The Elixir is a journal published annually by the students of Brenau University. Its purpose is to showcase outstanding student work in creative writing, as well as the visual and performing arts.
Thank you so much for picking up this year’s edi- tion of the Elixir. It has been a pleasure getting to work on this with an amazing group of people. We chose to have a theme this year and we decided on [RE]NEW. This is the first print issue since Covid; therefore, we wanted to focus on a theme that encompassed our thoughts on the pan- demic both during and as we slowly exit the pandemic. There has been a new way of life, people renewing themselves, and a completely renewed or new perspective on various aspects of events. Through everything that happened over the past few years, art, writing, and creativity has been our escape from the world around us. Hopefully, you can find escape, appreciation, and challenge throughout the book.
However, this magazine would not be possible without the contributors that submitted some amazing works. Thank you to the staff who read through all the submissions. Thank you to our advisor, Dr. Megan Clark, for her continued support throughout the process. Thank you to Professor Huy Chu for letting us use the comput- ers to put this all together, and showing us how to work them. This has been a wonderful experience for all of us involved, and we hope you enjoy it as much as we do.
Thank you,
Baylee Schneider Editor of The Elixir
A Flower of the Universe made to grow made to blossom made to stand in beauty and grace her spirit will awaken and she will be at ease this flower understands her purpose in the Universe this universe that can seem so cold and dark She is hope, light, and strength
She recognizes her uniqueness & acknowledges her weakness, this is what makes her strong, this is what will help her grow, her intentions are pure she is ready to bloom made to stand in beauty and grace as the sun falls upon her face rain trickles down through the soil, to her roots her spirit awakens & she is at ease she knows who she is, A
I created this according to one scene in the book Mrs Dalloway. In Mrs Dalloway, the scene Septimus opens the window and jumps to his death, which impresses me and evokes my thinking. Although Woolf doesn’t give much of a description of Septimus as he jumps out of a window and falls on “Mrs. Filmer’s area railings” (Woolf 264), it gives our readers plenty of room for imagination. Using Procreate and Photoshop, I completed my image to present my understanding of this scene. To better illustrate my interpretation of the plot, I added some art effects. The golden armor, the wings, the countless hands in the window, the hands of Big Ben, the falling petals, all helped to convey my understanding in my picture.
In my imagination, Septimus is a soldier in a golden armor because his identity in this novel is a soldier returning from the World War I But more than that, he is an admirable warrior for the moment, who is going to death bravely. His past as a soldier in the field of battle brought him honor and eventually led to his mental breakdown. But right now, he’s fighting for himself. He donned the golden armor of a true warrior, battling spiritual dilemmas and the post-world war I state of being a zombie. Death is more like a wake-up call from self- doubt here, a reminder that he has to contend with a long history of mental suffering.
Wings
Wings have multiple meanings here. First, the dim, glowing wings behind him contrasted sharply with the dark background of the night. His wings will carry all the fear and restless- ness that preceded his jump and will carry his purest soul to heaven. His body is falling, but his soul is rising. Second, for Rezia, the Septimus she remembers meeting for the first time is alive again. He’s Rezia’s “Young Eagle” (260) again, brave and powerful. As far as Septimus is concerned, he’s back to his ideal self. Third, just like those “little men and women brandish- ing sticks for arms with wings on their backs” (261) in his papers, he sought the meaning of fraternity. But for a moment, at least, he found his purpose.
The countless hands in the window are separated from Septimus by the window. Septimus in the window is in pain. But, the Septimus outside the window is a relief, because those hands will no longer hold him. Those hands represent shell shock, backward means of psy- chiatric treatment, self-righteous doctors, outside society’s indifference and so on.
I tried to show as much of the face of Big Ben as possible. At that moment, it is a quarter to 12:00. The moment Septimus jumps out the window and embraces death. As for Rezia, she also heard “the clock was striking one, two, three: how sensible the sound was; compared with all this thumping and whispering; like Septimus himself” (264). The clock here informs Rezia of Septimus’s death. And very early, there is a related description: “ ‘I will tell you the time,’ said Septimus, very slowly, very drowsily, smiling mysteriously at the dead man in the grey suit. As he sat smiling, the quarter struck—the quarter to twelve” (168). The hands of Big Ben stopped at 11:45 to indicate the death of Septimus.
I added the petals at this time to express my sympathy and best wishes to Septimus’ wife. Woolf has a long account of Rezia’s psychic activity after Septimus’s death. Rezia feels like she was “flying flowers over some tomb” (265). All her pain and misery had gone with Septi- mus. I call this picture “A Soldier’s Rebirth” here because death, in my opinion, is the happiest way for a Septimus to be in that situation. He is at least truly free. Death is not to be feared, but to live in pain is to him an unending torment. His death makes the character more spiritual and radiant based on my understanding.
He always had it turned on. He had been so proud, bringing home the brand-spanking-new 32-inch flatscreen, finally able to kick the old cathode-ray monstrosity to the curb. It didn’t matter what was on, the pictures on the screen secondary to the proof that he owned it and could have it on whenever he liked.
Today, a crime procedural drama illuminated the screen. He liked to have his dinner in the living room, and she could hear the show from the kitchen where she was reheating the leftovers.
“That was when it happened . . . he just . . . snapped, and then I was on the ground, and then-”
The sizzling in the saucepan drowns out the rest of the actress’s story. He doesn’t let her reheat his food in the microwave, accuses her of trying to give him cancer.
“We can’t help you unless you tell us who he is. Where is the man who did this to you?”
“I-I can’t . . . He’ll kill me.”
“We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen”
Bringing the plate to him, she carefully sets it down on the fold-out tray, putting the knife and fork beside it. As she goes to leave, he snaps his fingers, the soft click echoing in her skull. Without looking away from the television, he points to the empty beer bottle sitting on a stained coaster.
On the screen, the detective and his partner lock eyes as they stand on either side of a door, guns drawn. She goes back to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator.
“Freeze! Put your hands above your head!”
As she walks back in, the detectives wrestle the sus- pect to the ground. As he’s being handcuffed, the man has a grin on his face that makes her stomach turn.
“You can take me away, but she’s still mine. She’ll always be mine.”
“You can’t hurt her anymore. You’re gonna be locked up for a long time.”
She hands him the beer. She is just about to leave again, to return to her place in the kitchen and be as quiet as possible, when her wrist is grabbed by a larger hand.
Moving the tray aside, he pulls her onto his lap. She goes still as his hands wander, grasping fistfuls of flesh. She can still see the television out of the corner of her eye.
The trial plays out quickly. The girl takes the stand, jury watching as she shakily tells them what he did to her, hiccups bubbling out of her throat. They are swayed by her story, and the sound of the gavel booms through the surround sound speakers.
“He got the maximum sentence. You won’t be seeing any more of him ever again.”
The girl on the screen thanks the detective with tears in her eyes, as the girl in the room remains silent, eyes wet.
Delectably, delightfully the cool slips by my tongue. Forgotten memories and a malicious state of fright. Find yourself afraid, inside a bowl, inside a cave. Oceanic waves caress your every page. Smashed against the shore and always longing for more. Be careful there, bather, try not to wade too deep. Glass walls and waterfalls, cerulean balls, the jester stalls. The burnout and the exotic dancer ran away to Timbuktu. Eyes so opalescent, you’ll wish that they were blue.
Clickety clackety snip snap sop. Inside the mouth beyond the throat there’s words that can’t be bought. Penny for your thoughts? Not for every shilling in this barn. The palace sits empty and abandoned, a spooky and melancholic place. Twisting the knife in my chest, deepening the wound, masochistic delight. Morphine clings to my eye sockets. Trophy wife and endless strife you stretch above your limbs. Reach for the celestial beings that call from the great beyond. Enchantment and frivolity seep through my every pore. Welcome to this hellhole, try not to be a bore. Encased within the glow prances a facetious fictitious frog. Heroine of nighttime fog and spinner of the leaves. Magnolia blossoms and sighs of upheaval brought upon by mental exhaustion. Doing backflips, one, two, three.
Genes of five hundred-million-year-old sea monsters live inside us, creatures long undiscovered in the foreboding silent depths, the onyx abyss. Monsters with slippery spiny skin, arched backs that glide through caverns, covered with spongey coral, like moss on spring trees.
Now, in these same caverns, their descendants are species of fish which feast on their young. First, injecting them with paralytic poison or slashing gashes in slick flesh. Then, tenderly picking them apart, bit by bit, piece by piece and slurping skin and meat through carnivorous teeth. Filial Cannibalism.
My mother once told me my sister and I were sent by the devil. Something about her picks us piece by piece, and cuts deep, dispersing the scent of our blood through the air. Look, there are our bones in the gaps between her yellow incisors! There’s the oil from our flesh on her lips! Filial Cannibalism? Is it possible that five hundred-million-year-old sea monsters fall closer in my family tree?
There is something inside you that is broken and you are never going to fix it. You will fall and fall and fall and never learn.
Icarus could only dream of feeling the warmth of melted wax so often.
And every time you will swear in blood to never fall again. You will fall and fall and fall and never learn. And every time your fingers will scrabble in the dirt for purchase. And every time you will swear in blood to never fall again. And your fingernails will grow dark with blood and earth. And every time your fingers will scrabble in the dirt for purchase. And you will rise again from the hole you have dug yourself. And your fingernails will grow dark with blood and earth. And like some ancient bird of legend you will rise. And you will rise again from the hole you have dug yourself. The heat of your flames will melt the wax before you can take flight again.
And like some ancient bird of legend you will rise. The fire burns eternal under your skin. The heat of your flames will melt the wax before you can take flight again.
Does the phoenix ever tire of its cycle? The fire burns eternal under your skin.
Cracks form at the veins, breaking through all flesh.
Does the phoenix ever tire of its cycle?
You are growing more limp with every loop.
Cracks form at the veins, breaking through all flesh.
Does the phoenix ever hope to remain ash?
You are growing more limp with every loop.
Was the sun always so close, so far away?
Does the phoenix ever hope to remain ash?
Here you are again.
Was the sun always so close, so far away?
Icarus could only dream of feeling the warmth of melted wax so often.
Here you are again.
There is something inside you that is broken and you are never going to fix it.
Eyes flutter, open, adjusting to the glow. Radiant ribbons of sunlight illuminate the barely visible dust particles that stir and dance with each exhalation.
Stumbling from the bed, warm skin meets cold floor tiles sending a chill through my spine. The clicking of four furry feet hurry behind me, as a gentle bark echoes the growl from my stomach, notify me that more than one of us is ready for breakfast.
The Keurig whirs to life, exhaling the scent of fresh coffee as I fumble through the cabinet to find my favorite mug, the one with Ecclesiastes 3:11 engraved along the side.
Inhaling the steam, I open the door to the patio and settle into the porch swing. Peeling open the leather cover, my eyes settle too on the book of Psalm.
A gentle buzz draws my gaze to a bumble bee rolling through the blood red roses as the buds shake in the breeze.
I release an exhale filled with wonder. Each petal on the rose bush, crafted with such care, points towards the same marvelous Creator who molded me in my mother’s womb.
My eyes fill with dawn brightening to day as my heart beats with longing for my Lord and Savior.
…He’s the same God that saved you and me With Him is where I want to be
I found relief in the sharing of heat and darkness, In a calloused body, a tangled abstraction, a depressed cupid, with salt-and-pepper hair.
this ritual according to deep roots in holy traditions, Old World Ancestors, quiet moments like sugar-dusted Turkish delight, crafted by the very fingers of God.
I dunked my head under icy water, To dull the incredible fever
To wake the worshipping supplicant.
But the cold plague of marble dens, the amber perfume and olive oil, the holiness, by grace of purgation, held us together, still natural, still untroubled.
And we were purified, stark naked, without any beauty or defect concealed.
Virginia and I spent a lot of time driving together in my first junker of a car. Curly dark hair pulling me in, already calling me a sucker. Intern at NASA with clashing star signs and a love for Marvel movies. Lots of trees. We drove down to Harpers Ferry and talked the whole night through, and the next morning, I got up like it was nothing, and drove away.
Michigan had droopy eyes and a leather jacket, mud-stained dirt-bike making my heart instantly skip a few beats faster. Shots of Fireball, a veterinary school hopeful and big belly laughs. The cutest little kitten you’ve ever seen, rescued from a Craigslist posting. A sickly kind of spring. Practically threw my stuff off the back of the bike, and sped off towards Lake Superior. You never looked back, and I guess I didn’t either.
Boston always baffled me, because we didn’t meet there. In fact, I’ve never even been to Massachusetts. We met in Tampa, down at some skeezy dive bar. Green eyes and glasses, Hawaiian shirt seemingly perfectly placed and out of style. But the accent was thick, and the kisses even thicker. Karaoke and punk rock and an oddly obscure fascination with Tarantino. Tampa was too hot, sweltering even, I’m sure much worse for you than me, but I still left first. At least physically I did.
Boone, where the mountains seemed to touch the sky, and where I would sit like a low hanging cloud in the bed of your red pickup, a 1990 Ford something or other. Count me in, I would always say, and it ended up getting us closer to death than we would’ve liked a handful of times.
Junk food and cheap beer and Walmart parking lots. When you got in the pickup and drove away for good, I felt a sigh of relief come over my exhausted lungs. I left minutes later, stopping to get a breakfast sandwich while I filled up the tank, and driving down and out of the Appalachia’s. I, too, was gone for good.
Toronto doesn’t deserve to be another line in a list of cities I’ve run through. Kindness and concerts and the best french fries you’ve ever had. Falling asleep is easiest in your arms. Never having to worry or wonder if you return my affection. The most peculiar and comforting kind of cold. Laughing in the kitchen, making pasta for two. Trips to the CN Tower just to watch the city under our feet. Cheesecake in the parking lot, our breath in the air. A warm sweater, a place that finally feels like some sort of home.
It was late at night, you held on tight. In the Toronto International Airport we stood, gripping each other with the vigor of maybe never getting to see the other ever again. Because we truly didn’t know if we would, and because we truly didn’t know each other.
What does it mean to know someone? I have the belief that we can never truly know one another, and I think because of this, departures have been easier on me. You can’t lose what you never had.
Someone is crying, and I think it’s me.
bell hooks and Joan Didion died and I didn’t even realize. these women who influenced me and my writing spirit passing gently into that blissful night that never ending ether that truthful abyss and here I have been, watching tv, wrapping gifts there is no way for me to grieve these parasocial relationships within my heart these blunt women with their gut wrenching words reaching deep within my very being and pulling out the belief that I too can do something write something great there is no other way around it there is no other way about it how can I be one of the greats?
Do not stay far away from me
Love is what I feel; love is what I need, but a pure love is what I seek Years ago, a person said, “Love is fragile.” I think love is magic
A word can lighten a room, a gesture can make your day. How can we know what is love?
Is it a kiss? Is it the stars in the sky? Is it butterflies in your stomach? Is it peace? Is it laughter? Is it emotions? Or is it the feeling of being seen?
It is not to stay forever. It is to stay. I want you to stay. I want to be loved but not love. What does that mean? Love is selfishness? I think love is magic
What you make me think, what you make me say, what you make me believe, and what you make see. You brighten my life. I do not need you, I do not need your words, I do not need your smile, nor your lust. But I need you to stay. Years can come and go, but my gratitude will stay. You do not see it, but you have made me believe love is here. It does not have to be a movie. It does not have to be real, but it have to be vivid.
What is Love? It is a fantasy; it is a thought; it is my imagination. It is you. The air awakens me, but you brighten me. You feed my spirit; you cultivate my passion. You cool me down, and you wake me up. Just love evokes that.
Do not let me to forget this:
Love is the empty space in my breast, when I can’t anymore. Love is my empty feeling in front of fear. Love is my empty passion about trying even when I lose. Love is not about choices. Love is genuine. Love changes. Love is clear. Love is different. Love is unique. Love is the name to describe an unpredictable and undefined reaction.
It is like math, hard or easy to get, but always a lot to wonder. It is like walk- ing and falling into a hole. It is like being in an oasis. Love is easy to see, easy to find, but hard to realize. It is around you, just look at yourself. Look up to you; you will find love, but not your definition of love.
Love, love, what a weird word. What a magical word.
I still try to define love, but you are the closest meaning of love.
I still have the first ones worn-down Norcom brand composition notebooks 200 pages, Wide Ruled (I always had gargantuan handwriting) filled with scribblings done in the one classroom that felt like home taking inspiration from the random word generators and books on poetic forms that Mama Natty provided
Then there were the leaner times where all there was to write on was plain white copy paper and little golf pencils with no eraser both bought in bulk and set out in the group therapy room to be written on as a testament to feel even just a little bit free I still have those too
Then there was the leather journal bought at the Decatur Book Festival discounted because the clasping mechanism didn’t work there were celtic knots and a pentacle on the cover and the pages were handmade, thick and scratchy I did write in it, but not as much as I wanted to and to this day many of it’s pages remain blank
Now I type my scattered thoughts and pieces of poems into QuickMemo+ a preinstalled, generic vessel one of convenience
I miss the savage scratching of black ink into pulp like I miss the days when words would flow from me like letted blood
be spat out like a habit but a phone is lighter than a book and even though the bright screen hurts my eyes and the words no longer come at my beck and call
I persist, knowing that if I don’t put them down somewhere they will suffer in the limbo of the unwritten
“Do not be afraid”
Lord, show me
how
How can I not be afraid?
How can I not be afraid of this baby growing inside of my body?
My virgin body
A baby
Your baby
The son of God
Inside me!
You never make mistakes, Lord
But I don’t understand how you could look at me
My sinful heart, my imperfect faith, and all of my flaws And make me the mother of the Messiah
I’m so young
I could hardly raise any child
Certainly not The child
Your child
I see the way that people look at me Look at my body, with the baby
In my virgin, unmarried body
I know you love me
I know You have a plan
I know how much honor there is in this But they don’t.
They who stop and stare and judge Be with me Lord
I need you
“Do not be afraid” I was afraid
It’s alright to be afraid But never hopeless
No, never hopeless, because the Lord is our hope I thought I was unworthy of such an honor Sinful, imperfect, flawed
I need your help, guidance, protection, love I was I need you
For I alone could never be worthy To carry such a child
But the baby inside of me came to change that He grew into a man
A man who lived without sin
But died with the weight of all the sins of the world on His back Died
My son who did nothing wrong, killed by His own people I wept
I wept a tear for every drop of blood He shed But then in the Lord’s perfect timing He rose again And the weight of all that sin
Not His sin
Your sin, my sin Was gone Forgiven
Washed clean
We don’t deserve it
But God is good And powerful
And with this knowledge
Who could be afraid?
Standing in the grass outside the Burd Center, I gaze through the stained glass window. Its brilliant hues of green, blue, and red, form a kaleidoscope of shards.
And through it, I watch the outline of a bronze dancer standing elevated in the center of the room.
The fading light from the setting sun dancing across her body forms a different picture with each glance.
Bare feet dipped in blues, ruby reds running up her torso down her arms and into her fingertips, emerald greens glinting off of her smooth hair, along her back, and across her slender shoulders.
Her elegant figure reflects hundreds of fragments. Shards welded together to form a whole, a mirror.
Looking into her eyes, I see my brown irises reflecting back. Each shard of her body emulates my own. Every piece masterfully crafted, molded and shaped by a marvelous Creator.
Versatility 3
Annabelle Brown
We didn’t put any music on. Silence echoes in his Hyundai as I wrestle with my belt. In between kisses and promises of forever, the damp breath of desire, the dignity in giving up, giving in. Shaking hands brush against my own, guiding each other, wanting more, the air thick with un- certainty. How does this all work? Neither of us knows what we’re doing. At least, that’s what it feels like. We know the basics, and go off instinct.
There is a kind of electricity that happens every time we touch, and I think that’s what love is. He bows his head for a kiss and our teeth clash, sending a rattle through my brain. No one knows where we are, and there’s a kind of thrill in that. No one cares where we are, and there’s a kind of bitterness in that. But we care. He cares. He cares about me in the way no boy ever has, and so I let him touch me. I can feel the car move ever so slightly, wheels rocking and pressing against the ground. I open my eyes to look around, two milkshakes lay abandoned in the cupholders up front. Mine seems to be leaning towards his, almost. I like that. The streetlamp yards away casts a slight glow over his back. He has nice shoulders. I can’t see the color of his eyes from here, but I know they’re green.
Green, from all the way across the room. Almost radioactive. I could never. I could never be what makes him light up. I feel a hole opening in my chest, feel my heart sinking deeper in my stomach, urging yesterday’s ramen and today’s fireball to come flying up and out. Disgust and bile fill my lungs. Green is seeping into my very skin, making it crawl. I watch him. I know he sees me. We make eye contact and he stares at me blankly, as if he doesn’t recognize me, because of course he did. Asshole. Son of a bitch. I can’t stand him. I want him so bad. I stumble slightly through the hallway and push open the door to the porch, where some- one is passing a joint around. The smell makes me sick in a good way. I watch some upperclassman I don’t know with a snapback and flannel roll another for himself. I like watching other people roll, there’s such concentration in it. And there it is again, that wretched color; infiltrating every part of my life. The joint gets passed to me, and I graciously accept and fill my lungs with green. There’s no point in trying to escape it. Green is everywhere, making things alive. I think it’s almost a kind of cruel irony that the absence of green is the absence of life. That asshole. I don’t know what anything means anymore. I want another drink. I want to slash the tires on his stupid Hyundai. I want to be color blind. I want to go home.
Stay a little longer because one day things are gonna change Stay a little longer because the Lord is working You can’t see it yet but one day He’s gonna reveal Himself to you He’s gonna open your eyes
More importantly, He’s gonna open your heart And yeah, it’s gonna be hard, scary even Everything you thought you knew about the world, about life, about yourself, He’s gonna show you how wrong you were. How terribly wrong, and dark, and deformed, and distorted your way was.
And then He’s gonna show you how beautiful, and holy, and good, and right His way is. Stay a little longer because you aren’t going to be alone Stay a little longer because when everything changes He’s gonna give you people People to look up to People to lead you in the right direction People who love you, miss you Sometimes they might sit you down and lecture you. But it’s the Lord’s lecture, because He speaks through them And not only will He give you people, but He will be there Every second of every day, He will guide you Stay a little longer. Stay so you can experience His complete and utter forgiveness, then stay a little longer so that you can experience it every day for eternity. Stay so that He can show how much He loves you, then stay a little longer so He can show you to love others in the same way. Stay so He can heal the scars, and mend the broken heart, Then stay a little longer so He can remold every once of your being to be more like Him
So stay a little longer, because heaven isn’t that far away Stay a little longer and then you can stay forever.
I was observing you, I’ve never seen anything similar like you. Your bright leaves; your soft petals; your rough branches. I can see you.
You are a stunning design. Your delicate leaves make me feel peace. The peace that I only can feel when I’m near to you. The breeze is slamming to you and you keep firm. Always firm. How can you always look strong? Always in front of me, showing me your striking life.
I can see you. You are a power. That power to change from a broken person to an alive person. That you are.
Madeline I am in love with you Everything you say and everything you do Read me poetry ‘till I fall asleep Teach me how to be the best version of me Madeline I am in love with you
Your hair like embers and your eyes like dew Smile at me and I feel suddenly weak With the urge to put my lips to your cheek Madeline I am in love with you
Cool like the ocean, soft and blue Inviting and striking in any shade or hue It pains me to say, I wish it weren’t true but Madeline, I wish I were you.
I’m getting something done. I scrub my skin with a loofah and break down the layers.
The epidermis slides off clear, the dermis takes a minute of determination, of true muscle. If I had Henry here, he would be able to break those layers down with ease.
By myself, it’s hard to get to the white off the bone, let alone the marrow my mother left me.
Fish flop near the drain, squirming and jumping between my toes. They slide under my soles, trying to make me lose balance, The deceitful grin of the flounder pressed into the white tiles. Slimy, squirmy, needing more water. The drops pelt down onto their glistening scales, onto my pale, scrubbed feet.
A figure walks slowly past the glass, looking beyond to the master bedroom.
I press my nose on the foggy screen, and there is Henry. His gray boxers cling to his thighs and the skin I had scrubbed away crawls back on once more.
Touch my skin, touch me. Touch me. My body cries. I’ve never seen him cry. A shiver rolls down my spine, The cold finds its way in. Slowly, I turn the lever to the left, towards the red side. The fish begin to shrivel into small fillets, without flavor or batter. Their eyes remain wide- horrified- glaring up at me.
Sara Reed Wilson
I eat until I make myself sick Not in a bulimic way
But in a i-dont-want-to-be-seen-as-an-ungrateful-child way I have been the ungrateful child
Back when I wouldn’t eat
It’s the war of the words
It’s finding alternatives because your daughter just. won’t. eat.
It’s the other PTA moms commenting on how thin I was
It’s hearing the word “anorexic” thrown at me by a classmate at ten years old
Not because I hated food
There’s the family story of a trip to Olive Garden, six year old me, and six bowls of pasta
But food was new Food was texture
Food was taste and smell and touch and too many senses all at once
I knew what I liked
Ice cream and mashed potatoes
Chicken nuggets and mac n’ cheese I knew everything else, I didn’t
And now in front of me
I eat as if I haven’t since childhood
Bite after bite
Devouring
Savoring
Relishing
I find myself enjoying fast food less
In my twenty second year
The novelty has not yet worn off completely But now I understand
The woman pushing her son in a cart at Target
“Can we eat on the way home?”
“We’ll eat at home.”
I should call my mom
What did I love about his funeral? Let me start with the peeling off of my rain-soaked coat at the door, the cornflower blue satin, the viewing of the lifeless body, waxy skin, soulless countenance, his cheeks painted like some kind of sick clown. I loved the strange sense of comfort in having outlived him. I loved my grandmother’s scratchy white blouse and the way she rested her chin on my shoulder, her silver tears, running through her smile lines, as her quivering hand grasped for mine.
I loved the stiff-backed pew, listening to the obnoxious trill of the organ
as John, the organist, plucked- out Abide With Me. After the service, the crowds lingered, his good old boys, his sons of the American Revolution, patting one another on their hunched backs. What a strong, Christian man Earl was! they’d say and I loved their rotten teeth and dull eyes; they too were dead to me.
I loved my false smile of agreeance the simple solace in my clenched jaw.
X asked me, “Can you describe a sunset to someone who was born blind?” I said, “I’ll try.”
X asked me, “Can you explain death to a five-year-old?” I said, “It’s the easiest thing in the world.”
X finally asked me, “Can you find the end of the night?” I said, “It will never be possible.”
Describe a sunset to someone who was born blind
I don’t have to take him to the mountains. I don’t have to take him to the sea. I want to tell him that people don’t chase the sunset because it’s beautiful, they chase their own vision of something beautiful. He must understand, therefore, that these statements of mine are nothing more than an illusion.
Think of it as a normal day. He has daily chores to deal with: fixing the microwave, feeding the fish, calling his sick mother, listening to the news, the boring items on his work schedule, and so on. He rarely thinks about what that means when he does it, and committing to life means the absence of meaning. That’s how his time passes. He lives in life itself. Follow sounds, smells, memories of space, habits formed in time.
Soon it will be dusk, and he will know the time by watch or intuition. He opens the window, feels the temperature, and makes sure it’s not raining. He feels the wind, and the wind sends him a pleasant invitation. It’s spring or autumn.
Then the phone rang. He has been informed of an unfortunate event. It seems too dramatic to say it’s unfortunate, because it’s not a disaster, and it doesn’t affect anyone else. However, it means that some of his past efforts have been wasted. It’s the most common thing that happens to almost everyone in life, and we should all get used to it as soon as possible, but his mind does feel some real unhappiness.
So he sits for a while, five minutes, 50 minutes. When he accepts this misfortune ----as you eventually accept all the others in your life he opens the door and slowly descend eight flights of stairs. There are nine steps like this. Take a walk in his neighborhood or in a park with trees a block away. All journeys without a destination are not too far off. On the road he hears the voice of his lover behind him. He heard his name. He stops and waits for the other person to catch up with him. He walks and sits down on the bench where he usually rests. He brings up the subject -- and then gradually bring up a heavy topic that he would not normally talk about. He talks back and forth, as if exchanging gifts, almost like a lifetime. Such talk is more precious in itself. than any kind of fate.
Suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, the words are cut off; sud- denly, the air is drawn up somewhere high; suddenly, a great silence descends: like a ghost, a disaster, a beauty. Then he hears, “What a beautiful sunset.”
He is waiting. As usual, the other person begins to try to describe the scene in his eyes: how red spreads in the deep blue sky, how broken clouds are stained, how the sun sinks, and how the birch trees in the distance covered it all.
His lover is serious and clumsy, changing word after word, but he still doesn’t know the difference between red and blue, how the clouds look like cotton wool, if the sun is an eternal star, how does it fall.
But he hears the words, the chaos and the calm between red and blue, the little rise and fall in each other’s breath at the end of the sentence about the falling sun was itself a sigh.
His skin is gradually cooled by the wind, but his heart has welcomed the great calm-this is a person facing the sunset feeling.
Explain to a five-year-old what death is
“Cry and no one will ever hear you.”
“Ask and no one will ever give you.”
I told X that maybe the night would never end
Now he could make out the outline of the opposite sofa, its melancholy depression, always waiting for someone to sit down. Open to the ancestors of the page, a blank, word of dust, struggling to enter your breath. The nocturnal wander- er sings love songs, as if he could look up and find a mate, as if he had been singing since the end of the last century, while the moon is always overhead, hunched over his waist. Awakened, weightless, thrown out of the gates of the night; found the second hand circling the heart, dozens of cycles. But the spirit of time stayed up all night practicing the dive along the rubber tube wall.
“The night is too long,” he sighed.
As long as a meteorite, the night falls into the sea. And one time he got dumped and drunk. “I’m so relieved to think that one day I’m going to die.” When he cried, it’s like he’s standing in the glow of a dark pond. And before that, the taste of tea at blue house, four friends, embracing one another, heading into the future. Raise a dog, know a thrush, learn the alphabet, recognize himself in the mirror for the first time-and night and day, so quietly run.
1:00 in the morning, he is in bed. People at 2:00a.m. is easy to sweat. At 2:50, the temperature drops, and winter arrives throughout the night; the temperature finally becomes comfortable, and the bed becomes a lighted hut in a snowcovered jungle.
The dressing-gown, too, was at last calm, with one end touching the skin and the other the flickering fire: “let’s sing, fire.” Light every candle in the hut, make the candle jump like a dragonfly, make us chase and catch it clumsily. At 3:30, the flame finally rose from the bottom of his trousers (too slow for a fire, really) , burning his knees and a heart-sized memory of a hard candy, a seedbearing reed, a slope, where some people are crying, some people are running. At 4:05, the hair was completely dry. The hair is like a traveling sponge, passing through the rain forest, full of a year of warm and wet, waiting for the wind and the sun. White blood cells swim and sing poetry, viruses laugh and shout triumphantly, and they die together in the shallows. Everything in the world makes sense, and there are unexpected little things that help it. At 5:20, the female ghost who has been sitting at the head of the bed is about to go. But before she left, she felt uneasy, and again blew a cool breeze over our shoulders and necks to urge us to tuck ourselves in or close the door. She always thought humans were too hot.
At six o’clock, the moon dispelled the surrounding clouds, and the stars began to fall, one by one, on a spot in space. At forty-three, he suddenly opened his eyes, as if a lake had suddenly opened up in the desert in the early morning; his ear was a huge hill, on which were hairy trees, and where a hunter was driving the wild beasts, and before him the day, the night is behind us. At 7:15, he realized the lake and the mountain were a dream. Fifty-five, press the alarm clock ahead of time, the real wind is pouring into every corner, sunlight is beating on the clothes rack.
unravelling my tangled limbs from scratchy cotton sheets, I strain, pushing myself from the bed carefully fondling the bitter floor with raw heels, I picture the sheen of vibrant blossoms from my sunny window. two floors up, their balm washes over me, as if reverberating off each wall the trilling of birds, their wistful song: the melody carried by a chilling breeze, which floats into my room, dispersing its freshness and bringing goosebumps to my legs I shrug off the night and welcome a world I long to touch then, from my sunny window, I look down I see the trees I stood under yesterday. They are naked. their pink petals spoilt coating the bright grass in a film like rotting banana peels and I remember that spring brings death to these.
Gridlines 1
Katie Watkins
As the thunder rolls through the air and the rain trickles down the win- dow, I can’t help but glance at the tattered burgundy umbrella leaning beside the front door. Do you remember it? The bright umbrella that you purchased from the gas station on the corner of Vincent Avenue. It was our third date. The rain soaked through my coat as you drug me behind you into the store. Tossing a wad of ones on the counter with a sodden splat, you grabbed the nearest umbrella from the rack. Heading back out of the store you huddled close, heaving a sigh as you prepared yourself to face the storm.
We strolled elbows locked through the streams of water trailing down E.L. Street. Each step leaving spiraling ripples in its wake as gentle splashes echoed the watery rings. You grumbled as the passing cars sent waves of water across our bodies, rendering the little umbrella useless. You always hated the rain. The bitter chill of being soaked to the bone and the sloshing of soggy socks made the wet weather rather unappealing to most. I’ll admit that being drenched was rather irritating but the heavy smell of autumn raindrops made our walk a bit more enjoyable. The precipitation drove the population indoors and left only idiots like ourselves wandering through the downpour. While the typical Thursday nightlife stayed dry, the rain made visible the plethora of nature’s eve- ning hosts. As I looked through the crystal-like sheet of water, I noticed how the golden glow of the street lights had stolen the youthful hues of the August trees and left the limbs painted in shades of rusty reds and honey yellows. The distant Ferris wheel continued to rotate as the dim blue wheel carts rose like pearls from the sea. We continued our stroll until we reached the bottom of the hill that over- looked the city. Do you remember the view?
When we reached the top of the hill, the rain had finally stopped. The air instead was filled with falling drops of liquid light. The glittering orbs and rippling ribbons illuminated the night sky. You stood shaking the water from the umbrella’s burgundy polyester as I gazed upward, basking in the glow of the heavens. The sleepy city below was slumbering in ignorance to the spectacle above it. The street lights floated up until they were captured by the eternal abyss of night. Hung from invisible lamps, the spheres of light joined the celestial bod- ies in their cosmic waltz. Cassiopeia swirled around the bow of Orion as the stars softly spiraled in time with the melodious chirps from the symphony of crickets. The bashful moon sat center stage on her throne and graced the galaxy with only a quarter of her face as Venus lead the luminaries through each turn. I grabbed your hand in excitement and pleaded for a dance which you declined, pulling me downwards toward the apartment instead. As I glanced back, I saw the sturdy cypris reach for the stars, longing, as I was, to join in their supernal dance.
The downpour continues outside the window. Rain coming down in slanted angles, much like it did that night. The night that the stars danced. Glancing at the time I hurriedly lace up my boots and button my coat. The moon waits for no one. Grasping the broken burgundy umbrella, I begin my rainy walk toward the hill in the park. The damp autumn air fills my lungs as I climb upward, drawing nearer to the melodies of the equinoctial waltz, burgundy umbrella in hand. Tell me, why did you always hate the rain?
For a long time, I used to go to bed early. You had to, at that age. Everyone was always telling you what time it was, and you certainly couldn’t tell them any different. It was time for lunch, time for recess, time for a nap (yes you have to sit on the cot and be quiet), time to go home, time for dinner (yes you have to eat everything on the plate), time to go to bed no later than eight o’clock. Funny how now that there’s no one to tell me to do those things, I wish that there was. I don’t like miss- ing meals or sleeping for sixteen hours straight or staying up till four
a.m. Okay, maybe I do like that last one. But it’s not good for me is it? Not good to be barely hanging onto a schedule by my pinky nails, not good to wish that someone would just take over my body and run it better than I ever could.
My memory has always been odd, latching onto random things and holding them closer than anything else. One time my family pulled into the driveway and noticed that a praying mantis had affixed itself to the back windshield. We didn’t know where we had picked it up, where it had come from. I wonder if it was scared. I wonder how tightly it had to hold onto the rubber seal around the glass, if it even knew what it was holding onto or why. I wonder what it was thinking when we set it down in the grass, in a place lifetimes of travel away from its home. I wonder if it twiddled it’s elongated arms, praying for whatever otherworldly force brought it here to take it back?
I wake up many times, only getting out of bed once my mouth tastes rancid and my limbs are sore from sleeping. I have missed at least two meals, so I fish a breakfast sandwich out of the fridge and heat it up in the microwave. The cheese melts out from between the layers, ruining the bottom of the biscuit. I eat it with a fork. The computer sits ominously in the other room. I ignore it. It is late afternoon, or dusk, or midnight, or later. Does it matter? I have certainly slept through some- thing.
I feel my limbs being drawn into thin, segmented appendages. I feel my always-been-too-large eyes grow larger still, lenses breaking into fragments. I feel my bloated middle becoming thoracic, wings I never had sprouting from a pimpled back. And I feel myself holding on, holding on so, so tightly, borne away to someplace I do not know where, for reasons I do not know why.
Why pennies were the only love you’d give – not nickels or dimes but cold copper to bite at our skin.
Why you made us sing to earn them Or hand us a Christmas present and remind us how much it cost you.
Why we couldn’t shout or run in the hallway or jump off of plushy beds. Why you’d unload and reload the dirty dishes to your exact specifica- tions.
Why no one touched your record player, not even you. And each charcoal-colored disc lay nestled in layers of cellophane.
songs unsung, kitchen dance parties forbade that I knew, even then, that to love something was to use it, to breathe it in, to share it.
But that there was always a creeping shadow in your words, a bitter thorn behind the “mercy” you taught.
But that I also enjoyed being the favorite loved that you liked me more.
I used to go fishing with you –You taught me how to bait a hook, to peel the skin from a catfish, to love ice-cold Root Beer
That when you talked about the good ole days, you meant the days when others would obey you without question.
That you were blind to the suffering you caused. That I was blind to the suffering you caused.
That my mother should’ve put a stop to it, but she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t know how to
That I loved you in spite of it all.
It isn’t easy
It’s never been my strength
Waiting is hard.
Even when my dreams run wild I’ll wait for you
Even when my mind is set I’ll wait for you
Even when desire takes over me I’ll wait for you
Cast all the plans aside I’ll wait for you
Stop the anticipation I’ll wait for you
Turn my back on the worry I’ll wait for you It isn’t quiet
Your voice in my ear
I need to hush my own words
Because yours are right here for me
Even when I’m discouraged I’ll listen for you
Even when I don’t like the answer I’ll listen for you
Even when the world tries to drown you out I’ll listen for you
Replace the lies with your truth, I’ll listen for you
Sing, yell, groan, whisper, I’ll listen for you
Deaf to the enemy, attune to God, I’ll listen for you
It isn’t conventional
It isn’t what I wanted
I never thought I’d go this way
But I waited, I listened, and you told me what to do
Even when I’m tired, I’ll serve for you
Even when I can’t see your purpose, I’ll serve for you
Even when people tell me not to, I’ll serve for you
Instead of the pain, the harm, the breaking, I’ll serve for you
In spite of the temptations, I’ll serve for you
Through the tears and the racing heart, I’ll serve for you
My plan wasn’t yours
It was my own feeble attempt to do the job only God can do And you made me wait.
My understanding was weak
I didn’t know what you wanted And you helped me listen.
My life didn’t magnify you
You came to save me from myself
And now you let me serve.
Dr. Megan Clark Editor
Baylee Schneider Assistant Editor
Marian Russell Staff
Hannah Bowman
Madison Freeman
Sara Reed Wilson
