Spring 2015
Pics of the staff Staff of
the Mastodon
Left to right: Dana Mack, Sarah Sumoski, Salam Mohammed
Mastodon Art and Literary Magazine Spring 2015 Co-Editor-in-Chiefs: Sarah Sumoski Salam Mohammed Staff: Dana Mack Advisor: Ted Powers Front Cover Art By: Sarah Sumoski Back Cover Art By: Salam Mohammed and Sarah Sumoski
Table of Contents
• Sunset over Yan- -Tyler C. Grudowski kee Woods, Tinley Park, Illinois • The Grand Tetons, -Tyler C. Grudowski Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming -Matt DeVries • The Doors -Andrew Duarte • Toxic Chicago -Andrew Duarte • 2 Worlds -Andrew Duarte • Dreamland • They’re Still Lifes -Lance O. Mrock -Oriane Dalmeida • “The Past: Life Behind a Seashell” -Fallon Sweeney • No Name 1 • Mountain Multiple -Fallon Sweeney Exposure • Stepping Out of -Fallon Sweeney Line -Casey Hopkins • Boy -Elias Jablonski • Memory Vault -Casey Hopkins • Tree -Ethan Oliver Holmes • Gifts -Casey Hopkins • Lily Pad -Andrew Duarte • Mask -Fallon Sweeney • No Name 2 -Nicholas Sumoski • Spirit Tent -Casey Hopkins • Untitled Matt Kaluza • Self-Portrait? -Casey Hopkins • Door -Nicholas Sumoski • Dark Forest • Darkened Dreams -Sarah Sumoski -Andrew Duarte • No Da Buss
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5 6 7 7 8 9 17 17 18 18 19 19 20 22 23 24 24 25 26 27 27 28 29
• Long May You Run • Red Angel • Space Rainbow • Don’t Fear the End • Sky of Blood • Chicago 1 • Friends Can’t Be Trusted • Chicago 3 • A Walk Through the Woods • Bald Eagle Flying, Mississippi River, Iowa • A Calling • Fever • Play Ball! • Buried Alive • Chicago 6 • Being Different
-Dana Mack
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-Andrew Duarte -Elias Jablonski -Sarah Sumoski
30 31 32
-Andrew Duarte -Douglas Senf -Salam Mohammed
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-Douglas Senf -Megan Sumner
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-Tyler C. Grudowski
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-Matt Devries -Megan Sumner -Nicholas Sumoski -Gina Mae Temelcoff -Douglas Senf -Salam Mohammed
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Sunset over Yankee Woods, Tinley Park, Illinois -Tyler C. Grudowski
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The Grand Tetons, Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming -Tyler C. Grudowski
The Doors -Matt DeVries Nothing comes, and here it is Not of love, and not of tryst Not quite small, and not quite big Without a cause, this nothing is Flighting sparks, now nothing burns Surging dark, this nothing churns In turn, a hark, a star revels This nothing has become a pulse Lightning, fires, the planet mound Lights transpire, the cells abound To dance upon the lifeless ground Promise not in mindless speak If one is hot, the rest are weak As pledges rot, with tongue in cheek Fury finds no place to sleep In light, dire, the cells abound To kiss, to curse the dirty ground Enlightened, tired, not one is found For what you seek is all around Should we die, our hearts arrest An act of war, I would attest Feast on walls, let bygones rest What we abhor is but our nest Claim parlay, be free and wild Burned textile, to flesh, a gun
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Break away, my youngest child The river Nile has all but won Steeples gone, up rise the spires Conscious longs, the mind entire In answer to the nightly fires Passing time, from dusk to dawn Skies align, the heavens call Sailing on, the days are gone Knowledge grows from none to all Conscious throngs, the mind is tired Therein bursts the nightly fires Nothing gongs, a thought inspired The time has come—the thought expires
Toxic Chicago -Andrew Duarte
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2 Worlds -Andrew Duarte
Dreamland -Andrew Duarte
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They’re Still Lifes -Lance O. Mrock Every family picture in the album is a still life frozen in time Their clothes look old, but their faces look younger than I am Every one of them was a part of the family’s history But now the only one that knows who they are is me I take out their pictures and talk to them about once a year I tell them not to be afraid; it’s OK, because I am still here I tell them they are still on life support and not completely dead They’re as alive as the memories that I have of them in my head I guess I should tell their stories to my kids some day But time goes by and the opportunities just slip away I wish I could take them and give them all one last hug Before the kids throw away my junk and pull their plug
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“The Past :
Life Behind a Seashell” -Oriane Dalmeida
The Story Most of the nannies, those kind women who take care of us at home and everywhere we go, our “guardian angels”, are standing there behind a table full of food and drinks. Some others are running after the children in order to prevent them from going too close to the sea. If you look closely, you will see my little cousin, Carole, sitting somewhere on the sand, petite and calm, watching the other children running, screaming, and playing. My Grandma Foulera, the funniest actress I had ever seen, is making fun of everything. She makes everybody laugh until they cry. Her refreshing cologne makes me want to hug her all the time, just to smell it. We do not go always to the same place. However, there is this place, this wonderful place where the sea meets the lake forming a unique contrast of colors, where there is a hundred different kinds of seashells, where I started being fascinated by this wonderful product of Mother Nature called seashell. * The first seashell of my collection. Purple with shades of white. Shaped like those whipped icecream.
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* Where Are You Going? Wait for me … As long as I can remember, we go to the beach almost every Sunday with friends and family after church. This is our time, time of happy reunion in front of the sea, time to forget all the stress of the week, time for us to play, to run, to forget about school. Everyone is there, smiling and having fun. Beautiful and sunny day, a bit windy, perfect temperature, it feels good to be outside. Grandma Foulera wears her favorite brown pants. I run to the sea. She suddenly catches my hand. I slow down, staring at hundreds and hundreds of white sand dollars in front of us. * When you are a child who likes to collect things for fun, you can’t go to the beach without grabbing this “sea gold”. It is crucial. From one reason to another, beaches are not my favorite place. However, it is a pleasure to go there because of “family quality time” and SEASHELLS. Where is Carole sitting today? This girl seems to have a weight on her heart. She seems to want to escape, to be far from here. She is drawing in the sun, always alone, always mysterious. * Magic? Seashells, perhaps more than other sea prod-
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ucts, are fascinating because there is a myth around them. When you find a large empty seashell and put it to your ear, you can hear the sounds of the ocean coming from the inside. It seems to be magic. Myth or reality? Do we hear “the ocean” in a seashell? * My favorite I have big seashells, small ones, round, oval, whipped like an icecream, symmetrical, spiral down, bulky, flat, spiky, shiny, smooth, jagged, mysterious, white, yellow, pink, brown, green, blue, purple, black. They are all wonderful and beautiful. However, I have My Seashell. It does not have something really special. There is no memorable event or unique memories around it. It is just a seashell like any other seashell in the world. It is made from the same material than any other seashell. It has no original or authentic form. However, my cherished seashell has a particular color that makes it special. When you look closely, you can see serpentine lines on the surface of my favorite seashell which seem acting like its ID in order to show that it is unique. When I hold my seashell in my hand, I imagine it alive because it was alive. It was the house of some marine mollusk. * Dream
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It’s 11AM. Cloudy day. I am sitting at the window, one of my biggest seashell in my hand. Skyblue, soft, and shiny. I usually feel pretty away from where I am when I have it in my hand. My thoughts travel. I am somewhere peaceful. I can’t describe it; it just feels so good to be there. I don’t really see anything special. However, I know that I am safe. I think seashells have the power to make you dream awake. You just have to let them. Suddenly, I hear voices. I don’t pay attention and I don’t even want to. Then, I hear my name “Oriane Oriane” the way my mother says it. I am back there, in my room. I feel like I am just waking up. * Gone I forget than my seashell is in my hand because of my mom’s voice. She is getting mad downstairs because I don’t answer when she calls me. I stand up the way I would if I was sitting on a sharp object. I hear a sound. Something broke. Mommy is still screaming downstairs “Oriane Oriane come here now!” I just realized that I broke THE seashell, the one who makes me dream. Although it is not my favorite, I just want to cry. I hear my mother coming. I feel that she is mad. I am just standing there looking at my Broken One. My mother appears; “It is gone”, I say, “It is gone.” Why
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is it so important to me? Why am I this sad? I have a lot of seashells and the one that just broke is not that uncommon. I can still find another one just like that. However, I have tears in my eyes and I don’t even know why. * My favorite seashell still smells the ocean where it lives for a while. It is shaped like a cone. With the help of the sunlight, you can see a myriad of orange straight lines going from the exterior to the interior of the shell. * When I think about seashell, I also think about sea, sand, sun, light, ocean, water, blue, yellow, bikini, sunglasses, and other things we use in summer. It’s October, a year since my passion for seashells “woke up”. It is Sunday and it is a pretty sunny day. I am walking in the hot sand, side by side with the sea. My nanny is not very far from me; she is watching me. Suddenly, I see a bright light coming from the sand. First, I think it is a piece of glass. I get closer and I see a beautiful shell, brown and gray with some bright pink lines. * I wish I have seashells from all over the world. I would group them by country, cherishing them like they were inestimable, like they were just made for me. I would really like to get those exotic ones, with crazy forms and shapes, ex-
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plosion of colors, and unique beauty. However, I am pretty proud of what I have. “Sand dollars” are the most common too find. There are everywhere, white, shaped like flowers, designed to please, laying down on the sand, waiting for us to pick them. However they are very fragile; they break, most of the time, before I get home. “Verrucosa” is not too big, not too small; it is round and white but not too much. There are some shades of pink and there are lines drawn around it like a piece of art. “Coquina” is one of my favorite. For this species of seashell, a lot of colors are available like blue, purple, yellow, red, brown, white, pink, and orange. However mines, because I have four of them, are pure red with shades of white. I got them all the same day. They were next to each other, like they were waiting for me. I also have the “Imperial Venus”, “Elegant Dosinia”, “Egg Cockle”, “Sunray Venus” or something that look like it. “Rose Petal Tellin” is so small, so cute, so pink, and it looks like candy; I want to eat it sometimes; I have a bunch of them. * I am still amazed by the delicacy and elegance of my favorite seashell. I take it into my hand and know that it is my lucky charm. If I have exam, quiz, or test, I am confident and feel almost heroic; I have my seashell with me,
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I have everything under control, everything is going to be fine. * It’s August, 25th 2008. We have to move to another house. We finish packing everything. I feel sad because I was born in this house. All my friends are in this area. I was raised here, with all of them, like a very big family. However, I am also pretty excited. I have my room in the new house. There is no need to share a room with my little brother anymore. My own room! I will be able to expose my collection of seashells everywhere I want. Today is the big day, first night in MY ROOM. The first day is weird. We are moving “stuffs”, arranging, making the place nice. The new house is so big. I am kind of lost. My room is perfect. It is purple and white and I have my bathroom. There are some big boxes left but I am almost done setting up. It is time to find a place for my seashells. Where is this big brown box marked “SENSIBLE”? I remember putting it with the rest of my “stuffs”. I can’t find it. I run to my parents’ room. My mom doesn’t remember seeing it. I run to my nanny’s room. She is not even there. This house is so big. I run to talk to my dad in the living room. He is sleeping. I can’t wake him up. I run outside to talk to the driver. He didn’t see anything marked “SENSIBLE”. My brother is watching cartoons. He doesn’t even
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pay attention to me. I am scared. I am suddenly cold. Did I lose them all? I have headache. I feel like I am going to throw up. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel like crying. I feel too bad to cry. It hurts so bad to cry. I run to my room, trying to look everywhere. Nothing. I am going crazy. I think I am going to scream loud, very loud. * It is not really about a story about seashells. It is mostly about my past. Everything that I am talking about is a part of my past, my childhood. I don’t have most of them anymore. I don’t have my grandma anymore because she died five years ago. I don’t have my collection of seashells anymore because I lost them all. I don’t live in Ivory Coast anymore. My nanny is not watching me anymore. Therefore, it is about my past and what I lived. I know that I will never be able to live the same moments. Everything is different. The past is the past. There is no going back.
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No Name 1 -Fallon Sweeney
Mountain Multiple Exposure -Fallon Sweeney
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Boy -Casey Hopkins
Stepping Out of Line -Fallon Sweeney
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Out younder, twas morning But no one could hear The young boy who was weeping Shedding many sad tears They danced and they laughed And paraded all about With drinks in their hands And bread in their mouths All he wants is them to see The pain that they cause How it rips him wide open Nothing to heal it but gauze So they continue to frolic But soon they will know It was they who were hurting Not the child who cried so.
Memory Vault -Elias Jablonski Tree -Casey Hopkins The cat and the dog Play hide and go seek No one can see But forever they weep One is the tree While the other, a leaf Karma tells them to stop But how can they They’re weak.
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Gifts -Ethan Oliver Holmes In an alley, in the center of a city in heat, in the filth found there left and collected, hidden beneath the rust-ridden girders, behind a limp fence of chain-links, elevating rails and riders and squealing cars above trash and tall grass growing through the concrete—a birth. Born in fear on the border, reeking, putrid, and weeping in that place of passing and intermittent gasping where the poor and rich will often meet. It’s a girl. Cardboard kept carefully crisp is her seat. Trash bags—black, sheered, and splayed—create a broomstick canopy—black like the phonelines like the cacophony of crows, which grow and grow black like the soles of her feet. These are the things she will remember: She’ll remember the smell of decay and the taste of it sometimes too—the frightening eyes of well-fed rats, and the very places from which their strength they drew. She’ll remember the deranged howl of the nighttime streets—dark scowls—foul bleats—and the names of uncouth cops on their beats will be burned into her memory. She will better relate to rats and raccoons than proud people—she will live as a recluse in a crowd.
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She will know hunger’s pangs better than love’s, and her dreams will seem titanic, far removed from the world of champagne and lady’s gloves. What will her dreams even be? Will she have them? How will she dream when, beyond this life, she hasn’t seen? What possibly could she dream? Will she aspire to be the land-fill’s queen? What sapling grows in the shade of taller trees never having the seen the sky? Choked by proximity to her elders and those her age, who she will perceive as her betters, she won’t allow herself to dream or her dreams will be quick to fade. What dream survives in this place? The bed here laid for her is the best they can provide—for her they would give their lives, but this life is so little to be lain. Her future is bleak, for she is in human hands, and she will mourn her life without a mother. The flesh is weak. Indeed. It is her will that must admit her through. She will remember the subtle change in the sound of the storm drains with each season and the differing reason for the flow. She’ll remember the reflection of the moon in tall buildings, and when a man, suspended in the air, cleans the moon to a glassy glow.
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Wrapped in thick blankets stuffed with newspaper insulation in between, she will watch a diorama sky hung on strings cross strung with bottles colored white, blue, brown, and green—oblong and of varying thicknesses— hanging above, filling her eyes with shifting blurs of incomprehensible colors and her ears with the cutest little clinks. They will make music with the coming of the trains—pitch changing and music rearranged with every and each coming of the rains. She will remember the first time she sees the sea and the first time she has a reason to believe. Yes, she will remember the pain, but they will make her remember everyday they lived together and every day they lived without complaint. Her dreams will be outside of all boundaries; she won’t dream like you or me.
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Lily Pad -Casey Hopkins. Emerging from the swampy bayou, It shelters the frog from its obese enemies. The flies that are too scared, Too hurt to come near him, Have now gotten stuck in the sticky sap of the sad willow tree. All alone now, The tree weeps.
Mask -Andrew Duarte
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No Name 2 -Fallon Sweeney
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Spirit Tent -Nicholas Sumoski
Untitled -Casey Hopkins
Cold and breathless, the winters wind rises slowly around the dwelling beast. It has been so long since the accident, but it plays over and over in his anguished mind like a skipping record. He prays and prays for these dark, hostile images to go away, Being constantly reminded of the awful memory that pains his heart like a silver dagger. Over and over again, it lurches through his brain; he cant stop it. Because the thought of her beautiful face is the only thing that gives him hope. As he wrestles with sorrow, his veins become hot, his blood begins to boil. Then, suddenly, a flash of shimmering light enters the worn out room. His lover stands in the eerie doorway, naked and crying. They are overjoyed at the sight of one another So much that they collapse into each others arms
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She massages his shaking hand in such a way that all his troubles that once brought the man so close to death have now vanished. "Don't worry," she cries. "I am home again, and I love you."
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-Matt Kaluza
Door -Casey Hopkins Open one door Pop out of another Look through the mirror All you see is your brother A bee is a fly Is an aunt is a wasp You can't be yourself Without paying a cost.
Dark Forest -Nicholas Sumoski
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Darkened Dreams -Sarah Sumoski The light was shining, bright and still. Yet the world’s moving too fast to fill the dreams I’ve had throughout the night each time I’ve dreamed the same beautiful dream and each were amazing though it was never what it seemed. The light is right there next to me but I can never reach it. I can only see the light shining down. I can never touch it no matter how hard I try. My dreams are just out of my reach. The darkness is spreading all over me. How can I make my dreams reality? It is amazing but I can’t see how to make my dreams real and in front of me. It there was one thing I could do, I’d push all that darkness away and let the light shine each and every day. That can never happen, no matter how hard I try. The darkness just won’t let me fly up high. The life I have is about to begin but my dreams are there, where I’ve always been.
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No Da Buss -Andrew Duarte
Long May You Run -Dana Mack
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Red Angel -Andrew Duarte
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Space Rainbow -Elias Jablonski
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Don’t Fear the End -Sarah Sumoski The light of the full moon shone through the dusty, broken window into the abandoned house. The twilight wind brought with it the noises of small animals, the smell of the new spring flowers, and a shadowy figure. The shadowy figure crept through the darkness toward the front door dragging a heavy black bag behind it. The moon’s light revealed a tall boy about 16 years old with high cheekbones and short black hair with a strained expression on his face from exertion. He could smell the rotting wood of the house, hear an owl screech from a nearby tree, and hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he made his way up the driveway. The bag he was dragging kept getting stuck on the loose branches and tall weeds. The boy muttered under his breath as he walked. Then as the bag was being pulled up the uneven, wooden steps of the house, the boy heard a ripping sound. At first he couldn’t figure out where the sound was coming from. From inside the bag, he heard a low moan. The boy looked down at the sack he had been dragging for the last two hours over uneven ground. “Could she be waking up? “I know the drug should last for a few more hours,” thought the boy with a nervous look in his eyes. He pulled the bag up one more stair till
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the bag was resting on the rotting porch of the house. As the boy stopped to catch his breath, a young girl with waist length light brown hair, about 15 years old, rolled out of a rip in the black bag. The boy looked into the girl’s eyes and saw a blank, faraway look. “Good,” he sighed, “The drug is still effective.” The boy quickly pushed the girl back in the bag and tied the rip closed. He then pushed the bag and the girl through the leaning doorway into the abandoned house. As the boy struggled to close the door, he could hear a car slowly making its way up the long, overgrown, gravel driveway. “Oh no. Who could that be?!” whispered the boy. As quick as lightning, the boy dragged the girl over to a small hall closet a few feet away and shut the door. The car came up to the house but instead of stopping, turned around and drove back down the driveway. “Whew. That was close,” whispered the boy in a frightened voice, “Now let’s get settled.” A light snapped on and illuminated the darkness of the shabby house. The girl could feel sweat dripping down her forehead as her fever finally began to subside. The headache she had had for the last few days was only increasing to the point that she could barely see at times. “Where am I,” the girl whispered as she took in her surroundings. A medium sized room with the windows all boarded over, a
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musty smell, and rats scurrying through the walls. She was seated in an old dinning chair tied up with itchy rope in the middle of the floor. “Well Agata, you are my guest for a while,” the boy said as he walked into the lamp light. “Mitchel!? What did you do?” whispered Agata as an overwhelming amount of pain raced through her body, “You know I’m supposed to be in the hospital! I can’t get better in here! Take me back.” “You know I can’t do that. If you go back to the hospital, I won’t be able to see you. You will die and I won’t be allowed to be with you,” whispered Michael looking at his feet. “Mitchel get this into your small twisted brain. We weren’t going out. You’re a creep. That’s the reason you’re not allowed to see me,” exclaimed Agata. “Now untie me. NOW!” “No. I want to be with you when you die and the only way I can do that is if we stay here,” whispered Mitchel almost to himself. The pain was obvious in Agata’s eyes. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably and she was almost blinded by the pain in her head. Sweat continued to pour down her face and she started to get angry red blotches all over her arms. “If you keep me here any longer, I will die and it will be because of you. The doctors were helping me. They were curing me of my brain tumor. But now all their work was in vain because you have caused me to go
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without my medicine and you have drugged me to the point that my tumor has probably grown. You are the one who is killing me now, not my doctors. Now please take me back to the hospital!” exclaimed Agata as her voice cracked form the pain. “They were killing you. I know they were. They were making you all puffy and were killing your immune system,” spoke Mitchel, “How can I let that happen to someone I love and that loves me.” “I do NOT love you. I fear you! You’re a creepy stalker who kidnapped me!” yelled Agata. “You’ll remember our love in due time,” said Mitchel as he walked toward the door. “Now get some sleep. You look like you need your rest. Goodnight.” With that said, Mitchel walked out the door. Agata could hear the floor boards creaking as he walked up the stairs and into a room. Then all there was was silence. “What am I going to do? I’m going to die sitting here tied to a chair,” thought Agata as she strained against the ropes keeping her in the rotting chair. “What am I going to do?! I’m freaking out!! Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Calm down Agata. Calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all, just a crazy boy who kidnapped you from the hospital and slowly dying from your cancer. Other than that, there’s nothing to fear. I have to get out of here! I have to.” With her head feeling a little bet-
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ter, Agata started kicking the legs of the chair. Nothing happened and she fell into an uncomfortable sleep. All of a sudden a few hours later, one of the legs of the chair collapsed, CRASH, from the blows Agata had giving it. It sent her sprawled out on the floor. The chair crumbled to dust and debris. The ropes holding Agata to the chair fell away. Startled by the sudden accident, Agata didn’t move for a moment stunned from when she had hit the floor. After Agata got her bearings and made sure that she wasn’t hurt in any way from the crash, she waited a few minutes. Then confident that Mitchel wasn’t awakened by the noise, she slowly got to her feet rubbing her arms, which looked as if she had gotten a horrible sunburn, but was actually, the first stage of her cancer slowly taking over her body. Without so much as a final look, Agata stumbled out the door into the morning sun and started down the driveway. Walking was a problem for her because of how long she had been away from the hospital and her medicine. The cancer inside her was slowly killing her and Agata could do little to stop it. As she neared the end of the driveway, Agata looked for anything familiar so she could find out where she was, but there was nothing. She then took the risk and painfully began her way down the road. After she had been walking for about
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20 minutes, her vision started to swim. Agata leaned against a tree for support but that did little to help. The world was spinning and then the everything went black. Agata woke up a few hours later. The sun was directly above her which meant it was around noon. “Why didn’t anyone see me while I was laying here?” wondered Agata as she slowly got to her feet. The ground started to spin again but she leaned against a tree and the feeling slowly went away. Suddenly, Agata saw a car driving down the road, not sure whether the car was Mitchel or not, she moved more into the trees.
Sky of Blood -Andrew Duarte
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Chicago 1 -Douglas Senf
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Friends Can’t Be Trusted -Salam Mohammed If you have something to say, say it to my face I will be waiting, waiting for that day You think you’re so cool stealing my trends Well that’s cool because you lost me as a friend Because of you I have nobody Nobody to walk with, work with, or whisper to All I want is a true friend to come out of the blew Or just someone to talk to I gave you all my attention And managed to get a detention I guess I made a big mistake By having a friend that was fake I can feel the anger between us as we walk past each other Your eyes full of rage as we pass one another My heart has a big bruise But of course you would never have a clue Why did I trust a word you’ve ever said? All you’ve done was hurt me instead And I don’t know if I can believe you again
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Chicago 3 -Douglas Senf
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A Walk Through the Woods -Megan Sumner
The wind blows fiercely As I walk through the freshly fallen snow Birds chirp softly; Twilight is reaching Us. I have the feeling that I am Alone My childhood is over The footsteps of my past crunch softly behind me Leaving behind an imprint I can’t seem to face A New Age is coming; faster than I ever could have Imagined Hope died the day He went away His eyes were as bright as the stars In the purple-pink sky ahead of me Our hearts beat as one as He held me Close I see the end of the road Leading to a world unknown I do not know where it will take me All I hope is that We will be together there Forever
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Sanctify -Megan Sumner
The Goddess of the Night stands proudly; her neon dress illuminates the night sky. She gazes upon the twinkling silver barrettes above her, raining down their essence, into her willowing strands of hair. Gusts of wind pull at her hems; they wrap her into a cocoon of protection. The Wind is her friend, and guides her through the shimmering forest to a place unknown. She moves onward. Little cackles break through the howling gusts; She can see fire light shadowing the greenery. Dwarf-like goblins are chanting their treacherous song: “Hay ho! Go to! More fire! More fire! Burn down the castling trees! Master! Master! Help us succeed! “ The Goddess looks to the Wind to guide her; she knows what she must do. As the smoke rises from the bellowing pit She inhales, She blows.
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WOOOOOOOO! The flame fights against the current, and all the goblins tumble into the singed ferns. Her ancient feet sleek forward calmly, mending all damaged roots in her path. The twirl of her skirt begins to rush back and forth, creating a rush of colors, blue, green, purple, white. It encases her until she beams pure white. The goblins blackened eyes shine with wonder‌ BAM! Light intensifies outward across the planes of the forest, knocking down all in its path. Good, evil, all creatures feel the hot light slam through their bodies and out again. ‌For a moment, everything is silent. The Goddess, slumped forward, begins to weep soft sobs into the dirt. The warm droplets form little seedlings who poke their heads out, smiling up towards their Great Mother.
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They multiply, and multiply, until the forest is brand new once again. As She stands firmly to her feet, the Wind beckons her to follow him. No more Evils will lurk her now, all is done, quiet, a babe reborn.
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Bald Eagle Flying, Mississippi River, Iowa -Tyler C. Grudowski
A Calling -Matt Devries He sauntered through the field, a white man forty some years of age wearing a pair of large-rimmed glasses and bearing slicked dark hair. The expression on his face was thoughtful and vigilant. He strolled amidst a massive pumpkin patch, its hilly surface gouged into ridges. Large, harvestable pumpkins perched in haphazard positions throughout the rolling expanse. The man look ruminatively from the field and its humongous vegetables to the faraway barnyard, stables, haybale maze and souvenir shop, all preceded by and superseded by a tractor-plotted dirt path, and finally to the early morning sky. Most of the atmosphere overhead was a nightly black; it grew gradually brighter until the horizon, where an orange glow rose up in a wave, its crest a wild, mixed effulgence of red and green and gold. He looked further down, to the lowest point in the field of pumpkins, where a small lake existed. There a rowboat sat, half-ashore, his lady within and awaiting his return. He trampled over clumps of reeds and cattails that lined the basin's muddy rim. Pushing the boat further into the water, he climbed in and rowed until he and she were floating near the lake's center.
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She looked so serene and, though she hadn't an opportunity to groom recently, as beautiful as the day he first saw her. She lay on her side, her brownish-blonde hair obscuring her face in grouped strands. He brushed them away fondly, wishing he'd have spent more time with her. The boat leaned as he hunched over its edge. He stared into the black water, wondering how low down its depths truly went. How easy it was for him to imagine himself standing up and diving headfirst into the frigid water, swimming down deeper and deeper until he reached a point where it became too dim to see and his ears and lungs ached, and no matter how hard he struggled, he would never be able to resurface in time; his date with Death would be sealed, and perhaps the world would be a better place. But he would not do that. He couldn't leave his darling to waste away on this rowboat in her lonesome for some nobody to stumble upon. They would reap glory for the discovery, despite him being the one to verily discover her. And besides; everyone must fulfill their life's calling, even if its effect on the world is a bitter one. There was a thin road beyond the pumpkin patch. At this time of day, it was desolate— usually. Across the distance between him and
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the road, he spotted on its side a woman, blonde and jogging, headed in the direction of the sunrise. With an enervated sigh, he lifted his female companion into his arms and tossed her body into the lake. Her pockets and undergarments stuffed with weights and rocks, she crashed into the water with a familiar splash, one that chilled him with success and finality. He watched her corpse roll over torpidly and sink beneath the water, until the reflection of her pale skin and light clothes was concealed within the lake's depths. He whistled an old tune as he rowed back to shore—The Mariner's Hymn. He found it almost never failed to soothe him, or subdue the paranoia. Upon arrival, he dragged the rowboat to a nearby spot amongst the pumpkins where he'd parked his truck. Still whistling gaily, he drove down the street adjacent to the pumpkin patch. He knew that the road spanned for a great distance in only two directions, and he was headed towards the brighter half of the sky.
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Fever -Megan Sumner
Helpless. The fan spun high above my head Slowly it slipped away climbing Higher, higher. Weakened. The hot perspiration congealed around me. My head expanded. The air is heavy. Hot mist filled the holes in the air. My eyes could barely see‌ Blinded. The lights flickered in the reflection of the speeding car; They shimmered against the glass. Suddenly, I am covered in raindrops, as I am lifted by a man in blue. The lights screamed from the ceiling. The piercing white glared at me. I hear beeping, scuffling, and shouting‌ Sharp metal pierces my skin. It fills me with an unknown liquid. My body shakes violently as it consumes me.
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I am afraid. Pulse is low now… Thump…thump… Calm air rushes in… Voices become whispers… A light dims. Darkness.
Play Ball! -Nicholas Sumoski
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Buried Alive -Gina Mae Temelcoff I put my emotions in a box and lay them in the ground. Handfuls of dirt and resolve leave no traces to be found. Every emotion preserved in the buried solid oak is not to see the night fall or the sunrise to be broke. Your smiles and laughter are meaningless here and the promises broken bring not a shed tear. Apathy runs rampant on the cold night's ground without a care in the world for the joy that's once found. Years of dedication squandered in one final uttered sentence seal the lid forever, encasing me in silence.
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Chicago 6 -Douglas Senf
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Being Different -Salam Mohammed I watch as everyone stares at me with their deviant eyes as I walk to sit in the corner of the room. As I pass them, they give me the death stare one by one. I’m that lonesome girl that wears glasses and doesn’t like to talk to anyone. That everyone treats like a no body. For that reason, I don’t like to talk to somebody. It doesn’t matter if I’m different, just because I wear different color clothes than you, I’d always say, As I sit in the corner of the room. Everyone avoids me and think they are better, But why? What have I done? I thought everyone had a voice… Well…I guess it’s time to show you mine. My anger is full of hatred as I think, “You hurt me.” There I said it, Yes you, the one who always stares at me, the one with the cool headphones and baggy pants, and the one who is always conceded about their hair. All of you, make me feel like my heart has
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been stabbed by a knife as the pain continues as I look at you. And I just sit in the corner of the room. My name is the meaning for peace. My thoughts are what keep me going. When I see that frowned smirk on your face, I just want to punch you. What did I do to deserve this? Why won’t anyone be nice to me? I felt a sharp object get thrown at me, like how a basketball is thrown at a player who misses and gets hit. I’ve had it. “You’re a jerk.” I say as everyone looks at me and sees the eyes of a fierce tiger. My fists close as I stand up and slam my hands on the desk. “You guys make fun of me, not for your own pleasure, but to let out your anger on someone.” “Why take it out on a girl who is different than you?” “Aren’t we all one?” “Shouldn’t we all be treated how our teachers and family treat us?” “I’m sick of all your gossip behind my back.” “I’m done whether you like it or not.” “And I’m proud to be different,” As I sit back down in the corner of the room.
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