Aurora 2021 Mag

2021

2021

A U R O R A

Literary Ar ts Magazine Literary Ar ts Magazine

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Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College Presents:

Issue: 2021

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A Note From the Editors:

there’s a sense of peace in the thought that the minutes we have colored will keep their place, in the archives of stars. Carmela D’Agostino, “Paintings of Time” The editors at Aurora have been paying attention to the light, to the shadows it casts and how the rotation of this spinning orb we call home brings it all back again and again and again. The warmth fades, then returns. We close our eyes and are renewed. The light will always find a way. Which is why we are so excited to see these themes threading through this issue of our journal, in its stunning art, music, poetry and prose, all of which crackles with the electricity of creativity, born from the same inspired spark. See the light of self-discovery in Briana Cramer’s “Open Letter to Myself Upon Graduation,” or the blinking traffic lights of a fatal accident (green, yellow, red—green, yellow, red) in Catherine Altimari’s haunting “The Night My Mom Swept the Street.” Again, it pours in through a large arched window in Lydia Ingram’s “Claymore.” Hear how the heart is ablaze with hope and love in Ange Birkhead-Flight’s hymn, “Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go,” and notice how the searing light of the sun both comforts and burns in essays by Ally Groves and Braden Kelsey. On our gorgeous cover art by Patricia Henney, be reminded that every dusk dovetails to a new dawn. We are so grateful to be able to share these pages with our community. We are so grateful—after a century and a half—to still provide a home for your light. Sincerely, The Editors

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Staff

Editor-in-Chief Alyssa Snively Layout Editor Emily Truax Associate Editors

Olivia Burns Ally Groves

Tavia Hedrick Braden Kelsey Faculty Advisor Josh MacIvor-Andersen Cover Art “On My Own” by Patricia Henney

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Contents

Poems

Wondering.................................................... The Masks We Wear.................................... If You’re Okay, I’m Okay............................ The Night My Mom Swept the Street......... Fall Apart..................................................... Picking Up Trash......................................... Open Letter to Myself Upon Graduation.... I Don’t Hate You......................................... Claymore..................................................... Paintings of Time........................................

Catherine Altimari................ Dr. Penny Quinn................... Lydia Ingram........................ Catherine Altimari................ Tavia Hedrick....................... Dr. Paul Salstrom................. Briana Cramer...................... Tavia Hedrick....................... Lydia Ingram........................ Carmela D’Agostino............ 11 12 29 46 49 51 53 54 57 78

Fiction

Shoes............................................................ Bus Stop...................................................... The True Story of Humpty Dumpty............

Briana Cramer...................... Mary Goss............................ Rhonda Daniels.................... 21 32 43

Creative Nonfiction

Psychology in a Cat Cafe - Part Two.......... Move On..................................................... Oatmeal Raisin Cookie................................ The Forest’s Song........................................ The Sun Don’t Care....................................

Eric Hubbard........................ Ally Groves.......................... Ally Groves.......................... Tavia Hedrick....................... Braden Kelsey....................... 15 25 31 36 39

Art

Colors of Summer........................................ Eye of Creation............................................ Jeffrey........................................................... Sweet Betsey.............................................. Subtractive Sculpture.................................. City of Reflection........................................

Emma Taylor........................ Natalie Owens...................... Lynsey Cook......................... Jonathan Soard..................... Mackenzie Slone.................. Andrea Lewis....................... 10 13 14 18 19 20

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Lynsey Cook.......................... Rhonda Daniels...................... Alyssa Snively........................ Mackenzie Slone.................... Jennifer Harney...................... Jonathan Soard....................... Alyssa Snively........................ Ekaterina Baskina.................. Jana Rivers............................. Alyssa Snively........................ Lucia Fruchtenicht................. Dr. Jim Brinson...................... Andrea Cowan....................... Ekaterina Baskina.................. Emma Taylor.......................... Rhonda Daniels...................... Emma Saunders..................... Andrea Cowan....................... Jonathan Soard....................... Kaylie Meehan....................... Edward Trover........................ 24 28 30 33 34 35 37 38 42 45 47 48 50 52 55 56 59 60 61 77 79

Charlie....................................................... Girl Who Experienced Child Abuse.......... Untitled...................................................... Dante’s Bust.............................................. Suzie’s Orchid........................................... Serpentine Mandala................................... Untitled...................................................... Libertas...................................................... Whale Song............................................... Untitled...................................................... Self Portrait............................................... Marcus....................................................... The Ray..................................................... Ascension.................................................. Nashville.................................................... Rest in Power, Mr. George Floyd.............. Untitled...................................................... The Whembrel........................................... Chemical Restrain..................................... Untitled...................................................... Hoosier Vanitas..........................................

Plays

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The Beast...................................................

Maverick Schmit....................

Music

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O Love That Will Not Let Me Go.............

Ange Birkhead-Flight............

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2021

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Ange Birkhead-Flight

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go

for Saint-Mary-of-the-Woods College

Angela Birkhead-Flight

George Matheson, 1882

   O O O O    Gently (  = 75)  

  

     go, way,                  pain, head, I I I I

        rest yield can dare my my not not wea flick close ask ry 'ring my to soul heart fly torch in to to from                    - - -



        Love Light Joy Cross that that that that will fol seek lift not est est l'west let me up all me my through my                       - - -

     

 

  

 

  

    thee; thee I My          thee; thee; I I

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

 

     

give heart trace lay

thee re the in

back stores

the its bow life's

life bor through glo -

I rowed the ry

owe, ray, rain, dead,

That That And And

-

-

rain dust

                   

-

        

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 

  

      

  

 

        in in                           - - - - from feel thine thy the the o sun pro ground cean shine's mise there depths blaze is blos its its not soms flow day vain, red

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





    rich bright morn that er, er, shall shall full fair tear end er er less less            - - - - - -

  be. be. be. be.

May May That Life

     

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 

 

 

      

Common Copyright 2021 Angela Birkhead-Flight, Cincinnati, OH. Free to use and share, but not to sell or modify.

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Ange Birkhead-Flight

Scan QR code to listen

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Emma Taylor

Colors of Summer

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Catherine Altimari

Wondering

The day the teacher wrote eternity, and heaven on the board, he wore a white shirt with a blue tie— like a cloud-filled sky, with just enough blue to make me think of God’s presence, the vastness of forever, and an ethereal, beautiful place— as hard to grasp, as a sky formed from invisible gases. Then dark clouds gathered outside the classroom, and rain poured down— shifting my thoughts to hard drops hitting my little sister’s grave at St. Joseph Cemetery. I wondered if the teacher ever imagined himself, standing on one foot, at the edge

of a cliff—as he listened to his own words of hope echo, echo, echo, then fade…

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Dr. Penny Quinn

The Masks We Wear

Lately, masks have been expected to protect our health, but masks have been part of our lives forever. Masks not made of paper or cloth but crafted of stronger stuff. Masks not easily removed, and often painful to put on. These masks are worn to fit in, to be accepted, to be loved, and sometimes we impose them on ourselves because we think we have to in order to reach our goals and dreams. Masks that are a reflection of the expectations of others. Masks formed to hide our true selves. Masks to display who we think we’re supposed to be, and how we are supposed to appear to the world. Sometimes our masks can be on so long, or so often, that we can forget what it feels like to be free of them. To be who we are, but even more, to embrace who we are. To be true to ourselves and others without wearing masks. To be at peace and find true happiness in our lives every day. To BE.

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Natalie Owens

Eye of Creation

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Lynsey Cook

Jeffrey

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Eric Hubbard

Psychology in a Cat Cafe - Part Two

The first day Brynn visited the cat café, we had only been open for about a month, and while we scrambled to hire enough staff, I would occasionally work a shift in the cat room. On this particular day, Brynn and another teenager, who I will call Tina, came in for the first time to spend some time with the cats. Both young women didn’t seem to be overtly friendly and kept some distance from me; not so much a physical distance as much as just avoiding eye contact or any communication beyond what was necessary. I went over the rules, the waiver and briefly explained our partnership with the Humane Society. As Brynn reached for a pen to sign a waiver, I noticed numerous heavy, unmistakable, partially healed cut marks on her arms as her sleeve slid back from her forearm. She quickly grabbed the pen and clipboard with the waiver, and after she and Tina signed, Brynn laid the clipboard down on a table at the other side of the room and they both started the search for cats to pet. Although both young women were teenagers, I couldn’t help but notice that Brynn didn’t seem to have a youthful appearance. She seemed sad, tired, and had a look of resignation. In contrast, Tina seemed to be trying almost too hard to be uplifting and positive. By this time, my afternoon employee arrived for her shift. I left for the day, leaving Joi with the cats and the customers. We have quite a few “regulars,” but I was surprised to see Brynn back in the cat room, a week later, during Joi’s shift. This time, Brynn was by herself, sitting on a couch with her knees pulled up into her chest, her head resting on her arm talking to Joi, who was sitting, relaxed, next to her. They were alone in the cat room at first, but even after other customers started to enter, Joi would still circle back to Brynn often and they would continue the conversation. When Joi saw me on the other side of the café, she came out of the cat lounge and asked if I would have any objections to Brynn staying in the cat lounge a bit longer, as long as we were not going to be completely full. I didn’t have any objection but took the opportunity to mention to Joi what I had noticed the week before, and that she needed to encourage Brynn to talk to a counselor, or someone that could direct her to the resources she may need. Joi agreed, but said Brynn was fine today, and they were just having a fun conversation about the cats. Over the next few months, Brynn became one of our “regulars,” and her friendship with Joi had grown to the point where they would meet at the café even when Joi was not working, so that Brynn could practice a speech for a class or get some help with math homework.

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Eric Hubbard

* Self-harm can be symptomatic of a serious mental health issue that requires professional intervention. However, as one can imagine, those most likely to first become aware of a loved one’s self-harm, such as parents, siblings, intimate partners and close friends, struggle greatly with this awareness and what to do about it. There is a tendency to view self-harm as a juvenile call for attention, or something that he or she will “grow out of.” Young people who self-harm can become the focus for punishment, mental and in some cases even physical abuse by frustrated family, as well as enduring terminated friendships or a banishment from social circles due to the stigma that can surround self-harm. This can especially be the case if a negative, abusive home or social environment is already causing or acting as a catalyst for self-harm. Fear of suicide is arguably one of the primary reasons why friends and family tend to avoid becoming involved, until it can be too late. There are a broad range of disorders that encompass self-harm; although not all of these disorders are inclusive of suicide, there are direct correlations between the presence of self-harm and increased suicide attempts (Skegg, 2005). Suicide rates in the United States have increased nearly 28% just between 2000 and 2015, and in response to this dramatic increase, there is a new call for psychologists to shift from relying on medical risk-factor-based tools to embrace newer holistic methods for conducting suicide risk assessments and interventions, to better identify the telltale signs, understand and treat mental health issues that may lead to suicide (Sommers-Flanagan & Shaw, 2017). No matter how painful it can be for family and friends, the sooner a professional mental health care provider can provide intervention, the more likely for a positive outcome. Self-harm is more understood by professionals as “not a cry for attention, but a cry of pain” that needs to be taken seriously by not only those loved ones close to the person suffering, but by those who interact with an individual outside of the home, such as teachers, group leaders, coworkers, fellow students and, yes, even cat wranglers (Skegg, 2005, p. 1479). Although serious mental health issues require professional intervention, this intervention does not start with the psychologist. It starts with the loved ones who first notice the self-harm occurring and choose to help. * I am happy to report that we still see Brynn, now a college freshman, usually smiling happily, hand in hand with Tina, both heading

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Eric Hubbard

into the cat lounge to be distracted by the cats as they try and work on their homework. Joi has had to start caring for a terminally ill family member, so she only pulls occasional shifts for us. Although I have casual conversations with Brynn, I have never asked her about anything personal. I did, however, ask Joi about Brynn. Joi said that she recognized from the first moment she saw her that Brynn was in a very dark place, but more importantly, Joi saw a window of opportunity to reach out and not “be a bystander.” In the process, she befriended Brynn and became a lifeline for her. Joi is close friends to both her and Tina to this day. Joi kept encouraging Brynn to at least go speak to her school counselor, and Brynn reluctantly did so, and was ultimately able to be directed to professional mental health resources she needed. Interestingly enough, I didn’t need to ponder very long to understand why Joi would be compelled to reach out. One would only need to look closely at those artistically beautiful tattoos on Joi’s forearms, or rather, at Joi’s skin underneath. The tattoos don’t mask, in so much as they blend together the scars from deeply carved wounds that are forever a part of Joi’s wrists, with thoughtful artwork that I believe symbolize the life that Joi has now, as a survivor. References Skegg (2005). Seminar: Self-harm. The Lancet , 366, 1471–1483. https://doi- org.proxy1.ncu.edu/10.1016/S0140-6736(05)67600-3 Sommers-Flanagan, J., & Shaw, S. L. (2017). Suicide risk assessment: What psychologists should know. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 48(2), 98–106. https://doi-org.proxy1.ncu. edu/10.1037/pro0000106

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Jonathan Soard

Sweet Betsey

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Mackenzie Slone

Subtractive Sculpture

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Andrea Lewis

City of Reflection

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Briana Cramer

Shoes

I pay attention to people’s shoes. Don’t ask why, or I might have to take your shoes afterward. I have a habit of doing that—taking shoes. It isn’t that I need them, because I don’t. Some people have coin collections, stamp collections, baseball card collections, or even rock collections. Not me. I have a shoe collection. I own 212 pairs. Specifically, 96 pairs of men’s shoes, 101 pairs of women’s shoes, and 15 pairs that could be either men or women’s shoes. I have all different styles, from Converse tennis shoes and Flyers to Timberland work boots. All of my shoes come in pairs and not one pair from my collection is my size. I don’t wear shoes from my collection. I do, however, give them stories. For example, my nurse’s shoes were worn by the nurse who helped deliver me when I was born. They’re so white, light shines off them. Dad says they’re the reason Momma didn’t want me. I absorbed their light and Dad says Momma couldn’t stand to look at her unpigmented baby. Momma left me and my dad when I was six years old. Dad never was the same. He always put on a brave face for me, though. He wears dress shoes every day; he even lets me polish them! I have a pair of dress shoes like my dad, but mine are older and less shiny. I got them from the lost and found bin at the church that my dad leaves me at after school. I imagine my dress shoes being PopPop’s: my momma’s dad. They’re dull and worn out from all the nasty, sweaty socks he left in them. They will always smell like ham and pickles and leather. He never let me polish his shoes and that’s why they’re so dull. PopPop must have been an angry person because Momma never saw him or let him visit. She used to tell me it was ‘cause he didn’t like my dad. I don’t know how anyone could not like dad, but PopPop musta really hated him. Anyways, I only met PopPop once when I was two, but I don’t remember it. Dad doesn’t really know anything about him, so it’s kinda hard to give his shoes a story. I never had any siblings. But, I do have a pair of baby shoes that I imagine belonged to my cousin Irene. I found them at a yard sale when I was out walking by myself one day. I didn’t have any money, but the lady who was outside watching over the yard-sale had disappeared, so I snuck the shoes into my Polly Pocket backpack. Irene woulda outgrew them by now, but they’re pink and sparkly and light up. I imagine them being the shoes she begged for in the middle of the store, throwing a tantrum when her parents said No because they didn’t

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Briana Cramer

have the money. On Christmas, she’d open a box and they’d be in there wrapped up nice and tight, sparkling up at her. She’d smile, jump up and down, maybe scream a little from how excited she was to try them on. I used to take these shoes with me everywhere. They made me feel less alone, like Irene was always with me. Now they have holes in the bottom and the soles are falling off. She musta wore them so much they were just about to turn to dust. Poor Irene probably didn’t even know her parents were gonna get rid of them until she woke up one day and she couldn’t find her favorite shoes. Irene probably threw another tantrum, cried a lot, and fell asleep curled up in her blankie, with her thumb in her mouth. I don’t know if Momma had any siblings or if Irene ever really did exist, but I decided I was going to hold onto these shoes for her. The more I try to remember things about Momma, the more I forget. I don’t really know much about her. Dad doesn’t have any living family members, and I never got to meet them when they were alive. I asked my dad what happened to them, but he told me he didn’t know. He never had a family, just lots of people taking care of him until they didn’t want him anymore. After Dad told me that, I promised I’d always want him. He kinda smiled a little and said he would always want me too. But that’s the thing about us, we don’t just want each other. I know he needs me just as much as I need him. We’re all we got and, for now, that’s enough. I don’t have a pair of shoes for Momma. I don’t want them. I can remember her face, her voice, the way she would dance in the kitchen, her eyes closed like she wasn’t really there; she was somewhere else without me. She didn’t like me watching her. If she opened her eyes and saw me, her face would change and she’d pick up the wooden spoon she used to stir the pot and she’d point it at me, demanding I get out of her kitchen and out of her sight. Maybe she was embarrassed, or maybe she really did hate to look at me. I’d snap back into reality and run out of the kitchen into my room before she got even angrier and came after me. Dad was never home back then. He was always working, trying to pay the bills and make sure Momma and I had enough food. When he was home, Momma’s face never changed into that ugly snarl, and she never yelled at me. I think it was ‘cause she missed my dad. One time, I was playing with my Polly Pocket doll, and Momma must have thought I was being too loud. She came around the corner from the kitchen with her face all scrunched up and started to chase after me with her wooden spoon raised. Dad walked into the house, and Momma seemed surprised. She stopped chasing me and jerked the spoon behind her, and stuttered when she went to greet him. I didn’t stop to say Hi to Dad, I just kept running until I got to my room. Later that night I could hear my dad and my momma yelling at each other. I knew it was ‘cause Dad wasn’t supposed

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Briana Cramer

to know about Momma’s anger. She always told me that if Dad ever found out, he would beat me ‘cause he would know it was my fault she was always angry. I heard her heels clacking down the stairs, towards the living room, where I was watching cartoons. What happened next was a blur. All I can remember from that night was the terrible sound of her heels angrily smacking down on every wooden stair, and the fear that nearly choked me. I don’t own a single pair of high heels in my shoe collection.

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Lynsey Cook

Charlie

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Ally Groves

Move On

It was hot—more than hot, really—the sun so searing I wore a jacket to protect my pasty skin from baking up and peeling off my arms. But despite the sweat and fatigue I kept walking, kept going on; I had to. Mason grew up in a military family and was planning on joining himself, the Navy I think; his uncle was in it and he adored him. He was used to the walking, the bleeding scabs on his feet that made him limp the second he thought about them, and he was also used to the need to keep going, the need to walk on and on as to not think about what could happen if he stopped. So we walked, we sweated, and he led us in candances. on her hair she wore a yellow ribbon We found a path leading down to a river and the second we felt its icy breeze we took off at a sprint, the cold air washing over us, cleansing the sweat from our bodies. Mason ripped off his shoes and started edging his way into the river, screaming at every inch of water that touched him. Lucas and Chris wandered around the rocky bank, grabbing the biggest ones, hitting them together, trying to make arrowheads. Daniel started searching for a stick to carry. I stuck my face in the water, drinking from the stream. The water froze a trail down my throat, chilling me from the inside out. It was amazing. she wore it in the springtime, in the early months of May Cars would pass us every once in a while. To where? I had no clue. We supposed there was some sort of village nearby, or maybe there wasn’t. After the earlier reprieve, the heat burned with a vengeance. I could feel two things: my brain baking, and the skin on my heels peeling up. Still, it was better than the alternative, better than stopping. Lucas thought it would be funny to try to get the passing cars to honk, so we tried. We’d walk along the road until a car appeared on the horizon. Then we’d run to the side, and pump our arms in the air like we were pulling a whistle in a train. The cars didn’t understand, maybe it was because they weren’t trains, maybe their trains don’t honk, or maybe it was their clear minds with the protection of the metal roofs and air conditioning. One car even pulled over to ask if we needed help; they had barely pulled away before Daniel fell to the ground in laughter.

and if you asked her why the hell she wore it

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Ally Groves

We were at a high point of the mountains when Chris made us stop. He had cell service for the first time in four days—it was one of the most exciting things we’d ever heard. We tried to call his Gastbruder, Alex, pick up , we chanted. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. We stood around his phone, looking in adoration, as if it was anything other than wires and plastic the size of a slug. Pick up . He did and the flood gates opened. Alex , we rushed. Alex, do you have Google? Alex, can you look something up? Alex, have you been watching the news? Alex, what do you know about the bombs? There was so much we had to say, Alex could barely even hear us with the bad connection and we could barely hear him. Still, we hung onto his every word. Bahhhhhhhh , we yelled, bahhhh . They wouldn’t bahh back. Daniel was back on the ground laughing again. Chris joined him, bahhhhhaahahha . The jacket I wore might have kept my skin protected, but it trapped the heat in, baked my arms in a different way. I could only imagine holding all that wool, sitting in that fence. I might not bahh either. far away Daniel decided his stick would make a great sword; he whacked Lucas, and suddenly we all had sticks, all hitting Lucas, all hitting each other. I just started swinging my arms around, eyes open, barely even knew what I was hitting anymore; the heat seeped too far into my brain, pushing out any thoughts. I couldn’t feel my brain if I tried; not through the sweat, not through the blisters, not through the forming welts on my arms and sides. I didn’t care; it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Maybe if this was Algiers and not Austria, and I had a gun and not a stick, someone would have died. We hit each other and kept laughing. Lucas asked us what we would do if we got stuck here, if there was no way back home. We didn’t know. Maybe try to run away, move back in with our host families, call Alex again to see if he would take us in. I asked if it mattered anymore. We didn’t know that either. far away The sun was starting to sink into the horizon and I finally elected to take my jacket off, freeing my soaking arms. We couldn’t decide if we she wore it for the young marine whose far, far away We hadn’t found any houses yet, but we did find sheep.

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Ally Groves

should head back or not. I was hungry; they were hungry too. We kept going. The rumble of our stomachs were drowned out by the sound of singing and feet hitting pavement. Maybe if we kept going we’d run into that village and find a market and we could get some food. she wore it for the young marine whose far, far away Dusk was setting over us and we were in the woods building forts. I had a circle outlined in stones I declared was mine. Daniel tried to wage war on me by throwing even bigger stones. He hulled one up and launched it, yelling NATO. Lucas decided he was my ally and threw one at his dirt- drawn circle yelling NATO 2. I threw NATO 3 and 4 at both of them. I told them that I didn’t need allies when I had big rocks. We dug in the dirt for what felt like hours; it was jammed under our nails, clung to the sweat beading our skin. Around NATO 12.5 Chris declared it time to move on. So we did. Lucas and Mason were in the front of our troupe, but they started to scream, flinging their arms around themselves. Wasps. They took off, Daniel after them and Chris the other way. I stood still and watched as they swatted their skin, falling over the branches trying to get away, smearing dirt all over their clothes. I yelled at them. I said to stop. I told them to stop running away, that running away makes the wasps sting them, that running away makes them look guilty.

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Rhonda Daniels

Girl Who Experienced Child Abuse

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Lydia Ingram

If You’re Okay, I’m Okay

You are behind my cheekbones, somehow Pressing outward Yet still my bone You exist in my skull and as my skull Within and without I look in the mirror and I can

See both of us My eyes seeing Your eyes searching mine searching yours, one, but Severed always, too You are escaping through, climbing forth Even as I fold Your face back in And I am collapsing into us As we separate We force my hand to the glass to feel The melting that Will stop short there The coldest sensation of my bones where Your bones ought to be

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Alyssa Snively

Untitled

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Ally Groves

Oatmeal Raisin Cookie

Ingredients:

¾ cup Crisco 1 cup brown sugar; firmly packed ½ cup granulated sugar 1 egg ¼ cup water 1 tsp vanilla 2 cups old fashioned oats (uncooked) 1 cup all purpose flour 1 tsp salt

½ tsp baking soda 1 - 1½ cup raisins

Method:

Preheat oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Mix shortening, sugars, egg, water, and vanilla until creamy. Then, combine in the remaining ingredients and mix well. Drop by rounded teaspoon-fulls onto greased cookie sheet. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes. Plate and set out onto counter right as grandchildren arrive.

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Mary Goss

Bus Stop

The boy was at the school bus stairwell before Don could open the door. Chuckling softly at the new kid’s enthusiasm, Don checked for traffic before whisking open the double door escape. “That’s not his stop,” Jason said from the punishment seat directly behind Don. The words barely carried from the first row. Don quickly checked his overhead inside mirror to gauge the youth’s expression. Jason didn’t care for anyone. “He’s only been here a week,” Don said. “He’s probably going to grandparents.” “He doesn’t have any. Luke just got here. He’s having a hard time of it.” Jason looked around and shut up. Don watched the lad scuff his shoe and glance back at the bus before walking determinedly away. “He’s only seven,” Jason whispered. Perhaps, Don decided, it was the overly large backpack the lad hoisted. Or the hard, determined, old man expression on the small-framed figure. The inner debate took only seconds. Don hit the flashers again, then opened the doors. Before stepping out in the convenience store lot, he yelled: “Jason, you’re in charge.” Don knew he had a window of three minutes to spare. Otherwise his supervisor would nag. Again. And his pride would take a beating. The coffee shop gang of bus drivers kept tabs and times. He was leading the route wars until now. He would be certain the lad was safe, not a runaway, and then back to the bus. His bet mattered. “Hey, kid.” Don quickly caught up with the lad at the corner. To the right were downtown businesses. To the left was housing. Maybe the kid didn’t know which apartment building he wanted. “Hey, where’re you going?” “To see my dad.” “Need help? We all do, sometimes. How about directions? I’m good at that.” The lad nodded. Don grinned. This was easy. “Where you headed?” “Which way to heaven?”

32

Mackenzie Slone

Dante’s Bust

33

Jennifer Harney

Suzie’s Orchid

34

Jonathan Soard

Serpentine Mandala

35

Tavia Hedrick

The Forest’s Song

I stopped in the middle of the path and said nothing. He felt my presence slip away and looked back at me in confusion, but I just stood there, centered between the vast lengths of trees. I gestured for him to stand beside me. Existing together. Slowing my breath to match the tempo of the Earth, I began to clear my mind, releasing all racing thoughts into the void of branches, and asked him to follow. I slammed a hallway of doors within my mind, one for each element that made me human, and threw away the master key. Speaking out loud now above the symphony of the woods, I guided us to close our eyes, and let go of everything that made us feel superior to our surroundings. Whatever defined us as human no longer held meaning… Standing in the comfort of nature’s silence, we began to remove ourselves from the moment, cell by cell. Starting with our feet we, like sand, drifted away into the Earth. We then steadily inched up our bodies to our legs and arms, and eventually all the way to our minds, completely forgetting all about our most human identities. Then, standing completely still, we surrendered and molded ourselves like clay into the existing life forms breathing within the woods around us. I took several deep breaths and opened my eyes to find myself looking through the lenses of a white oak tree, whose branches stretched out all the way toward the sun. I felt the warm summer breeze tickle my leaves and the energy of the forest pulse through my roots. Time slowed down and we were simply existing now. All parts of the forest were connected, like a perfectly woven basket, each organism with their own unique niche. Even the distant highway noises had begun to sound like a melody within the forest’s song.

36

Alyssa Snively

Untitled

37

Ekaterina Baskina

Libertas

38

Braden Kelsey

The Sun Don’t Care

The grass was struggling towards gold and the sky was dry, distant, and cooking the crowd. It was hot, 103 degrees fahrenheit (approximately 40 degrees celsius), and the sun was on our necks. Band after band took to the stage, dripping sweat and spewing spit—leather pants wilting actively against their skin. But the music—you had nothin’ in you from the sun, it took everything—but the music scraped at the scraps. I found myself shouting to the stage as if instinctually, as if being exorcised. I recoiled at guitar solos like you would from a punch, whirling around cartoonishly to see if anyone was feeling the same. Christian told me to look back at the fingers of Black Puma’s lead guitarist. His left hand was crawling across the fretboard like a startled spider, spinning shade between the sun and us. It scuttled cautiously on the warping brass strings, and the sounds were sweet, traveling through the air as if swimming through oil. “It must be scorching up there,” I said, turning to Christian’s older brother Shane. “Yeah, but they don’t seem to care,” he said, before gesturing up to the sun. “He sure don’t.” * The days were often not dark, though they lacked any color. Many times my mind slid across the spectrum of possibilities, never ascending beyond “Now what?”—that wall that flipped outwards into the void, spiraled away with nothing on the other side but more of the same. I was suspicious when I saw catered smiles. How was it that anyone would want to play this game? The one with no mission—no compass or objectives beyond attractive vague phrases and expedited thrills to

39

Braden Kelsey

fill our convenient 100 years with destructive cultural standards and our pockets with some faceless stranger’s porcelain hands—the same stranger to whom I’ve sold my body and the bodies of our neighbors in exchange for permission to live freely in irony. The same game where we die at the end—in which we’ve coasted below our best. Where our backs ache at 20 and freedoms are out of education, but everyone‘s feedback is valid. Where we must care, and forgive the fact that we had to live in order to find peace. Were we not all playing the same game? * When the Pumas left, we took our spots amongst the sorry grass, settling a few feet from each other and bowing our heads to shade our faces. Between sets, the crowd dispersed in streams looking for water. We sat in silence, each encouraging ourselves internally that we didn’t need comfort, and that we weren’t going to vomit. We found energy in watching a little man, a body no doubt riddled with drugs, dance sporadically in the grass before us to no music—a tattoo across his back of Jesus Christ holding in one hand the feet of a lamb lying atop his holy shoulders, and an AK-47 in the other. We decided to rise from the grass and move up near the railing before the area started filling out again, and we settled into the gaps of shade on the ground. The railing was chest high and stood atop feet-wide and ground-flush metal bases which were cool but grated. I asked the group if they’d seen the towering man in the other crowd. He was across the center walkway, a path that security and sound technicians used which divided the crowd into two cone shapes which expanded back to the venue entrance and narrowed towards the front of the stage, where the walkway opened up like a “T” and guards stood protecting the performers. Priya, Shane’s wife, had seen the giant as well—an odd figure, hunched and maladjusted. Through each set, he leaned against the barrier unenthused and with a lit cigarette between his finger tips, waiting for something. Leon Bridges came out as the sun set the sky pink, as a cloud meticulously put it to bed. The stoic soldier was unmoved. I promised that when My Morning Jacket—the main act—came out, he would be grasping that same railing like he was going to upend it—the same way you would shoot a basketball behind your head. The sun sunk deeper below the horizon, turning the sky a final golden-orange before drifting away, and with the growing darkness came anticipation. The stage lights illuminated the crowd so everybody could move around and have conversations. I leaned over the rail and blew smoke, feeling like a New York greaser and watching the crew set the stage as the sky turned a deep and unbreakable black. I turned to my friends to mention

40

Braden Kelsey

how much cooler it had gotten, but the lights went dark. *

This game doesn’t necessitate reason, it doesn’t beckon for my mastery. It is for me to experience, not possess and abuse; it’s a surrender to the irrational to find joy. It is not to just feel amongst the crowd but to be the dirt beneath their feet—to be the cracks and fissures expanding with the stomping of rubber boots on grated metal to the deep resonating sounds of music and harmony. It is your mother seeing life in her son’s eyes again, a father given redemption, your standing by your wife to mourn the death of the marriage. It is an opportunity and it is a hardship—release and pressure, exhale, inhale. It is movement; the spirit glides through a purple hallway lined in orange brick and it wonders why it goes but it mustn’t! It must reach a dead end and decide to stop searching for what’s been looking for it—to rather be guided by that which it doesn’t understand. Stone walkways are lined with trees who wear their leaves as dresses cascading down to the grass and dew. Stairwells wrap around a skyscraper all the way to the top where Saladin’s eagle bears the body of a man crucified, hovered over by the vigil of a golden cobra and the burning sun. * We huddled in a circle, the four of us. We wanted to be as close together when it started as possible to share the same joy. A gong rang and rippled the air around us. After a spoken intro, the instruments tore through the darkness and light filled every inch of the crowd like an explosion. My friends went flying off in their own directions, a couple feet this way and some the other, jumping and screaming every word as if the alternative was death. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look. I leaned over the railing with my eyes closed, and shook my head back and forth to the rhythm in total disbelief. Every note was right—the songs a soundtrack to my thoughts, playing me through a battle long overdue. I remembered our stoic soldier and opened my eyes to look for him. The lights were going out and coming back to the crashes of sound, and in the split second when they would dim, he would reach back as if he were trying to grab a chair he was sitting in. When the lights would flash bright again, he would throw his arms above the person in front of him and at the stage, reaching and reaching and reaching desperately for an inch closer to the music. I closed my eyes again, and remained that way for the entirety of the concert. I didn’t see a thing, but I caught all the sound.

41

Jana Rivers Norton

Whale Song

42

Rhonda Daniels

The True Story of Humpty Dumpty

Did you ever have questions about Humpty Dumpty? Like, how did he get his name? How did he come to fall? And what was he doing on that wall anyway? Well, wonder no more, I will now tell you the true story of Humpty Dumpty. First, his real name was Tyrone, but because he was down in the dumps and depressed every hump day, they called him Humpty Dumpty. Finally, one hump day, Art Therapy Intern Egg suggested he attend her art therapy session for therapeutic improvements. Her studio was plein air on top of the highest wall where the vista was belle vue and where she painted graffiti on the walls. So, Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall taking art therapy with Art Therapy Intern Egg. They were going to start a mural on the wall when, all of a sudden, Humpty took a huge 100-pound blue marker and started writing on the top of his head that he was no good, clumsy, and a failure. Art Therapy Intern Egg asked him to consider using positive words to describe himself and she gave him a paint brush to paint over the bad words. Humpty grabbed the paint brush with his right hand. However, Humpty refused to let go of the big blue marker in his left hand. The big marker dragged him downward off the wall. It not only sent him tumbling downward, but also Art Therapy Intern Egg went tumbling downward after Humpty. This was because she had been holding on to the paintbrush that Humpty had in his right hand. As they were twirling downward, Art Therapy Intern Egg reached into her smock’s pocket and took out some canvas and told Humpty, “Take my canvas and use it as a parachute to land safely.” But, when she tossed it to Humpty, the canvas blew away with the wind. Then, Art Therapy Intern Egg said, “Take my beret and use it for a soft landing.” But Humpty could not catch the beret because he still had the heavy marker in his left hand. Then Art Therapy Intern Egg threw him her palette, and Humpty asked, “What is this for?” Art Therapy Intern Egg replied, “I don’t know, I’m just giving it all I’ve got.” There were ten eggs on the top of the wall who were egging Humpty on. So Humpty looked up as he was falling and, just then, he could see the clouds and saw a little cloud that looked like it had a silver lining. Humpty had time to think as he was falling. He thought, “I’m not so bad after all.” He then shouted to Art Therapy Intern Egg who was still falling behind him, “You know what? I’m not so b.....” And then there was a loud SPLAT! Humpty had hit the ground and was cracked into two pieces, and the bad words he had written on top of his head were separated from the rest of his eggshell. Then, there was a second louder SPLAT! as Art Therapy Intern Egg crashed to the ground. The ten eggs on top of the wall started to cry. The SPLAT! noises were so loud that...

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Rhonda Daniels

ONE big bad wolf stopped chasing pigs to find out what all the commotion was, TWO turtle doves appeared out of thin air, THREE little kittens stopped searching for mittens to see what the loud noises were, and no, not FOUR, but ALL the king’s horses and ALL the king’s men galloped over. Last, the great wise Ethiopian Queen of Sheba, Candace, stopped by. She sighed in disappointment. “King’s men, are you ever going to stop trying to put Humpty back together again? Don’t you see, this fall had to happen in order for Humpty Dumpty to become Tyrone the Terrific Turtle Dove TWO and for Art Therapy Intern Egg to become Art Therapy Professional Board Certified Turtle Dove ONE.” Just then, the ten eggs stopped crying and jumped off the wall in order to be all that they could be, the big bad wolf became a vegetarian, the three kittens found their mittens, the two turtle doves completed the art therapy mural, the king’s men and horses became almost as wise as their king, the Queen went on to find more people to help, and there was lots of laughter as they all lived happily ever after.

44

Alyssa Snively

Untitled

45

Catherine Altimari

The Night My Mom Swept the Street

She held the boy in her arms, told him everything would be okay— just before his breath stopped, and his head dropped slightly over her upper arm— while the left turn signal on his broken motorcycle flashed on and off

near our front lawn. She gave the police her eyewitness account, as blue flashing lights mixed with the red ones,

on the unnecessary ambulance— and the elderly man who hit the boy with his green station wagon, shook his head and walked in circles, saying over and over he just didn’t see him. She got the broom after the tow truck came, and took away the noticeable pieces,

and the coroner arrived, signed the incident report, then carried the boy away— police car following, with no lights flashing. Then she swept the small shards of glass and metal left behind— praying Hail Marys in rhythm of her strokes— as the traffic light in the empty intersection flashed green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red…

46

Lucia Fruchtenicht

Self Portrait

47

Dr. Jim Brinson

Marcus

48

Tavia Hedrick

Fall Apart

When the rainbow fades from view, And the sunflower petals fall, When the stars shift to daylight, And you never get a call, When the music decrescendos, And this love is no longer pure, When all that we are Becomes all that we were, I hope you remember That even the best things Fall apart.

49

Andrea Cowan

The Ray

50

Dr. Paul Salstrom

Picking Up Trash

A scrap of paper face down on bare dirt in a Midwestern park is a child’s photo. “Jakelin Caal Maquin” it says and “Guatemala,” “age 7,” “December 8, 2018” Her eyes seem trustful yet her head seems slightly tilted with thoughts.

Were she my daughter, could I make her believe (by phone, if permitted) we will be back together? Feliz Navidad, dear child, I hope you received a beautiful present

with long, loving hugs – if not in the detention then beyond all of this.

51

Ekaterina Baskina

Ascension

52

Briana Cramer

Open Letter to Myself Upon Graduation

Remember the nights when tears were like meteors on your pillow Staining Neptune-Blue drop-sized craters on your bed sheets

When your head was under so much pressure Being smothered by gravity and water pressure

By the God of the sea himself School was burning you alive The sun we all revolved around, day and night Poor little you, Mercury, the Messenger of the Gods The smallest of your companions The most important How painful it must be to know that you can never outrun the grip of a supernova Well baby girl, you survived. Today you move on to a different solar system A different galaxy

Not even Jupiter could pull you back Your orbital strings have been cut

And you hold the scissors How satisfying it must feel

That Pluto finally completed a full orbit And still had the strength to break away You are stronger than the dwarf they call you The rest of the world does not know the courage within you – yet.

53

Tavia Hedrick

I Don’t Hate You

I don’t hate you but Your name no longer holds w e i g I don’t hate you but I’ve evolved Into a woman You haven’t met yet Allow me to introduce myself. h t

54

Emma Taylor

Nashville

55

Rhonda Daniels

Rest in Power, Mr. George Floyd

56

Lydia Ingram

Claymore

There is a doorway I know I should avoid It’s part of a hallway always dimly lit Never ominous, but not at all inviting

Warm enough to remind me that I’m cold The door frame is old, weathered wood Paint past its prime but still with charm An ornate old knob badly in need of polishing But affectionately antiqued Sometimes I walk briskly past and other times I slow my steps just long enough to sense that I shouldn’t And when I’m feeling angry, destructive, and wet I run to the door and grip the knob with full willful abandon There is nothing in the air except everything Particles of dust, shed skin, and some sympathy That don’t quite shimmer in the light somehow pouring in From a large, arched window I will never open Spinning, suspended from a ceiling whose height doesn’t matter Are images that catch and throw refractions and reflections Hanging from strands of fate that aren’t gold or red But transparent as fishing line, twice as baited An imposing brow line furrows, then lifts when it sees me I can see the corners of a mouth held stone-walled Curling gently, softly, before it’s lost to mischievous air

A pumpkin at midnight and a change of clothes Away, away—they change course and spin away! A flag. A flask. Something knit or crocheted— For Heaven’s sake! How many days

And ways would I pay to play With these whirligigs of you?

Because this is where you live, at least, this is what’s left Of a lifetime, this lifetime, and fragments of the others Where we accidentally sought one another

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