Lol Spring 2015

Lions-on-Line

Spring Issue 2015

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Table of Contents Eerie Shadows, Artwork by Emma Moore…………………………………………………Cover A Note from the Faculty Advisor………………………………………………………………...4 “Psalm 39,” Poem by Hunter Little………………………………………………………………5 “In the Margins,” Fiction by Zachary A. McCoy………………………………………………..6 “I am the One Behind the Wall,” Poem by Jake Trzybinski……………………………………..9 “Gluttony’s Soliloquy,” Poem by Jacqui Tackett………………………………………………11 “In the Middle of Everything, Life Can Begin Again,” Essay by Hope Thomson……………..12 Artwork by Amanda Gratsch…………………………………………………………………...14 “History Tends to Repeat Itself, You Know?” Poem by Jacqui Tackett……………………….15 “Dilation Constraint,” Poem by Jacqui Tackett………………………………………………...15 Masked Existence, Artwork by Olivia Dean……………………………………………………16 “Voices,” Fiction by Megan Simmermeyer…………………………………………………….17 “The Beauty of Music,” Fiction by Savannah Giordullo……………………………………….19 Untitled and Windowsill, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender………………………………….21 “To Do,” Fiction by Lauren Reinersman……………………………………………………….22 “The Abandoned,” Fiction by Jacqui Tackett…………………………………………………..25 “Winter Sunset: Sixth of January, 2015,” Essay by Joshua Zeller……………………………..27 Free Spirit Coil Pot, Artwork by Rebecca Kersker…………………………………………….28 “Leafy Figment,” Fiction by Eleanor Kapcar…………………………………………………..29 “Black Statistics,” Poem by Lamya Bowie……………………………………………………..34 Acrylic with Tap Shoes, Artwork by Anna Steiner……………………………………………..36 “Inhibitions,” Essay by Dana Rooney…………………………………………………………..37 “In the Back Seat with the Radio On/Cuts to Commercial Break,” Poem by Megan Moore…..39 Game of Chess, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender……………………………………………40 “The Art of Taxidermy,” Fiction by Christopher Kline………………………………………...41 “Horses Are Terrible People,” Poem by Zachary A. McCoy…………………………………..44 “Bloodline Simplicity,” Poem by Jacqui Tackett………………………………………………46 Oily Marks Play Hide and Seek, Artwork by Olivia Dean……………………………………..47 “Sister, Sister,” Essay by Meredith Struewing………………………………………………….48 “Honors English Nine,” Poem by Paige Nash………………………………………………….53

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A Note from the Faculty Advisor This is a very special issue of Lions-on-Line, because in this issue we’ve chosen to feature the prize-winning poetry, fiction, and personal essays from the Mount’s very own 10th Grade High School Writing Contest, sponsored by the Department of English, a contest that has just celebrated its 19th anniversary. Nine sophomores in high school were honored at an Awards Ceremony in the middle of March 2015 for their award-winning work. The Mount received in excess of 100 submissions in the genres of poetry, fiction, and personal essay. In each category, a first prize was awarded as well as two honorable mentions.

The College of Mount St. Joseph received submissions from area high school students attending Covington Catholic High School, East Central High School, Glen Este High School, Goshen High School, Loveland High School, Mariemont High School, Mother of Mercy High School, Mount Notre Dame High School, Northwest High School, Notre Dame Academy, Oak Hills High School, Oldenburg Academy, Roger Bacon High School, Seton High School, St. Xavier High School, The Summit Country Day School, Walnut Hills High School, and Western Hills High School.

Lions-on-Line says a heartfelt goodbye to several editors this spring, Lauren DiMenna, Margaret Kaehler, Christopher Kline, Zachary A. McCoy, Jacqui Tackett, who either graduated in December 2014 or will graduate in May and August 2015. We are grateful for their years of service to our little magazine and their commitment to creativity on our campus. They leave a gaping hole in the universe.

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Psalm 39 Poem by Hunter Little Everyone is but a breath Fumbling with a menthol cigarette Ashes falling between her lips On broken nails And shaking fingertips She hides behind a puff of smoke Waiting for some more to blow On fragile wings she’s falling down Broken joints crash to the ground Skinned knees, cuts to the bone Whispers whispered no one knows Blood is spilling, “Uh oh,” Uh oh She skins her knees Cuts to the bone Oh no She hides behind a puff of smoke With broken nails And ashes falling on her fragile lips That keep sucking her cigarette Oh no Everyone is but a breath

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In the Margins Fiction by Zachary A. McCoy -Dearly departed, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to the living.

This inscription is the first thing I read as I open my used textbook for HIS 103: World History through the 1500’s. I turn to page 494 to read about Abelard and Heloise and am assaulted by more passages. One is written in rushed but elegant cursive, the other in hurried chicken scratch.

-What’s her name -lets talk later -tell me now -not now -then when?

-after class I spend a lot of time looking at those as the teacher reads aloud the passages describing a medieval affair between a priest and a nun. Something to do with letters that I am only half paying attention to; my friend Jasmine pokes my side and passes me a note.

-Wanna get lunch after this?

I nod to let her know my answer and then start taking notes trying to catch up with the slide that is about to disappear off the screen. ~ This desk is uncomfortable, the kind of uncomfortable that lends itself to becoming distracted when you are supposed to be reading about indulgences of the early Church. It doesn’t help that the lamp I put up a couple of days ago has a red shade to it that makes my eyes want to droop. In general trying to study in my own bedroom is more hassle than it’s worth.

Then, on page 450 something grabs my attention. More notes: -I can’t wait to get out of class -Why -So fucking boring -I agree -Let’s do something after this -What - ;) you’ll see -tight ;) I am a man obsessed; I turn through the pages trying to find something else worth reading. I turn back to page one. I read the inscription again and then start flipping. On page 32 I found a note written in the chicken scratch.

-If my heart was weighed against a feather it would certainly tip the scales Next to the annotation was a hand drawn picture of a heavy heart on scales. On page 34 the guy who I began to call CS, for chicken scratch, mused on the life of a cat.

-Cats are gods for they know the secret to a happy life, disturb little, take long naps, and have fun with your food.

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My cell phone tings.

-Hey wanna go see Star Wars at Ken’s.

I put on my coat and type a reply to Jasmine, leaving the book open on my desk. Before I leave I turn around to see my cat, folded into himself nugget, purring on top of the pages. ~ It has been a couple weeks and I’ve learned a lot. Not so much about history but about the notes in the margin. Somewhere around page 312 there began a relationship. A number was written in girlish handwriting right next to a description of the hanging gardens of Babylon.

This relationship blossomed on the top of page 350. It really took off on page 367 when they left a description of what they were going to be doing later tonight.

-We should go to the park again ;) -Oh is that so?

-Yes -and what are we going to do there sweetie -we could hang out in the slide again, or maybe try out the swings -you are a dirty girl -that’s how you like me ;) Then of course there are the more mundane details of them getting dinner on 405.

-lets get Fridays -sounds good -smoke before hand?

-duh, 420 blaze it fagget.

-you’re ridiculous.

-that’s why you love me Then, on page 494 the revelation that CS had been cheating, the one that got me hooked in the first place. I read all the notes as I went through each chapter. The notes offered a reward for trudging through the annuls of history.

Jasmine and I have been going out a lot. I have tried to show her all of these notes in the margins but she seems bored by it. She’d rather we have our own notes. The other day on page 590 as I was reading she wrote at the top of a page about knights: -We should go on a date.

And I turned to her and smiled and nodded to let her know my answer. ~ On page 762 there is only one note: -I miss you There is no response. That’s the last note in the book written by CS. I have imagined a whole life for these people I have only seen in the margins of a battered history textbook I am renting from the bookstore. Theirs is the only history I have cared about in this class. There was so much more than I included here. All of the little notes just asking each other how they were.

Seeing plans form on the page and be reflected upon on the next. I could see them at the park, in restaurants, and then yelling outside school. The crying, the heartache, and then the last I miss you CS would try to write.

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Jasmine is sitting next to me and looks over. She looks at the paper and then to me and leans over my desk.

-Why miss me, I’m right here.

She gives me a small kiss on the cheek after she writes it down. I stare down at the book and then up at her. As class ends we walk together to the next one. We got lucky and found two seats together and I pulled out Euripides’s Medea. Jasmine leans over me to read since she never bought hers as the teacher drones on about tragic irony. I write down in the margins of the book so she can see: -Wanna get lunch after this She nods to let me know her answer.

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I Am the One Behind the Wall Poem by Jake Trzybinski First Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Summit Country Day I am the one behind the wall That seeks through life, hoping no one at all Will find me; see who I really am For in this time I’m not accepted Because I am the one behind the wall Clouded and shrouded and concealed I am Hidden in a thick fog once again I’m waiting and waiting For the moment to arise Where I can show what I truly am Guised in culture; urbanity is a façade I sink my shoulders; I plod, I trod Knowing that I am the one That knows of the wonders possessed by himThe one hidden behind the wall To all’s surprise, the one that hides Has potential as well, though he shies Away from those popular and cool Away from those that call him fool Because he hides behind the wall His brain is working, the gears all turning His heart is beating, the blood is churning His eyes like fire, lit by passion He works in a way that’s a different fashion Because he is hidden behind the wall He is different from others all around Treated like a dog in the pound And from this treatment, the cause is made known If you look closely, the scars are shown From before he hid behind the wall

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The tears still rolling down his soul The fire still blazing from the coal But he puts on a mask to hide the sound Of screaming and rattling of fists that pound From the hands behind the wall So now you know of the one still scared To show what he loves and really cares (about) Because our culture has taught our children To be one way, and hate the others And those are the ones behind the wall

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Gluttony’s Soliloquy Poem by Jacqui Tackett To eat, or not to eat: that is the question Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The images of pizzas and fries of the American diet Or to take handfuls and armfuls of greasy food And by opposing my self-afflicted wants and needs, Eat them? To eat—to starve—to have no more, And by eat we mean binge, to binge away those Nights of guilt, the boyfriend who never calls, the heartache, And the thousands of backhanded comments That flesh is too eagerly heir to worth and beauty Tis a consummation of media and celebrity filth to be at fault To eat—to starve—to starve Perchance to dream of less skin and more bone, Yet of hills and lakes of cream-filled donuts, not to be eaten For in that dream of starvation there is Praise, but no bread and no wine, for my flesh is not also with you, Yet for the camera’s sake my bones and ribs do protrude.

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In the Middle of Everything, Life Can Begin Again Essay by Hope Thomson Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Summit Country Day When Ashley died I asked God why He didn’t listen. I had asked Him, begged Him, to take me instead of her. It wasn’t that I wanted to die. No, I remember quite the opposite. I was lying in bed, the darkness covering my body like a cloak, seeping into the cracks in my body and mind. I asked Him through my tears to take me, quaking with fear that my plea might be met with a sudden diagnosis of cancer-and Ashley’s sudden and miraculous recovery. Really it’s quite funny how quickly I’ve found I am willing to give up my own life. Perhaps it is because I see how fragile it is, this little flame that each of us guards so fiercely. Perhaps it is because I, like many others, love too quickly and deeply and yet so silently.

I grew up with Ashley and in many ways she was my best friend. It might seem silly, a babysitter who was more than a few years older than you to be your best friend but, at the time, I had no one else. She played games and drew with me and gave me presents on my birthday and on Christmas. I felt that she loved me. I was only 12 when she died and she was only 23.

She was too young to die and I was too young to wish to die in her place. Over the years I have wondered if maybe that wish for death in her stead was fueled by that fierce and intense love that children seem to posses and that slowly quavers and burns out as we age. But I find that, even now, as an appropriately jaded 16 year old, I would still give my life for anyone. In fact, I’m afraid it seems that I am irreverent when it comes to my own life. Perhaps Ashley’s death has affected me in this way because it was the first death of someone I really knew. It was my first loss and it was, in many ways, the death of my childhood. I felt older after that and I never was the same. I do not want to die but I see death for what it truly is - inevitable. I have always and will always assume that others do not deserve to die. Surely they are loved more than I? Surely they have touched more lives than I? My parents did not approach me too cautiously when it came to informing me of Ashley’s death. I do not think it would have been better whether they had eased me into it or not. It was the truth and one I needed to accept. However, I was closest with Ashley and could not for the life of me (pardon the pun) understand why my father and brother did not seem phased at all. As if death was merely an extended backpacking trip across Europe. I cannot remember my mother’s reaction. I was stunned. I was angry. Ashley was her parents’ only child - my parents had two children. Ashley was older, knew more people, had, it seemed, more opportunities. I was nothing. I was nobody. If anyone deserved to die, wouldn’t it be me? Even now, I can recall now a specific memory I had of her - the last time I saw her. She came by around Thanksgiving and we had a mock Thanksgiving dinner with her. She was so weak and tired-and she didn’t look like Ashley. She had lost weight and her hair, normally huge and curly and long was replaced with a wig. When we were playing before she left - a board game, I think, I recall being angry that she wouldn’t get off the couch to help me clean up. I thought she was being simply lazy. To this day that thought is the thing of which I feel the guiltiest.

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Ashley died a year and a few days after our dinner together. The world was dark the day she died and I hate to imagine how cold her little yellow Beetle must have been that November.

I hate to think of the hollowness her family feels each anniversary. They must think of her every day. I do too. But, I’ve also learned some great and wonderful things from Ashley. Like that Daniel Radcliffe is a Cancer, and that her middle name is a last name, and that if you don’t have buns for a hotdog you can fold a piece of bread in half. I’ve learned that cancer kills its victims long before their heart stops beating. But the most important thing I’ve learned from her passing is this - that in the middle of everything, life can begin again.

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Artwork by Amanda Gratsch

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History Tends to Repeat Itself, You know?

Poem by Jacqui Tackett Thrice you stole my soul Thrice I am not my own

Dilation Constraint Poem by Jacqui Tackett I feel like I can peel my skin off and place it on a notebook For everyone to read I’m so transparent sometimes I swear my fingers pass right through your cheek And yet you’re the only one that can see me I don’t understand why no one else can trace The solidity in my thoughtless Thoughts Like the circumference of a pupil struggling to be noticed

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Masked Existence, Artwork by Olivia Dean

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Voices Fiction by Megan Simmermeyer A chorus of crickets chirruped a symphony in my head, and I kept patting my ear to see if one would fall out. Despite the cacophony of the insects, my head felt empty, my parents’ voices ricocheting around the inside of my skull until I developed a headache.

“They’re gone?” Mom whispered from the passenger seat.

Dad nodded. “The doctors said so. They said we just have to keep her on the medication, and she’ll be fine.” He looked worried whenever he glanced in the rearview mirror, and I wondered if he could see the crickets dancing behind my eyes. Suddenly, I wished for a mirror.

Our car jerked and bounced over the asphalt for several hours, and the cricket orchestra relaxed its violent playing until it was a low hum like the one Mom’s voice made when she tucked me in at night. Dad parked under the big tree by our dock, but I waited for Mom to open my door, unbuckle me, and lead me into the house. Kit, 15, and Derrick, 18, waited in the foyer, neither saying a word to me, though I could tell Kit wanted to. Both my brothers wore expressions that screamed, “I understand!” But they didn’t, not really. My head was filled with a silence that choked all thought, like the weeds in Mom’s garden choked the roses, only I couldn’t uproot this weed planted by little blue capsules. The doctors had nurtured this weed too well for it to be tugged free.

“You should sleep, darling,” Mom said, propelling me toward the stairs. “You’ve had a long day.” I allowed her to tote me up the stairs and deposit me on the bed. Her gentle hands pulled off my shoes and unzipped my jacket, but I sat motionless, not even flinching when she poked my discarded shoes beneath my bed. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

I nodded, too hollow to speak. I was empty inside—everything fled to make room for the crickets. Sighing, Mom kissed my forehead and left, murmuring something about how I would feel better in the morning. When she closed the door, I shimmied off the mattress and lay on my stomach on the floor. Lifting the bed skirt, I called softly into the dark.

“Layla?” a soft voice answered.

“I’m back.”

The darkness shifted, and a black, scaled hand crept forward, its fingertips grazing mine.

“You were gone for so long,” the hand’s owner rasped. “I knew… I knew they were taking you to that place because I could hear them talking late at night when you were asleep. For months I knew they were going to take you to that place, that asylum.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“But you would have been prepared.”

I shivered when I thought of the place, of the nurses and doctors with gloves and clipboards. The beds were hard, the doors harder. “I don’t think anything could have prepared for that place.”

“And your friends? Are they….”

“Yes, they’re gone.” Even the crickets joined the silence as we mourned the absence of my friends. “Will they come back?”

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“I don’t know.”

“Alec, I don’t want to be alone. I want my friends back.”

“I’ll be your friend, Layla.”

“What about at school? You’re just the person under my bed. Alec, you can’t come out.”

The black fingers twitched. “I know.” His voice was rusty, like a well-used facet. “I wish I could, but you know I can’t.”

“I know.” Still, selfishly, I wished he could.

“I believe your friends will come back.”

“When?”

“In time.”

“In time for what?”

“Just in time.”

Whatever that meant. “What am I supposed to do until then? I have no friends at school, and all the kids make fun of me. They say my friends aren’t’ real, but I know my friends are real. If they weren’t real, I wouldn’t feel so sad that they’re gone.”

Alec’s black hand patted mine, and he sighed from beneath the bed. “Of course not.

They are real, Layla, and they will come back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered, fingers retreating as his uncertainty crept forth.

I sniffed but didn’t dare cry aloud lest my mother come see what was wrong. “What if they never come back?”

“They will. I promise.”

I crawled back into bed and closed my eyes. Already wearing soft sweatpants and a tshirt, I didn’t bother changing into pajamas as I curled beneath the covers. We had eaten on the way home, so I wasn’t hungry, but I was so tired—tired of the emptiness and silence, tired of all the looks people gave me, tired of being tired. As I closed my eyes, I thought about what Alec said, about my friends coming back. It was silly—the ominous silence in my head testifying to his lie—but I couldn’t help wishing, hoping that maybe he was right, that maybe they would come back.

I didn’t believe Alec back then, but he was right. My friends did come back, and while they weren’t real, the voices in my head were more solid and companionable than any human ever could be. Nearly eight years later, those voices of my friends still crowded my head, replacing the cricket symphony with words of comfort, amusement, and love. Crazy is relative, and in my case, I was only crazy to those who could not hear those voices in my head or see the monster under my bed. From my perspective, I was not insane at all.

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The Beauty of Music Fiction by Savannah Giordullo Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Mariemont High School My squeaky laughter fights the blaring music for supremacy, as they both consume the tiny yellow living room. I watch her twirl about, her flowery apron and head scarf transforming what I knew to be my mother into a flowery goddess as the patterns blur, completely engulfing her in their colorful web. She is singing along to her favorite song, “Yesterday,” by the Beatles, which is even more beautiful with the addition of her soothing voice. The sun peering through the windows creates the illusion of perfection as my mother steps into the direct rays like they were spotlight. But as I begin to listen to the lyrics of the song closely, I fall out of my beatific trance. “Mom!” I holler over the music. She prances over to the record player and lowers the volume, turning towards me. “Why is this your favorite song?” I question. “It’s so sad.”

She squats in front of me and takes my petite hand into hers, looking at me with smiling pale-green eyes and whispers, “Just because a song is sad, doesn’t mean it’s not worth listening.

That’s what makes it beautiful.”

She rises and I feel a sudden yank as she pulls me off the couch, taking me into her arms.

I hug her more tightly, burying my head into her stomach to the point where each inhale brings a part of her apron to the brink of my nostril, filling my nose with her heavenly vanilla scent.

Her warmth consumes me and I get the full feeling you only get after a big Thanksgiving meal.

We sway back and forth until the song fades out. I am safe, I think. The dangers of the world couldn’t ever reach a seven year old deep in her mother’s embrace. I am safe. But suddenly, the lights go dark, the room grows cold, and my mother is being ripped away, leaving me alone, hugging the empty air.

I am carelessly tossed back into the present like a piece of trash into a dumpster. No! I don’t want to think about her. Stop it. Stupid brain, turn off. Leave me be. I don’t want to think! I don’t want to feel! I’m screaming on the inside, torturing myself mercilessly with her memory. But on the outside, I am calm, only allowing a few tears at a time to trickle down my face and hit the frigid stone floor. I keep my head down. Everyone is staring and despite their compassionate, almost pitying expressions, they make it worse. My father is sitting next to me with one arm around my shoulders, staring out the window with his face as white as the snow that masks the pavement outside. We are being watched like animals in the zoo, everyone waiting for one of us to react, but they will be disappointed, for both my father and I are unwilling to let our internal suffering break out from the locked cage we hide it in. other than the gaping stares, I’m aware of very little, only the absolute blackness of the casket in front of me and the mumbling words of the priest, ranting on, attempting to describe something he cannot because titles like Great Mother and Loving Wife could never encapsulate everything she was. Not even his story of her strength in battling cancer could begin to describe her. She was something beyond all this, beyond great, beyond loving, beyond strong. She was…my mom, someone words could never do justice.

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Finally the service ends and we proceed to the reception where I can unburden my mind by engaging in pointless conversation with my “friends” and with relatives I have never met.

The lights are blinding, the food is stale and the music sounds like an orchestra of fifth graders attempting to learn a new song, but it’s better than traipsing through my house where her memory is lurking around every corner. Any distraction from my consuming depression, any chance to turn off the constant sound of her voice in my head, is welcome. I watch my father as he endures seas of condolences, attempting to make his way to me but getting continually clobbered by crashing waves of good intentions, until finally, he escapes and we are in the car driving home in silence.

Dragging myself through our read door, I notice our house number painted across the top of it in perfect, bold numbers. The memory of my mother sitting with her bare head wrapped in a green scarf on the porch drinking lemonade and humming to herself as she formed each number with precise strokes of black paint bombards me and I fall onto the living room floor, overwhelmed once again by her presence in my mind. Why can’t I stop thinking about her? I turn my head to the side, removing it from the suffocating carpet and I see her record player, with the same Beatles record that has always sate on it and I finally understand. She wouldn’t want me to avoid her memory. She would want me to find comfort in it, to find beauty in it. I gather all my strength and trudge over to the player and place the needle on the record.

“Yesterday” begins to play softly as I make my way to the couch and lay down on my belly, my head pressed so deep into the cushion that each inhale brings a piece of fabric into my nose as I try to absorb what remains of her strong vanilla scent. I listen, allowing myself to indulge in her memory. I drift back to every birthday, to every Christmas Eve around the fire, and to every afternoon dancing in the living room, trying to find the beauty in the music.

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Untitled and Windowsill, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender

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To Do Fiction by Lauren Reinersman Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Notre Dame Academy Miss White was a peculiar woman— the sort of woman who was a superlative source of commotion wherever she went. Despite her condition, she didn't hesitate to immix with the world when she so desired. She did not favor attention, nor did she strive to be inconspicuous. It was almost meritorious the way she ambled along her route, going about her business in a stoical, shameless way, completely incognizant (or so it seemed) of the tumult she left in her wake.

However, Miss White was a most observant being. With her wrinkled, squinted eyes staring straight ahead, an onlooker (if one so dared to stare at her long enough) would diagnose her amaurotic. Still she managed to notice every piddling detail in a dandelion growing through the sidewalk chinks, or the sideways glances thrown at her, or the exact position of a cloud's shadow over her small hometown. At every slight noise, the overgrown white hairs in her ears grabbed at the sound like claws and committed it to memory. Indeed she was a macabre character.

When she was just a pigtailed head in grade school, her classmates would tease her about her name—White—correlating her name with the freakish paleness, practically albinic lackluster of her skin. Now, in her old age, Miss White could only compare her name with the same pallid dullness that haunted her dreams, and the sense of the Beyond that was approaching like a red deadline on her calendar. She was old, no doubt. She felt it. The constant cold, the ceaseless arthritis in her joints. The weariness that even the simplest of movements induced.

And with the growing awareness of these inconveniences also grew an urgency inside her.

Hurry! hurry, her gut seemed to buzz continuously. There was only one daily moment that she could look forward too, because it brought total relief from her weariness and, in all actuality, made her feel effervescent: Night. At these times, Miss White was indefatigable despite lack of sleep. Her senses were heightened. Her adrenaline-rinsed body performed without flaw or pain.

But most of all, her mind no longer was groggy, and lurid spirit sprouted from her typically granite aura. From the dim luminance of the flagitious moon emerged her happiest, most baneful form. She would fetch her butcher knife when the surrounding life grew dusky and appease her sharp vindictiveness inside. In two or three days, she would show up at the funeral, clad entirely and modestly in black- the only time she sought to be present, but invisible.

Her targets were by no means random— contrary to the rash claims of the headlines. Her ears were her most keen sense for a reason-- they picked up the words that initially condemned her victims. Whispers intimating her grotesqueness that were murmured from across the grocery store could be heard by Miss White as if they were shouted in her ear. They did not hurt. No, they did not pain her; she did not lament those criticisms, nor cry over the hideousness of her puffy yet somehow sagging cheeks, nor did she brood over her shapeless, scarred brow or the unfair disproportion of her body. What did she do? She shrugged and took down the name.

And that person, no matter his or her age, was added to her To Do list. Each night before she 22

left her house, by now with the muteness of an iterated dance through the leaves, she polished her mirror and regarded her image— a reminder of the aching cavils in the life she possessed for only a while longer-- the rationale behind what she was about to complete again. She glanced at her list: only two goals left needing perfection. Steeled in her resolve, Miss White embarked on the final steps of her quest. ~•~ When Miss White got back to her home, she prepared herself immediately, but without haste. Her gut was no longer clenched with appetite for rapidity. She sighed, satisfied. She was ready. Everything on her list had been carried out precisely as she had been planning since she was a little girl on the playground. Miss White recalled all too well how beautiful Mary Eden's taunting songs had trumpeted in her ear, as pretty little queens with forged delicate noses and plastic high cheekbones repeated a dance around her. The cheery tune and well-worn lyrics came back to her now....

"Sight White, And even the night Would cry at her hideous looks.

Maybe she'd be Of slight use to this world, If she were at least better with books." .... But those days were the tide, and tonight they crashed against the shore and washed Mary out to sea. ~•~ "Good God!" Exclaimed a young, dumbfounded policeman as he stared at the creature laying on the floor, perfectly poised, eyes open and blank, toes pointed heavenward, with a butcher knife cradled like a claret rose in her hands. "This is the murderer?" His partner came over and peered at the corpse briefly, before turning away from the cold empty stare of her redblack pupils.

"Yup. That's It," and his partner gave a low whistle.

The first man, still entranced with the Medusa-like qualities of the woman, spoke in a perplexed, yet sad tone, "How could an old lady like her evade all of our precautions? The curfew? The nightly patrols? The locked windows and bolted doors of everyone in this Godforsaken town?"

"I couldn't tell ya," said the second, shrugging. "At least it's over now. All the horror she caused everyone. It's all over." But the first couldn't tell if his partner meant the horror of all the people she left with a bloody gorge in their hearts, or the horror of catching a glimpse of her at 23

the market, or the coffee shop, the corner of a park, or on the front porch of her little home— always passive, always silent. They both stared at her a moment longer, in either pity or nauseation, before getting to work bringing the body to the morgue. Neither noticed the papers taped to the only unbroken and untarnished mirror in the entire house. "To Do~" was scrawled across the top of each page in swooping, perfect cursive. The paper was a dull gray-white with faint watercolor scenes of springtime in the background. The numbers 1-66 where spaced vertically down the sheets, followed by a name and address. Number 67 was written on a separate page, centered, baring a single word. Die. Later, the medical examiners would attribute her death to "old age." They found no poison in her system, no bullet in her head, no blade in her rib cage. But of course, how could they find the poison in her brain, the 66 bullets in her heart, or the blade that severed her spirit?

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The Abandoned Fiction by Jacqui Tackett 7:00 January 21st, 1989 The briefcase is sitting on the stairs.

I can’t find him though. I don’t want to. I thought we were going on vacation, but all I can see is a TV blaring soap operas and running water. They’ve been fighting for a while now. I used to be able to sleep but I can’t anymore. The yelling, the banging. It’s too much. They were so in love, so she said, but now there’s a “sudden disconnect.” My teachers worry about me. Will I pass the 10th grade? I don’t know. I don’t care. All I see is the briefcase, the obnoxiously white snow…

8:00 It’s gone. All traces of him gone. The snow erases existence, erases footsteps.

I can’t find mom. I still hear running water and that stupid Soap. I run into the bathroom.

Nothing. Nothing in her eyes. Pale. Dark.

9:00 The sirens start. The ambulance comes. Now there’s a stretcher on the stairs.

10:00 The stretcher’s gone; she’s gone, but the snow is still here, clenching onto any life it finds. The next few years are in a blur. First cigarettes, then beer, more beer, liquor, pills, weed, and then the stuff you told yourself you would never touch, but when you do, there’s no other feeling like it. It clings to you, a constant winter. ************ 10:00 p.m. April 21st, 2014 I always hated the snow; it erases things but at the same time keeps them frozen in time. Never moving forward, but rain, rain is different. It still erases things, but it carries them away, to never come back. Rain doesn’t stick or glue itself to anything. It simply washes away what was once there, and when it’s gone, it’s gone. It doesn’t melt and reveal what was blind to you but really there the whole time. It definitively erases life, memories. It knows not to cling and not to connect. You also know when it’s coming. The clouds will darken and you know that will be the last time you are going to see what have and soon will not, but snow. Snow is perpetual waiting. It covers up the street, the footprints, the tire tracks, the small stretcher tracks…but once the heat and sun decide to show their faces again, so do your demons, and so does the truth.

9:00 p.m.

I see ambulances driving past me, sirens blaring, but soon the sounds are faint and it’s just me, the road, the rain.

8:00 p.m.

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I can feel the footsteps pounding in my head. They’re searching, but I’m gone, all traces of me gone. Gone more than the time I tripped so bad on acid I drove straight into the house. Gone more than those 50 Benadryl I popped in one night. “You’re lucky you’re so tall; someone smaller than you would have died,” the nurse pleadingly told me. Gone more than the time I snorted so much coke it took me a whole day to figure out the liquid running down my face was actually blood, but the track marks aren’t gone. The scars aren’t gone. My protruding veins and purple bag veins aren’t gone. Just I am.

7:00 a.m.

Every patter of rain hitting the roof just reminds me of every second of silence that stands between us. She cried all last night. She doesn’t understand why there’s a sudden “disconnect.”

It falls and falls. I see it wash away the melting snow. It unveils the kids snow sleds, the hat she left in the yard, footprints that were never taken away but just hidden. The dead leaves continue to float into oblivion.

My briefcase is sitting on the stairs.

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Winter Sunset: Sixth of January, 2015 Essay by Joshua Zeller The sun sets on the beds of snow, no longer smooth, but broken up with pits and craters and melting piles; the dying light casts fantastic pinks, purples, and little dots of blue farther up into the fading sky.

The snow, due to the light’s latest incarnation (destined to go through more forms in its end, as in its beginning, than ever it does during its middle) is a white tinged with pink, dimming into a dusky purple as the visibility fades.

Before long, the lively brightness and bold vigor of the light (cast eagerly on a dead and frozen world) will be consumed by a carbonic blackness, so that what can be seen can only be seen artificially in the eerie, yellowish-white cast of the street lamps, spaced far apart—too far for comfort.

And as the sun falls ever lower, the pinks intensify while the purples and blues mix into a dark gray, preparing for the final change to black.

The trees, one can see, have already arrived at that point, being merely jagged shadows cut into the atmosphere, into which all will eventually be drawn.

Upon returning to the sky, it can be seen that the pinks, once magnified seemingly hundreds of times, asserting their presence bravely, fade into their inevitable conformity with the purplish-gray mass above, dying like embers without the unpleasant wood smoke.

The electric lights surrounding become more impressively potent, illuminating what the fading sky would have us forget and by which a late shoveler of snow works in haste, scratching the concrete gratingly, disturbing the otherwise peaceful onset of the approaching night.

Now, but for a weak, salmon-colored strip (an imperfect strip, not stratified from but swirling into and tinged with the hovering, darkened mass that endeavors to overtake it), the sky grows truly dark, one might say oppressively so—but why do I use that term?

The fading light cycles on and off—and off and on—as it is supposed to and has always done; I mustn’t think that it will take into account any yearning for an extension on the light of day.

I, the observer, should now step away from the glass door pane through which I view the continual transformation; soon I will be framed against the darkness of the nascent night, the light of the room making me totally visible to passersby (Nature doesn’t mind my staring, but people might notice, and wonder…).

What is the point, anyway, of my looking at the remaining, weakened swirl of colors, when I’ve known all the while what it will turn into—I don’t need to be reminded of how time passes, is ceaseless.

Maybe as I write this, Nature will take heed—for aren’t words supposed to possess a certain power?—and cycle backwards—freeze—so that tomorrow, the next day, the next year, won’t have to be faced.

But no matter how much I write, cross my fingers, wonder if the mind is powerful enough to initiate improbable change, night will come.

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Free Spirit Coil Pot, Artwork by Rebecca Kersker

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Leafy Figment Fiction by Eleanor Kapcar First Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Mariemont High School Their homes were rooted next-door to each other on the blue-collar side of the neighborhood. The girl and her family had grown in close proximity for the years leading up to the transplantation, but they’d only officially lived in their home for three years going on four.

The boy’s mother, however, grew up on their very same street.

It had crept slowly at first. The girl recalled gathering inklings several years back, perhaps as early as fifth grade or junior high. They were alike in character then: fiercely competitive, obstinately independent, acutely intelligent, cultivated by mutual virtue, the careful product of wholesome and modest parents. In the societal cycle of progeny, they were the kind of positive outcome that all parents of high morals hoped to rear. And bookworms. Both raised by teachers, this certainly whetted their gluttony for words, but the majority of the responsibility lay within their own hands, for those were the ones ultimately turning the pages. The boy and the girl were very mental beings in more sense than one, both back then though even more so now.

The girl was able to pinpoint the origin of the spark to a particular carpool on a Saturday morning. After an science fair competition, of all events. She was unable to recall the weather.

Her trophy was etched sixth place, his medal thirteenth. Or so she thought she remembered. The details of the following competitions throughout the next two years had been melded together so that no one quite remembered who had won what when. The girl had been so focused, so caught up in numbers and wins, but her detail orientation had abated steadily since that point.

Those junior high days were lazy summer afternoons, and the separation of two years made the details run together like the hues of a watercolor painting left out in the rain. Like blood diluted by water from a cut in the shower.

That also was the day on which the existence of the tree was first evident. Situated between their homes, at this point it was not a sapling, as would have been expected, but mature. Though the tree would require more growth in order to be considered a respected and sage member of the natural neighborhood, the inception of its presence was established on the Saturday morning of disregarded weather. However, neither the boy nor the girl had ever noticed it before.

By the time high school washed ashore, it was clearly made of glass. The boy’s version, a presumption made by the girl, had already been eroded by the saltwater’s natural corrosiveness, but the leaves on the tree between their houses crowded and obstructed her view.

Perhaps, during this time, she too resembled beach glass on the outside, but in actuality, her fragmented pieces drew blood. At times she felt like a beached whale, whether the gasping and incessant struggle for air remained figurative or literal depended upon the particular day. But this feeling was keenly foreign and fiercely wrong, as the girl had always been a comfortable fish within her safe small pond. But now she had cut her foot on this beached broken bottle, and 29

when she went to examine the wound, her hands re-stained the sand with same color elicited by her injured foot. Though saltwater initially burns, it quickens the scar. This lesson she was skeptical to accept. The following summer allowed time for the girl to reestablish peace, but she regained her courage and curiosity to search for beach glass with a renewed sense of caution.

The boy, however, remained unaware of her near coastal casualty. But it was not his fault. The leaves and branches between their houses were to blame. The girl sensed that the boy’s relationship with the sea was in vast opposition to her own oceanic connotation. Why, then, had she been shown the cruelty within the wave’s wake and he the seaside sunset? No answer was to be found in the tree. She observed his experience with green and seasick envy, but she was far from bitter. His bottle had cracked as evenly as broken glass allows, and it drifted apart without the seven stages of grief attached to separation. Or so she thought.

Perhaps the cause of these differences lay within the boy’s careless distracted hours, his procrastination, or stress-free nights. Perhaps it was because he went to bed too late, mind devoid of worry, watched too much TV, and didn’t care as much as he should. Maybe it was because the teacher the girl despised was his absolute favorite, another feat which her mind refused to conform into comprehension. The girl fervently envied his laziness. This couldn’t possibly be the secret to the creation of beach glass— not when she was the one who meticulously followed the rules. Not when he was the one to take shortcuts. His instruction manual to high school was buried under his bed amid books on ocean ecology, though he continued to excel without its assistance. But the girl was naive enough to overlook nature’s proclivity to sidestep the law. Nature was no novice at finding loopholes. Nevertheless, the boy may have created beach glass first, but as the girl began to catch up, their mutual transparency transcended into a colorful, rounded, and solidly individualistic beauty.

The tired tide rolled in as sophomore year approached. It was the time of year when summer and autumn came together to create a divine liminality of weather. They’d been in school long enough that it was habitual, but each day continued to feel progressively surreal. As school grew into a habit, she too developed one.

She began studying him. It was intended in the most admirable of ways, but it soon became an infatuating routine. She memorized his heinous posture, his damaged cuticles, the way he crossed his legs and bounced his left foot during tests. She relished in the fact that they were both employed in the business of finger destruction. He bit his nails during class and picked incessantly at his cuticles, forever critiquing over the rim of his askew glasses.

Meanwhile, the girl tugged at the skin adjacent to her fingernails until it peeled and bled.

Though these little habits were both subconscious and trivial, the girl very much enjoyed such nuances.

It took all her might to avoid watching his lips. She’d been aware of their cherubic quality for quite some time now, but she worried if she glimpsed them too often she’d either be driven mad or throw herself at him. She secretly vowed to surrender her sanity to him given the chance.

He played the piano and aspired to be a marine biologist. He swore he’d never be a medical doctor, his argument being that saving lives would only augment the population, which 30

would, of course, hasten the arrival of the apocalypse. This would leave him panicked and guiltstricken for causing the end of life as we know it. However, the girl knew the real reason he wouldn’t be an MD: for he abhorred blood and innards to the point of sickness. She knew he was close with his mother, fought with his brothers, and admired his older sister more than anyone. She didn’t need to squint through the leaves and branches to see this, for it was plain as day.

On the first day of school, sophomore year, the girl was eavesdropping. She heard him proclaim that his most cherished summer event was reading a particular book. Eleven days later she immersed herself in the same pages. She soaked each word, intrigued that his eyes had stumbled upon the very same arrangement of twenty-six letters. She found pieces of him tucked within the margins. Months later, she was still turning pages but at a topic pace. It was not a boring read in the least: in fact, she found it interesting independent of his recommendation. She could not, however, bring herself to reach its conclusion.

Her favorite class of the day was physics. Though science was not her favorite subject, she valued the seating arrangement. Assigned seats were unheard of, yet each student occupied the same seat each day tacitly. The girl sat on the edge of a row, and the boy sat nearby though not adjacent. They sat among a band of friends, a group whose humor and knowledge was highly unprecedented. The conversations they’d have would induce fits of laughter, but, specifically, they boy and the girl were forever teasing each other. The most prized part of these banters were the boy’s side glances, smirks, his words. He would make the girl smile so hard.

Only a smile prompted by sucking on a piece of dangerously sweet candy could affect her in the same way. She would smile until her eyes squinted so, until all teeth were exposed, until she would quake with joy. They would hold eye contact with restricted smiles until one of them looked away and the other surrendered their teeth.

One autumn afternoon beheld a particularly formidable set of physics problems. The girl wished to avoid asking the boy for help at all costs because she detested nothing more than her mind in subordination to his. The weather was so pristinely gorgeous and influential that fall afternoon, so the girl went upstairs into her bedroom and opened her window. As the tree’s branches and leaves allowed, she could see that his window was also cracked to allow the sweet autumn breeze. The girl peered out of her own window, as the leaves rustled in the wind; his curtain too blew, and a susurrus was likewise produced in his room. She inhaled.

“Albert!” she sang melodically, backed by false bravery. Her voice carried through the tree and across to his open window. After exactly seven lengthy seconds, the curtain receded, and his face materialized at the window. His glasses were slightly off balance. She asked her physics problem, and he quickly explained from the other side of the tree. She told him she understood, though, in fact, she did not. Later that night she requested further help from the others with whom she sat. That night, asleep, both the boy and the girl awoke to the sound of trains.

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Five days later she reached to turn out her lamp, but a clack at her window fueled hesitation.

“Charlotte!” he called. “Charlotte!” She peeped her head out trying, with difficulty, not to smile. He desired her input on an essay. It was 11:23 PM, and the girl was exhausted, but she soon found a second wind through the common rustle of the leaves between their homes. They each stuck an arm out of each window, and not only were their hands unable to abridge the distance with their insufficient appendages, but the tree also stood in their way.

The girl insisted they both climb out. If he sat in the tree, then surely he could reach her.

But his resistance to this proposition provoked a low but rising disappointment in the girl. For she knew he was not afraid of heights.

The following weekend was devoted to pruning and painting. The boy’s house was straddled with three ladders and primed in white paint. His father and mother and little brother contributed, but his only contribution was holding the bottom of the ladder steady; however, his nose remained in a book, his responsibility and respect for safety precautions diluted. In order to paint, the tree had to be trimmed, so now when she looked out her window, there were no longer as many leaves obstructing her view.

Soon after, they began talking nonstop. Their habit of colloquy was not rooted in treesitting but over words in type. It would have been blasphemous to deem it “texting,” for the strings of paragraphs they typed out for each other carried a heightened gravity absent from normal conversation. Small talk was unheard of and loathed by the both of them. The boy and girl perused an panoply of discussion points including music, emotion, religion, poetry, and existentialism. She begged for audible conversation: his words in print only occasionally retained the quality of his voice, but his introversion prevented him from stepping out of his window. No matter how many times she lapped repeatedly with the request, the boy receded, refusing to sit in the tree with her. Once the exchange of words through typing dissolved, they still talked in school, and though the girl still felt a sense of connection, it was muted by a new layer of frustration and dismay. Low tide, perhaps.

The girl, however, continued to plead with the tree. She hoped that its branches might sweep into the boy’s room and pull him out onto its trunk. The boy’s comfortability persisted at a constant degree, but he denied the tree its rightful recognition.

Two more years passed, and as letters from colleges collected in each of their mailboxes, the leaves from the tree compiled themselves upon the ground. Their conversations had been curtailed, trickling to a close, as both the boy and the girl went about their days with separate mindsets. They each began school at different universities, and during autumn break the girl came home to two foreign cars in the driveway next-door.

Three people made their way down the sidewalk of the boy’s house. A woman in a skirt brandishing a clipboard followed by a young couple holding hands. The girl caught vague musings of their conversations. Yes, the couple approved of the size of the master bedroom, but would the kitchen countertops suffice?

“The only thing I find strange,” the husband offered, “is the lack of shade, how bare the yard is. Neither this house nor the one next-door have a single tree planted.”

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“Why look—” the wife agreed, “Isn’t that most peculiar… there’s not so much as a stump.”

As these words fell upon the ears of the girl, she was overcome with a wave of conclusion. The subsequent silence that ensued swept her in a great, gentle exhalation.

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Black Statistics Poem by Lamya Bowie Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Walnut Hills High School We are a living statistic, Of the number of crimes.

Usually it’s black on black, Serving heavy jail time.

They shoot us, Because we help support their theory, That blacks don’t have no worth.

And we assist to prove that clearly.

What about the black man, Killing his own race?

The white killer gets a show, But what difference does it make?

People get killed every day, Stories we never heard.

But we pinpoint this one in specific, With only the use of words.

We are not proving anything to the white, By living a low uneducated life.

Not dreaming big enough, Until the day we finally die.

But when our life is over, Who will even care?

Stop creating the African-American picture That we all live in despair.

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We are capable of more, That we hardly strive for.

We are only referred to numbers, Written behind the white man’s door.

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Acrylic with Tap Shoes, Artwork by Anna Steiner

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Inhibitions Essay by Dana Rooney First Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Glen Este High School Two years ago, not much in life went well for me, and it was mostly my own fault. If I believed in fate, I would probably say the universe was frowning upon me. On the upside, I was bright enough to keep most of my problems to myself.

For over a year, I was bursting at the seams with an overabundance of thoughts, ideas, and curiosity. I saw poetry everywhere, everything was a photo op, and I was always able to entertain myself, even if only with contemplation. However, my only response to my churning mind became suppressing it and its contents. The thirst for knowledge ebbed eventually and my then-boyfriend was thrilled. Needless to say, he was a great influence.

He thought himself to be above my music, my alternative clothes, and my highly individualized lifestyle. Before meeting him, I was proud of being a bit of an acquired taste.

Once he integrated himself into my psyche, I shut down. I became uncomfortable in my body, my clothes, and in my life. Anxiety and depression manifested, invaded my brain, and made me doubt the worthiness of my identity.

This newfound insecurity fueled change: I stopped decorating my body with Henna tattoos; my clothing became more nondescript and mainstream, less edgy and expressive. I was careful to let no one catch wind of my eclectic music, and the urges to indulge in the brighter aspects of my life dissipated, including things as trivial-yet vital-as petting my dogs. My collective beliefs regarding politics, or god- or lack thereof, etc. seemed ridiculous, and my morals were dumped to the wayside. I couldn’t find humor in any of the places I once did, and my future appeared increasingly dimly lit.

Painfully slowly, it dawned on me I was losing my sense of self. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I saw a pathetic, myopic person in the reflection, and I hated the defeated tinge of its face. This somewhat dissociative experience saved me from falling deeper into the hole in which I had trapped myself, as well as the awful stasis.

“Well, shit,” I mumbled in stupefaction. Autopilot took over, and I stepped into the shower to strip myself of the abuse I had endured for months. My raw skin felt new, prompting me to brush my teeth until my gums bled; the sense of cleanliness which followed stung a little, but was exactly what I had needed. In that shower, I washed off the metaphorical dirt which had accumulated on my skin; the grimy particles which grew in amount every time he laid hands on me were finally gone. With every brutal stroke of my dentist-issued toothbrush, I rid myself of him. His musty saliva was rinsed out of my mouth, and swirled down the drain, along with every kiss I never wanted, but never had the guts to refuse. I walked out of the bathroom feeling collected, and more than ready to do what I knew I must.

Breaking up with him was the best decision I had made in a long time, and I felt incredibly, indescribably liberated after I sent the email which ended the “relationship.” After too many months, I would no longer be subjected to feel his slimy tongue prodding the inside of my mouth. Never again would I hack phlegm for hours after he drooled down my throat in an 37

attempt at sensuality. Not even for a second would I miss his dry cracking lips swallowing mine. In that moment, I was so happy all I could do was cry. ~~~ My heart has thoroughly scabbed over, so I’ll never be quite the same person I was before that relationship, but the benefits of this needn’t be proven any further. I have an agonizingly tight rein on my impulses, and my body image is suffering, but I’m in the process of growing into myself again.

The pesky curiosity which defines me returned in full throttle, along with my insatiable craving to experience what this world has to offer. I now try to surround myself purely with people who dare me to think, dream, and create. I’ll always be a little anxious, but I can deal with that and situational depression as long as I get to retain my freedom.

A clear image of a future for me has yet to be glimpsed, but I now walk, hand in hand, with a person with whom I can relate, laugh, and be openly expressive. Though I’m well aware nothing is or ever can be perfect, my existence is significantly closer to my personal connotation.

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In the Back Seat with the Radio On /Cuts to Commercial Break Poem by Megan Moore It started a sweet lullaby and turned to violent men yelling at me to make fast cash now and that’s all I heard from then on out make cash now, fat cow parts mash together loud make fast cash now last sad girl sound make fast cash now make fast girl frown again, another round make fast cash now head and car door pound knock against window sounds hike up, panties go unfound make fast cash now echoes in my head at home, safe to swim with radio up, I still sink when the men only want to make a living, screaming make fast cash now still dripping I break fingers dial in and I ask how

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Game of Chess, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender

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The Art of Taxidermy Fiction by Christopher Kline Taxidermy, or the art of preserving animals for display, can be a fun and rewarding hobby. Whether creating a hunting trophy or preserving a four-legged family member, taxidermy allows you to preserve your memories for years to come. We have created the following guide to start you down the road to a lifelong enjoyment of animal preservation.

The worst of it was the smell. The pungent sour notes of whiskey coalesced with stale cigarette smoke, unattended teeth, and more than a musky touch of yesterday’s body odor. She had her back to him, and could feel his hot, putrid breath dampening the skin at the nape of her neck. She wriggled gently from below the heavy arm he’d slung across her hip, and slipped into the bathroom to get ready for work.

She’d been up late, so sleep still weighed on her eyes despite the shower’s enveloping warmth. It would be a long day if she couldn’t snap out of her sleepy fog and focus. The only thought she seemed to be able to hold on to was the hope that the sickly stink of his breath wouldn’t linger with her all day.

Step 1: Freeze the animal. Freezing your animal not only insures freshness, but allows you time to gather the equipment and supplies you will need to create the best, and most natural display.

She got dressed in the dawn’s early beams, peeking through the blinds, and gently nudged him to get up for work as well. Each attempt got the same muffled response, as he burrowed deeper into the pillows, ferretting away from the increasing daylight.

It came out with his keys when she pulled them from the pocket of his sports coat. She was unsure at first, either not wanting to see it, or not wanting to accept the truth. But it was there, amongst the jagged teeth of his keys, the keys they shared together. A thin foiled ribbon, the robust odor of latex still emanating from the remaining interior edge.

“Babe?” His voice echoed at her from the corners of the room, striking her with a tinny distance. “You still here?”

He moved from their room, his barefoot steps dragging on the carpet in the hall. There was a pause, then, finally, the sound of the shower spraying against the tub.

Step 2: Prepare the form. The base for a lifelike preservation can be made by casting a plaster form or by making adjustments to a prefabricated model.

The image seared itself in her minds-eye. He and some faceless girl, in some alley, behind some seedy little bar. Her trashy, short skirt, and too high heels. She could see him pulling the package from the inside pocket of the sports coat; tearing at the edge with his teeth, and, frustrated, pulling the remainder open with his fingers, before shoving the useless edge in his pocket to focus on the rest.

The image shattered at the trombone trill the old pipes sometimes made when the water shut off. She untangled the strip of foil from the keys and went outside to move his car from blocking hers in the driveway. The same odor of ashtray and booze hung entombed in his car.

This time it mixed with a perfume’s sweeter bouquet, and she could feel bile rise to her throat.

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She opened the front door only long enough to toss his keys on the counter, and drove to work, trying to pull herself together.

Step 3: With a sharp knife, carefully remove the skin, working the knife gently, as hasty movement can damage the skin and affect the quality of the final product.

“Hey Babe! How was your day?” He’d beaten her home, but she figured he would, since it had taken everything in her just to walk through the front door. He already had a drink next to him as he read the newspaper. Scotch, neat.

“Well, you did a crap job covering your tracks and I know you screwed some dirty tramp up against a dumpster last night, but at least you used protection!” She thought.

“Fine,” is all she said.

She didn’t return the query, but he bulldozed through a recounting of his day anyway.

Lips tight, she made all the necessary sounds to seem interested enough that he kept talking.

Meanwhile she moved around the room at arm’s length from him, doing everything to hold herself back from doing what she wanted, to erupt and let the seething shutters of rage running just below the surface of her skin explode through her in a scathing confession of the morning’s discovery.

Instead, she waited. Waited for an opportune moment of silence she couldn’t hear, since her ears had tuned away from his frequency.

“What time did you get home last night?” He was in the middle of a sentence, but it slipped from her lips anyway, barely audible enough to stop him short.

“Oh, must have been about,” he had paused to process the question, “2:30,” he paused again to make sure the time could make sense. The alarm had said 4:00 when his headlights woke her coming through the blinds.

“How much did you drink? You smelled like a bar mop this morning.”

“Just a few beers and some shots. You know, nothing I couldn’t drive home after.”

Vomit pushed again to the back of her throat as she gagged on the memory of his car’s earlier smell.

“Oh, okay. Was it just you and Dan?” “And Jim. Just a good, old, guys night out.” His answers had taken a tone of defense under the guise of joviality.

She looked hard at him, and his eyes touched hers before busying themselves with a secure circuit of the corners of the room. Still she looked, hoping, in the back of her mind, that he’d just come clean. Hoping that she’d be able to forgive him if he did, but knowing that she could not.

Eons passed before his eyes met hers again, some semblance of emotion skirting at their edges. Anger? Or Fear?

Step 4: Preserve the skin using the appropriate tanning method. Whether preserving a fish, bird, or mammal, it is important to use the proper chemicals for tanning to insure your final display lasts another lifetime.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but…”

She felt like her hand went through the counter, and somehow came back to rest on its top. Fire shot through her palm and fingers, making the countertop feel cold as she slid her 42

hand to rest in front of him. His eyes followed her trembling hand as she slowly pulled it away, before coming to rest on the twist of foil it hid.

Step 5: Dress your form and sew it up. While dressing your form stuff newspaper into spaces that need more support.

He began to explain, but his time both of her hands hit the counter, and her vision blurred from the pain. She felt like the whole kitchen should be spinning around the axis of the house from the impact. Like the walls should have ripped apart from the ceiling and floor and crashed through the neighbors’ houses.

Instead, all was still.

Step 6: Inset glass eyes befitting of your display ready preserved animal.

No more words passed between them after her firm refusal to hear his excuses. For a long passage there was only silence, and stillness. He came unstuck first, moving about the house in collection of essentials he would need in the coming days.

Then he was gone.

After he left she purged the space of his memory, confining all that was his to black garbage bags she heaved to the bottom of the basement steps. Then she crumpled on the kitchen floor, her ire spent and sliding into weeping sorrow.

She could feel the cool moisture in the air, licking at her skin on the spiraling breeze from the open windows. Crisp, clean ozone permeated, though the first peeks of dawn shone on dry pavement as they beamed below a menacing ceiling of clouds.

The alarm in the bedroom sounded, and she rose to stop it and prepare for work. She hadn’t slept at all, but felt anaesthetized to the strictures of time and the needs of the body. The shower’s warmth enveloped her, but she thought nothing, had thought all the thoughts she could through the night. Only emptiness remained.

The rain began with a momentary patter before settling into a rhythm of flagging sheets.

The wind moaned at the windows, thunder occasionally rattling the panes.

She moved through the pewter gray darkness the storm cast through the house, her preparation procedures coming mechanically. She stopped at the mirror by the front door, allowing the entryway light to break the darkness as she applied her makeup. She had a vague recognition of her reflection, the features the same as forever. It was as she combed mascara through her eyelashes, forced to look in her own gaze, that she saw the pall that had set over her eyes, their marbled dullness abandoning the life that once there flickered.

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Horses Are Terrible People Poem by Zachary A. McCoy If kissing you sends me to hell At least I’ll burn smiling.

The way your fingers wrapped Around my hair and your legs Around my hips Made me think you wanted to engulf me In those infernal fires of passion that Are sending me to hell.

Two years was too long to wait I see that now.

Waiting like this should not exist Between two good friends like us.

To have your lips pressed against mine Your small tongue darting like Some small seductive lizard around my mouth.

The way you half whispered half moaned in my ear about the size of my dick And wanting me for all these years Haunts me like an echo Of thoughts I dared not think Though were always there in my mind.

If it weren’t for my emotional unavailability And your relationship status with another man I’d have you again and again.

I’d know you for more than two years I’d know you in a biblical sense as much as I could.

I wish I weren’t so broken I wish I could blame the bed sheets for being too soft I wish I could blame Evil Dead for being such a romantic movie Or blame your boyfriend for being way too perfect Or for the elephant that’s been sitting in the same room as us Since another girl broke my heart a year ago And we watched Troll 2 and I leaned too close And felt fire scorch my soul.

But I blame myself for kissing you despite all my best intentions Of remaining a good person and a good friend.

But if that kiss sends me to hell I’ll go happily.

I’ve tasted fire in your lips And I’ll gladly burn again 44

And again.

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Bloodline Simplicity Poem by Jacqui Tackett The lines of your hands Coincide perfectly with mine If we put them together They would form the most Beautiful image worthy of Gasps and awhs to Van Gogh and Monet The shapes of your fingers Curve perfectly to wrap around mine Your knuckles fit mine like Puzzle pieces And when I trace your palm I feel your warmth Penetrating through my body To keep me whole again Pushing my body closer To yours Because the closer I am to you The closer I am to truth.

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Oily Marks Play Hide and Seek, Artwork by Olivia Dean

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Sister, Sister Essay by Meredith Struewing Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest East Central High School In the words of author Rose Macaulay, “We know one another’s faults, virtues, catastrophes, mortifications, triumphs, rivalries, desires, and how long we can each hang by our hands to a bar. We have been banded together under pack codes and tribal laws.” “We” is referring to sisters, more specifically, my own two sisters. We know each other like the back of our hands, feet, toes, and earlobes. We share secrets we will take to our bottomless graves. We allow one another to illuminate in their own spotlight, yet we are there to scoop you up when your colors dull and nobody is present for those struggles. Most of all, we love one another unconditionally, to the ends of the earth. Sometimes, however, our love is misplaced, or forgotten. If you can’t have the storm, though, how will the rainbow appear?

Clare and Conner. Those are their given names. Yet, last year, we decided to present one another with frivolous nicknames. These nicknames are what we still call each other today, writing it on the tags of Christmas gifts or casually flinging them out when we pass in the hallway, on the rare occasion we are all home at the same time, and not triumphing at a screaming battle against all of us.

Now, don’t think we eliminated our birth names all together and were shunned if that’s what we referred to each other as. No, we weren’t that bizarre. Our nicknames were just something different. Perhaps we wanted to feel like children again. Perhaps we yearned for a way to feel silly and carefree in our own world. Whatever it was, we wore our nicknames like an honor given to us from royal lands. Clare was Blue, Conner received Connie, and I, Meredith, had “Mo” bestowed upon me. As I recall, I think Clare came up with each name.

How? That’s a question even I don’t know the answer to.

Audience, I am speaking directly to you now, (wasn’t I already, you ask?). This story may make you tear up. Heck, I even cried a little while writing it. (Although, I cry at the simplest things, especially at Hallmark card commercials. If you don’t well up when those appear on your TV, you may not have a heart, my friend.) What I write may make you laugh.

It may make you want to bash your head into a wall twenty times. It might even make you wish you had a sister or two or be eternally grateful you were blessed with brothers. For the lucky ones, born only children, you might be on your hands and feet rejoicing. I don’t know. But whatever this makes you feel, know this. This isn’t even really a story. It’s just about the two best buds a girl could have to live life with: her sisters.

Let’s begin with Clare, shall we? I so wish there were more words in the English dictionary to describe Clare. This girl is a rock. No, she’s a boulder. I should say woman, considering she’s twenty years old, and a beautiful woman at that. You can spit nasty words at 48

her, scream at her until your eyes bulge, try to prove her wrong, but she does not break. She will neither crumble nor fall. She is not weak. That word isn’t even in her vast vocabulary.

She is a force of nature, that Clare. She has the strength of two hundred tons and the might of the Heavens above. Her mind is incredible. I’m aware that I haven’t lived a full lifetime yet.

However, I have never encountered someone with a brain so huge, who doesn’t even realize it.

While some things may come easy for her, school does not. She was always jealous of those kids that could look at paragraphs written in books, memorize them, and get a 100% on the tests. That doesn’t mean she didn’t work for her grades. She worked and still works her butt off, every second, of every minute, of every day. She works for her grades, jobs, and her place in this world, which is always changing, yet always suitable for her. Compliment Clare, and she will brush it off like you didn’t say anything, but mere seconds later, a tiny smile creeps onto her lips.

She was the first-born. Did I mention Clare and Conner are twins? They are three hours apart in age, born on different days. “Oh, that’s fun!” you say. If you say that to my mother, at the very least, you will get a death glare perfected only for people like you. “Fun? Well, I don’t know why they couldn’t have just come out one after another like most do,” is what my mom will say. Fun is jumping through a sprinkler on a hot summer day. Fun is not waiting three hours in excruciating pain, trying for the life of you to get those stubborn babies out.

Enough about that. I just wanted to give you a little background. So what? Sue me.

Like I said, Clare was first. Therefore, most things fall on her. “Take care of your sisters, make sure this is done, and that is prepared for tomorrow,” is what the checklist looks like for the eldest. I think in my sixteen years of living, I may have heard Clare complain a mere four times, if that. That’s not what she does, and that is not who she is. Along with my parents, she is the one who taught me to have such a hard work ethic. Ask her to complete something in one hour and she will do it in fifteen minutes. She never stops. She is a flurry of activity, often doing more work than a girl her age should be doing. She has eyes that change shades of blue every day and a smile so wide, you’d think her mouth breaks whenever she grins. She doesn’t hand out smiles like those freely. You have to work for those. But with Clare, you’re willing to.

She used to be so shy, a turtle in her shell, having her twin take the spotlight. I am so proud of how she has changed in these past few years. She now speaks freely, tries things I thought she would never be caught dead trying, and is so much more inviting. I am also proud to say, she is becoming a smart aleck, just like me. I know, really, Meredith? Mature. But trust me. I’m not rude; my parents did not raise me like that. I’m just sarcastic and love to vie people a good chuckle. Clare used to be so formal, so serious. Now, she is a goofball and I could not be more proud. I regularly throw jokes at her, poking fun, and now she hurls jokes right back, often leaving me with zero comebacks and my jaw left on the floor in front of me.

You may think that all I’m going to do is compliment my sisters and everything is going to be nice, pink, and full of daisies. If that is what you are looking for, I’m afraid it’s not present here. I mean, the rest of this is not horrible and I’m not going to bash my sisters. But, we aren’t perfect and we all have our faults.

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You see, Clare and I are so alike. I think I’ve known that all of my life, but I have just accepted it recently. We used to think the reason we always bickered was because we were so different. That is not the case. We bicker because that’s who we are. I’m sure you have seen TV shows and movies where, when the sisters get in fights, the director portrays them as vicious wrestling matches with a lot of hair being pulled. (By the way, we don’t pull hair; that’s the biggest misconception about sister fights.) That is not how Clare and I fight. That would be too easy. Clare can shut down the loudest city in the world using only her voice. I have screamed at Clare until my voice was raw. Clare, being the big sister she is, screams back.

Whenever I think of Clare screaming at me, the only thing I notice is how she adds five to ten syllables onto the end of every word. “Merrreeedith. Stoooooooop ittttttt!” She also does this thing with her eye, (my personal favorite), where she starts to roll them, simulating the action of being annoyed, yet somehow she leaves her eyes locked to the back of her head a little longer than a regular eye rolling and flutters them at the same time, like butterfly wings, though it’s not as graceful. It’s neat, really. We have said things to each other that have cut deeper than any knife could. Clare does not let things roll off of her shoulders. She picks and stabs, and digs into things like you would a scab. She hates dawdling, especially when shopping. “Pick something and let’s get out of here,” is what she hisses to me every time we shop. I remember one time I refused to get in the car with her because she wouldn’t listen to me and was shouting at me to “get going.” I then proceeded to call her a monster. Nice, I know. Even though Clare has some traits that don’t always sparkle, her true ones shine and penetrate the world around her.

Maybe the reason I am writing this is because I’ve never felt as close and connected to my sisters as I have this past year. It’s not like I didn’t love my sisters before this year. I did.

It’s just this year, I feel like something changed in the way we act towards each other. It might be because we are maturing, our worlds are changing, and we are learning that people leave your life often, so you might as well hang on to the ones you have now. Whatever the reasons, I’m glad it happened.

Do you ever wonder how the people in your life affect events in your life? Do you wonder if they weren’t in your life, would the outcome be different? I’ve had some such moments.

I applied for a part time job at the place of employment where my sisters have worked since their freshman year in high school. I was hired, and now work with them when they are home from college. It helped immensely that my sisters paved the way for me to get hired by being some of the best workers there. Speak their names to any of the employees, and they will show you a huge grin, and exclaim, “Your sisters are great. Such hard workers!” I’m grateful for their influence. I really am. Sometimes, though, I think about what would happen if my sisters didn’t work there. I probably wouldn’t have applied, but what if I did? Would I have been hired, based solely on myself, not just because I’m “Clare and Conner’s sister”? I am very lucky to have them looking over my shoulder. I have worked at two jobs, both with them. I love working with my sisters. I know I am partly to blame for not making my own name, considering I could have found another job somewhere else. I know one day, though, I will go 50

my own way. (Fleetwood Mac reference, anyone?) I won’t be as dependent on my sisters as I am now. I’m learning from my other sister, Conner, how to step out into the world, with no one in front of you, just by yourself. Yet, she doesn’t even know she’s teaching me.

Try and conjure up the best friend you could ever have, with personality traits that you love, confidence you desire, and beauty you envy. The product is Conner. She has a spirit inside of her that catches the eye of everyone she meets. And she meets a lot of people. I envy Conner for an entire list of traits, but her confidence and ability to make people like her are what I most wish that I could have. Now, I can just hear Conner saying, “Meredith! That’s not true! You are so outgoing and goofy yourself.” I am. But not the way that she is. I’m not very comfortable with strangers. Conner, however, doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.

She can pull a conversation out of nowhere and plop it down on the table between her and someone she just met. She has such a warm and radiant face with hair the color of sunlight.

Conner doesn’t take things too seriously, and if she does, she hides it well. Out of the three of us girls, she is the least likely to have an ulcer twenty years down the road. Her laugh is contagious and bounces off every corner of the room. I know for a fact that she would drop anything for anyone, asking nothing in return. She has helped me with learning to be on my own and never snaps at me or gets frustrated with me if I ask questions about work, school, or life in general. (And I ask a LOT of questions. My life motto is that you can never ask too many questions.) She is extremely patient and always keeps a smile on her face, never letting it falter. She doesn’t want anyone to see her act weak, and doesn’t allow many people to see her true and raw emotions.

As twins, you would expect my sisters to be exact copies of one another. Conner is a rebel. She and Clare went to the same college their freshman year, but her sophomore year was different. She applied to college in Kentucky, (about three hours away from her twin), was accepted, and went her own way. But Conner has the guts for that. She is unaware of how brave she is and is oblivious to the amount of courage her decisions require. She just plows through. Conner picks up an idea and runs with it. No, she floats with it, because she is running so fast with an idea, she looks as if she is floating on air. She is an independent woman who will break down any wall that crashes down in front of her. She just picks up that ax and starts swinging away.

Now, just like Clare, Conner and I have had our bad days. She has done things I’m not proud of her for doing, and I’m sure I’ve done the same. Trust is a monumental thing for me.

It’s huge. I have had problems trusting her in the past. Now, I would trust her with my life.

She had to win back her trust from me, because I do not hand it out freely. But, if anyone could do it, Conner could.

Screaming matches are a nonexistent thing in Conner’s and my relationship. We ignore each other and sneer vicious remarks at each other. Who am I kidding? I am the only one who does that. Conner will sometimes pretend I’m not there or allow me to finish my rant because she knows she won’t get in a word until I finish. Then, she lets it rip. She doesn’t shout. No, Conner rarely raises her voice. When she does, you know you were not on your best behavior.

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She will say things that I haven’t even had the chance to think about, and make them hurt worse. Now, I’m not saying this to make her seem like a witch. She does not need to apologize. I’m just writing this to let everyone know it’s not always a sunny and jolly place to be when it comes to having sisters. With that being said, I am sorry for many of the things I’ve said to Conner. She doesn’t deserve all of my teenage hormones. Neither does Clare. I’m sorry Blue and Connie.

I thank God every day for blessing me with sisters like Clare and Conner. Some people in the world say they don’t get along with their sisters, or don’t talk to them, or haven’t seen them in years. Maybe you are one of them. I’m sorry for that. But, sisters don’t have to be blood. I want you to know that. There are people out there with qualities like the ones I mentioned above that my sisters possess, (though not exactly, because we are all one-of-a-kind.

Deep, Meredith, I know.) I am lucky enough that the best sisters in the world are my blood.

They aren’t like the tide; flowing in and then retreating back into the ocean. Whether they like it or not, Clare and Conner are stuck with me. And, I am stuck with them.

One of my favorite birthday gifts is one given to me from Clare. It’s a silver necklace with the infinity sign laced through it, along with three tiny leaves swinging on the end. The leaves have the letter M printed on one and two C’s printed on the others, standing for Meredith, Clare and Conner. I am not one for tattoos, but if I ever did muster up the courage to get one, I would get a replica of that necklace because it would be a humble reminder that my sisters, my confidants, my heroes, my pests, my loves, and my very best friends are with me always. They cannot be erased nor removed, which to me, doesn’t seem like a bad deal at all.

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Honors English Nine Poem by Paige Nash Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Loveland High School For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

—William Shakespeare Out out out I exit the classroom.

I have an itch; a bug crawls on my skin; it’s invisible.

I am walking the way one walks on a cold afternoon.

Go go go I’m headed for home.

I lose control of my foot; it tries to escape; there are more bugs.

I am greeted by a whistling empty house.

Off off off I can feel them.

I don’t know what is happening; thousands of bugs are crawling; there’s no way out.

I rip off my jacket as if that will help.

Louder louder louder I scream.

I am unstoppable now; Limbs flail; i am empty in my head.

I am a corpse torn apart by bullets.

Breathe breathe breathe I hic-hic-hic and scre-ea-am.

I am not receiving air; Only painful jabs to the throat; Will i make it.

I am not so sure.

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A tear was made.

Another imperfection on a varied surface.

It started small, but with every thought it consumed, the tear grew.

This was not a tear of grace.

The tear tumbled and rolled.

It picked up speed the longer it existed.

The tear ripped and snagged.

It became caught on branches and roots.

The tear roared.

It roared and roared and roared and roared.

It is still roaring.

My mind is a void, dark and desolate.

I do not feel my arm hit the shelf corner.

I do not feel the bruise forming on my calf.

My mind is a void, cold and alone.

The bugs are everywhere.

They crawl and crawl.

They begin to burrow into my flesh.

I let out another scream. why? why? why? bugs. bugs. bugs. scream. scream. scream. hic. hic. hic.

I am slowing down.

I am no longer a whirlwind.

I am a winter rain.

I am crying.

I am afraid.

I am struggling to breathe.

I am struggling to think.

I am still crying.

I am still crying.

I am still crying.

I am still crying.

I am still crying.

I a m s t i l l c r y i n g.

I am aching.

I am not the same.

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Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literary collection of works by the College of Mount St. Joseph students and alumni published online with the cooperation of the English Department.

Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters.

When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”.We take submissions during all twelve months of the year.

If you are currently a student or a graduate of the College of Mount St. Joseph and you would like to see your work published, you may submit your work to LOL simply by emailing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction or digital artwork to LOL@mail.msj.edu. For full submission guidelines, consult our website.

Lions-on-Line is always looking for new staff members! If you’re interested in joining Lions-on-Line, please contact the faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth_mason@mail.msj.edu.

Editors and Staff Poetry Editor:

Margaret Kaehler

Fiction Editor:

Zachary A. McCoy

Creative Nonfiction Editor:

Megan Moore

Art Editor/Treasurer:

Molly Ehrnschwender

Assistant Editors:

Penelope Epple Nicholas Groh Christopher Kline Megan Simmermeyer Jacqueline Tackett

Faculty Advisor:

Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D.

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