Aurora 2025 with cover

Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College Presents:

Issue: 2025

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A Note From the Editor: “Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.” -Sylvia Plath Each of us have different perspectives on the world we live in. Some of us find beauty in a subject that another will walk past. Today may feel like an ordinary day to you but may be crushing another down or uplifting them like never before. Aurora holds a multitude of perspectives; in this physical publication, throughout the editorial process, and in each artist’s process in submitting something they felt so immensely about to share. The editors hope each and every one of you know how grateful we are to you for choosing to share a piece of your soul and perspective on the world with us. As you turn each page of Aurora’s 154th edition, we join you in living through the eyes of your fellow artists, in seeing this beautiful and somber world, and clinging on to the moments we each found individual sparks of inspiration in.

Aliyah Orten, Co-Editor

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A Note From the Editor:

What is human?

The simple answer is a collection of cells and atoms that form the species that we are. We live on the Earth, breathe oxygen, and have intelligent brains.

But what is really human?

We are so much more than atoms and cells. We have feelings, emotions, thoughts, ideas, and creativity. We have the ability to take the vast and interesting world that is our minds and create something physical with it.

We make paintings and drawings. We sing and dance.

We make art.

In a world that is growing and changing into something that revolves around and relies on artificial intelligence, we as humans must continue to search and find those things that prove who we are. Find the things that prove nothing can truly replicate the human mind.

It’s my honor to take that evidence, that proof, and immortalize it.

Allie Benson-Atterson, Co-Editor

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Staff

Co-Editors Aliyah Orten Allie Benson-Atterson Layout Editor Allie Benson-Atterson Associate Editors Autumn Downing Tyler Martin Krislyn Moreland Kay Shae

Faculty Advisor William Nyfeler Cover Art Man &Gator by Anonymous

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Contents

Poetry We Were Walking – a villanelle Ashley Zembrycki God Did Not Bless America Today

11

18

Anonymous

A Siren’s Song

21

Mariah Szekely

26

Lakefront Reverie

Sara Yanez

29

Hearding Cats

Hillary Moseley

39

Vanity of Vanities

Kaitlyn Carpenter

44

The Hurt

Detra Lynn Mills

64

Ukraine is my Home

Svitlana Ramer

71

Shadows of a Past Life

Aliyah Orten

Fiction Untitled

32

Kay Shae

54

The Hollow

Justin Sullins Creative Nonfiction You’re Reading This, Aren’t You?

73

Kaitlyn Carpenter

76

Illustrations of a Home

Aliyah Orten

Art Untitled

10

Marissa Burnett

5

12

Autumn Woods

Anonymous

13

Windstorm

Anonymous

14

Twin Spirits

Barabara Mahoney Raffery

15

Eros & Psyche

Barabara Mahoney Raffery

16

Subtractive Drawing

Rielly Wallace

17

Untitled

Anna Lee

20

Untitled

Marissa Burnett

22

Mordeci

Krislyn Moreland

23

Fauna

Krislyn Moreland

24

Untitled

Elizabeth Wetzel

25

Untitled

Ed Trover

27

Untitled

Blaine Lakes

28

Ducks of Anarchy

Lucia Fruchtenicht Summer Mammoth Sunflower

31

Lorrie Dyer

41

Corona

Anonymous

42

Tree of Life

Anonymous

43

Reflections

Anonymous

48

Eosinic Eclipse

Hajime Hawkins

6

49

Untitled

Anna Lee

50

Untitled

Rachel Davis

51

Untitled

Rachel Davis

52

Mini Donkey

Lorrie Dyer

53

Untitled

Elizabeth Wetzel

60

Untitled

Rachel Davis

61

Untitled

Rachel Davis

62

What is Legacy?

Tricia Pierce & Elizabeth Reel

63

Untitled

Keegan Stein

66

Untitled

Guerin Cassell

67

Old and New

Anonymous

68

Untitled

Marybeth Lebo

69

Feather

Amber Young

70

Untitled

Guerin Cassell

72

Man &Gator

Anonymous

75

Untitled

Ed Trover

Music Learning to Walk

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Thomasina Marsili

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“They [Sisters of Charity in Frederick] excel in music, which is an indispensable thing in this country, even for the poor. No piano, no pupils! Such is the spirit of this country—Music and Steam!”

- Saint Mother Theodore Guerin

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2025

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Marissa Burnett

Untitled

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Ashley Zembrycki

We Were Walking – a villanelle

I dreamt we were walking down a boardwalk Footpath, you and me. Sky backlit black ink, Scarcely near enough, like hands of a clock. Just as I thought of you, while in New York You, elsewhere. We descend, too far apart, (I think). I dreamt we were walking down a boardwalk. Your charms wooed like daylight in Central Park Come nightfall, I hurry home. Alone, bleak Scarcely near enough, like hands of a clock. You read all this from my distance. We talk In silence. A residual thread-link. I dreamt we were walking down a boardwalk. In our avoidance, we will grow past spark, Well-wishes. Our paths cross again, I think Scarcely near enough, like hands of a clock. Blessed road not taken, I did not hark Past. See our paths as joined— and yet, distinct. I dreamt we were walking down a boardwalk Scarcely near enough, like hands of a clock.

11

Anonymous

Autumn Woods

12

Anonymous

Windstorm

13

Barbara Mahoney Raffety

Twin Spirits

14

Barbara Mahoney Raffety

Eros & Psyche

15

Rielly Wallace

Subtractive Drawing

16

Anna Lee

Untitled

17

Anonymous

God Did Not Bless America Today

It’s our unofficial national motto: “God Bless America!” Why? We don’t deserve it. And on November 7th, God showed us Exactly how much America doesn’t deserve His blessing. Most of us learn about good vs evil when we are children. We embrace the good in our youth. Slowly, some of us change. We allow years of fear mongering to alter our humanity and Embrace evil. We call ourselves Christians and scorn Jesus and His message: Love Your Neighbor as yourself, because it Feels better to hate. Justifying racism in the name of Patriotism allows us to pretend it is a virtue. Our sick society Vomited up a cretin, and we embraced him as our New Savior. We worship an unapologetic imbecile because he washes away Our moral sins without us having to repent. Americans cheered as He validated our selfishness and empowered us to vilify and Oppress the most vulnerable members in our society. Through this Seething tribal hatred, we gladly support endless persecution. Echoing the Reich, American Christofascists revel in their bigotry, Rationalizing an evil blend of self-worship, nihilistic greed, and

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Anonymous

Cruelty. We invited a curse on this country by turning away from The Stranger and embracing fear of The Other. We allowed this Black-hearted cretin to transmogrify our morality into something Twisted and grotesque. We cannot hide from what we have done.

God gave us Trump for our sins. Why would He want to Bless us?

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Marissa Burnett

Untitled

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Mariah Szekely

A Siren’s Song

As the day’s toil draws to a close, A lad longs for a friend nobody knows. He pauses, watches the sun’s descent, Feels the ocean’s rage, its malcontent. On grimy cobblestones, he treads alone, His mind drifts to a desolate home. A whispering song cuts through the air, Time slips, a fate unaware.

Lost in reverie, senses blurred, Guard down, reality interred.

Unseen, he nears the ocean’s embrace, Struck mute by its call, an unseen face. The Siren’s lure from depths unknown, Pulls him to realms where shadows are sown. Clouded skies cast the land in gloom, Her eyes cut through, a glowing tomb. The ocean’s wrath yields to a gentle hum, Yet in its calm, silent perils come. His wandering steps through night’s murk, Lead to a hope that promises hurt. Unflinching at the path he chose, Unseen, his essence slowly erodes. Beneath the surface, beauty lies, Clawed hands reach where destiny ties. Promised secrets, the depths invite, He descends into eternal night. Tales by sailors of old from far and wide, Warning young travelers of the deathly Siren Guide.

21

Krislyn Moreland

Mordecai

22

Krislyn Moreland

Fauna

23

Elizabeth Wetzel

Untitled

24

Ed Trover

Untitled

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Sara Yanez

Lakefront Reverie

And so, I took a walk Alone. And in that walk, I took the time to feel the wind blow, tenderly caressing my skin, playing with my hair. As I walked on the shoreline of the lake, I realized I wasn’t so alone. Alive, the music in my ears soared Aloud it resounded, as if the wind itself was performing For the birds, ducks and swans waltzed And the sun’s bright and warm reflection was my companion, walking beside me, following me. And so, we took a walk.

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Blaine Lakes

Untitled

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Lucia Fruchtenicht

Ducks of Anarchy

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Hillary Moseley

Herding Cats

You pull into the parking lot at 7:32 In the dark, the others park, one stops to tie their shoe. You grab your bag, begin your dash, it’s 7:33. Get out your badge, you’re almost there, there’s lights down at the corner! Hurry now, they’re getting close, you want no one to see. These last 12 minutes are yours now before the herding begins. There’s Snot Nose Bob and Pee Pants Steve and all their little friends. The lights stay dim, and the blinds stay drawn, it’s 7:35. I hear the feral howling now, they’re gathering outside, running, It’s 7:38 now, the time is drawing near, The sugar-fueled feral noise is louder now, pretend you cannot hear. They’re clawing at the windows, just trying to get a glance, The feline clutter keeps on growing, first 2, then 8, now 12! Prepare the Smart Board, Jack Hartmann may be your only chance. Parents try the door once more, they’re anxious for a break. Your supervisor says, “Breathe deep, dry your tears; they’re preschoolers for goodness sake!” Chug that coffee faster, woman! It’s 7:41! You’ve done all you can do to prep and keep them all engaged, 2:45 isn’t so far away, in 7 hours you’ll be done. romping, screaming, stomping! You’re not sure you will survive!

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Hillary Moseley

The caterwauling is subsiding as parents tame their precious pets. From Ms. Trunchbull to Ms. Poppins, you’ve got mere minutes left. Get out some toys, flip on the lights, it’s 7:44. The transformation’s almost done, there’s not much more that you can do. You put on a smile and brace yourself as you saunter to the door. “Good morning, Tom!” and “Hello Sue! You’re looking awfully cute!” Smiling faces and witty words, these kids are such a hoot! We play, we laugh, we make a mess, they grow so very fast. The time flies by, I love my job, no need for Jack Hartmann today. Unless you teach, you’ll never know the joy of herding cats!

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Lorrie Dyer

Summer Mammoth Sunflower

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Kay Shae

Untitled

Heavy smoke fills the air, sticking thick to her throat like foul honey. The faint shapes of houses and buildings litter her destroyed city. The houses around her are crumbling to pieces. Timber and stone fall to the ground with an expected thud, but she can hear nothing. Everything is deathly quiet except a sharp ringing in her ears; the buildings make no noise as rubble falls, crashing to the ground, leaving clouds of dust and gravel in its wake. I will not die here. She tries to pull herself out of the ruins of her familiar home. The stones that once were a comfort are now gravel, grabbing me, tearing at her skin. Almost trying to tell her that she cannot leave this place to make this mound of broken wood and stone be her grave. The home I love is not safe. She tries to shove the thoughts out of her mind as she pushes against what was once the beautiful wooden door to her family home; its ornate wooden pattern, with exquisite metal inlays that glistened in the sun, warming anyone who stopped by. Now a shell of its former self. Cracked, splintered wood litters the doorway, the once shining metal now dull, warped, twisted, and sharp. They were snagging at her clothes, biting into her skin as she fought to get out. She felt the trickle of blood sliding down her arm, catching on the bits of stone still stuck to her body. It feels thick as it mixes with the dust clinging to her. The sharp bite as the metal slides deeper into her arm, as the rubble of her home relents to let her leave. The neighborhood, once filled with lights and laughter, is now decimated. The thick smoke was terrible in the house and is now worse in the open. Dust clouds and smoke billow out as

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Kay Shae

buildings crumble down quickly. She tries to cover her face with the sleeve of her torn outfit as the soot pours over her, swirling around her ankles like midnight tidepools. The air burns my eyes as she slowly peeks them open, tears forming as the ash falls onto her face. You need something to cover your face! Panicking thoughts pour in as she looks down at her torn outfit. The once brilliant reds and flying gold cranes match the sky, which is dark and sorrowful, covered in the ashes of her city and her crimson blood. The bottom of her outfit is torn just enough to rip a decent portion off, barely covering her face from the soot. She hears the faint popping of the fabric as she tears it, her heart breaking as she pulls. Knowing this can never be mended. You cannot cry. Looking at the torn fragment, her heart is shattered. Tying it around her face as tight as possible, she flinches as loose strands of her raven hair are caught in the knot. The faint sounds of the sirens go off around the city as she starts to regain her hearing. Touching the tips of her ears, she feels a thick, viscous liquid at the sides of her head. Looking at her fingers, blood-stained, she hopes that it is just a head wound and nothing serious. The cries of mothers, fathers, and children can barely be heard, but she knows the city has suffered a significant loss as she stumbles down the mess of what was the street. This is not the place for tears. This nightmare is not yet over. The adrenaline is wearing off. Struggling to keep her footing, she stops in her tracks. The baker’s shop sits in the middle of the road and caved in, blocking all passages around it.

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Kay Shae

Up is the only way to get across it. The disastrous building stares down menacingly, its

shattered boards like teeth awaiting its next victim. Braving the climb, she steps onto a stone, unable to tell where it originated in the building. She can now feel the bruises forming over her body and the stings of cuts on her arms. She works through the pain ‘till she is almost to the top of the pile; looking down, she can see how far she has traveled. Bright red stains litter the ground as her wound oozes blood. Muscles sting as she forces her feet to push herself over the mound to the other side. The momentum of the climb shifts the wreckage, sending her tumbling down the side of the debris, crashing into the pavers and gravel. The impact on the stones and broken wood causes her to lose consciousness. Ash falls onto her, covering her like a blanket and sticking to her wounds like a makeshift bandage. Too much time has passed as she starts to stir; the pain radiating from her injuries is enough of a wake-up call to tell her she has fucked up badly. “DAMN IT!” She cries out loud, tears flowing down her face, unsure if she can move. Ashy blood sticks tight to her forehead, matting her hair and gravel to her face in thick clumps. Brushing the mess slowly from her eyes, pain radiates up her arm. You didn’t break your arm. Slowly, she tries to wiggle her toes and feels the slight movement of her feet in her tabi. Good. You hurt, but you can move. Now get up. She tries to roll over to her side. She was ignoring the searing pain shooting through her like hot wires. Clenching her teeth, she sharply inhales as silent tears slide down her face as she struggles to roll over to try to get her feet under her and stand. Her legs burn with the pain as she bears her weight on them again. Her first steps are wobbly like a foal, new to the world. Struggling, she takes another step, determined to leave this city and find the

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Kay Shae

military building where her father works.

Time is irrelevant, but it feels like she has been on this stretch of the road forever. The pain is getting worse; she needs to rest but cannot stop. Stopping means death, and she will not die here in the rubble and soot. The sirens have stopped and are eerily quiet. She can hear a slight shuffling of her feet against the ground and something else. Unsure of the noises she hears, she pushes her tired bones past the silk shop. The once-amazing bolts of silk and the talented artisans are hollow to the ground caved in. Bolts dyed black with ash and soot cover the street. Tears well in her eyes as she sees what used to be the shop owner crumpled and impaled among her work and stones. Her blood stains a nearby kimono, and pieces of white fabric peak through the mess of deep black clots that have stained the fabric crimson. She hurries past, slightly, praying that the gods treat her and her baby well in the next life and that they do not suffer a painful death like some of the other townspeople. Hoping her prayers to the gods will rest the shop owner’s soul, praying she does not return as an onryō. There will be too many vengeful spirits after this is over. Whipping around, she hears a slight stir, shocking her to her core. “Hello?” her voice croaks out, unsure if she is hallucinating from the painful knots on her head. Smoke is the only thing moving about. She shakes her head and thinks, “I doubt anyone could have survived the shop collapsing on them.” Breathing out, she takes another step forward. Pushing ahead is the only way she will make it out of this alive. Another noise cries out faintly, and she tries to rush back to the rubble. Face planting to the ground from tripping over her feet on the loose stones. She catches herself with her hands, piercing her palms on the sharp rocks and glass. Gripping the ground, her hands bleed, leaving puddles as she pushes forward, back to the building. Someone else is alive!

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Kay Shae

Desperate, exhausted, wailing that was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear it from the ringing in her ears. She collapses into the stones of the shop, frantically grabbing and pulling rubble out of the building. The rubble cut deeper into her palms, blood flowing out like a trickling river as she bore through the debris, panicking as she tried to find who was making the noise. “Oh!” she gasps as she cries in relief, reaching into the hole she dug under the shop owner, pulling her exhausted baby out of the debris. “You are okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, you are going to be okay,” words quietly spill out of her mouth as she cries harder with every word. The baby, covered in dirt and fine soot, cries slightly, her tears dried up with how long she had been crying for help. She tucks the baby deep into her kimono, trying to shelter her from the ash and give her warmth. She also thanked the gods one last time for keeping the little one safe, praying that they give her the strength to protect this little soul and provide the same care her mother once did. She pushes forward, hoping to find her father. And maybe escape this nightmare. A bell goes off in the distance, pulling me back to today. The silence is deafening as mementos of my past are displayed: a kimono hanging on a black lacquered kimonokake, brightly lit so the faint patterns of golden cranes can be seen slightly within the dirty, tattered, blood-stained fabric. Photos cycle through, showing the destruction of my city and pictures of a young woman and her parents in front of their ancestry home, with the glints of sunlight reflecting off the main door. A young child, dirty and weathered, cycled through again before showing a well-fed child playing in the grass. The story is unfinished, as this convention has come to its end. In front of me, young adults no older than my mother cry slightly and quietly, wondering what will happen next. A young man in the corner, who was holding his breath, speaks out first, “What happened to the woman and the child? Did they survive?” A melancholy smile crosses my face, filled with mixed

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Kay Shae

emotions.

“Yes. They did. But that didn’t mean there weren’t hardships after they escaped Hiroshima.” I paused, thinking of what to say next, “Life wasn’t at all what it used to be.” A sharp exhale is heard in the back of the room. They are relieved that this tale isn’t as grime as the others they have heard. As I look up at the mementos around me, I find the words I haven’t been able to say before. “As a baby during the bombings, I don’t remember anything about it,” gripping the armrest, I gather my strength to stand, crossing the floor; my cane taps along with an audible clink, “I remember being terrified of small places and sirens as a child, but didn’t understand as to why,” standing in front of my mother’s kimono, staring up at the beautiful pattern it once was, she never would let me buy her a new one once I was able to. “Honestly, I didn’t know some of the details of this story until a few years ago.” Turning to face the students, their looks of bewilderment and confusion make a small chuckle escape from my brief memory. The students erupted in an echoing, “What!?” The clattering of pens and the violent rustling of paper resounded their shock. The teachers who had heard the story before gently nodded, knowing the details of this tale were different from previous sessions I had done years prior. Shuffling back to my chair, I take hold of the glass of water that I barely sipped on during this tale—trying to remove the knot that has formed in my throat after setting the glass down and settling back into my oversized chair. The audience settles again, lined with more questions than I have probably had answers for. “My mother,” clearing my throat, “Never told me how she found me.” Tears welled into my eyes as a photo of my mother holding me in a formal kimono crossed the screen, “I grew up believing that she was the one who gave birth to me.” This is not the place for tears, “She raised a baby as her own. That she had

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Kay Shae

found in the rubble while trying to leave her neighborhood.” Looking up into the crowd, the glistening lights of tears spill over their faces. “My mother found her father at the military headquarters where he was stationed, although it took some time, and he raised me as his granddaughter.” Pictures of an older gentleman with silver strands of hair and crows feet cross the screen, holding a small child no older than eight with the slightest endearing smile. “My mother never told anyone her story, how she crawled through the wreckage, scarred her skin, and found a life that needed someone.” The final photo comes across the screen: an elderly lady with hair grayer than the raven black it once was, with long white scars across her forearms, still sharp and jagged as the day she got them, sitting elegantly in a bright crimson red chair, next to a middle age woman, still youthful despite her growing years, silver peeks through her dark black hair, as she holds her mother’s hand tightly as not to lose her, both smiling fondly and with love towards one another. “My mother and I, as well as our people, experienced something traumatic, but she found a light that lasted well into her years, and we became stronger because of it. I do not know what would have happened if the bombs didn’t fall, but I do know that I was greatly loved and protected.” Sitting back in the chair, I conclude my speech. One by one, the students come and talk, asking the questions they need to know. Silence fills the room once again, as the students left hours ago. As I watch photos pop onto the wall, I stare deeply into the memories they captured. I ran my hand along the inside of the armchair, touching the frayed fabric of the crimson chair, and pulled out a tiny, worn book from the nook. Its brightly colored crimson fabric is worn from use, and its spine cracked from being opened and read several times. My mother’s handwriting adorns the page, recounting her journey and how she survived. It seems I have read this a thousand times, recounting how she felt and how the war impacted her. These pages hold her life and mine. I flip through to the last page she wrote, words beautifully written against the aged yellow paper. You can cry now.

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Kaitlyn Carpenter

Vanity of Vanities Have you ever wondered if the birds admire the moon? If, drifting high on silent wings of white, They watch it wane yet never call it ruined, Nor mourn the loss that softens silver light? Once, in the hush before the break of day, A bird rode easy where the warm winds blew. The sky was wide, the air a golden bay, And every breath a song the heavens knew. But fate is fickle—storms will shift and swell, A wayward gust, a twist too sharp, too fast. No warning came before the moment fell, No whisper told which flight would be its last. The winds grew strange, the air too thin to hold, And sudden emptiness unstrung the air. The bird, once certain, spiraled, lost, and cold, A shadow tossed upon the currents there.

It lingered long where trembling branches sighed, While others wheeled through endless, careless blue.

Yet sorrow does not live in loss alone, But in the doubt of what remains still true.

But flight was never in the feathers’ grace.

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Kaitlyn Carpenter

It leapt. The sky was waiting, vast and bright. It stumbled, caught, then found the wind’s embrace, And rose again, unbroken in its flight. Then, gazing high where silver embers burned, It saw the moon, imperfect yet still whole. Though fractured, still it shone, and never turned, Nor sought the light that time and tides had stole. For broken things may yet be bright, And beauty lives beyond its form. For feathers fall, but still wings take their flight, And lost or found, the sky is always warm.

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Anonymous

Corona

41

Anonymous

Tree of Life

42

Anonymous

Reflections

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Detra Lynn Mills

The Hurt

Death by a thousand paper cuts and drowning in my tears Trite phrases used to push away my emptiness and fears Pain that takes away my breath that once came easily Silence roars within my mind where thoughts once roamed so free

It hurts

Rich purity and depth of love that brought my soul to life You held my hand and healed my world when I became your wife

Quiet laughter, holding hands breeze blowing through my hair Peace and ease I knew so well a partnership so rare

And now it hurts

Memories that fill my days are far away at night

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Detra Lynn Mills

My aching heart is missing you and nothing makes it right

Passport stamps collected with treasures rare and odd All mean little now that you have touched the face of G-d

Of course it hurts

We had plans, things to explore places more to see Kids to cherish, grands to hug they’re left behind with me You taught our boys to be good men give grace, appreciate And showed our girl how to discern when choosing a life mate

And we all hurt

We miss your steady countenance your gentleness and smile I try to do the best I can to be strong through this trial

You were called back home too soon

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Detra Lynn Mills

so young at fifty-eight Ashes to ash and dust to dust one cannot contemplate

The way it hurts

To be gifted The Great Love still takes my breath away Yet I am grateful for it all and I wait for the day

When G-d will call me from this place and free my energy I’ll find you there beyond the veil waiting patiently for me

‘Till then it hurts

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Thomasina Marsili

Leanring to Walk

1. Sunshine 2. Hollywood 3. Learning to Walk 4. Muddle in the Mudd 5. In Time

47

Hajime Hawkins

Eosinic Eclipse

48

Anna Lee

Untitled

49

Rachel Davis

Untitled

50

Rachel Davis

Untitled

51

Lorrie Dyer

Mini Donkey

52

Elizabeth Wetzel

Untitled

53

Justin Sullins

The Hollow Paul spent a week in town before returning Angie’s call. He dated her back in high school for two years before they stopped talking, much like most teenage relationships. Paul was only back in town for the funeral. There was no other reason he would ever return to this place, but he owed it to Austin’s parents. He even planned to give them some money to help with the funeral costs. His life in New York was much better, and he didn’t have to worry about people knowing what happened. He couldn’t escape the past no matter how hard he tried. Once the case was printed in the town newspaper, his reputation was over. He agreed to meet Angie because she was one of the only people who didn’t hold a grudge against him. They had lit someone’s house on fire and burned it to the ground. She was involved in the case but got away with it, and was she grateful she didn’t get caught. He spent six months in juvenile prison for arson. It would have been longer if Austin’s dad wasn’t friends with the judge and all the other police in the town. Austin was able to avoid any punishment for his involvement in the crime. Paul still had to serve time because it would have looked bad if he got away with it. The people in the town talked about him like he was a hardened criminal. Paul had to move away because his reputation was so bad. He took the blame for the crime because it was his idea, and somehow Austin’s parents figured it out and forced him to confess. Austin had died in a car crash a few months ago. The driver had been drinking and left the house to get some food in town. Their cars collided as he crossed the main road and hit Austin’s car. Angie was heartbroken over his loss because she had started dating him

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Justin Sullins

before the accident.

They agreed to meet in town at the diner next to the movie theater. They had spent many nights in the downtown square, and not much had changed. The theater parking lot was still almost empty, and the parking lot had cracks and potholes in it. The diner was an all-American restaurant. It had a sit-down bar with circular seats, where old men would sit and chat over coffee. To the side was an area where people ate dinner and dessert. It was the same restaurant that’s in every small-town movie. Paul sat down in the booth next to the window and ordered a coffee from the waitress. It had stopped raining and clouds still hovered over the sky. He could tell that she had gotten older through the years, but still, something about her had stayed the same. She held on to that childlike ambition he always liked about her. The reason he had not messaged her back was because he missed her too much. His other relationships had all fallen short of this one. All the girls in New York were too fast-paced and boring. They were all concerned with making it in the big city, and he missed all the time he spent with her in the small town. He knew that he shouldn’t respond to her because she was in a serious relationship, and couldn’t come to accept that. He didn’t want to be the ex boyfriend, wondering if her husband would ask about him. He thought about what his life would have been like if she had settled down with him but knew it was better they separated. They were too much alike and argued all the time. He remembers having to leave prom because she was mad about him talking to another girl. He wasn’t even flirting with her. She was always worried about him cheating on her. He had to leave early and drive her home in the middle of the prom. After they broke up, she couldn’t handle his rejection. She messaged him while she was at school, reminding him of all the fun they had together. She told him that once she moved on, he would look for his chance. Paul

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Justin Sullins

eventually moved away, and he lost his chance to have her for himself.

While he was drinking his coffee, he heard a bell ring from the doorway. Angie walked inside and waved at the waitress. At first glance, she looked the same as he remembered. As she walked closer to him, he noticed her skin was darker and looser, and her eyes were puffy. Angie sat down and placed her bags next to her in the booth. They caught up for a while and talked about the old times. She told him she tried to reach him before but he never responded. He told her his new life was busy and he often didn’t check his messages. Paul paid the bill and left a two-dollar tip next to the receipt before leaving the restaurant. He agreed to follow behind her even though he thought it was a bad idea. Angie’s car was dirty and had a broken mirror on the passenger side. He thought back to all the times they spent in that car. All the nights they listened to her radio and almost spun out of control. She still crossed over the yellow line the same way she did when she changed the radio station. He was old enough to know not to get in the car with her again. The roads looked like they had been fixed over the years. Most of the businesses were still in the same place. There was the dollar store where they kissed for the first time after skipping church. There was the school parking lot where they met before school. He remembered the bleak hallway after everyone heard what happened. Angie parked her car across the street at the playground, and he pulled up next to her and cut off his engine. Two kids played on the swing set and laughed as they pushed each other into the air. “Why’d you bring me out here?” he asked.

“Come on, I want to show you something. It will all make sense

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Justin Sullins

soon.”

The dirt trail had woods on both sides of it. It wasn’t as dark as it was earlier at the restaurant. He couldn’t see any other buildings or houses, and they were far away from the town. He missed this type of escape. In New York, he was surrounded by the concrete jungle. The only time he was this secluded was when he was in his apartment, and even then he could hear people talking outside his window. It was nice to be away for a while. They arrived at a small fork in the road. There were bottles on the ground, next to the wood and ashes. There were four cobblestone graves sitting on the hill slightly hidden by the trees. Their branches loomed over them like an unexpected guest.

“Ok, so are you going to tell me why we’re out here now?” Paul asked.

“After you left town, I started dating Austin. It was nothing serious. We were both just trying to figure out what we had. While we were dating, we would come here sometimes. He called it The Hollow.” Angie explained. Paul took a long sip of water.

“Austin told me that he found this site when he was a kid.”

“Why didn’t I know about this place?” Paul interrupted.

Angie continued, “One night we decided to come out here. His engine wouldn’t start, so we decided to sleep on the bed of his truck. A week later, he told me that his life fell apart. Then there was the accident. He told me about all these books he read and how the place had haunted him.” Paul sighed at her. She was always coming up with childish ways to explain things. She could never grapple with the reality of what happened to Austin.

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Before Paul could respond, he heard a noise in the woods. Then there was a deep voice from the distance that said, “This is my land and you need to leave.”

Paul looked at Angie in panic. “We need to get out of here. This has never happened before.”

“I warned you,” he said abruptly, not giving them enough time to leave. A gunshot went off from what sounded like a hundred yards away. The shot echoed through the woods. “This is private property,” the voice called out. Paul and Angie ran down the hill and through the dirt trails. Another gunshot went off followed by what sounded like the laugh of a madman. They couldn’t hear what he said after that because they were so focused on running away. Paul’s heart was beating so hard he struggled to catch his breath. Angie ran as fast as she could but acted like she did this kind of thing all the time. After a few minutes of running, Paul stopped to catch his breath. “Do you think we’re safe, now,” he asked Angie. She chuckled and said, “What’s wrong with you? Have you never been shot at before?” He was scared out of his mind, but part of him missed these wild times he had with her. They didn’t hear the voice or the gunshot again. Paul figured the man wasn’t trying to kill them. He was just trying to warn them to stay away since the place attracted so much attention. Still, he began to regret coming out here and wished he would have stayed at the diner. He was even starting to regret coming to this town.

They ran up the hill to their cars in the parking lot. The kids at the playground had left and it was empty. They could have been

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Justin Sullins scared away by the echoes of the gunshot. Angie hugged Paul and told him not to be a stranger. Paul laughed at the situation and promised to stay in touch and keep up with her more. However, he still worried that something like this was bound to happen when he was around her. Angie asked him if he would still go to the funeral, and he told her he would think about it, but he knew that was a lie. He was leaving this town and not turning back. He didn’t understand her superstitious beliefs on what caused Austin’s death. He hadn’t believed in the supernatural since he spent time in jail. He figured if he was cursed, it would be better to ignore the force that destroyed him. His new pursuit was acknowledging reality. His life at home was not perfect, but at least he had the stability of a full-time job. Something Angie never had. She couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months, and Paul attributed this to her ability to not accept the world for what it is. She was stuck in the past, a place he wanted nothing to do with. He found the highway from the back roads and didn’t even stop in town. He was sad that he would miss Austin’s funeral, but felt better off this way. He needed to not think about what happened and worry about his own problems back home. Sometimes the past is better off in the past, he thought as he exited the town. On the drive back, Paul thought about all the times he spent with Angie. He was reminded of all the arguing they did. He realized he needed to make his own decisions, move on with his life in New York, and get back to his workflow. He didn’t have time to walk through the woods or deal with places that didn’t change. He was in control of what happened in his life and no one could stop that. As he drove, he twisted the knob on the radio and heard the lyrics “never break the chain” come on, and he kept driving the speed limit down the highway. He pressed the cruise control button on his steering wheel, nodded to the lyrics of the song, and drove on.

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Rachel Davis

Untitled

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Rachel Davis

Untitled

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Tricia Pierce &Elizabeth Reel

What is Legacy?

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Keegan Stein

Untitled

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Svitlana Ramer

Життя навік поділене навпіл Де б не була, а дім - це Україна І Золоті Ворота і Поділ Моє земля є рідна і єдина І Київ що не можна не любить Й Карпати що дзвенять немов трембіти Тут хочеться кохатися і жить В очах тут розквітають зорецвіти Тут кожен подих це жага легень Тут небо найблакитніше у світі Тут ясно і опівночі і вдень Бо у людей в серцях тут сонце світить І я обовʼязково повернусь До прапора схилившись на коліна Допоки я за неї палко бʼюсь В мені завжди жевріє Україна Ukraine is my Home

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Svitlana Ramer

A life eternally divided in half Wherever I am, Ukraine is my home The Golden gate and Podil district Are all my land, one and whole And Kyiv City that you can’t not love And the Carpathians that brim with sound You want to live here and to love Your eyes grow stars when you are here Here every breath is lungs’ desire And the bluest sky on earth is here As light at midnight as at midday Because the sun shines in people’s hearts And I will certainly return again And by the flag get on my knees As long as I fight for her with all my might Ukraine always lived inside of me

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Guerin Cassell

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Anonymous

Old and New

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Marybeth Lebo

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Amber Young

Feather

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Guerin Cassell

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Aliyah Orten

Shadows of a Past Life

Little red house treacherous trees that create fears but reflect beauty in the seasons.

A family of four transform the fiery aroma to mellow blues.

Little red house sitting in the middle of a hilly road holding your breath as you enter and exit.

A family says farewell your memories will remain, your love will grow.

Goodbye 6123

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Anonymous

Man & Gator

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Kaitlyn Carpenter

You’re Reading This… Aren’t You

You’re reading this. Why wouldn’t you? You picked up the magazine, after all, and the words are already spilling onto the page. But here’s the thing: you didn’t expect to be here, did you? Not really. You thought it’d be something else, something familiar. Maybe a floral-filled sonnet or a baffling buzzword ballad, but not this. So go ahead. Keep reading. Let’s see where it takes you. I see you reading this. Maybe you picked it up out of curiosity... or mockery. It’s easy to mock, isn’t it? People tend to avoid reading these days, too busy swiping and scrolling to sit still with a page. The words are too much, or maybe not enough—too slow, too heavy. A little girl was similar to you once. Except it wasn’t a phone she devoted her attention to, but Luigi’s Mansion and Zelda: Wind Waker. She too was behind. The pages in front of her might as well have been in a foreign language—one she was supposed to understand but couldn’t quite decode. She could hear the other kids laughing, moving on, but she was stuck. The letters jumble, the words twist, and no matter how hard she tried, the story wouldn’t make sense. She didn’t hate reading, not exactly. But sometimes, it felt like it was the one thing she’d never get right. With tempered sighs, she was forced to sit and read for the first time. Harry Potter, it was called.

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Kaitlyn Carpenter

At first, the words felt like heavy stones, each page a hurdle she couldn’t clear. Her brother said it was “a must-read,” but to her, that felt more like a command than an invitation. She didn’t like being told what to do, and reading had always felt like something meant to be avoided, not enjoyed. The pages dragged on, the letters jumbled, and the ticking clock seemed to mock her every moment. It’s not so different from how you feel, is it? You, sitting there, forced to read for class because a professor demands it. The more it’s forced, the more it begins to feel like a chore, something to resist instead of enjoy. But then, one day, she turned a page. Maybe it was just a momentary slip of focus, or maybe it was the way the story pulled her in, piece by piece. For the first time, she didn’t notice the clock ticking. She didn’t notice the weight of the book in her hands or strain in her eyes. She didn’t care about the words jumbled on the page, because the world inside them began to make sense in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t the book that changed, really. It was the way she chose to look at it.

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Ed Trover

Untitled

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Aliyah Orten

Illustrations of a Home home comes in many forms. the concept of calling someplace or someone your home, is often simply because this entity brings you peace and comfort. when I was a kid, I remember when we were told to draw our homes or think of our favorite people, or place to go. i typically thought of my grandparents; they lived hours away from us, but I held onto those memories tightly. as if I was worried that the distance between us would take those memories away the further I got. i would draw their backyard and intertwine mine and my brother’s imaginary world with this tangible fortress. as I grew up and followed the path to their backyard, I could still see us running on the concrete stepping stones, arguing over whose feet would grow quicker to fill in the older cousins’ foot prints pressed in the very stepping stones. i follow those same, now overgrown steps, to the end of the path, where a garden house sits. a small wooden building that used to feel huge to us, where we would play school or house, and let our imaginations grow wildly. this was the place where home felt exactly as you wanted. other times I would draw the bedroom we stayed in while in town. the middle bedroom had a different theme just about every year. my creative grandmother would upcycle fabrics as wallpaper and put canopies over the

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Aliyah Orten

bed, so her granddaughters felt like royalty. another year, she switched her theme to appease her only grandson. camouflage was everywhere, on the walls and all. looking back at moments like this, I find even more comfort in the way my family has tried to make everyone feel at home. the land my grandparents inhabit is never quiet. even when it may seem as though there is no sound, the silence is warm and natural. if you listen closely, you can hear my grandmother hum as she looks outside with a coffee in hand or my grandfather brewing a new pot of coffee, knowing that his wife will soon need her cup filled. he always knows that she won’t say no for more. when we were not outside, creating our own fantasy lands, I would sit at my grandmother’s piano and create my own sheet music. I had no idea what I was doing, and I am positive they both prayed for the melody to end soon, but I found great joy and pride to create something I thought was beautiful to them. seeing my song connect to their fridge with a magnet was a prize. after a while, with the piano being used scarcely, it moved to the middle bedroom. I would find myself as an adult just staring at it, remembering those moments, and wishing I took learning it seriously enough to fulfill the cycle. recently, the piano has moved back into the main room. this movement probably didn’t mean much more than getting it away from young great-grandchildren,

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Aliyah Orten

but to me, it looked beautiful as it was no longer being hidden. Its sound was loud once again.

with each change in its features and new people stepping inside, it always felt right. It felt like our own portal into another world, when in reality, it was home where we were free to be and think whatever we wanted to. as a home should be, a place that is whatever you want or need it to be.

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