Mosaic 2022
Mosaic 2022
Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota Literary and Arts Magazine
Editor
Katherine Novak
Selection Committee Jack Broaders Shanice Davis Natalya Mayotte Lexi Van Ornum
Faculty Advisor Dr. Erin Mae Clark
Cover Art
“Echoing Light” by Gabriel Rysavy
Editor’s Note The past few years have been riddled with change and oscillation between hope and hopelessness. In the face of adversity, we often reflect within ourselves and reminisce past experiences and moments of simplicity. This comes with waves of frustration, repudiation, acceptance, and appreciation. With the seasons of change—both good and bad—connection is often sought. Through human connection and the inherent bond we find in nature, both solace and strength can be achieved. Through both of these connections, we are able to realize the beauty in life as we navigate the “why’s” and “how’s” that it presents. All of this has been made apparent through the written and visual pieces that are included in this year’s edition of Mosaic. Each selected piece conveys the many feelings that are experienced as change and adverstiy alike transpire; nature being the only source of contentent at times and, at others, a reminder of the inevitability of such change. I would like to thank the selection committee and my advisor, Dr. Erin Mae Clark, for the invaluable experience it has been to develop and create this year’s edition of Mosaic. It has been a wonderful learning experience from which I hope to bring knowledge to my future endeavors. It has not gone without its challenges, though I am grateful for every moment. To the writers and artists: thank you for submitting your written and visual works to the magazine. It has been a pleasure to get to know many of you through your creative voices. I hope that you enjoy the finished product that is this edition. In a world of constant change, never stop creating.
Katherine Novak
Table of Contents the dream: a series, Bre Kenney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Treenery, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Still A Pioneer, Sean Burke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Café Terrace at Night, AnneMarie McMahon . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 East End, Sarah Hannan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 The Cat-Templation of Milo the Philospher, Haley Graham . . . . . 8 Little grey boy, Lauren Kantrovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Green Window, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 The Maple Tree, Jane McGann . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Impressionism, Lawrence Wirries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Brush Strokes, Katherine Novak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Country Stirrings, Brooklyn Bublitz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Frosty Mirror, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Waterfall, Haley Graham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 The Victor, Sunny Nahrgang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Danger, Terra Lieser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Satan’s Sacred Place, Hanna Dorff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 The Lament, Lawrence Wirries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Flocking to Mary, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Chains, Jack Broaders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Let the magic begin, Terra Lieser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Curiosity, Sarah Hannan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Staircase, Christa Ingabire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Father, Lucille Carlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Conversion, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 The Last Letter of a Royal Seer, Luke Puffer . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Monastery in the Mountains, Faustyna Nguyen . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Writer’s Block, Dayana Ortiz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Winter Scene, Christa Ingabire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 I’m dreaming of a whi—, Lauren Kantrovich . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Light at the End of the Tunnel, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Perfect Pair, Jillian Alekna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Whole, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 USS Cassin Young, Sarah Hannan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 The Roles I’ll Play, Bre Kenney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Happiness, Hanna Dorff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Time to fly, Terra Lieser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Final Breath, Sunny Nahrgang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Starry Path, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 The Thought of Letting Go, Hunter Phillips . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Epilogue, Lauren Kantrovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Letter to Heaven, Grace Cushman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Brad and Chris, Brady Lindauer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Woven, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 For the Couple Who Became John and Mary, Madden Keroff . . . 55 Forever, Terra Lieser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Remnants, Jack Broaders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Adorned Web, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Manifesto of a Runaway Heart, Jonah Stafford . . . . . . . . . . . 62 The little things, Terra Lieser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Calm Waters, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Sunlight Sunflower, Sunny Nahrgang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Sunflower, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Silhouetted Treeline, Katherine Novak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Paper Trees, Brady Lindauer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Mock Orange, Jillian Alekna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Pirouetting Clouds, Gabriel Rysavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Crepuscular Light, Isabelle Fortner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
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the dream Bre Kenney
there once was a girl who dreamed. every night, she was transported to a mystical wood each tree glazed with snow that glittered with wonder and light but within herself, she felt only darkness it wasn’t a bad dream, no, in fact it was a rather pleasant one, but she was not the sweet and magical princess of this realm, she was, rather, a sort of darkness that seemed to eek her way into the serenity of the snow in tonight’s version of the dream, the girl stepped outside of her usual resting spot in the trees. instead, she ventured into a clearing surrounded by the tallest of oaks her breath clouded around her in a soft fog, but she didn’t feel cold she felt…alive tonight’s dream was new. It was exciting. and it started with that clearing and the feeling of freedom that it gave her freedom always comes with a price, but for the joy she felt dancing and spinning in the snow, why, she felt like she would pay anything to keep that dream alive. so when she heard the trees begin to whisper, she didn’t think twice she just colored the snow with red
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Treenery Anonymous
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Still A Pioneer Sean Burke
Smoke billowed from the stack as the wheels of the iron beast awoke from their slumber and started their long pilgrimage on cold rails. A messy faced man set down his bag on the wooden benches lining the inside of the car and leaned his head out the window. He gazed through the crowd that were seeing off their soon to be departed, through the men and beasts that made their business down the muddy streets, through the freshly built wooden stores and stables. The man’s eyes were set on the hills, trees, and rivers that his heart sent him to find so many years ago. He was older now, and his body and mind let him know. Time was moving too fast for him. Sitting down, he reached into his old leather bag and pulled out a pencil and a journal dated “1824”. September 4th, 1876 When was the last time I put my thoughts to words? When I had youth, energy, and a dream. It’s a shame man’s fatal flaw is time, but then again, what would our lives be without it. As I sit and write, the world I have become used to is flashing by me. I am glad I was able to enjoy it in it’s full when I first arrived with wagon and ox. Much of that virgin world still lives in me today while pick and shovel makes work ravishing it. I cannot blame the men who do it, I earned a good dollar from that type of work when I first arrived. But I digress, I don’t mean to tell you about my life. Just my knowledge of it. Scraps that I have picked up in my years along the coast and now that I must return East it would be meaningful to leave a part of me behind. I only hope you will listen to a few words from an old man who once was a spike driver, a gold panner, a surveyor, but all still a pioneer at heart. I first arrived in a land where the trees stood tall and the air was quiet. But given time, we all change.The trees will fall and the cacophony of metal striking stone will follow. One afternoon you stand tall and proud, and the next morning a cane will be in your hand.What I tell you is not meant to send you into the streets looking for life (although it will be where you look), but to prop your heavy head up. Look at the light and then look at the shadows.You will see all the stories you will ever need that way, and with that you can live. The old man stopped writing, looked over the paper, and then returned to it with pencil in hand. Trees were a green and brown blur as the sound of pencil scratching on paper mixed with the lull of the train car’s wheels. With a faint sigh he tore the paper from its roots in the spine of the journal, and let it slip out the window. For a moment the sheet was a bright speck of white against a backdrop of gray rocks before it was snatched by the wind. Sent through forests and plains, over rivers and valleys, the thoughts on that paper would arrive where they were needed. All it would take would be time.
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Café Terrace at Night AnneMarie McMahon
One somber night, with darkened skies, a small round table, sits quietly by. This small round table, in the middle of the floor, surrounded by people yet still alone. This small round table, cries out in despair, “What’s wrong with me? Someone sit down!” This small round table, despite all the cries, ignored by all people continues to sit by. It sits quietly by, under the darkened sky, and watches people go by and by and by.
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East End
Sarah Hannan
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The Cat-Templation of Milo the Philosopher Haley Graham 8
Little grey boy
Lauren Kantrovich
yes, you, my darling whiskered boy— crouching and pouncing on hills of grass and leaves, your motor rumbles sweetly. You heed my call, a quick click of the tongue and you fit in my arms with ease. Nuzzle up to me and I’ll nuzzle up to you. Sibling, brother, mother – all that I am to you.
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Green Window Anonymous
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The Maple Tree Jane McGann
The world used to be a grassy lawn and the height of a maple, which had everything but the answer to the greatest mystery of my life: Why does the tree grow leaves of fire once a year? I knew only one place to look for it. “Mom, why does our tree change color every fall?” In words that were lost on me then, you said less sunlight meant less food, that less food meant less green. I sucked on each syllable like a sweet, savoring the satisfaction of an answer. But now those words have lost their taste, and they sour instead of sooth because I’d rather the leaves be ablaze than a stain of the onslaught of seasons. The trees won’t stop changing, marking the close of yet another year. Now when I see an inkling of flame on those first hollow days of fall, I’m reminded that I’m changing too, and that every fall takes me further from you. I know why the trees change now. But Mom, do they have to?
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Impressionism Lawrence Wirries
Monet, where is your infamous haystack? Flick and the fling of the brush led you astray. Though post in time, you became a modern. Placing thyself under the wings of Hume. Inviting us all to a life of doom. Did you think your impressionist lantern would make us happy when we see blotched hay? Your empirical art took me aback. For if I cannot see form, but only shape, then what is man that I ought appreciate?
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Brush Strokes Katherine Novak
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Country Stirrings Brooklyn Bublitz
A farmer lies asleep in his bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. He rose from his slumber to check outside nothing but typical, country stirrings. He returns to his dreams, ignoring the knocks on the window. Morning sun, same routine, fields to tend. However, something strange, new appeared out amongst the crops he eyed a figure standing in the distance. No, not a person, a scarecrow. It was old, worn, and decrepit. With a burlap sack for a face, wearing stained and well used work clothes. The farmer assumed it was just a prank “Must be those Thompson boys again,” Night fell, the farmer asleep. Tap. Tap. Tap. Awaking once again to cross his room. Looking outside reveals nothing, but a silhouette standing in the fields. The farmer awakens the crops need upkeep. It moved. Ever nearer to the house it loomed. Sick of these games, He tries to pull the damn thing out. Burlap falls away, bone was concealed. The scarecrow was human. Long dead but still human. Fingers, skin, bone, all once human. 14
The corpse was hauled away taken for evidence. Days passed; normalcy returned. Back to quiet, country nights as the farmer slept. Tap. Tap. Tap. He roused from his dream. Tapping at the window again? No, this came from the foot of his bed. Someone was inside, a man’s voice whispered. The farmer felt the low tone in his bone marrow. “What a shame, I’ll have to make another scarecrow.”
Frosty Mirror Gabriel Rysavy 15
Waterfall
Haley Graham
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The Victor
Sunny Nahrgang
It’s an unspoken rule in every fairy tale. The knight will be victorious. He shall never know the cavernous call in his stomach or the ache in his wings. He shall never know the bone grievous chill that haunts his very flesh. No one stops to question his motives, You simply wait for the last page to utter the words “And they lived happily ever after.” On the other side of the blade It matters not my strength nor size Because as a dragon to be slayed, It is an unspoken rule that I will not be victorious.
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Danger
Terra Lieser
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Satan’s Sacred Place Hanna Dorff
Who knows where you are? In school we were told Hell, but that seems too simple Hell is your heaven. Filling everyone’s lives with misery, calling us to sin. How dare you! The second we have love, you tempt us. When we succeed, you pull the rug out from under our feet. Now, that must be rock bottom, but we were wrong. We continue to fall. You enjoy watching from below, taking pleasure in our suffering, but from that we learn. Perhaps there is more we have not seen. Maybe there is more to you than we know.
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The Lament Lawrence Wirries They called me to help in the middle of the night. A warrior by trade and knight by faith. A beast, they said, with the malice of the Devil terrorized the once gentle town of Ephesus. So I went to the hillside country, to Turkey, where the grass fields are like a sea and the town an island. The horrible beast, I caught with my eyes, was towering over a young woman wearing a gold pendant. So my courser ran swift, my lance couched, pierced the rough hide of Beelzebub with the lance of Saint Michael. So the victory was won but so it seemed, for evil lay there unredeemed. Bones, dry and fresh; large and small, Were strewn by the mouth of the cave thronged with necklaces and gold coins covered in dust. A sin unconfessed. And so I knelt in sorrow by the hide of its pinions, and thought it might have been better if it did not bleed. For evil was abided in this once quaint and quiet town, Nor is it pure now that it is gone.
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Flocking to Mary Gabriel Rysavy
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Chains
Jack Broaders Two sets of footsteps echoed down a hallway, dimly lit by shuddering torchlight and the cold, distant light of the twin moons outside. A man made his way through the hallway with a figure following quickly behind. The man’s brown eyebrows were furrowed in concern. A woman followed closely behind him, irritation wrinkled her brow. “He is no longer himself, Urram! I am telling you to let it be!” The woman said as she tried to catch up with the man, her long purple dress and dark-blonde hair flowing behind her as she moved, “He has changed.” “He is still our brother, Raighla. We at least owe it to him to not just lock him away like a beast.” Urram said, his own loose ponytail and long beard of brown hair swaying to his steps. “Do you forget what he did?!” she asked. Urram let out a sigh. “No. No I don’t.” “So you know how dangerous he is.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. “So, why? Why do you want to see him? Why?” “Because I can’t make myself believe he really did it all.” he said, his eyes avoiding Raighla. “I saw the bodies, I can’t accept that he did that. That he is capable of doing it.” His bright green eyes turned to her, their usual brightness dimmed with horror. “He is our brother…not a monster.” Raighla let go of his arm, “Do what you must. But he is not our big brother anymore. He is someone—something—else now.” She sighed, her gaze falling to the dark stone floor below. Meeting Urram’s eyes she said, “I am coming with you. Just to make sure nothing happens. Even a caged monster is still a monster.” Urram solemnly nodded in response. They turned and continued their way down the hallway made of a dark-stone, which seemed to consume the little light that there was. Along the way they passed cell doors made of a muted brown wood with only gleaming golden metal frames on each door to distinguish them from the dark and dreary hallway. From small hatches near the top of the doors, appendages groped towards the two visitors, reaching towards elusive freedom or to strangle those who had incarcerated them. Urram refused to look towards the creatures, remaining on the far side of the hallway, feeling remorse for their plight. Raighla gave them no heed. They must have passed hundreds of cells when they made it to a set of immense double doors made of an iridescent metal which shone like a sun
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at the end of an oppressive and endless night in the stygian hallway. Upon the doors were sets of runes, each unique and varying in design and shape from one another, which glowed softly as the two approached. Urram slowly approached the doors, reaching his battle-scarred hand to the door. As his hand touched the metal, the runes ignited with an incandescent, blue light as with deep and loud clunks, like a heavy object repeatedly falling down a set of stairs, the massive doors opened inwards, revealing the massive, cavernous room behind. Urram and Raighla looked at each other and proceeded into the room. The spherical room was massive, with walls of bare, grey-blue rock and almost completely dark except for faint light emanating from a floating stone dias in the exact middle of the room. A narrow stone bridge moored the floating platform to the entrance. From the top of the room leading down to the dias were massive roots, as if they were from a tree of immense size, that intertwined with each other to create a cage around the platform. In the middle of the platform, his arms bound in chains connected to the ground, was a man sitting cross legged. He wore torn clothing and his long, shaggy black hair fell past his wild, unkempt beard. The man gave out a deep, unsettling laugh that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber as Urram and Raighla made their way closer, “So the God of Honor and the Goddess of Law have finally decided to grace me with their presence.” He paused and reared his head back, the hair in front of his face falling back to reveal crazed, blood-red eyes and a wide smile, “To what do I owe this prestigious honor?” Urram stopped about a dozen feet from the platform, staring at the man before him not able to bring words to himself. Raighla strode up beside him and laid her hand on his shoulder consolingly. “What? No rousing speech to embolden the cretinous crowd?” The man taunted, “No austere assault against my disreputable exploits? Huh, would never have thought that Urram, the God of Honor, the Great Exorbitant Orator, would ever not have something to say. Sad, really, I was looking forward to feigning interest.” He turned to Raighla, his blood-red eyes intensifying with anger, “And you, you whore of legislation. The almighty hand of the blind irrational law. Wife to the Oblivious Usurper. What do you have to say for my sinful conduct, or has the feline abhorer of articulation gotten to you as well?” Raighla refused to answer, her face remaining still and silent, portraying no reaction. Urram stood still, his green eyes betraying his uneasiness. “What happened to you, Cerron?” He finally managed to ask. Cerron turned an intense look toward Urram, standing up causing the chains to rattle. “What happened to me? What happened to me?” he repeated
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walking forward until his chains kept him from moving further. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I have been magically bound in a solitary prison cell against my will because of all you obtuse halfwits,” Cerron yelled. Before he could say anything else he fell to the ground, screaming in agony as an intense blue light enveloped him. After the light faded, Cerron arduously sat up with his head bowed. The fading light glinted in Raighla’s pale silver eyes, remorse was nowhere in her voice. “I will remind you that you are here because you killed a number of ‘obtuse halfwits’ and caused unknowable damage to the world as we know it.” “They deserved it, and you know it.” He responded with heavy breath, barely lifting his head. “They deserved every last second of what I did to them.” “You turned them practically inside out!” “I would more say, ‘obliterated them from existence.’” “And for what, harming a few unimportant mortals?” “You see that is where you and I diverge in thought, dear sister.” “Diverge to what, irrationality?” “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black…” “Enough!” Urram shouted, “the both of you.” He turned to Cerron, “So you did it then? You killed them?” “I believe I just admitted that, didn’t I?” Cerron responded. “Perhaps if you used those two things on the side of your head instead of that irritating orifice you call a mouth you would have picked that up.” Urram ignored the insult, “Why? Why did you do it?” Cerron lifted his head, his eyes fixed on Urram. “Because I care for the world. I care for those that I watch over, that’s why.” “How come you killed them? Why not peacefully?” Cerron laughed, his head rolling back, “Peacefully? With those dolts? Be more productive to try and seduce a stone wall. And trust me I have tried.” Urram looked to Cerron, his eyes narrowing in thought, “Then why destroy them, why not just wound or maim them?” “What I did to them was just what they had done to others. Seemed rather poetic, if you ask me.” He locked eyes with Urram, “Why all these questions? I don’t regret what I did, if that is what you are trying to get out of me. They got what they deserved, and I’d do it again if I could.” “I am just trying to understand why. Why go through the effort of killing multiple gods, when you could have found easier ways to deal with them.” Urram paused, “more honorable ways.” Cerron reeled back in laughter, the chains rattling as he moved. “‘hon-
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orable’ he says! What a delightful proposition! Everything is fixed! Oh, joyous day!” He sat back up, crossing his legs and putting his hands on his knees, his crazed red eyes locked with Urram’s concerned green. “I’d never thought of that! Thank you, so very much!” Urram stood in confusion as Raighla interposed herself between the two. Cerron’s eyes hardened, “You really are a dimwit, aren’t you? Honorable! I suppose you mean talk to them, don’t you?” He paused, noticing Raighla, and sighed. “Still need a little sister to keep you safe. How honorable.You can’t even stand in front of your dear big brother without her at your side.” “I am here of my own will and cause.” Raighla said. “Because unlike him, I know what you really are.” Cerron laughed, “You? You think you know what I am? Why, because you gave your precious husband the power that he always craved? Because you gave him the godhood that was once mine?” Raighla tensed, anger rising to her face and her facade starting to crack. “At least he will use it wisely.” “Wisely? That is like asking a toddler to wield a sword like a veteran of sixty years.Your husband is nothing but a usurper, a false god which you perpetuate.” Cerron narrowed his eyes, “He created the Endless Death. He has tampered with the natural order far more than I have.” Raighla’s face reddened with anger, her facade shattered. “Donn repaired the destruction that was caused by you!” Her voice echoed in the cavernous room, carrying the weight of the indisputable and objective universe and all that held it together. “He sought to bring the universe back into balance, not to chase a worthless endeavor! While you annihilated, he rebuilt from the rubble! Where you brought an end, he brought a new beginning! While you devolved into a thoughtless beast; he became what he needed to become in order to save the world from you!” The room stood silent. All three stood still as if frozen in time. Raighla was red faced, eyes burrowing into her big brother. Urram had stepped back from his sister, fearing retaliation. The silence was only broken by Cerron, whose chains rattled coldly as he stood. “Never in my eternal existence would I have thought that I would see Raighla, the goddess of law and order, of truth and justice, of rationality, utter such blatant falsities and while using her own divinity as well.” His voice was cold, cutting through the air like a sharp sword through paper. “So you believe that he is worthy of being called the God of Death, the God of Fate. Then answer me this; do you even know what it means to be Death? Do you know what it takes?” Raighla stood still, her eyes still fixed on Cerron through the gaps in
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the roots that made up his cage. She gave no response. Cerron raised his gaze to meet her’s, his voice carried the inevitability of annihilation, the last beating of a heart, the last gasp before an endless black void. “Do you or do you not?” He asked again. “Have you had to escort the souls to their final destination? Have you had to watch grown men cry out for their mothers as the end approached? Have you had to see the endless bloody fields left behind by so-called ‘righteous wars’?” His voice became louder and louder as he spoke, the room started to become colder and colder as heat was sucked away like the warmth of blood in the winter’s air. “Have you ever had to watch as the world burned, watch people cry out for their gods that will never answer their call, gods that are too lazy, too important, to hear? Have you accompanied those who have died to their next life, learned from them, walked in their shoes? Do you truly know Life’s toll and gift? Do you truly understand the nature of the mortal soul?” Anger faded from Raighla’s expression, but her eyes remained fixed on her brother. “No, I don’t.” “Then how in the shattered remnants of Hell and Heaven can you truly believe that your nitwit husband is capable of the mantle thrust upon him? You, a goddess who never even dares set foot upon the world you eagerly control, could never understand anything about what he messes with.You and every so-called ‘deity’ are nothing more than parasites which will destroy that which you cling to.” Cerron turned to Urram, who’s now pale face was in stark comparison with his bright green eyes and brown hair. “So here is my answer to you. We may have been brothers once, not anymore. I enjoyed what I did, and they deserved everything that I did to them. In fact, they deserved a lot more than that.” As he talked, Cerron made his way to the edge of his barken prison the sounds of clinking chains echoed through the room. “I may be inside a cage, but I am far from done.Very, very far from it. For as long as this wheel of Endless Death keeps turning, for as long as the souls are foiled from their rest, for as long as their minds are stretched far past their limit, I will never truly be done.” “It is not an Endless Death, but an Endless Life. They continue to live on.” Raighla said. Cerron chuckled, “Being broken on the wheel is far from life. What you just said only proves that you are as naive as your beloved moron.” Raighla took Urram by the arm and headed towards the door, “I think we are done here. Urram we need to go now.” Urram followed, his face still pale in disbelief. “I am not the only one. They all will realize what you really are. Those weary and breaking souls that you believe you have enthralled-” Cerron
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shouted from his wooden cage, “-will not remain so forever. Eloquent and rousing speeches of courage and honor will not satiate them forever. “When the end draws near, when their blood and dead are eclipsed by Winter’s breath, they will beg me to bring back what they held dear.They will cry out for the end of the Endless Death, and you will fall before them, when their secret hatred fills the skies.The lights of the gods will dim and meet their demise. The Tortured Ones,The Chained Ones,The Broken Ones will cry out with all of their lungs.” Raighla peered back to Cerron, “Is a prophecy supposed to scare me?” Cerron smiled, “Only if you know the truth.” Raighla and Urram exited the room, and the massive doors closed with a loud and deep thunk, silencing a bellowing chuckle from within.
Let the magic begin Terra Lieser 27
Curiosity
Sarah Hannan
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Staircase
Christa Ingabire 29
Father
Lucille Carlin I used to watch television in monochrome, spending my life in my yard or in my home. I didn’t have you to play with often, though I am the one who made your heart soften. This is not the world when things went well. Once they fell, it was almost hell. But we did not relent, even through such torment. Now we are no longer in that place, but tears still run down my face. I am not yet ready to deal with finality. The universe knows no end to brutality. But, in the end, we are family.
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Conversion Gabriel Rysavy
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The Last Letter of a Royal Seer Luke Puffer
I pen this manuscript currently to anyone whom it may concern, whether that be my gracious Emperor and friend, Leopold, or any of his attendants thereafter following my death. For I am certain I will die today, possibly within this very hour. How fitting it would be, after nine years have passed (one for each of the Muses) since the regretfully necessary execution of my illegitimate son. Leopold, if you read this, I mean not to question your decision those years ago.You have honored your promise to my family in all else: you have provided for me a life of food and rest, and in exchange I have served you faithfully. I could never expect you to extend that oath to my bastard son, and yet I risked his birth anyway. The law is clear, as was your decision: no two Seers can coexist within the court. At the time I was distraught, but in hindsight I am grateful you acted with such haste and discretion. Surely my pain would have been much worse had I the chance to know him in any meaningful way before he was taken. No, quite best you made him vanish when you did, so shortly after his birth. In all truth, Leopold, I forgave you for taking him from me years ago, and, have you any doubts now, let them be soothed. Even still, I forgive you. But I write this because presently a new vision seems to have locked me in its grips. A parting jest of the Fates, perhaps. My sight blurs between the dullness of this mortuary and the vibrant opulence of my youth. And so I write, scribbling this chicken scratch while my senses take me elsewhere: A boy lies awake, staring up at the moonlight that pierces the roof of his shack in beams. He strains his head at the faint sound of approaching footsteps outside, then rises quietly from his bed. The beams of moonlight cast ghostly shadows on his face as he dresses himself. A loud knock comes suddenly, startling the boy despite his anticipation. He unlatches the door. The muted glow of an ink-lamp spills into the shack, and a man shrouded in a deep-blue cloak steps inside. He latches the door behind him, then looks to the boy. “It has come to pass.” “Already?” the boy asks, his voice shaky with emotion. “No, not quite. But soon. Surely soon.” The boy takes a breath, then grabs his own cloak, tattered and gray, from a hook beside the door and wraps it around himself. “Then I must go.” “You cannot,” says the man with the lantern. “It is forbidden.” The boy walks past him and unlatches the door. “Many things are
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forbidden,” he says, then scampers off into the night. The boy descends the hillside toward the Palace on an unlit path. His steps are quick, yet careful. Practiced, perhaps. He skids his way through the
inner city in no time and slinks around to the rear of the Palace. Here the Palace gardens glow softly in the night. So much beauty to behold. The boy, however, beholds none of it. He hurries past on quiet toes and ducks through a foxhole in the wall, emerging in the kitchen. Pots clang and pans sizzle as servants busy themselves with preparing next morning’s meal. The cloaked intruder is scarcely noticed as he passes through. From there, the boy’s pace slows despite his apparent hurry. He walks cautiously, rounds corners slowly, and picks his doors deliberately. Surely the guards should spot him at some point, yet none do. Each time he manages to barely avoid their watchful gaze.
Finally, the boy arrives at the royal tower, it’s extravagant double doors adorned with lions roaring and jewels aplenty. This is the tower where Leopold, my Emperor, resides, along with his royal cabinet and myself. Even as this vision holds me, a chill goes down my spine. I fear a plot. Assassination. To my attendants reading this as I write: warn the Emperor. I know not if this happens presently, but I cannot risk prying myself free of the muses’ cold hands just yet. The effort may very well kill me. For now I can write. That is enough. The boy peers around the corner at the Lion-doors lit by flickering torchlight. Four guards stand before them, two on each side, each armed with a halberd the size of a man. The boy takes a deep breath, then sheds his cloak, draping it across his shoulder, and strides out from behind his cover. The guards’ postures stiffen when they spot him, but he raises a hand to soothe them. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he says nervously. And as he steps forward, his foot catches on the rug. It is the first clumsy step he has taken all night. He nearly trips, but rights himself awkwardly and continues forward on the now-askew carpet. “Who are you, boy?” one guard asks. “A messenger,” says the boy, coming closer. “I know of no royal messengers who wear overalls,” another guard says, and takes a torch from the wall to hold toward the boy. The torchlight illuminates the boy fully, revealing strangely familiar features and mop of blond hair. He shies away from the light. “Come now,” says the first guard, “How did you get in here, farm boy?” He leans his halberd against the door and approaches the boy. He lifts a gauntleted hand. The boy reacts too fast. He throws his cloak from his shoulder, blinding the guard before he can grab ahold of him. “Hey!” shouts another, who rushes forward, but trips over a fold in
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the slanted rug and clangs to the floor. Perhaps that step was planned after all. The boy scampers between the two remaining halberds and shoves through the Lion-crested doors. He is light on his feet--easily faster than armored guards. Again he takes turns deliberately, never lost nor looking to be. He ascends the great stone steps like a dancer, spiraling upward, but his confidence falters when he hears shouting from above. He should have no reason to continue. Someone alerted the Emperor’s guard. His plot is foiled. Surely if the boy is smart enough to get here, he is smart enough to know that. But, however senseless it may seem, the boy continues on. He turns off of the staircase and rushes into the royal attendants’ quarters. A wrong turn. He will find no Emperor there. Maids and manservants awaken with shrill screams. Armored footsteps echo down the corridor behind like the clanging of symbols. The boy’s confidence seems to have vanished, only a sheer desperation in its place to drive him forward. “Please,” he mutters under his breath as he runs. “May I not be too late.” Finally he bursts into the last room. And tears begin to flow down his cheeks. At the center of the room lies an old man, wrapped in blue and gold, his eyes closed and his hand scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. A ring of scribes and nurses attend to him. They all turn to the boy in fear. My own heart skips a beat. “Is- is he still alive?” the boy stammers. The armored footsteps get closer. One of the nurses nods tentatively. “He is Seeing,” she says. The boy approaches the bed, and the nurses and scribes allow it, muttering to one another of how similar the boy looks to me. The boy asks, “What is he Seeing?” You! I am Seeing you! I try so hard to speak up--to shake myself free of this vision--but I cannot. When I try my vision blurs to spots, and my heart turns to ice. I can still write, a skill learned through a lifetime of practice, but that is all. The clanging in the hallway grows. The boy reaches forward and grasps my still hand, nearly spilling my ink. Just READ the paper! I am seeing you! My son! Tears run hot down my cheeks and drip onto the page. “Please,” the boy begs, “wake up.” But I cannot. Suddenly, a dozen of the Emperor’s own burst into the room, each
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well armored and armed. One seizes my son by the pits and drags him backward. “Please!” he cries, the sound escaping his throat like the feral screech of a dying animal. “Please, I just want to speak to him!” I try so hard to speak, but again my vision blurs. Tears are streaming down his face. He strains against the guards and again lets out a feral cry. So I push myself. Beyond every boundary I thought I had. And my vision goes dark. “Wait,” I hear myself speak, a voice echoey, disembodied, and drifting in the void. I see nothing, and I feel only the cold. Perhaps this is the space between life and death. There are faint noises in the swirling nothing. Boots. Crying. Then a voice cuts through the noise, “Unhand the boy!” and everything else goes quiet. My Emperor. “Let him go to his father,” Leopold says. I hear frantic footsteps, then the touch of a warm hand on my face. “Father!” the boy says, and again grasps my free hand. “My son!” I say, although I feel the words do not leave my lips. They travel instead by some pathway unknown to me, and they too drift out into the void. Like a thread unraveling. I feel someone grasping at it, until finally“Father!” he says to me, not with his mouth, but along that thread of my soul. “Please, stay with me.” Even in spirit, his voice wobbles with emotion. “Were that I could,” I say, “but the Fates prepare to snip the line.” “I’m scared.” I know. I am too. “But you needn’t fear,” I say instead. I feel the pen begin to slip from my fingers. My vision clears for a single moment, and I see my son staring down at me, tears filling his strong eyes to the brim. “What a fine man you’ve grown up to be,” I speak aloud. My chest throbs. My thread runs out. And I drop the pen
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Monastery in the Mountains Faustyna Nguyen
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Writer’s block Dayana Ortiz
There comes a time, when the mind just stops. My brain hates rhyme, and my spirit drops. Each time i sit, I just can’t think. Wanting to quit, I’m at my brink. Thoughts aren’t flowing, my patience runs thin. There’s nowhere i’m going, there’s no way to win. If roses are red, and violets are blue, WHY CAN’T I FIND A RHYME TO FIT YOU! 37
Winter Scene Christa Ingabire
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I’m dreaming of a whi— Lauren Kantrovich
I hate Christmas songs. Jesus and Santa worship. And a concerning level of interest in forgetting the former and fucking the latter. Not that I care about either cheap god. I’m there for presents and a bottle of Roscato that my sister and mother can’t touch without the warmth of it setting their cheeks on fire. My dad’s digital, replacement turntable rambles on the same Nat King Cole I’ve listened to since I was five, littered with a few shoddy a cappella arrangements of “Jingle Bells.” I can still recite clearly: Adeste fideles le ti triumphante venite venite in Bethlehem Yada yada Moose. Oh! And getting to say “ass” in “What Child is This.” Yeah, those are the only things about the old Catholic Christmas I still like. But I don’t have to suffer through the twenty “Carol of the Bells’” sober— definitely not sober. Fuck if I know how to get drunk— I only ever want to a few times a year at these goddamned religious holidays: Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July. But as I sink down onto the green carpet sprinkled with pine needles and pull out the big and little boxes with my name or “gremlin” or “child #3” on them I’m consoled by the instrumental jazz with no words. It’s only this I can listen to anymore. (Well, this and Christmas EveL—Kpop doesn’t really seem to fit here) No words, no god or date-rape drugs. Just familiar notes and new harmonies.
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Light at the End of the Tunnel Anonymous
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Perfect Pair Jillian Alekna
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Whole
Anonymous People love it when you’re broken They love helping you stay broken You see as long as you’re broken In the way they want you to be, they love when you are broken People love helping you They love listening to your pain They love telling you to be joyful They love telling you your pain is worth it That you shouldn’t avoid it They love when your pain is comfortable to them They love making your pain beautiful to those around them People love when you are broken People love forming you They love taking credit for your behavior They love putting you into their own mold They want you to fit into their perfect cookie cutter shape They make you fit… even if you are contorted People love when you are broken People love telling you to find yourself They love opening the door while they stand blocking it They love telling you to be your own person while pounding you into their own idea of what you should be They love when you grow… but only if it their way They love when you are strong… but only if it’s like them They love when you are fake… as long as they are comfortable People love when you are broken People hate when you become whole They hate when you make your own mold instead of fitting into theirs They hate when you grow your own way… instead of theirs They hate when you make your own happiness different than theirs They hate your own strength when it is not theirs People hate when you are whole.
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USS Cassin Young Sarah Hannan
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The Roles I’ll Play Bre Kenney
in life, we’re often put into boxes but there’s space and room to move and grow in theatre, there aren’t boxes instead you’re pinched and squeezed and poked and prodded until you fit into the body of someone else entirely and sometimes it’s a perfect fit with just enough room to make it your own, but for others you find yourself exploding out the sides and over the top, not because you aren’t good at what you do, but because you’re fat. and in theatre, being fat isn’t easy. it isn’t fun. it isn’t rewarding or exciting or exhilarating it’s exhausting. it’s humiliating. it’s walking into an audition room knowing you’ll be cast as an old woman AGAIN. it’s getting a callback and being told that you look too MATURE for this role. its being told you’re not right for the lead but you’re PERFECT for the funny sidekick again and again and again Being fat in real life isn’t fun either, but I am in control of how I look Of what I say Of how I move But when I’m onstage, it’s the costumer who puts me in clothes that don’t fit quite right It’s the playwright who decides what I say and when It’s the director who tells me where to go and how to look while doing it The decisions aren’t mine to make, but the shame is mine to bear
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So what? What am I supposed to do with all of this? With the guilt and the shame and hurt and the crying and the too tight clothes and the too little stage time and the too cocky co-star and the too miserable me? I’m fat. But I’m not unworthy A size on my jeans may mean something to you, but it doesn’t to me A number on the scale may mean something to you, but it doesn’t to me A character on my resume may mean something to you, but it doesn’t to me Just because I am fat, does not mean I am unworthy Just because I am fat, does not mean I am weak Just because I am a student, does not mean I will be walked all over Just because I am a woman, does not mean I will be objectified Just because I am gay, does not mean I can’t choose love Just because I am an actress, does not mean I will perform for you Because I won’t. Not anymore. I am fat. And I will not be taking on the role of anyone but me, because I am worth so much more than any character you will give me.
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Happiness Hanna Dorff How do you tell them? the spark was extinguished, the butterflies died, the dreams of your perfect day faded. How do you tell them? you don’t want family get togethers or summer barbeques, you don’t want kids coming to you for advice on crushes, you don’t want the wrinkles surrounding your eyes and grandkids spending the night. You can’t tell them, or it will break their heart. You bury it and smile, pretending everything will be alright, and eventually you begin to believe it. Who needs happiness anyways?
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Time to fly Terra Lieser
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Final Breath
Sunny Nahrgang
I know my days are numbered by the quiet whispers of my family by the way the nurses watch. I wonder if the end is what I’ve imagined. An old friend waiting with open arms, ready to embrace me? My mind races with memories of those I’ve loved, of projects undone, of words yet to be said. In these final moments I realize life never really ends, it just stops moving.
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Starry Path
The Thought of Letting Go Hunter Phillips
Is it wrong to slip into the calm, and let the soothing music take me? Or would the sadness of those I love try to overcome, and very gently wake me? With the fire burning, my heart is yearning to slip into the abyss, But something forceful keeps me remorseful, and reminds me of whom I’d miss. So I stay in the now, peaceful and calm, until the day I stop remaining. For the day will come when that soft music sounds, and then I will let it take me.
Gabriel Rysavy
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Epilogue
Lauren Kantrovich
If I told you I was dead, would you kiss my brow? Would you lean over my body at the wake, hover over my grave and speak to me? What would you tell me, my love? That you miss me? That I was your Vega? Would you bring me purple violets— rest them gently on the granite you’d keep clean for me? What will you tell me, my dear? When I am gone— will you regret the going? The coughing and the temper, short and high? Will you have reason to tell me anything but “I’m glad you’re gone now”? Will you even miss me? What’s that you said, my wife? Speak up if you want me to listen. So you’ve found a new lover she’s a little bit younger, and her dark skin shines like the night. She sounds lovely. Why are you crying? Do you think you’ve betrayed me? I don’t want your sorrows and tears. I don’t need them. A grave is cold but comfortable. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re near.
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Well… Now that I think about it, ignore what I said. Tell me your troubles, your challenges and fears. Alyssum maritimum, you cannot trouble me here.
Letter to Heaven Grace Cushman
Letter to Heaven I miss you, I love you. You left this world far too soon, Too unexpected for my formerly childish mind. I wish we could have had An extra minute, another hug. What wouldn’t I have given up for that? I wrote you a letter once, But had nowhere to send it. Instead, I hoped that you would Be able to read it from Heaven. I’m fairly certain that it’s lost now, Gone from my world forever, like you. I think about you often And dream that you’re still here. I know you had so many stories That I never heard, Or even worse, that I forgot. I wanted to hear them from you. The pieces I get from others Lack details only you could give. I know that, when you departed from this world, You left a hole in my brother’s heart, His pain being that he barely remembers you. I wish that my youngest brothers could have met you, As they had not the chance to know you. I’m not sure that they’ll ever know what a grandpa is And will never know how you would have loved them. So many holidays and events have gone by Without you and I’m sure That many more will too.
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The other day, a stranger told me a story-No, a few sentences--about you and me. She said that when I was very young, You were so proud of me. I hope that has remained true And that you still are. Please know that this is what will keep me going, Till I see you again. Please know that you are forever loved and missed, And that I hope you can read This letter in Heaven.
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Brad and Chris Brady Lindauer
The grin on my face, brighter than the sun. The only cirrostratus looming in my life, the question: Will Brad and Chris play backyard football? Or maybe we will grab our BB guns, and shoot each other until Brad chips a tooth. What else exists, in a child’s world? Not dentist bills. Not financial analyst interviews. Not even biology homework. Nothing matters besides the infinite hope that Brad and Chris will be outside to play. My friends being outside is more beautiful than the waves of life that take you up and down. Why aren’t Brad and Chris outside to play? Why does life change? 53
Woven
Anonymous
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For the Couple Who Became John and Mary Madden Keroff
My name, at least for the moment, is Nikolai. I don’t have an amazing reason for why I chose it. It was there on one of those baby naming websites and it sounded Eastern European, which is what my family is, at least historically. In America now, no one seems to be anything. My Grandpa’s father was a little boy when his parents caught the boat to Ellis Island in 1913. Then, because my family isn’t exactly known for having the best of luck, their only possessions were taken–which, to be fair, was only a sack of dried fruit–and they were turned away. Can you imagine how depressing that would be? You risk it all, you carry your babies and your fruit across the ocean and then it gets taken away and at the end you feel lucky to be still holding your child. Though, they didn’t separate the children too often then… Did you know that people used to be turned away a lot? I didn’t. And I guess I still don’t. I found sources that said that there’s no evidence of a lot of people being denied entrance to Ellis Island. All that I have to say that my family was denied entrance is the story that no one’s supposed to talk about. But let’s be real, the greatest country in the world turned away how many Jewish people during the Second World War? Anyways, that story that no one is supposed to tell says that, after my family was rejected from Ellis Island, they ended up going to Canada and sneaking down over the border into North Dakota–”accidentally,” of course. Doesn’t that ever happen to you? Don’t you ever accidentally travel close to 200 miles more than you needed to on foot? While carrying all of your meager possessions and your children on your back? That’s believable, right? Yeah… I never found it that believable either. Of course the family claims that they lost the papers to prove they came in legally. This is a very lengthy way to say that my father’s family may be hypocrites when they’re shaking their head about “those damn illegals.” Maybe this is an even longer way to say that maybe being queer and trans in the Midwest isn’t the life I’d pick.You’d think that I’d have picked a different name than Nikolai when I finally decided not to be my mother’s little girl anymore. And yet I specifically went to all those silly baby name websites and searched “Russian baby names,” “Bulgarian Baby names,” “Eastern European boy names.” I suppose on the one hand the name sounds cool. I suppose on another I do not wish to pretend that I am not what I am. I am white. I am the grandchild of immigrants. I do benefit from the hellish systems in the United States. When I walk down the street, most people will simply believe that
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I am a typical cis-woman. And there is privilege in that, even if I would rather people’s eyes gloss over my curved hips and chest and settle on the me that I want them to see as opposed to the one that is visible. And Nikolai is part of that. He is both embracing who I am and my family’s roots, as well as acknowledging the past while allowing myself to move into the future. If the story is true, one of the ways that my ancestors tried to blend in was to change their names. “What? Why would you suggest we weren’t from here? Our names are John and Mary Smith.” Just imagine that was said with the thickest Russian accent you’ve ever heard. I wonder how they’d feel if they knew I chose a name to sound more like the identity they had to leave behind. I wonder how they’d feel about the identity I take on. Being a man (of the trans variety) in the Midwest is the funniest thing you could ever experience because you can wake up in the morning and spend an hour contouring your jaw, flattening your chest, gelling your hair, picking an outfit (straight leg pants help hide the hips, hoodies help hide the curves of the torso, boots add a little height); you even practice with your voice, recording it and playing it over and over again, and think that hopefully next time it’ll be a little lower. But you spend an hour doing all of this only to get “hey girlie!” all day long. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this is the life your family gave up their own names for to give you. Imagine trying to be trans in Russia… here, in the new country, you might be misgendered but you aren’t murdered and I know which I would rather be. Maybe that’s why picking the name that I did feels so valuable. It looks to what was given up. My father and his siblings were the first people in his family to drag themselves out of poverty. My aunt cleans houses, my uncle preaches, and my father teaches. It took three generations of work to get the collective wealth of a housekeeper, a preacher, and a teacher. Between the three of them, they make less than $150,000 dollars a year, but the richest man in America does nothing and makes $205,000,000 a day. My father is still paying off college debt for his $40,000 dollar-a-year salary that allows us to own our house. A house where two doors down is a crack den, across the street are four foreclosures, and a man was shot in front of our home. But we don’t have to worry about that; when your skin matches the president’s home, you don’t have to fear police. So, I chose a name that represents what my family had to give up for the greatest country in the world. I do not even know the names that John and Mary were given by their parents back in Russia or Ukraine where they were born. All I know is that they came here, and they left their selves North of the Canadian border. In the greatest country all are meant to leave their
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colorful coats of culture at the door and become one with the milky-white melting pot. Those who don’t quite fit the predetermined Pantone scale have their children locked away, are sent back to their war-torn countries, or, at best, are labeled as criminals, drug dealers, and rapists. I chose my name to honor John and Mary because, in part, they picked right. They picked the one country where, as a transman, I am ignored or ridiculed instead of murdered, the one country that is so focused on the hatred of other people that I can slip under the radar. I picked this name because how else am I supposed to express this combination of undying gratitude for the risk my ancestors took and every hardship they endured with the absolute rage that comes from living in this nation. Choosing Nikolai feels a little like the stitching of embroidery back onto that coat that my ancestors painted over when they came here; embroidery that runs down just the one side, of course, because asymmetry is something that wards off the evil eye, and protection from evil is one of the many things they gave up to be here. Because Americans are not superstitious. Americans are not superstitious except when they are. Americans are not superstitious until their son picks up a Barbie, and then they must chant their prayers over his head so that he will not become gay. Americans are not superstitious until a lesbian couple moves into the house across the street and then husbands start to worry about their wives. Americans are not superstitious until a girl comes out, announces her pronouns, and commits the ultimate sin of needing to use the bathroom at school, and then it is as if every girl in the school is in danger. Americans are especially not superstitious when they are in church because, while tying a red string around your wrist for good luck is superstition, eating a cracker and calling it flesh is truth. And it is not superstition but truth that demands that each and every gay person must burn in fire and brimstone for what may as well be a chronic typo in the Old Testament. It is a truth that my preacher uncle screams from his favorite pulpit, the blue and white façade of Facebook. It is truth and not superstition that makes sure that he keeps his adopted Mexican daughters away from the “bad influence” that I am. Though, I do wonder how bad I can be; after all, it was he and not I who took their language away from them. After all, as every American knows, it is truth and not superstition that says that English is the only language one should speak. Allow me my superstitions, they are no stranger than those of this nation. Allow me to shave the side of my head, to pierce one ear, to tie a red string around my wrist, to wear strings of fake, jingling coins on special occasions because this is the modernized warding against evil that my family gave up the right to practice so that I would be born. The least I can do is
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give it back to them. Maybe they look down on me from wherever they are and maybe they feel a bit of pride. Maybe they feel some bitterness. I hope they understand that I try to use the freedom they gave me the best I can. So, I cut my hair short, I bind my chest, I ward against the evil eye, I wear the colors my great grandfather would have before he boarded that boat, and I change my name; because in this world, I am one of the lucky ones who has the privilege of being able to be remade in my own image. If I don’t use it, I allow my own death. I named myself Nikolai for a million reasons. But chief among them being that if I did not name myself, no one else would. Maybe no one else sees me the way I am, but no one ever will unless I choose to step into the sun. I name myself because I cannot reject the culture that weighs on all of our shoulders, turning each of us to Atlas, while living a lie. I cannot declare every human being to be a beautiful work of art while also viewing myself as disgusting. So, allow me to introduce myself. Hi. My name is Nikolai. I am a man, I am an American, and I am alive because of a couple who dressed up as John and Mary.
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Forever
Terra Lieser
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Remnants
Jack Broaders
I glimpse them I harken them Yet I do not yet ascertain them I yearn to descry them I yearn that which they stand guard over The Remnants The Past I seek to uncover the Past The past which was taken The past that was defiled, devastated Devastated by the written word Devastated by those that sought to convert Annihilated by those who saw it as heresy I seek to, need to, rebuild To wash the defilement away To rebuild from what is left From the Remnants But They hold the key And They are beyond my ascertainment So I stand here, in the ruins, Seeking the Remnants With which I can finally rebuild With which I can finally cleanse the defilement
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Adorned Web Gabriel Rysavy
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The Manifesto of the Runaway Heart Jonah Stafford
The Lord knows I wasn’t raised this way But my runaway heart has gone astray I refuse to let my heart hate as it did before It was always judge and be judged Until the boy next door is acting strange My heart still beats, but in a different way In my dreams and in my mind There’s an aching feeling that something’s not right The meaning of love so harshly defined Is hatred and judgment God’s true design? I believe most of all in the power of love Uniting us all with what’s above Instead of malalignment and shame We should all come together with compassion and faith I’m done telling people they’ll go to Hell If it even exists, I’ll have my own cell For every person, their own path they must take And to make that judgment is not my place But on the pulpit, the pastor was making those calls Till his very last sermon, preached the Lord’s law Bless the reverend who won’t do gay weddings And those who are different deserved their beheadings I learned to move past those narrow definitions Accepted my feelings and made a decision I’ll free my mind from the teachings that trapped me And not be afraid to love the one who’s before me The Lord knows I wasn’t raised this way But my runaway heart has gone astray
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The little things Terra Lieser
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Calm Waters
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Anonymous
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Sunlight Sunflower Sunny Nahrgang
My dearest Sunflower, why do you face the ground? Your petals glisten and your leaves are bright green. Are you afraid of what would happen If you lost your sunshine? Remember a sunflower with no sun is still a flower.
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Sunflower Anonymous
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Silhouetted Treeline Katherine Novak
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Paper Trees
Brady Lindauer
One could peel the paper off the trees. Six years later, I pass the same birch and think of home. How interesting to think, that peeling off the paper could put a smile on my face. In the winter, the snot froze on my face. I ducked from snowballs behind those trees, they hit the trees and ripped apart like paper. “Mom can I please stay out later” “That’s not a great idea, I think you should warm up and come home.” While playing hockey, I was forced to come home. My history grade was suffering, I had to save face. “This thing won’t write itself”; I couldn’t think. Finally, saplings grew into trees. The boys were still outside, I put it off ‘til later. Six years past, I remember playing hockey, not writing a paper. Now, I fill out the work on paper. Our new house in Florida doesn’t feel like home. All these years later, I now worry about waking up red with burns on my face. Instead of peeling paper, I look up at palm trees. I could get used to this; I think. I look forward at the future and think: it’s not all about the paper. I cannot just chase trees. There is importance in a good home. And looking around the table at smiling faces. I hope my life is like that later.
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Soon it will be later. And I will look back and think, I wish I could see just one more time, her face. But now it is a death certificate, the paper. And I am inheriting the home. Maybe my kids will peel the same birch trees. All these years later, all of this is toilet paper. You know what I think? I just want to be home. The despair on my face shows, all I want is to peel the paper off the birch trees.
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Mock Orange Jillian Alekna
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Pirouetting Clouds Gabriel Rysavy
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Crepuscular Light Isabelle Fortner I cannot help but stop and look at the view Down, down, down into the darkness of the lake, Gently it goes - the warmth, the beauty, the wake. They form a type of rhythm together, The rays of glow dancing along the dark water. A relationship dependent on one another. The creator of light, gently passing through Above all other subjects in the sky The day is saying its final goodbye. Hours pass of rest and review. What happened yesterday is done, tomorrow will bring the rise of a new sun. Rise and glimmer with shine as it knows to, presenting the opportunity of a new day. Admire the shine before it’s blown away.
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Mosaic 2022
