Aurora 2024

Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College Presents:

Issue: 2024

1

A Note From the Editor: The seasons change, people change, places change; everything endlessly changes and there is nothing to stop it. The inevitability of time terrifying deeply terrifies me. It brings with it fleeting thoughts and emotions that are in the past the second they happen. Like the ABBA song, the present constantly slips through my fingers, never to be picked up again. However, to change is to grow, to develop, to move on, to explore, or to become something new. To change is to be alive. It’s beautiful. The arts act as a snapshot capturing all the passing passion and important things in our lives. All art lives within the context of when they were made. A picture of the woods on a specific summer day, a poem about heartache, and a painting of something you love are all born from the moments someone felt it was important enough to make art about.

The honor of Aurora is to be the home to all these moments.

I hope that everyone reading this 2024 edition of Aurora appreciates and enjoys all the snapshots into the lives of our Woods community as we are now, and as we continue to grow and change in the future.

-Al Groves, Editor-in-Cheif

2

Staff

Editor-in-Cheif Al Groves Layout Editors Al Groves Ashton Stewart Associate Editors Aliyah Orten Allie Benson-Atterson Ashley Zembrycki Kaelin Shae Sara Allard Faculty Advisor William Nyfeler Cover Art Butterfly Effect by Elizabeth Wetzel

3

Contents

Poetry The Art of Thought

9

Kaitlyn Carpenter

Cool About It

19

Anonymous

22

Optimistic

Carmela D’Agostino

37

Beneath, They Know

Carmela D’Agostino

54

Frostbite

Kaitlyn Carpenter Aaron Bushnell Died for Our Sins

66

Anonymous

71

Wow

Carmela D’Agostino

82

Physical

Anonymous

86

Making Art

Barbara Mahoney Rafferty

Fiction Journal of a Madman

25

Madeline Davis Jonathan Edwards, the Zeitgeist and I Walk

43

into a Bar...

Al Groves Dandelion Kingdom

55

Sara Allard

80

Katsudon

Al Groves

4

Creative Nonfiction Stomach Pains

12

Aliyah Orten

74

The Calamity

Aliyah Orten

Art Therapeutic Relationship

8

Barabara Mahoney Raffery

10

Untitled

Sydney McCammon

11

Paper Soldier

Elizabeth Wetzel

18

Untitled

Bradlee Gasper

21

Unveiling the Soul

Marybeth Labo

23

Bovine Encounters

Ashton Stewart View From Herobrine and I’s Vacation Home

24

Al Groves

35

Wire Flowers

Abigail Smith Meadow Creek in Southern Oregon

36

Anonymous

38

Something Acid

Lucia Fruchtenicht When Red Leaves Are Falling

39

Elizabeth Wetzel

40

Untitled

Kristen Hendrix Lighthouse on Lake Superior

41

Anonymous

42

Descending Angles

Anonymous

5

49

Eclipse

Savannah Steedman

50

Untitled

Holly McCann

51

Untitled

Kristen Hendrix

52

Butterfly Effect

Elizabeth Wetzel

53

Untitled

Rachel Davis

68

Eclipse Fun

Woods Community Sunrise over Lower Harbor, Marquette

69

Anonymous

70

Hear My Pain

Dela Layton

72

Untitled

Sydney McCammon

73

Untitled

Kelly Tipler

77

Down Deep

Barbara Mahoney Rafferty

78

Sarah Bear

Barbara Mahoney Rafferty

79

Tulips at Keukenhof

Anonymous

81

Live. Laugh. Shrek.

Dela Layton Contemplations of Time

83

Rachel Davis

84

Untitled

Amber Young Sailing on the Bonneville Salt Flats

85

Anonymous

6

2024

7

Barbara Mahoney Rafferty

Therapeutic Relationship

8

Kaitlyn Carpenter

The Art of Thought

There I was sat in my enigmatic stillness. Solitude is something my heart craved, And so I embraced surrendered silence.

A labyrinth of contemplations came as natural as breathing. Cascades of these breaths would tickle my ear and dance on my scalp. The breaths of the cosmos was something I couldn’t ignore. An air of effortlessness came with my cognitive ballet. Needless to say my mind’s introspection nothing short of blissful serendipity. It is then that I confirmed my thoughts are mine and mine alone. To share such euphoric epiphanies is to the making of unoriginality. Until next time fellow cerebral wanderer for this is all you will encourage of me.

9

Sydney McCammon

10

Elizabeth Wetzel

Paper Soldier

11

Aliyah Orten

Stomach Pains 7

I get frequent stomach aches. I never second guess, though, never consider that pain could have multiple meanings. I step lightly into the nurse’s office where she asks the same question every time.

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of my mother who never lets me leave for school without a full stomach. This morning, she said it’ll help me focus, as I forced those last bites of soggy cereal down.

“What did you eat?” asks the nurse.

“Cereal,” I say. She responds by explaining that cereal digests quicker and that is why I don’t feel good before lunch. Her cure is passing me three saltine crackers from a sleeve she keeps in her desk drawer. While eating the crackers, she tells me to lie down in one of the beds.

“Your stomach will rest this way,” she says.

Laying on my back, I stare up at the cardboard ceiling tiles and count all the dots I can see. The longer I stare, the more I convince myself I am seeing things. Things like an ocean view, the comfort of my bedroom, or the

12

Aliyah Orten

tree outside my front door. After ten to fifteen minutes, she tells me I feel better and sends me back to class.

Back at my desk, I still feel uneasy. My mind wanders through obscene corners where I can’t stop the images of worst-case scenarios jumping out. “What if one of my parents get in a car accident today?” “What if I get home and my dog is dead.” “What if I have an unknown illness in my body right now?” I hear the overhead speaker beep, announcing a student is needed in the office. I hear one of the voices in my head rise, consumed with thoughts I know are awful and no one wants to think about. Thoughts of death and failure, thoughts I know in the moment I should not be thinking about. We’re learning how to multiply numbers together in mathematics. Why am I thinking of a funeral? Waking up for school, I feel an all-consuming uneasiness. I feel nauseous to the point where it’s hard to breathe and explain to others. I cry and beg my mom to let me stay home from school. The days that she agrees, I lay my head on her lap, and she asks the same question,

“You wanted to stay home because you missed me, right?”

“Yes momma, that’s exactly it,” I say, even though some days it’s a lie.

13

Aliyah Orten

11 The middle school nurse is a kind woman; she’s shorter, has blonde hair, a soft but feminine voice, and her name is Barbie. She makes everyone feel special when we are in her office. I am in her office all the time with stomach aches. When I am feeling sick, she calls my mom to talk to me rather than assuming I am making my feelings up. Every day, before gym class, I go to her office to take my inhaler. When I eventually leave for high school, she cries; she says she will miss me. This is the stage where they begin putting limitations on classroom exits. Teachers monitor our exits and reward us for not using any. I am confused by these concepts and rules. Why are there limitations? I see friends ask to go to the bathroom three minutes after the other exits. While observing this I understand that that could be a reason. But when the teachers say, “Unless you have a medical reason with a doctor’s note, these rules apply to you all.” I wonder how I would get a doctor’s note.

My parents tell me my stomach pains are not a problem, I’m just working myself up and creating these feelings.

With the schools’ limitations came a policy called “oops & log” for discipline. I once asked my English teacher during silent reading time, if I could use the restroom, and he said “It will cost you an oops.” After a minute of contemplation, I took the mark by my name and went to the nearest restroom. Needing to control my breathing

14

Aliyah Orten

and quiet the voices. It feels like everyone could hear the screaming voices while they read. I worry that they lose concentration. When I have those sick-to-my-stomach moments, simply working on an assignment, I begin to feel the overwhelming scatter throughout my body like multiple hearts are beating in my single chest. I begin to think, “Why is this happening to me?” or “Why can I not breathe normally?” I need to get out of this room, and ground myself, but how do I do that? 15 My stomach pains never ease. People keep saying that now is not the moment to make mistakes, to not make excuses, or it will greatly affect my future. “Tough it out,” they say as my stomach knots almost daily in pain. I find techniques to survive, but the pain never leaves.

Nurses’ office trips have become a rarity. If I feel bad enough to go home, I reach out to my mom myself.

For an entire school year, my English teacher gives all her students two passes to leave her classroom. One day, my pain pulls me into an all-consuming discomfort. One that makes me completely pause my assignment and feel my heartbeat in my ears, my body temperature to rise but also drop, and even my vision feels different.

Later in high school, having a solid group of friends,

15

Aliyah Orten

but finding a moment where I am the only one not in an extracurricular that they are in. I find myself eating alone when they meet. The cafeteria environment makes sitting alone feel awkward and like everyone has eyes on you. I think about asking someone I only have class conversations with if I can join their table. I talk myself out of it though; I’ll be okay. These lonely lunches usually put me into a funk for the remaining parts of the day. I find myself overthinking even more, convincing myself that my friends prefer to spend their time without me. I often think they never hold second thoughts on what I do without them. Every time I say I will build up the courage to feel confident in myself or to find someone else to sit with. Every time concludes the same way, alone with my thoughts. 20 In college, hand raising isn’t a necessity like it is in grade school. Other simple rules such as raising your hand to speak are reversed in college. Before this, teachers were always saying, “College professors will not care as much as we do for you.” College professors seem focused but like they genuinely care about you, not about who you are related to or friends with. At this moment, hearing what they have to say about my future is easier to believe than what past teachers had to say.

I find myself wondering why I need to internally convince myself that simply speaking aloud without

16

being asked is okay. When I know the answer to a question or have a comment to make to add to the discussion, I can never come right out and state it. I feel like I must have the entire thought processed multiple times before my brain accepts that my vocal cords can produce it. Aliyah Orten

17

Bradlee Gasper

18

Anonymous

Cool About It

The bed feels soft, And the sheets underneath me are familiar. The arms that wrap around me are warm. My heart beats faster as our embrace gets tighter. The weight of him lying on me lingers as he jumps off the bed, And I wonder when I’ll understand why. What happens to the fluttering of my heart, And why does it get so heavy every time he decides to walk out the door. And lock me in once again. My head lies on the foot of this bed, But an unfamiliar feeling begins to wash over me. The door remains locked for what time seems to not allow. Different hours strike on the clock, And an eternity is gone away. I forget how to breathe. A lock unrattled and suddenly he’s walking in, But he doesn’t look the same. He doesn’t put his weight on me anymore, And when we face each other, he doesn’t light up the same. His eyes are dark and cold, And now he’s asking me to leave. This room The one I felt was my own,

19

Anonymous

Is now lifeless and cold. My footsteps begin to feel heavy,

The room is fading away, As if it was nothing at all.

20

Marybeth Labo

Unveiling the Soul

21

Carmela D’Agostino

Optimistic

i’m itching for the solace of escape too bad the earth is too flat for my taste. in my bag lay 5 albums, an instrument, and a paper lace of all the memories i’ll be leaving behind. nothing sounds more pleasant than the echoes of the hills i’ll forget my name and all the damaged windows i’ve built. lately every night i’ve dreamt the same old dream where a fish stuck in water finally swims out among the free it hurts when i wake up and find that in reality i got too much that leans onto me.

if i’m out there and just a loved one’s reverie, then this would be the last time i could hurt them ever again.

new memories could be fathomed without the baggage that i left. maybe i’m too optimistic about my solitude.

22

Ashton Stewart

Bovine Encounters

23

Al Groves

View From Herobrine and I’s Vacation Home

24

Madeline Davis

Journal of a Madman

JOURNAL,

I have just bought you as a way of documenting the terrors I am plagued with. I find them to be gruesome in nature, and I need some way of expressing them. I need to tell it to someone else and though you are just a book, it is better than keeping it all inside. I need some way of getting it all out. What is causing these terrors, I have an inkling but I won’t talk about it now. There’s not time for that now. What matters is this, I have these dreams that I am lying in bed, and the ghosts of people I once knew pour in through my window. People I once loved and dreamed with. They flood the room like bright moonlight and they fill my dreams with fear and regret. They spill through my subconscious like spilled milk and I cannot escape them. yours, V.C I write again, and yet I find that my situation has not changed. I am still plagued by the fears that I have tried for so long to escape. I am afraid for my life at times. When the agony comes barreling towards me like a freight train, I must duck and run for cover, as I was used to, but this is different from the descent of bullets. I scream and it is not nearly as loud as the voices. They haunt me, there are so many of them, and they haunt JOURNAL,

25

Madeline Davis

me in a way that will ensure that I shall never forget the horrors that we all faced.

It was December of 1943, which as you know was quite a while ago. A close friend of mine, Jeremy, was gunned down in front of us all, his body left on the lines where we could not and would not dare venture to retrieve him. His body was most likely stripped and burned by the Germans, a thought that still terrifies me to this day. He had such a sparkle in his eye, a gleaming source of hope and perseverance that none of us could shake from our minds after his death. How could we? He was the best of all of us and that light in his soul would never shine again. His shining blue eyes are still enough to keep me awake at night. I am sure that this sounds folly to you, my faceless audience, but Jeremy and all the others torment me like nothing else I have ever encountered. It does not feel real or fair that he was the first to die amongst the soldiers I was closest with. He was the life in the small group of soldiers in which I made a temporary home. I would tell you more, but I don’t really feel like it at the moment.

I promise to write again, Yours, V.C

JOURNAL,

I find our conversations to be enlightening.

26

Madeline Davis

Although, admittedly we don’t have them as often as we could. Maybe that’s because I don’t write like I should. I don’t do a lot of things that I should, it seems like. I guess I write because I have nothing more enriching to do with my time. Or perhaps I find comfort in knowing that this is confidential. I can write and say things that have only appeared to me in the form of thought or a memory. The episodes have become far more regular, and more intense. It is as if I am stranded on an island, and though I am surrounded by people, I can find no way to communicate with them. I am on another planet, it seems, at times. People, the world, is so very different now. I am different. During that same winter of ‘43, I nearly lost my foot. Trench foot was our enemy as well as the Germans, perhaps even more so. I say this because trench foot was a never-ending threat that was impossible to escape; in much the same way that the Germans were. However, this plagued us without bullets and perhaps that was worse. We sat in trenches all day and unless you had time to change your socks every couple of hours, and I did not, you ran the risk of losing a foot. In my case, I had been so preoccupied with surviving that I had neglected the warnings of my superiors and nearly lost my foot as a result. I still have problems with that foot even though I was fortunate enough to not lose it completely. But that’s not what was a wake-up call for me.

My group of friends, which I think is the proper term for them, because I mourned each of their deaths much

27

Madeline Davis

like I would a family member; they encouraged me to take proper care of myself often. Which I must admit, I thought was hypocritical because they had their own health problems that they neglected. It was strange because my real family, I do love them, as did many of the others, this you would have no trouble believing. However, when it came down to it, family would do you no good. You would die regardless of whether your family wrote to you or not, which is why we became each other’s own family. Quite depressing in hindsight, as it didn’t spare me any heartbreak when my new-found family fell apart. I remember one superior of mine in particular, Richard, he would tell us stories about his life before the war. How every man in his family had fought in the American wars from the American Revolution to now, and they had all survived. It was odd because one would think he would feel the cold sting of reality when he saw so many of us die but it only seemed to fuel his ambition to carry on his family legacy. He shot himself last April. He left a note, it was mostly drunken scribbles and odd shapes, but amid all of it was the simple sentence: “Sometimes surviving can be the worst fate of all.” I do believe I have bored and depressed you enough for now, I promise to write again soon. Yours, V.C

28

Madeline Davis

JOURNAL,

I feel that every time we co-exist, for lack of a better description, I am reliving some of my worst nightmares. That can’t be fair, as I started this journal as a way to document my terrors. They are getting more frequent, now that I think about it. I find myself going back to those memories, convincing myself that it ended in a much different way than the reality at hand. Perhaps I did not protect them each as I should have, perhaps they are lost in the hereafter with no way home and perhaps I have damned them to such a fate because I was cowardly. Yes, I followed orders, but I did not serve as I should have. Now, because of it, I am suffering greatly, greater than I ever thought possible. I killed several men in the war, so many men that if I were to name them all, this entry would be longer than the very war I am haunted by. They were all young, and what if they were as innocent as I was, and what if they had their own sparkles in their eyes that I ripped from them? What if I am the villain in their story, and my suffering is derived from my own brutality during the war? I know this all must seem redundant, I tell myself this every time I think of it. That it is redundant and it doesn’t do anyone any good, especially not myself. I agonize and I suffer, is it all self-inflicted? I could ask “What have I done to deserve this?” But I know. I know and that is why I cannot move past it.

A different superior of mine was Edward; he was a fiend

29

Madeline Davis

for poker. Every time we were not being gunned down, he would beg whoever was close in proximity to play cards with him. He was dangerously good at poker, and I lost many games and quite a bit of money to him. I typically avoided such endeavors, since my mother had told me that gambling was extremely dangerous and I had always listened to my mother. One night, we were attacked by the Germans, much worse than usual, and we suffered many casualties. I, myself, was shot in the shoulder and thought death was surely coming for me. I found myself in a trench, surrounded by others who likely thought the exact same thing. I found myself next to Edward, he had been shot in the leg and was losing blood fast. “Sir”, I exclaimed, “You’re bleeding” He looked down at his bloody leg and shrugged; “It’ll stop at some point.” And he pulled out a deck of cards with a grin on his face. He asked me to play poker with him, I reluctantly agreed and I beat him with a straight flush, it was the first time I had ever done so. I thought maybe he’d be upset but the strangest thing happened. He grinned as big and as gleefully as a child on Christmas. I felt pride, in both him and myself, though I always wondered if he let me win. It was not to last though, Edward died only seconds later. I learned sometime later from someone else that he had been hit in the femoral artery, and had only moments to live. Why he spent those moments with me, I still have no idea. I think he did let me win. It’s odd but maybe he wanted me to feel some sense of joy while he lay there

30

Madeline Davis

bleeding out.

I shall write again. V.C

JOURNAL,

By now, I consider you to be closer than even my favorite family members. I have told you things that I both wish never to relive and thought I would never live to tell another soul. That is why perhaps, I feel so much relief when I tell you these things. I was a very different person before the war, this is a fact to everyone and I am not proud of it. I did so many awful things that it is hard to associate with who I once was, to who I became, and now the broken and bloody remains of the present. I enjoyed many things in my youth, superficial things I suppose, but I did love them. Yet I cannot recall any of them for the life of me. Who was I? Who was I really? Did I exist as an extension of my family? What did I value, and why did I value it? Who could I have become if I hadn’t been in the war? I am empty, so much in the sense that I may never be whole again. This neither angers nor terrifies me. I feel nothing, but perhaps a sense of longing for what could’ve been. I do often wonder, do I feel my emotions in an authentic way or perhaps it comes to me in a cheap diluted manner?

31

Madeline Davis

I am different but how could I not be? A child I was once, a brightly colored window, a reflection of the new but clear future. I once had so much life, so much ambition. Now, I am but a broken husk of a man; I am a walking collection of shattered glass, stumbling through lazily as I slip further and further into the distance until I will be nothing except a lone piece. And love had plagued me as well. I had loved many times, but there was one person in particular that came to mind when I thought of love. Her name was Rachel and I had felt for her what everybody spends their whole lives looking for. With her, everything was easy. There was no pressure, no spotlight for me to perform in. I had spent most of my life thinking that love was a losing game and there was no point in trying to make it last. Then it faded, it burned out, and sizzled like a firework on the 4th of July. I loved her like the sun relishes the flower in the very beginning of spring. On my darkest days, she was there. I would turn to her for comfort during these bleak times during the war. I would remember the warmth of her body, I had May in the midst of December. That is to say that I was never truly cold when she was in my thoughts. I was never truly lonely, not when I had her in my thoughts and my life. When the going got rough, I would remember how it felt to be with her, to hold and love her with all my being.

32

Madeline Davis

I would’ve loved her from the moment I woke up to the moment I closed my eyes at night. For every day until the end of time, if she would’ve let me. I could’ve loved her until Hell itself froze over and I would’ve been content to be doomed to any fate God or the Devil inflicted upon me if it meant being with her. She was my distant lover in the dark, with eyes like deep pools of brown velvet ecstasy, I would’ve swam in them until I drowned. I would’ve followed her to the ends of the earth, and happily so. It was not to last, and I now curse the fool I had once made of myself. What else is there to say? I loved her with every nerve and blood cell in my body and life had other plans for the two of us. One day, someone will read this and pity me. I think that is the worst fate of all. Even worse than the one I am facing now. I am nothing if not a broken husk of a man, but it will all be better soon. I will leave you with this; “Sometimes surviving can be the worst fate of all”. I remember so many people, who are forever the same age. I am decrepit and broken now, there is very little left of me and it will never come back. I am going to join Rachel, and Edward, and Richard. I am going where it is always May and never December. I am going to the place I should’ve gone to when the rest of them did. I can’t talk about it anymore right now. V.C JOURNAL,

33

You have been a great listener. I couldn’t have asked for a better audience. Victor Cromwell. Madeline Davis

34

Abigail Smith

Wire Flowers

35

Anonymous

Meadow Creek in Southern Oregon

36

Carmela D’Agostino

Beneath, They Know

beneath the earth interwoven roots the interconnection of those that reach for the sky cold damp and dark the worms don’t know

as they become the heartfelt beauty of the underworld along the ridges of the birch, mushrooms hug the only home they know.

37

Lucia Fruchtenicht

Something Acid

38

Elizabeth Wetzel

When Red Leaves Are Falling

39

Kristen Hendrix

40

Anonymous

Lighthouse on Lake Superior

41

Anonymous

Descending Angles

42

Al Groves

Jonathan Edwards, the Zeitgeist and I Walk into A Bar... I am a current going with and pushing at the ghost of time. When I get up in the morning I eat an apple – whole – starting from the core and then making my way to the outside.

I do this every day: the day before today, the day before tomorrow, … tomorrow.

It will begin with the ERR ERR ERR of my alarm. then I will mash my hands into my eyes, trying to claw out the lingering bits of sleep and when I finish I will look over to my dresser where my red adonis will lay waiting for me glowing in the morning haze “come here! I need you! I want you!” will call the apple and I will smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth trying to decide if the sweet juices of an apple will help or worsen

43

Al Groves

the sticky thick consistency of my spit and the morning taste in my mouth, however, the apple will start to get impatient “oh please please PLEASE!!! I need you! I want you!” it will call and I’ll sigh a bit and roll my eyes but nonetheless walk over to it after a stretch of the arms taking in a deep sniff as the apple quivers in anticipation and I’ll smell nothing except the vague metallic smell of my own hand and getting impatient the apple will call out “oh please!! don’t tease me so!! I need you!!! I want you!!” and with another sigh I will part my lips and bring it to them and then devour it whole. and pick it up with my left hand and press it up against my nose

I will then sit back on my bed stare at the yellowing walls and wait, listening for the rush of bile

to come up my throat and sting my tongue in an acid wash.

And from the bucket I keep next to my bed the malformed mush of apple will call out “I am Jonathan Edwards!!”

44

Al Groves

and I will clear my throat, and reply with a croak (my voice will be a little rough since it is the first thing I will have said all day) “okay and?” but ignoring my question it’ll simply reply “I am from the Earth” “okay and?” I’ll repeat, my voice now more steady, but the mush won’t reply. Giving the contents of the bucket one last look – it’s slightly green, probably from the skin of the apple – I’ll wrinkle my nose and nudge the bucket under my bed so it can be a problem for a later me. Not that later me will mind, oh no, a later me will have forgotten of the incident by then and will be looking under the bed for something… like maybe a phone charger? or a lost shoe? or a pen? It will make sense if it is a pen I lose and will lose them quite often, and they stay hidden until one day while minding my own business I will jump into a chair and a sharp uncapped point will jab into my heel giving me my first tattoo.

45

Al Groves

Actually, that might have already happened.

But if it happens again it’ll be totally wack.

Not only that, but I will never lose another pen again.

But anyways, when the future me reaches under the bed and pulls out a bucket full of mushy apple goop It’ll be really peeved at me yelling “did you forget about me you regurgitating idiot?!?” “Is it because I’m all mush in the bottom of this bucket?” “huh?” “do you not care about me now that I’m all gushy?” “I bet you’d’ve remembered me if I was shiny and pretty like I used to be!” And I will be really taken aback because while I will have forgotten about the apple it won’t need to be as rude as it will be.

But despite this I will look at the goop and above it see the twisting tendrils of time just floating about.

So I’ll grab one pull

46

Al Groves

and turn the slop back into a fresh apple like the one I will eat tomorrow.

And the me of tomorrow’s future will lose their ever-loving shit, and they will stand and stare as their glistening brain tries not to implode.

An apple once eaten can never be reformed again especially – as I will think – if it an old mushed-up apple in the bottom of a bucket, the spectral tendrils of time tend to never favor apples in that way. It will be a first. And in knowing that I will be thinking about it the tendrils will caress my face, lean me in, whisper, “sehen Sie? sehen Sie was sie gemacht haben? Sehen sie was Sie machen können?” I will nod, sighing against the time ghost as it pulls away from my face and I will look back at the apple sitting as fresh as it will be tomorrow, and ignoring its calls of “please come here!!! I need you!!! I want you!! oh please!!”

47

I will stretch my arms high into the sky pull back my covers and go to bed. Al Groves

48

Savannah Steedman

Eclipse

49

Holly McCann

50

Kristen Hendrix

51

Elizabeth Wetzel

Butterfly Effect

52

Rachel Davis

53

Kaitlyn Carpenter

Frostbite

Had I known it would snow that night, I would not have tempted my fate and this plight

Now winter’s icy touch pricks my skin. Fear of frostbite is starting to set in.

These silent woods are the worst of it all. Winter’s sun shines and yet numbness makes me fall. Images of a warm fire fogs my brain. I fear I am going insane. ‘Fore there is no fire here nor there. I’ll only lay my head down for five minutes I swear. Winter whispers ‘your presence is needed” If only I knew winter stands undefeated.

54

Sara Allard

Dandelion Kingdom There are fewer things more taken for granted than the life cycle of a dandelion. Dandelion stalks used to shoot up through even the ragged sidewalks, producing the loveliest, golden petals you ever saw. Then, all its yellow petals swirl into each other like sparrows in the sky, they create a cocoon so pure and elegant, that only the good ol’ fashioned glass perfume bottles can compare. Although those itchy white seedlings have some bridal beauty, it’s such a shame that they gotta launch the cocoon away in the process--like the soda cans thrown out of trucks on the highway. Shouldn’t they recognize beauty when they see it? Then again, it’s not like anyone else does. For the past 20 years, dandelions have become a rare find. The who, what, and when of this tragedy is still bein’ bickered about by the talkin’ heads, but it’s been us gardeners’ job to cope with the loss. I couldn’t stay the runnin’ champ of the “Best Flower Garden in Pine Haven” award if I didn’t have any bees to pollinate it after all, so I took matters into my own hands. What else is there for an old lady to do? And wouldn’t you know it, the soil from my garden was the only kind that did the trick! One “viable” dandelion later, and I was now a modern-day Mother Nature. When those science people barged into my little

55

Sara Allard

greenhouse 20-some years ago, set to turn it into some soulless botany lab, I turned them down flat. I decided if my little garden’s the only place these dandelions got, then I’m runnin’ the show. Wasn’t I owed that, considerin’ those snooty scientists and their white coats couldn’t stop this whole situation? After ignorin’ their emails--and gettin’ some generous checks from flower minded folks —my backyard garden has bloomed into a full dandelion kingdom. See, I ain’t just preservin’ pollinators here, but also the proper society that respected nature: the golden days of garden parties. Back in the Victorian days, folks used to wear their finest Sunday clothes just to walk around gardens and lawns. Those fine people respected Mother Nature and wouldn’t have let dandelions disappear before their eyes. That’s why I’ve turned my nursery into a courtyard fit for a palace. I replaced my old plastic tents with four glass greenhouses the size of small warehouses and added a two-story glass dome to stand proudly in the middle That dome is my true pride and joy: a tearoom filled with fountains, chandeliers, and of course, plenty of trellises covered in dandelions. Folks book tables here years in advance so that they can feel the joy from the best bygone era we got. It’s also where I’ve decided to watch the sunrise from this morning, hopin’ it’ll do my dusty noggin’ some good. The winter-thawin’ sunshine and grassy smell of my dandelions in their prime cocoon stage is helpin’

56

Sara Allard

me feel 45 again. That is, until the pungent smell of motor oil reminds me I’m still stuck with Layla Finn. I can hear the rumblin’ of the junky scooter she rides to work every weekend across the county line, and the haphazard way she has our dress boxes propped up on top of its taillight is startin’ up my heart palpitations. For the longest time, Layla was just a common snoop-- takin’ some half-hours to adoringly gaze into my tearoom windows after her shifts at the dollar store. If it hadn’t been for that unkempt blonde hair and that corny tie dye backpack she lets eat her like a turtle shell, she would’ve completely disappeared into the background. Miss Finn isn’t some local darlin’ that can get by on her last name, just some clumsy fawn of a girl that somehow appeared in Pine Haven without anyone battin’ an eye. But where the town saw nobody, potential. I hired her as a flower hand and tearoom waitress, an offer she hugged me for when I proposed it. Under my elegant wing, I thought Layla could rise above the riffraff of her generation and become a shinin’ golden flower-- just like my precious dandelions. Sad to say, she’s wound up bein’ a migraine. After one more ambiance-killin’ backfire, Layla turns her scooter off, wrestles both white boxes into her toothpick arms and smudges my pristine front door with her muddy combat boots. “I finally got the dresses from the sew shop, Mrs. A” she says while tryin’ to dodge dandelions in those ridiculous shoes. Her voice drops to a whisper before addin’, “Cheryl also wants me to tell you that if you ask for another redo, she’s goin’ to change her

57

Sara Allard

name and start over in the Maldives.” Layla was clearly hesitant about relayin’ this commentary, but I simply tsk it away. “Well, tell Cheryl she should be hoppin’ at the chance of doin’ real seamstress work, not salvagin’ all those ugly prom dresses.” Layla slouches into a chair when I take her uniform out of the box. Out comes a crisp black skirt that’ll dust the floor, along with a puffed sleeve shirt so poofy that they’ll block our blind spots. I can’t help but clap my hands in bliss! “Look at us! We’re now just a few bobby pins away from bein’ true Gibson girls!,” I say while showin’ off our new finery. I had hoped that this idea would brin’ the wonder back into Layla’s eyes, but instead she’s bouncin’ her knee and avoidin’ my gaze. “It’s just—I don’t see how we can actually work in these things, Mrs. A. Both of the east greenhouse fields need watering today, and I was… hopin’ to show the science camp kids some of the seedlings? Did you know that one dandelion seed has more drag than any parachute?” Looks like Miss Finn is goin’ to be a headache earlier than expected. “How many times do I have to remind you, girl? The only thing kids want to do with dandelions is behead them—rip out their petals and kick the seedlings into a useless clump. What’s the two rules of Miss Annalyn’s Nursery?” Layla shuts her eyes in what I hope is wistfulness, not concentration or pain. “Safety, and sophistication,” she drawls out. Satisfied, I take

58

Sara Allard

my own uniform out of the box and start measurin’ the sleeves for historical accuracy. “You better keep those rules in that noggin of yours, Miss Finn. Dandelions only disappeared because the riffraff saw them as weeds and didn’t bother tryin’ to protect them.” “And wearin’ these costumes while waterin’ miles of flowers with dollar store hoses is…sophistication?”, says Layla while holdin’ her own shirt up like a snakeskin. “You best believe it!”, I clap back while tossin’ Layla the skirt she’d been tryin’ to ignore. Once we were changed, it was time to welcome our esteemed guests for the day. As usual, the day goes by all too quickly. Layla left work without even sayin’ goodbye, leavin’ me with the inelegant job of trash duty. As I walk to the dumpster, my eye catches an uncanny flash of color in the ditch across the street. It was the same dazzlin’ shade of yellow that creeps up to the second-story ceiling without much help, that dusts all the counters of my kitchen, and that pulses around my old eyes when I go to bed. My noggin wracked itself for explanations, but my eyes already knew what it was. There in a backroad ditch, grew a bona fide dandelion. I barely hear when the trash bag falls and starts leakin’ old tea on my brand-new skirt, because the horrors are already playin’ out in my head. Thin’s would start innocently enough, with the trash truck. The boys will ask each other if they had one too many at the bar last night before accepting’ that yes, the dandelion curse

59

Sara Allard

might be over. They’ll tell their little girlfriends, who will ditch their drive thru shifts to see it, tossin’ it headfirst into the Pine Haven grapevine. One of them takes a picture or makes one of those internet videos that Layla swears are funny, and things will have truly gone to pot. Those black news vans will come up from the coast. They’ll clog up the good parkin’ spots and shove their microphones up my nose. They’ll beg me to give that flower to the scientists, who always seem to show up whether I say so or not. They’ll don their white coats, pour into that field like a spilled ant farm, toss up a dozen tents, and shove all kinds of needles into that sweet little dandelion. The white coats will change her name to something stupid like”Taraxacum officinale;” her purpose to fix the problem they let happen in the first place. They’ll take the credit for this divine miracle and where will I be? Trapped in my glorified shed while my precious dandelions are thrown to the dogs. But I ain’t lettin’ it happen. It’s just one little dandelion after all, nothin’ a spade and an old flowerpot won’t fix! Just a quick little transplant and it’ll be like none of this ever happened, you’ll see. No news anchors, no scientists, no boho freakshows who will twist it into a flower crown. I’ll just get back to doin’ the real work! It takes hours for my rusty wrists hours to gather up the best soil from the nursery, and even longer to find a decent flowerpot from my best-garden-in-Pine Haven days. All I could hustle up was a Frog Prince

60

Sara Allard

one, complete with tacky kissy lips and worn-off eyes. Not exactly espionage material, but a lady’s gotta work with what she’s got. All the pieces are finally in place at 2:00 AM, the best hour for keepin’ secrets. I trek back down to that ditch and try to tune out my screamin’ hips by sayin’ “no black vans, no white coats.” These mantras help me persevere back toward the scene of the crime. Toward that pinless grenade that could destroy everything I’ve worked for. Which is why I about collapse like a barn in a tornado when I realize I’m not alone. There in that ditch is Layla, kneelin’ so close to the rouge flower that it looks like she’s whisperin’ it a secret. Although she and her pathetic scooter should’ve puttered off somewhere else, she’s still here, cakin’ our new work uniforms in the spring’ mud. “Young lady! What are you doin’ out so late?,” I demand. Layla has her head so far up in the clouds, that she doesn’t even startle at her 70 year boss poppin’ in at 2:00 AM. Instead, she jumps up, rattles my shoulders, and squeals like a tween at a boy band concert: “Look Mrs. A, can you believe it?” Layla jabbers,” This is the first wild dandelion I’ve — no anyone my age has seen in their life! Imagine how many more we’ll have once this one goes to seed! People have to know about this! We should call —” —I decide right then that everything I’ve said to this girl has ever sunk in, and my mission to forge her in my image is well and truly dead. “ENOUGH! I would like to

61

Sara Allard

think I’ve been nothin’ but kind to you Miss Finn, but there’s only so much teenage nativity I can take. This wild dandelion ain’t some miracle, but a disaster!” It’s about now that she notices the spade and Frog Prince that my arthritic arms are tryin’ to hide behind my back. Layla’s childish smile I thought would disappear after raisin’ my voice finally starts to crack. “My work over these last 20 years has never been to send my babies back to a ditch. It’s been what I’ve hammered into your stubborn skull ever since I so kindly hired you: safety and sophistication!” I stop to calm my temper and regain the gentle, grandmotherly tone that I long for in every conversation. “Layla sweetie, if we don’t take this lil’ rebel back home, others will. And they won’t know how to keep her safe.” I set the Frog Prince down in the ditch as a declaration and wait for her to back down like she always does. She’s too darn shy to do anything more than begrudgingly agree. Layla does stand up, but she doesn’t walk to her scooter. Instead, she stomps in front of the dandelion, clenches her fists, and shakily says “No, Mrs. A. I can’t let you keep this flower in a prison. It deserves to be free!” The girl might as well have slapped me. Before I could recover, all the complaints she’d been hidin’ behind stifled giggles and shifty eyes come tumblin’ out. “You wanna know why I kept sneaking’ peeks inside the tearoom, but never came inside? Because I thought I wasn’t allowed to.” Layla interrupts herself to skitter over to the scooter, and pull something’ out

62

Sara Allard

of that ridiculous backpack of hers. It’s a ratty, tattered paperback that looks like it’s been through at least 3 flooded basements. She opens it towards me and flips through all the pages in a flash, which reveals a dandelion in motion. It pops out of the soil, swirls up into its cocoon, and releases seeds—just like I’ve seen happen a thousand times over in my greenhouse. “I found this book at a yard sale when I was a kid,” Layla says while flippin’ through the book again. “I asked the old couple selling’ it what kind of flower it was, and all they did was sigh and give me the book for free. And I was so obsessed with it, that my mom tried to take this book away just so I would read something else! But flipping through this book wasn’t enough. I wanted to actually hold one in my hand. Then I find out that some place called Miss Annalyn’s Nursery and Tea Parlor was the only place where dandelions still grew, and I promised myself that someday, I’d see a dandelion for myself. Maybe I could even brin’ one back home, keep it in a little pot on my apartment’s window!” With a quick snap, Layla closes her book. “But then I get here and on my first day, you have me bussing tables for $40 dollar salads. Arranging’ spoons for tea parties. Keeping’ little kids from even breathing’ on a dandelion, unless their parents are willing’ to pay up.” She slowly kneels back down to the dandelion and looks at it with resolve. “So, during’ my lunch breaks, I’d steal some seedlings from the greenhouses. Then I’d climb up to the roof and let them fly.” The girl might as well have slapped me. This

63

Sara Allard

was a level of disrespect—no, treason—that I couldn’t let stand. How could she admit to wastin’ hundreds of dandelions so casually? I’m so distraught by this betrayal that all I can stammer out is a “YOU’RE FIRED!” before I fall to my knees and stab my spade into the earth. With a bleat not unlike a baby goat’s, Layla kicks the spade out of my hand. I scream” hand me my spade this instant!”, but that bark doesn’t hold any bite when your opponent can stop you by raisin’ her arm in the air. When did these young people get so tall? This makes me resort to playing dirty. I pull on Layla’s ratty blonde hair, which catches her off guard long enough to droop the spade towards my reach. This leads to me and Layla dancin’ a bizarre tango, with a rusty spade playin’ the role of the rose. Our battle continues until a subtle, crispy snap declares the winner. Somewhere during’ this embarrassing’ dance, my little rebel dandelion has been killed. Crushed by one of our shoes, and which one I can’t be sure. I see Layla’s eyes fill with hot tears but decide now’s not the time for sympathy. Instead, I pick up the Frog Prince, tell Layla “It’s for the best,” and walk back to the house with a new spring in my step. I try to get a little shut-eye before the morning shift, but I only sleep in fits. That sneaky little flower being put out of its misery should have me sleepin’ like a baby, but I can’t shake the feelin’ that my troubles aren’t over. My vision pulses with dandelion yellow like usual, but now

64

Sara Allard

there’s also stubborn little seedlings dancing all over my eyelids. They explode out of their safety-yellow cocoons like a firework, only to get snatched up by clumsy fingers that don’t know what to do with ‘em. Fingers that are caked with dirt or covered in blotchy black nail polish. I try my darndest to grab the seeds before the thieves do, but my old hands can’t keep up. When it’s time to open for breakfast, I start worryin’ that I never woke up. Every time I stop to take orders for tea, there’s seedlings twirlin’ outside the windows. Every time I stop another grabby brat from pickin’ dandelions off the trellises, I feel a shadow blocking out the sun that’s supposed to make them really pop. It’s only when customers start gawkin’ at the ceiling that I realize it’s not my imagination. Up on the roof sits a girl with dishwater hair and slobby clothes, holdin’ a bundle of dandelions in her hand. She blows their seedlings into the wind by the dozens, and no amount of yellin’ at the sky makes her stop.

And it’s the goofy grin on everyone else’s face that makes me decide I’m livin’ through a nightmare after all.

65

Anonymous

Aaron Bushnell Died for our Sins

As the flames grow, his body soon begins to lose its Battle with mortality. Inside the flickering wall of orange And black, the image of his melting flesh and our festering Sins being washed clean shocks those who have never seen Either. As the specter of redemption rises to hide our Shame of inaction, police rush to help him with their favorite Tool – a gun. The fire blisters and flays his skin, his body Collapses, pneuma escaping, and more guns show up To assist, a parody of the weapons of genocide being used half a World away. Our terrified guardians work to keep us in the dark. The state tells us truth is terror, and compassion is weakness. We must be protected from radical ideas like these. More guns arrive on the scene, because cowards have no other Tool against moral courage. A fire extinguisher eventually Appears, too late to help, of course. But they keep pointing Their guns at his smoldering frame, for our protection.

66