believes in mad things. Steeling myself, I know that at the very least, I must do something. Then an idea springs to my head, and I stop in my tracks. I turn away from Raven, and set my eyes towards the Alabaster forest. Even though it is a normal thing to see the wood every day, to admire its awesome splendor, everyone knew that the forest was cursed. Even if they didn’t believe in the lore, that the trees were the remains of old gods, they knew those who entered often met an unlucky, malignant end. Despite the fear and panic that threatened to subdue me, I remembered how my brothers told me I was headstrong. I ran headfirst into the Alabaster wood. Immediately, I felt as if I had stepped into another world — perhaps onto another plane — where the old Gods still lived and breathed. Breathing to me sounded as if I had smashed into a window, repeatedly — the silence there was complete. Each step added to the racket, and I found myself questioning my sanity as to what made me think this was a good idea. Clutching my tan fingers to my chest, I gulped — another loud thing. My steps slow, my breath shaky, I turned my head this way and that. All I could see were shadows and the glimmering bark of the Alabaster trees. It seemed an eternity, stumbling through the underbrush that I finally heard something other than my bumbling self — laughter. Laughter like a child, yet eternally older and wise. And mischievous. And it was coming from behind. I turned, and in that moment the trees came to life. They broke free from their roots and stepped away, until a large silver courtyard was exposed — the pillars themselves made of the Alabaster tree, twisting and intertwining with one another. It was all beyond description, for words alone could not describe the awe felt. But it was the figure who stood in the courtyard that made my jaw drop. It was him, my father. “But…you had been lost at sea,” I stutter in disbelief. “How can you be, here, standing…there...?” Staring at my father, I see that he is glowing — much like the Alabaster trees encompassing the silver courtyard. He smiles, but it is sad, and he says not a word. Instead he gestures towards me, while a table forms before him with a twisting of the Alabaster roots. On the table, in a show of gleaming gemstones, appears a single sword — the single most beautiful

Vic Gear thing I had ever laid eyes on — much more so than the silver courtyard. The blade is curved, made of sterling silver. The hilt is grey and soft, yet sturdy. A blue stone is cast at the bottom of its hilt. Without words being spoken, I hear him, say to me, “Take the sword, go to the sea, stick the blade within the water — and then you will see.” Hesitantly, I took the blade into my hands. The moment it was tight within my grasp, the courtyard fades, and the forest marches away. The glimmering trees are on the move. Cool air returned to me with a rush, as if I had been running, for now I saw that I was on the beach and the ship with the immortals was but a few yards away. I could see their curling tusks, and massive hooked fangs. I could also see the fear within their blood colored eyes. With that I grinned my toothy grin, and stuck the blade deep into the water. In a burst of light, that swept over land and sea, the great immortals' ship was obliterated. The power of that light knocked me over and darkness began to take me. But just before the darkness came, I saw the saffron sun. I grinned.

It’s Going to be Beautiful K a c i S u l l iva n

Transgender, gender-queer and non-binary identities are valid and deserving of our societal support. No one’s going back into the closet. Black lives matter. All Muslims are not terrorists. We don’t need a wall. Women’s rights are human rights. Why are any of these statements considered debatable? The worth of human life is not debatable. These people are not strangers. They are your friends, family, neighbors, doctors, teachers, and community members. If we can collectively choose to be compassionate, then we all will benefit from a supportive and empathetic culture. Discrimination and divisive legal policies cut into a community that includes all of us. Whether you believe you’re removed from those who are different from you, privately quarantined only with the familiar, the fact remains we are a singular society we bleed out in a united fashion. To decide some human lives are worth more than others, is not only unethical and immoral – it’s counterproductive to our goals as a species. Humanity has risen on a wave of creators, innovators, and problem solvers, many of whom have had to fight to share an important new message. Our aptitude for phenomenal scientific and philosophical revelation is countered only by our resistance to the unfamiliar. Luckily I believe the former is ingrained and the latter is learned. The key skills of our generation are learning, unlearning and teamwork. Let us unlearn our ignorance, relearn to connect with our innate, boundless compassion and unite to find solutions to the issues we are currently facing as a species, and as a planet. We’re going to need everyone and every last idea. We’re going to need a lot of support and a lot of compassion. We’re going to need to have patience for each other’s differences as well as each other’s mistakes. It’s going to be beautiful.

March Like a Girl Sa ra h Ha m i l to n

Fifty thousand friends each nameless to me but strong and beautiful are the names of their souls. The first time an overcrowded place has ever felt this safe. Brushing shoulders with the women beside me, we are one. Bodies stand tall, voices stand taller. My body is my temple, each step is my worship. My voice is my power. The power of a seven year old boy with a sign, “fight like a girl.” Seven years of choosing right over wrong verse seventy and not quite there yet. My feet still work so I’m working on being there for others. My choice is my right, and my right is to march. Eyes forward. I’m not looking back.

Modern Perception of the Mind C i a ra Hav l i k

I said, Tell me of a time when your mind created Something that wasn't there She described her mental illness, Which tainted all her happiness I asked about her medication She's tired of that, and even of meditation There's a new resurgence Of attaining a higher state of being He told me when he took it, they asked, "What are you seeing?" Vacuums like outer space filled his eyes. Ask any child What they see at night When mommy or daddy turn off the lights False constellations always win the in the closet-monster fight â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Fighting. I asked why she was crying. She described all of the instances her girlfriend was lying Her girlfriend claimed there was never anything between them, And that the only reason she stayed that long Was to prolong her own delusions of false freedom. Perception of the mind Isn't always on time.

Fifteen

Mai Neng Thao

In a neglected house he had been crowned Fifteen decayed heartbeats descended down And not one invited to his embrace His love is cheap and a shameful disgrace Across the sea he ships his finest love Leaving fifteen souls sadly empty of Softly they wait and yearn to rid the burn For one they know who long shifted and turned The caress of his voice is high prestige Something fifteen bleak eyes will never see Fifteen lonely minds stare wondering why They can't get close enough to feel the tie Of a bond so powerful from their sire Who deprived them the love they most desired

THE HUNTER Sa h i ra R o c i l l o

Bite His weight oppressing my life Struggle With force I try pushing him Fail He's stronger than me Bite His teeth trap my lips Hurts His tongue running up my neck Today I discovered that my neck was ten feet long. Or, is time too slow? Stop Stop Please stop. He grips my hands tight Fast He moves too fast Lick He licks my lips Both of my wrists fit inside one of his fists. Talented He can unbutton pants with one hand. Predator Inside He's in, in everywhere, I can feel him in my blood Heavy Why am I so weak? I swear I am using all my strength but I can’t I can’t get him off of me Breathe, I can’t breathe

Sahira Rocillo

He swallows my screams, Seals my lips with his tongue His taste Smoke Death kisses of liquor HELP! Done Someone tries to enter the room Halt For a second he looks like the prey I am whatever is below that Free His weight lifts I swallow all the air I can get Left Alone in a room Vulnerable Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m overtaken by shame I sob a little A lot Then I start to pick up whatever pieces of myself I can find. Numbed Unaware of how I got to the front door The night is so fresh Cold hits my core Walk Pretend Run Cry Run Collapse Walk aimlessly Tears can dry with the wind â&#x20AC;Ś

The Love I Felt For You Sa h i ra R o c i l l o

The love I felt for you was going to be my religion You, the only saint The only God I was going to build a place of worship For you Build a space with candles For rituals and prayers A nest with my warmth and feathers An eternal garden of love To make your flowers bloom Under my constellation It was going to be all for you Pero tú no estás listo para amar Todos tendemos a temer lo desconocido Y tú dulce Príncipe Tú no Sabes lo que es amar But you are not ready for love. We all seem to fear what we don't know And you Sweet prince You don't know What love is

God and Man O r l a n d o Me l e n d e z

In a dream, Man first noticed That you were not there Has his senses failed him? Man searched and searched, But to no avail And then, Man saw you Sitting square Lonely, atop a hidden lair You saw what only you could see Not seven, But infinite seas When you left, Man took your place Staring down time and space Mythical powers of Kings and Queens, Now in the hands of Man Not hers or his, But mine and I, But in the vanity of his moment, All was lost God leaned in and said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Wake upâ&#x20AC;?

Orphans M i c h a e l Jo n e s

Each labored breath we take makes us thieves, we crawl on our knees for them, while blue skies turn red like the blood we shed, for we have no salt to sweat, no more tears to shed, it’s all dried up dead, like the dream we had, when we came so full of hope turned to dread Our days are so precious as they are few, watching them fly on our wings while we crawl on our bloody knees They have tongues of silver, so slick and so smooth as we listen while we whistle their tunes, like unknowing slaves who dig their own graves, we don’t live, we just survive off the scraps that you throw away But we stand, on these broken legs, we run, on these mud stained feet, we won’t back down or run and hide, we’ll stand our ground on these dirty feet that hold them up while theirs remain soft and smooth By day we stick to rules, but by night we’re conspiring by candlelight, so silent and so swift, like the night that we’ll defeat them, for they are soft, coddled by their foolish parents, but not us, our parents died when we were young, but we remember them, and we’ll fight for them, for we are orphans of the American dream

A Child To Come A b ra h a m Ta p i a

A month from now, my child will learn the meaning of trust from a rose She will object to the opinion that you cannot love everyone equally She will hire the ocean to be her full-time therapist She will have online chat conversations with death, only to find that he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hold all the answers.

A month from now my child will find lust, unabridged She will speak her thoughts without the promise of a penny She will train to be a friend everyone wants She will decide to study the shape of the soul, realizing along the way that there is no such mold.

A month from now, my child will discover the music that comes from a blank page She will restore order to a city trapped in denial She will seek out white lies and relieve them of their burdens She will become a revolutionary seamstress, closing up the holes in the finely woven ozone layer.

A month from now, my child will know danger as it stalks her innocence She will have tea parties with the grown woman that lives inside of her She will travel the world in search of emotions new to humanity And she will be there when Mother Nature walks out of the hospitalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s long term patient ward, peeling the waste off her body to reveal a delicate new layer of skin.

Natural Affairs

B l a k e Na t h a n i e l Tu c k e r - Jo n e s

By the redundant descent, whereby thickness meets thin, squandered by tenacity. Fate. It makes a whisker of whim. Crepitation cascades, through myth and by mouth, though silence shades vale, loud men scale brow. Foretold and forewarned, foreseen and forsaken, in vain of the curt of a dream left untaken. Sworn in, under oath, on immutable tides, the motion, which moves, in the future resides.

Darkness:

An excerpt from a dream

B l a k e Na t h a n i e l Tu c k e r - Jo n e s

There I was … nowhere. My only direction; digression. As fear apparent; so requisite dismissal. Yet falling … still. Within the motion of breath, I remain motionless. No destination, nor origination. There I was … somewhere.

In Our Dear Country A n a h i G a l l e g o s Va l l e s

In my country, You must paint your face And make sure no one sees who you are You must strip down all your colors and hang them neatly on the fence You must look in the mirror and find all the details that you despise To carefully convert them into who you are In my country, You must take your lips and sew them closed with the laces of your ripped shoes And you must forget how to walk or talk For if do, you will trip and fall into the abyss In my country, You must rip your heart out And hand it over in a silver platter so they can put it in a catalogued shelf full of tiny worlds And if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, they will dismantle you until you do In my country, You must know who you are, Even if you never have a chance to find out You must build steps with your broken bones And paint them with the dirt on your feet until they are nothing but dirt In my country, You must forget who you are And be what they ask You must never complain and never shrug You must be who you are Until there is nothing left of who You dreamed to be.

Tracy Wiklund “Moped Madonna” Oil on Canvas

Luke Mosling “Change Without Warning” Pencil

Luke Mosling “Tangible Thoughts of a Hungry Mind” Pencil

Tiffani Lewis “Sir Bubbykins and His Alpaca” Pen and Ink

Rachel Otto “Hare Hair” Charcoal

Chuck Bauer “Magnolias” Oil on Panel

Linda Camino “First Dream of Spiritual Growth” Oil on Canvas

Brendan Kelley “Amber Brown Teapot” Ceramic

Miranda Fields â&#x20AC;&#x153;Native American Pinch Potâ&#x20AC;? Ceramic, Horsehair

Kaci Sullivan “The Burn” Acrylic on Canvas

Kaci Sullivan “Hat Head” Digital, 3-D Render

JD Bundy “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” Oil on Canvas

Mary G. Phillips â&#x20AC;&#x153;Grief, Hope, Working it Outâ&#x20AC;? (featured top to bottom) Encaustic Oil Paint

Axl Bradshaw “Fog” Oil on Canvas

Axl Bradshaw “It’s Rather Pink” Oil on Canvas

Michael Edwards “Frog Poisoning” Mixed Media

Michael Edwards “Devil’s Foot” Ink

Josh Zytkiewicz “Jacs Corn Syrup #1” Photography

Erik Hoffmann “Havana” Photography

Joseph Clayton Mohr “Starvation” Ceramic

Christine Konen “Dwelling” Ceramic

Taylor Nash “Lady in White” Watercolor