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The Elixir 2020-2021

The Elixir Faculty Advisors Dr. Sandy Brim Dr. Michael Frazer Editor Katie Watkins Editorial Staff Hannah Bowman Bailey Merritt Zhiyue (Jessica) Sun Huihui (Gina) Xie Yunfei (Lesley) Xie Fan (Nora) Ye Multi-Media Editor Jodie Jernigan Cover Art Hope Vigil-Shuck “Whispering Wheat Field” The Elixir is the annually published literature and arts magazine of Brenau University. Submissions are invited from Brenau University undergraduate students. The Elixir accepts artwork of all types. Writers and artists retain their copyrights. Mission Statement 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.

This issue is lovingly dedicated to Dr. Sandra Brim for the incredible impact she has made on her students during her time at Brenau. Not only is she one of the best educators this school has known, but she has instilled in all of us a deep admiration for the power of poetry. She never misses a chance to inspire her students with her fervent love of W.B. Yeats. Although she never imagined she’d be teaching poetry online, she has been a constant and supportive presence for all her students in these difficult times. We wish her peace and happiness in her retirement, as well as fun times with her loving family!

Table of Contents Farthingdale Chair...........................................Isabella Gray................................6 How I Sit in a Rocking Chair..........................Jodie Jernigan...............................6 Questions About Homes.................................Ningyuan (Julia) Wang.................7 God’s Perfumery.............................................Bailey Merritt................................8 Bloom..............................................................Sha’kym Holland.........................8 Women of the Water........................................Hannah Bowman..........................9 Woman of the Water (Dance Film).................Tiffany Kovash...........................11 At Water’s Edge...............................................Jordan Smith..............................12 The Cradle.......................................................Bea Mathis.................................13 The Cradle (Dance Film).................................Jenna Patton...............................13 Persimmons.....................................................Zhili (Ellie) Cheng.....................14 Agrarian...........................................................Hope Vigil-Shuck......................15 Burning Blue...................................................Zoe Metelerkamp.......................16 Box Canyon.....................................................Hope Vigil-Shuck.......................18 Walking on a Street in Shanghai.....................Yunfie (Lesley) Xie....................19 Mayon Volcano from Legazpi.........................Aisa Goforth...............................20 Finding Balance...............................................Mirella Reily..............................21 What I Never Told You About the Faces.........Huihui (Gina) Xie......................22 What I Do In a Pandemic................................Katie Watkins.............................23 What I Do In a Pandemic (Dance Film)..........Katie Watkins............................24 Still Life of Bottles..........................................Jordan Smith..............................24 Is Anybody Up There?....................................Jodie Jernigan.............................25 Echoes.............................................................Bailey Merritt.............................26 Hearing............................................................Fan (Nora) Ye.............................27 Hearing (Dance Film)......................................Marideth Read...........................28 Sheet Music.....................................................Mirella Reily..............................28 The Red Shoes.................................................Mirella Reily..............................29 A Shadow Called Racism................................Bea Mathis.................................30 Suspect’s Life Unraveled Over Past Year........Hannah Bowman........................31 A Suspect’s Life (Dance Film).........................Gracie Metcalf...........................31 Jakira................................................................Robert Laws..............................32

Prometheus Afterwards..................................Zhili (Ellie) Cheng.......................33 Lady in Waiting..............................................Bea Mathis...................................34 Looking Up....................................................Jordan Smith................................35 A Massage From a Stranger...........................Marian Russell.............................36 Massage From a Stranger (Dance Film)........Jodie Jernigan..............................36 Questions About Kisses..................................Katie Watkins..............................37 Diablo Lake....................................................Hope Vigil-Shuck........................38 Double Sonnet for a Dishrag..........................Bailey Merritt..............................39 Double Sonnet for a Dishrag (Dance Film)....Caleigh Santa Maria...................39 Savonrola.........................................................Isabella Gray..............................40 Ae Poeme.........................................................Sarah Kay..................................41 The Fool...........................................................Sarah Kay..................................43 What I Never Told You About the Moon.........Charlotte Hu..............................44 What I Never Told You (Dance Film)..............Zoe Metelerkamp......................44 I See a Man.......................................................Marian Russell..........................45 Half Mixed........................................................Mirella Reily.............................46 Sicilian (Dance Film)........................................Brianna Gutierrez.....................46 A Study in Form................................................Bea Mathis...............................47 Hole/Whole.......................................................Hannah Bowman......................48 What I Never Told You About Mourning..........Zhiyue (Jessica) Sun................49 Skull Study........................................................Courtney Galendez...................50 A History of Valor.............................................Hope Vigil-Shuck.....................51 My Love............................................................Ziyi (Alyssa) Xu.......................52 In His Eyes (Dance Film)..................................Brianna Gutierrez.....................52 Subconciousness................................................Sha’kym Holland.....................53 Self Portrait........................................................Robert Laws............................54 Tuesday..............................................................Madison Freeman....................55 Praise Him with Dance (Dance Film)................Madison Freeman....................56 Light Dances.......................................................Mirella Reily...........................56 Klismos...............................................................Isabella Gray...........................57 A Double Sonnet to Scars...................................Bea Mathis..............................58 Canticle (Dance Film).........................................Katie Watkins.........................59 Cloud Cover........................................................Hope Vigil-Shuck...................59 A Thing That Never Changes.............................Yuyang (Eve) Zhao.................60

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, First of all, welcome to the 2020-2021 issue of the Elixir. It’s been a long time coming, and boy, does this magazine feel like a labor of love! Secondly, I’m going to be a total dork for a moment and quote a Billy Joel song, but bear with me; I promise there is a point to this! In his highly underrated song “Summer, Highland Falls,” Billy sings:

They say that these are not the best of times But they’re the only times I’ve ever known And I believe there is a time for meditation In cathedrals of our own... What our situations hand us It’s either sadness or euphoria

When I think of all I have been able to accomplish this year, and all that we, as a university, have been able to do, I can’t be anything but grateful. In spite of all the challenges we faced, we have made it through another year. I’m grateful that I’ve gotten to perform with my very best friends, to write, to go thrift shopping, to drive around and scream songs at the top of my lungs, to get takeout sushi, and to celebrate my senior friends at Evening of Class. I’m grateful to be alive. I found this year to be scary, grief-filled, and honestly, sort of miserable at times. Yet, in the midst of the political turmoil, the racial violence, and the isolation due to Covid-19, there are glimmers of hope, glimmers of love, and glimmers of change. Sometimes they are difficult to focus on, but they are there, shining brighter by the second. We have been given a unique opportunity to meditate on the state of our world. We have been given the opportunity to use art, prose, dance, and poetry, either as a catalyst for change or just some good, old-fashioned therapy. Either way, I believe these artforms make life worth living, regardless of the wacky hand the world deals us. Maybe this life has sadness, maybe it has euphoria, but I want to experience it all. As you meditate on all that this year has given to and taken from you, I hope you find peace, imagination, pleasure, and catharsis in these (virtual) pages. With love, Katie Watkins

Farthingdale Chair Isabella Gray How I Sit in a Rocking Chair Dance Film, submitted by Jodie Jernigan https://youtu.be/0etoVJEkqw8 6

Questions About Homes Through the window, I see an American student’s yellow T-shirt shining under the shadow of a tree. She’s packing up with her mom and dad, loading the luggage into the cars to go home. Three cars are waiting for her. Where is her home? My flight home was cancelled for the 4th time, I read the text from my mom when the crow woke me up early in the morning. My cell escaped from my hands, and I hear the glass screen break. Then cracks creep along the screen up my arm and to my body, separating me from home but connecting my longing for my home as well. The news pierced my brain. Can home be linked with a string of tears, spreading to the other end of the earth? Maybe this line of water is able to pull me back home? As quick as spring contracts, or the coronavirus spreads? Am I not at home right now? With crows and bumble bees waking me up every morning, I take in the fresh air from the grove where those singing bees hide; I learn classes on Canvas with blessings from professors and friends; then I go to the Dining Hall to pick up the take-out lunch of “hot pot” and steamed dumplings. I say thank you to the staff and go back to my room, seeing the twin bed composed of two single beds, which were pushed together by myself inch by inch. What could be more like a home than this?

Ningyuan (Julia) Wang

God’s Perfumery Faint summer breeze at early dawn, a light dance into the morning mist. Thick honeyed syrup in the late hours of the night. Deep waves delicately balanced on sweet air. When he spoke, his voice was a plush comforter: I wrapped myself in it, I hid in its thick folds. His voice was protection, tranquility. It held you with tight affirmation. When his words floated into the air, the room paid attention, rising above all other conversation, as heat does. His voice was a hearty stew in autumn. It simmered, and the steam dissipated slowly. I wonder how its sound would compare to a Tibetan singing bowl. I wonder if monks could meditate to his incantations. I used to think his voice was meant to be a friendly arm over the shoulder, affection but not intimacy. Now I know it’s velvet, hugging a person close and pecking them on the cheek. He kissed my cheeks with his own warm and lush mouth. I blushed at each one. Bailey Merritt

Bloom Sha’kym Holland 8

Women Of The Water Ever since I was a little girl I have wanted to be a mermaid I was in love with the concept of a stunningly beautiful woman mysterious and demure with bedroom eyes and hair down to her waist Men would fall at her metaphorical feet enraptured there would be a fade to black and she would become a fond memory of the sea skin scrubbed soft by salt water silky-smooth hair plush lips and glittering eyes something exotic and wild but docile for him she’ll make him feel special, oh yes and sit waiting on a rock brushing her hair and singing ~~~~~~~ That fantasy has faded with my innocence and naïvety Lost in a time when I believed I wasn’t good enough But I still wish to explore the depths without need for air and useless kicking The real mermaid has been revealed to me She is something greater, untouched She is dangerous She is beautiful She is all I want to be ~~~~~~ Men have been telling myths about mermaids since they were first created 9

Men have crafted them into a harmless wet-dream But the wise beware the women of the sea for they hold the wisdom whispered to them by the waves and create spirals in the inky darkness of the deep And still the lies are spread of a patriarch beneath the waves But Poseidon and King Triton were overthrown long ago When the mermaids remembered where they came from ~~~~~~~ In all the tales told of the Moon She is a woman It is a plain truth proven in the way that their cycles intertwine and move with the tide The Moon and women are one The Moon holds the ocean Of course Of course mermaids are daughters of the moon Forged of salt and dust and blood ~~~~~~~ I have always wanted to be a mermaid something dangerous and unknown unfurling beneath the waves unseeable untamable Mermaids have glowing eyes that cut through the dark waters Mermaids have hair so long it tangles in their prey Mermaids have teeth and claws sharp enough to rend flesh Mermaids have no thighs that can rub together or be forced apart No snide comments or magazines to make them feel like anything less than a miracle 10

No men to use them and break them and make them dependent and obedient and weak and pliant and soft and inferior I would have nothing but the cool, deep water and my own power Still a part of the moon and the tide I would cut through the ocean and be truly happy

Hannah Bowman

Woman of the Water Dance Film, submitted by Tiffany Kovash https://youtu.be/CD--f1SxEyc

At Water’s Edge Jordan Smith

The Cradle after the painting by Berthe Morisot You never told me about the times like this, Mother. Here she is, pearlescent silk covering her in an angelic, ethereal glow. Her skin was paler than snow, but dusted with rosebuds, blooming from her cheeks. The curls on her head lead the eye through a maze of gold and bronze. Mother, she is anything but angelic. She screams a banshee’s ballad at the tiniest inconvenience. A dropped toy or a moment without entertainment turns her porcelain skin as red as hellfire. Did my screams bring you as much agony? She seems to drain me with such vigor, I can scarcely recover before I am again at her beck and call. How did you do it? As I gaze down at her through the sheer veil, my eyes droop and fall, graceless as a bird on a broken wing. My back and breasts ache from over-exertion for her. I held her to my chest today during her tantrum. The heavier she became in my arms, the hollower my chest felt. Her cries echoing of the walls and into the deepest parts of my mind. The reverb building and rolling between my eyes, a constant pound against my temples. Something deep inside began to return her calls. Though I kept my course, cooing gentle melodies, my body tensed against my restraint. The rhythmic rocking stalling into a stutter. As she eventually succumbed to the steady rhythm, I released her back into cradle. Mother, when did we stop crying? A baby’s calm breath Daughter subdued into Mother Will she stay silent? Bea Mathis The Cradle Dance Film, submitted by Jenna Patton https://youtu.be/yWhfn0gK9D8

Persimmons

— with gratitude to Li-Young Lee September. The light blinded father’s eyes under the tree. In front of our home. Lush, green, with the ripe persimmons dangling there. He picked several dozen and let them fill his arms. I selected two and gave you one. As you gently stretched the calyx to one side with your thumb and forefinger, tearing the transparent layer off, its flesh started to emerge. Dark orange color with vein-like fibers, holding the soft tissues from spilling. You kept stripping it until the persimmon turned into a blooming flower with peels hanging loosely, resting between your bent middle and ring fingers. No, they were not bent. Half of both were removed when you performed the task of defusing Japanese bombs. But anyway, clear, tidy, that’s how you did it, like a fine craft. I bit into it and my face was immediately painted orange by the juice. Grandpa, it’s bitter! You laughed, sipping the liquor, and then talked about your father, who was born in Qing Dynasty. Who was always drunk, kicking you around the house. Then after several cups of Rum, you started to mumble a kind of language I could not figure out. A language so vague that I could merely guess its meaning from your tones. On the night you fell, the language became extinct along with your crafts. They faded away while the ashes drifted and dropped, like how the seeds of a dandelion spread over the air. I grew up, began to taste the bitterness that the world held in store for every child. I put a dried persimmon in front of your tomb. It’s sweet, grandpa. Zhili (Ellie) Cheng

Agrarian Hope Vigil-Shuck

Burning Blue “My life has always been linked to fire.” This was something I had heard my father say before. It never came as a surprise to me that his life should be so entwined with this fierce and beautiful element. Knowing my father as I do, I always understood and in some cases, related to his burning spirit. However, now, standing in smoke as thick as fog, paging through the ashes of a time gone by, his words took on new weight. Farm fires were the stories of our lives, seen in my Aunt’s poetry, my uncle’s callused hands, and my father’s burning blue eyes. Growing up on the farm I learnt to accept that where there is land, there is fire, and where there is love of land, there would always be my father rushing out to fight the flames with a certain strength that came from brutal schooling and a hard life. So when I woke particularly early one morning to find the mountains I had loved all my life no longer burning blue, but draped in red, I felt no great concern. I simply marvelled at the flames that flashed and flickered against the pale morning sky. And I wondered how long it took for flowers to regrow. The next few days were filled with my father’s words, “back burning before it reaches the saddle,” and “supposedly it’s being monitored.” Even though monitoring has never extinguished so much as a candle, I suppressed my anxiety. Though I did not allow myself to worry, I was painfully aware of the red light spilling through my window, dancing on my eyelids and entering my dreams. It was a Monday I think, or perhaps a Tuesday at most, when I left my home unaware that I would be unable to return. I entered my dance rehearsal that afternoon vaguely aware of discoloured clouds, and an acrid scent upon the air. It was not until my mother received a frantic phone call and echoed the unfamiliar word “evacuation” that a sense of concern began to tug lightly at my navel. I found myself deserted as my mother left with only a rushed whisper to warn me. For a brief hour, time slowed to a standstill from which all that can be remembered was the grinding of teeth, the scratching of nail beds, and a certain tensing of the shoulders.

It was with the smallest amount of relief that I read the confirming message of loss. I shook with silent and restricted tears, but what worried me most was the small hole opening up inside of me, some cherished memory, or sense of safety that I could no longer locate. I knew they were all just things that burnt and it was silly to mull over them, but it was hard to stop my mind from making frantic lists of all the small things I had clung to over the years. There was a broken pocket watch, a lock and key stolen from my grandfather’s house, an old sewing kit once mistaken by two small girls for a hand mirror, the odd bits and pieces that make up a home. My dad picked me up in his white bakkie that was now blackened with smoke. He pushed open the door and my own concerns shriveled as I realised just how hard his day had been, his skin dark, his breath interrupted by the occasional cough, and those bright eyes, wild, terrified, but burning blue. And in that moment a thought I could not quite shape tugged lightly on my mind’s edge. It was days later, walking through the ashes of the trees I used to know, that the thought fully formed. However, at that moment, during that strange car ride, I was only aware of the comforting sense that somewhere beneath the ashes of the things I owned, was the land I loved, and during that moment I was sure that somewhere in the smoke, my mountains were burning blue. Zoe Meterlerkamp

Box Canyon Hope Vigil-Shuck

Box Canyon Hope Vigil-Shuck 18

Walking on a Street in Shanghai I turn the corner from the crowd, the street is quiet suddenly, the lush French Platanus stop swaying in the wind. Pacing leisurely from no. 99 to no. 210 this Tuesday afternoon. It used to be called Route Ferguson in 1907. That building, is it Romeo’s balcony? The wet panes still stained with morning mist; an oil painting from the 18th century hanging in the gallery: two birds fluttering their feathers, the hotel here is an aged western-style villa, an exotic ballad echoes from a corner record shop, at this moment, all I want is a cup of hot tea. But I pause, at a rusty gate where Pa Chin lived the last decade of his life, I have read his book The Family, now only a few magnolia trees, sticking out of the courtyard. Free from the hustle and bustle of the city, the tranquil street has borne the storm silently without being destroyed for almost a century.

Yunfie (Lesley) Xie

Mayon Volcano from Legazpi Aisa Goforth

Finding Balance Mirella Reily

What I Never Told You About the Faces in My Dream You, a female child, a teenage girl, a young woman. You are me. And I lied to you, that I was not afraid of death. I never told you: two blurred faces are always in my dream, old and young, that haunt me at night; now, a new but familiar face joined them. The first one made me remember a room, dim, cool, and silent. A trembling hand reached out to me, as withered branches sway feebly in the cold wind. The smell of rotting leaves made the little girl by the bed recoil; she refused the chapped hand and hid behind her parents, ignoring their disappointment. The second one reminded me of an afternoon when the sky was a little overcast. During the teacher’s boring lecture, I noticed a figure in the attic of the opposite building. Suddenly, a jump without any hesitation; falling, a kite with a broken string. Blood poured in the square in front of the building, dreadful and sorrowful. My throat was blocked; the screaming crowd began to gather, accompanied by rain, which diluted not only blood but also memories. The third one, the clear one, the newest one, is in my mind right now; there is a sallow face full of peace and serenity. Yesterday, at the funeral, I wondered if the crying would disturb his silence, for there was melancholy in the air, which made people sob without control. I don’t know if there will be no annoyance and pain in the world of the dead, but I know that the living will continue to live with grief, and even fear. I am still afraid of death; But now, I tell you that I could accept those faces, more bravely. Huihui (Gina) Xie

What I do in a pandemic I drive down highway 54, past the Burger King, where I once crashed my Honda into a man’s beat-up black Ford, where my foot once slipped off the brake at a red light, where the sun spotted, bare chested man emerged from his truck, and slammed the door so hard it made his engine rattle. I remember thinking, oh God this is where it ends… I drive past the stuffy white houses, the church on the corner, and the library – or as I like to call it, the building that built me. Sometimes I still go inside to smell the books, although I can’t touch them now, or they’ll have to be quarantined. I find it hard to read. Lately, it’s been hard to shake this reality. I can’t help but let it seep into my corners, like water into the cracks in the earth. They say try God or meditation, but I just listen to the blood sloshing in my veins and try to believe there is peace at the end of all this. I say I’m sorry. I repent. I apologize for existing, for taking up too much space and remember every stammering, sputtering regret. I see myself standing stiff in the parking lot as the strange man ran to his passenger side door and plucked a tiny white dog out through the open window. Next to our smoking cars, the stranger rocked the bundle of fur back and forth and looked at me with disgust. I pulled out my phone to dial 911 and began another incoherent apology. He cut me off. I’ve got to get home. I can’t stay here, he grumbled. Then he got back into his truck and left me alone to wait for the cops. I dance; I walk; I write forty pages of notes for my psych class, scribbling away until fact and figure seem meaningless. I wash the ketchup stains from my jacket; I scrub the grease from my hair; I do dishes, cleaning the things I can. I stare into my bathroom mirror. I do an ab workout. I stare into the mirror some more and appraise the body that has brought me through nineteen years of living. I notice my arms, my stomach, my thighs.

And although I share posts on my Instagram reminding the world that “all bodies are worthy of love,” I know that inside I am nursing a hatred for my own that is well practiced. I don’t have to wonder why in every quiet moment I tick through my faults like a side show. That’s why when I sit here, trying to write, all I can think about is that unholy screech of metal, as my foot slipped of the brake in front of the Burger King. All I can think about is the little white dog, shivering against a grisly chest, the ripe metallic smoke burning my throat. Katie Watkins What I do in a pandemic Dance Film, submitted by Katie Watkins https://youtu.be/oM1IH2DpYJ0

Still Life of Bottles Jordan Smith 24

Is Anybody Up There? Jodie Jernigan

Is Anybody Up There? Stained glass Stained like my soul “Is anybody up there?” I’ve asked the question more and more Mary said, “I don’t know exactly what prayer is.” I’ll add, “I don’t think I want to know anymore.” I dance with the jagged shapes and colors my intrinsic rough edges mingle with the material projections on the floor Stained glass Stained like my soul

Jodie Jernigan

Echoes With fingers outstretched, I reached out, grazing barely The tip of the clouds, sinking heavilyIt won’t pull me along And I find myself calling to you across the empty chasm. With empty gaze, you hesitate, silent, muttering softly “Brightness every day, you fall upon my waking eyes” But you’ve been gone for so very long, now And I can’t see through the depths any more. Without any delay, you jumped, diving swanlikeThe still water parted, swallowing you entirely Off to another world, another adventure, And I’m left with the echoes of past lives.

Bailey Merritt

Hearing Today, I prepared to give a hearing in my closet. I cleared my throat carefully and announced the start. The vest cried why was he born without arms Why was his God, the tailor, so brutal to him? He could not even give himself a hug on Valentine’s Day. T-shirt asked me why he had a prefix and had to carry with T and Dash heavily, but was still cheaper than the shirt. Pajama complained to me about depriving him of the right to go to school and work. Aren’t all clothes created equal? Jean required me to cut him short and pull two holes in him as big as I could, for he was invited to the next Paris fashion show. Socks protested to me about hanging them by the horns of that stupid reindeer. All night long on Christmas Eve they were filled with sticky fruits and sweets. The scarf said she’d had enough of the smell of pumpkin pie baked at Grandma’s last week Just because I couldn’t find a tissue then. The glove missed his brother and blamed me for always forgetting to get him from my dog’s kennel 27

The suit proudly claimed that he was the best because he always suits me well. But why could he attend only formal occasions? All of the clothes quarreled at once. Even though I yelled over and over, “Silence!” None of them stopped talking. So I slammed the closet door shut and walked out of the bedroom. naked

Fan (Nora) Ye

Hearing Dance Film, submitted by Marideth Read https://youtu.be/Bn6Oos90ZLc

Sheet Music Mirella Reily 28

The Red Shoes Mirella Reily

A Shadow Called Racism It was a cold night, for Georgia. I pressed the button and heard the chirp of the walk signal, and a pair of heavy boots crushing across gravel. He hummed Black Power under his breath. Not as a white flag, but as a threat. It was an empty street, for a Thursday. I kept my eyes trained on the ground. His boots, heavy, black, and darker than the clouds. His laces, a bright red, brighter than the stoplight trapping me there. It was dark, for 6 p.m. The white figure was like a beacon of temporary freedom. His gaze was heavy on my skin and hair, I rubbed my arm feeling the bullet holes his eyes made. I crossed the street, the rainwater wetting the bottom of my pants legs. He was less than a half footfall behind me. He followed me to my car. He was nice, for a racist. He didn’t hurt me that night, and still hasn’t. But I still see him in a black and gold polo at a country club. I hear him follow me in department stores, eyes trained on my hands. I hear him when my fair-skinned friends and acquaintances tell me “you’re different, you’re like us.” But I know, at some point, he’ll add my red to his boots. Bea Mathis

“SUSPECT’S LIFE UNRAVELED OVER PAST YEAR” Can you imagine? like a spool of yarn across a table of time a person’s insides splayed out laid out for all the world to see 365 ways to see someone’s whole soul in the name of Justice and Truth What a laugh! That may be what they say, but their thoughts turn down darker roads their mouths foam as they jump at the chance to do their mad science without stigma and minimal regret Because criminals don’t count, really don’t count as people, really and really, who will care? none will weep for the remains of the possibly-guilty The entrails will be spat on The haphazard autopsy of a soul justified in the minds of those who care enough to care but not enough to change Hannah Bowman

A Suspect’s Life Dance Film, submitted by Gracie Metcalf https://youtu.be/vQtju3zJJ1Q

Jakira Robert Laws

Prometheus Afterwards Tied on the crag. Heaven and earth wove into an abyss. And often, I had to identify my position in the universe by the icy chains on my limbs. I began to expect that eagle, as my blood percolated from the shrinking hole. I closed my eyes — he came. I am jolted awake, hands blindly groping for the phone: 5 A.M. Bliss, one of the most blessed times a modern man can receive during a night. I sleep again. I wait for the bus, while my feet automatically tap and slide, playing the melody of tap dance. Click, click on the bituminous pavement. Then the sound transforms into each rat-tat-tat on wooden doors until I finally come to the last order, a simple one. All I need to do is replace an ignition needle to revivify a gas ring. Detach, unscrew, install, the routine goes on precisely. I twist the switch as the spark shoots up, then let it go to make it swim and circle the altar-like gas ring, forming a blue fire, igniting tranquility in my mind. 33

The torch. The people. The bonfire reaching its way to the sky with all the merrymaking. “Anything wrong?” The host asks. “Oh, yeah, alright.” The work is done. I feel two kinds of adrenaline flowing in my blood, one for completing it, one for escaping from it, which exhausts me as the cubic apartments are illuminated one by one. I see myself cooped up in the artificial candlelight. “Did I have to bring fire to this world?”

Lady in Waiting Bea Mathis

Zhili (Elle) Cheng

Looking Up Jordan Smith

A Massage From a Stranger My fingers press into your hard shoulders, massaging away the kinks. Your gaze sits on my face. Patient, steady eyes. Waiting eyes. I squeeze harder between your blades which loosen in my palms. But, a stranger’s cold hands press into my lower back. It hurts. She places her chin on my shoulder. She calls herself fear. I shake my shoulders to get her off, but she’s stuck to me. Her skinny fingers trace my upper ribs, drawing more and more up my torso. She scratches her nails down my scalp-- it burns. “It’s okay. I don’t expect an answer now,” you assure me. Wow, your eyes are so very blue. But her hands are still on me. I lean forward to kiss you. My lips graze yours when I feel her hands around my throat. She presses right into my throbbing pulse, squeezing harder. The pain makes me cry. But she didn’t pull me away, You pushed me away first. She then drags me out of your bed, and out of your room, and out of your home, and out of your life. Marian Russell

Massage From a Stranger Dance Film, submitted by Jodie Jernigan https://youtu.be/Qbm-SuE1Pss 36

questions about kisses when I was ten, I began to wonder gentle pursing, pressing one soft tissue to another at that age, I didn’t realize how lip parted lip, gathering tongues together perhaps I should have known, sucking on the back of my hand lips and palm slick, sticky with saliva

a late bloomer, perhaps at seventeen it was finally time

a romantic, already more eager than proper

looked into his eyes and asked, do you want to kiss me?

a kiss, to him, was a hesitant, goose-ish peck

but to another, like fingernails digging into my wrist

pulling my mouth to his before it even decided what it wanted

a vulgar mixture of fluids, obscene slurping

his slippery hands uninvited, and in spite of reproach

then you, a friend to comfortable silence my skin punctured by a million microscopic needles and your windows so dense with fog we wrote messages in the steam to our future selves limbs entwined on my bed, lips plucked out melodic notes on your neck, the circles your fingertips drew on my thigh, the way you’d nuzzle your head into my neck as I rubbed the well-worn cotton between my fingertips 37

I kissed the mountains your shoulder blades made through your Kill Bill t-shirt perhaps the feel of a kiss is just better because of what keeps lips apart

like after our first kiss, when you said, see, it’s much better

when you really know the person

and I have no choice but to agree. What does the world become in the stillness before your lips find mine? but perhaps the more important question, who first discovered the right lips like Midas, turn even this to gold? Katie Watkins

Diablo Lake Hope Vigil-Shuck

Double Sonnet For a Dish Rag My mother wrings her hands at the kitchen sink, soapy, apple-scented bubbles of worry. The ratty dish rag twisted between her Cracked, dry, peeling, perpetually white knuckles; hands worn from decades of washing, cleaning and scrubbing his messes away. The man changes, but the dish rag remains. The dish rag passed from mother to daughter In our lineage-- “clean up after him,” who ever he may be. The men make messes, the women wash away the leftover grime. Wash off the history, wash off the bottles, and give them a shine once they’re all clean. With calloused, weathered hands, we go on. The dull, bleached grey cotton makes me sick; loose threads catch my nails, and it smells of mold. I’d like to throw the nasty thing away. The dish rag helps mom scrub off some glassshe cleans up this time for Uncle Dan. Just as her mother did for Grandpa Paul, just as her mother-in-law did for dad. The dish rag rests only in female hands; Soaking up fermented juice, wiping off tar-black stains, clearing tables of ashen smears. The dish rag stays the same, no matter the context, no matter the size of the disorder. And when I dare look down at my own hands, I worry my cuticles will start to peel.

Bailey Merritt

Double Sonnet for a Dishrag Dance Film, submitted by Caleigh Santa Maria https://youtu.be/0aZdlciDjRc 39

Savonarola Isabella Gray

Ae Poeme I took you to gaze at the stars, But I only saw youThe entire time. I can’t even recall the phase that night. I could only see one moonIn you. Eyes filled to the brim with glowing stars, brain flown from vermillion Mars, Silken hands that command, start and stop wars within a world keeping score, All you. Your hair like golden grass beneath a blue sky. All atop a head filled with blush thoughts That I will never comprehend Never understand Never know. But it’s you. It’s all you. You. Every person, every thing, every remnant of a dream, All worlds within a world, All opalesque oysters within a pearl. Every mind, every foil, every creature in the soil, All galaxies within a sun All kaleidoscope pieces of a one Except you. You feel so much bigger, so disconnected, so untameable. ... The moon is my first love, The one thing I hold above, The earth and all its worldly plights, So how do you compare? How do you hold a candle to the One thing that has always loved me The one thing that’s always cared How do you compare? How can my love be shared? But it can. And you did. And you do. 41

I saw you, That crisp night, not the moon. You were the center of my sight, the swing in my tune, Humming down a forgotten road and smelling trees, And smelling you. You are the sun, with a gleaming face and a dazzling smile. You are the moon, with milky skin and anachronistic style. You are the stars, sparkling across millions of miles. You are the sky, breaking limits and shattering dials. You are all of these wrapped into a gift that you give with your sheer presence. A piece of heaven embodied in an angel’s very essence. The intensity of the moon next to you lessens. And... I think I just want to gaze upon you every night without the terror of you being mine. I think I’m just amazed at the very sight of the barrier between celestial and concubine. Terrified and twisted, intertwined and misted, petrified and listed, exorcised and drifted, mummified and lifted, mortified but sifted Through feelings and thoughts that I wish I could know That I wish I could sow. That I wish I could grow Into a flower fit for you. Into a power for the love of two Into a shower of soft rain that leaves a soft dew Into You. Into you into you to you you I’ll let you be my moon if you’ll let me place my gaze upon you. Sarah Kay

The Fool Sarah Kay

What I Have Never Told You about the Moon That it pulls an ocean inside my body And my tide waves along the moonshine Other people care about the moon once a year At the night of mid-autumn praising it as a sign of fullness and reunion And I? I have an ocean living inside my body my tide waves along the moonshine So I care about the moon in every single moment ——Am I a non-transforming werwolf? Every time I look up I see the starry night sky ranging as an ode to the moon “Oh, moon I love it when you are full I love it when you are waning I love it when the tide inside my body is rolling and shouting cresting and collapsing, making me alive”

Charlotte Hu

What I Have Never Told You About the Moon Dance Film, submitted by Zoe Metelerkamp https://youtu.be/OeLFdLGCLas

I See A Man Now, his fingers strangle mine. He squeezes them ‘til the tips of my fingers are red and round like a row of tomatoes ready for harvest. He smiles and sighs, “I must love you. Nobody else can haul my ass out of bed at 2 in the morning for fast food.” He sees me and thinks of only light, happy days, and of the beauty of the autumn two years ago when we fell in love: He always will see me as the girl who fumbled in her rollerskates and the girl who laughed at his dumb pickup line: He still sees me as his prom date in her tight, red dress with the bright lipstick that her mother gave her: He hopes to see me as his future wife, as the woman who will one day change her red dress to white. I see the street lights flicker through the window and onto our pale faces. I see how the overgrown trees blur, Into tiny buildings with “For Sale” signs that blur, Into gas stations with only two pumps which blur, Into a blue light over the still country lake which then blurs, Back into dark trees that I don’t recognize. He whispers, “I need you in my life, baby.” The bags under his eyes are emphasized in the dark shadows of the car. I see pain and age when I look into those blue pools. Maybe he’s just tired, maybe I’m just tired too. It’s late at night and it’s late in our relationship, long past the honeymoon. But I can’t see the bottom in those two aqua pools, and I know from this point on, even if I jumped out of this moving car right now, he would wonder about me for the rest of his life. I see his hand let go of mine as he shifts gears and slows into a spot in the McDonald’s parking lot. His eyebrow twitches. He sees there is still tension, even after he’s apologized. He sees little progress in my squinted green eyes. He sees the stubborn girl he hates, the girl who isn’t afraid to snap back at him when he crosses a line. The girl he hates so much that he ended up hurting her in a way that still scars. I graze a hand across my chest where the pain originates and inflames behind my breast. I wish it were just a scar. “I need you too,” I murmur. The sad thing is, I mean it. When I see him, I also see the man who picked me up for dinner dates, the man who opened doors for me, the man who spoiled me with flowers and gifts, the man who laughed with me while we watched Star Wars in bed. I see the past in his face, and I look in the rearview mirror at myself to see the past too. 45

I dyed my hair, got more piercings, painted my skin permanently, I did anything so I didn’t look like her again. I don’t want to see the girl who got hurt anymore, the girl who made the mistake to trust a man she once loved, still loves, and is hopelessly still in love with. But, I can’t change my face or what I know. I might as well bury myself in the past, completely happy. So, I lean in and kiss him. Marian Russell

Half Mixed Mirella Reily SICILIAN Dance Film, submitted by Brianna Gutierrez https://youtu.be/t63rG7h-VjQ 46

A Study in Form Bea Mathis 47

Hole/Whole I want to be A Woman Without Holes I want nothing that can be filled or stuffed or ripped open no windows to the soul made of glass that can be broken I want them all closed off entrance denied no entrance at all smooth skin with no give to it no chance for invasion I do not want anything else to be a part of me there is already too much of me I do not want any more shoved in where it does not belong I want to be complete in my entirety without the addition of foriegn objects without another half that fits into me like a puzzle piece there never was a separation there never was anyone else here I want to be A Woman Whole

Hannah Bowman

What I Never Told You About Mourning I walked by your door yesterday where our memory starts. I recalled I loved you for your radiance and brilliance in front of people like a shining star. Your fragility and diligence without the spotlight. You are my past but I cannot pass it. You were never stingy with beautiful promises as the sky indulges birds enjoying their infinity. But your promises never got illuminated like the sky fades every night. One by one the needle stabs in and stabs out invisibly but bloodily. Neither of us ever perceived everything between us had changed. And since then my inner has been stuck in the triangle between self and self — part of me became you, I loved you I hated that I loved you. Subconsciously I never lived without you. At the moment of goodbye my inner self became a battlefield without smoke in the constant self-struggle. This was when my mourning began to take hold and what I never told you about this is that I killed a part of myself. Just do it I said to myself, take away the ordinary breath that belongs to you and your future Offer a sacrifice. 49

I walk by your door again today The wind comes from the windows going through rooms and playing with the white curtains.

Zhiyue (Jessica) Sun

Skull Study Courtney Galendez 50

A History of Valor Hope Vigil-Shuck

My Love My love, in the moonlight, my fingers always yearn to touch your hair. In my dream, your golden earring shines like a star. You look like the little prince in my childhood storybook. Your voice is full of the youth, and your lips feel like warm waves in the afternoon. The spring breeze blowing, it is you passing by. Heavy rain hitting, it is the drumbeat of your heart. You are Chilean red wine, elegant but strong. You are the sapphire falling into the river, I am the ripple moved by you. But, my love, I am confused. Are my feelings for you pure love or pure phenylethylamine? Is it your beautiful soul or your sexy appearance that I fall in love with? The only thing I know is I am crazy about the perfect outline of your jaw, and the sweetness of your thoughts. But I’m not sure how long the rose’s florescence will last. I’m not sure the sweet smell of tulip fragrance will still intoxicate me when I grow up. I’m not sure, after all this crazy and indulgent passion, when everything is calm and realistic, will there be another scratch engraved on our story? Ziyi (Alyssa) Xu

In His Eyes Dance Film, submitted by Brianna Gutierrez https://youtu.be/jRG_Pf0d6Hw

Subconsciousness time passes regardless of what you’re doing hibernating in the cave or laying awake taking in the rays from the sun time is passing regardless as you fumble with your mind trying to decide on your next move like a play in a chess match while the other is playing checkers time passes regardless of what you’re doing praying for someone’s health to be restored in the hopes of gaining an answer from a faceless God forgetting that human life is like a blink a nanosecond birthed and gone in the same breath that time is passing regardless tilting with the magnetic poles like waves crashing into human bodies ripple effects across the vast emptiness that a sudden effect here doesn’t take away from the entirety subconsciously as we lay and wait time has passed is passing and will pass and in a blink of an eye you’ll be born and you’ll have died but first you’ll have lived without leaving a whisper behind you you’ll have lived and danced with time’s shapeless arms 53

dipping to a buzz a shimmer a wink and subconsciously as your eyes close and life gives a wisp you’ll know you have lived & time has passed is passing will pass in a blink; regardless of what you’re doing…

Sha’kym Holland

Self Portrait Robert Laws 54

Tuesday Starts like every other day A small heart attack Caused by the screeching metal monster on the nightstand As the numbers 5 : 0 0 flash A crowded commute down the Atlanta highway leaves a feeling of agitation that eats away at her stomach Climbing its way up her esophagus and down her arms like an insect Coming to rest in her hands which fidget with a pen, sending it flying below the desk A typical Tuesday Creeping beneath the desk, She comes face to face with a web of wires. Weaving her arm through cords leaves her feeling like a fly in a spider’s parlor The thought of a spider’s spiny legs reaching for her hand sends tingles up her spine A moment of distraction Tangled limbs become interwoven with the braids of cords. Hasty attempts at freedom lead to her head colliding with the desk, leaving a bruise. It’s only Tuesday She downs two tablets of Advil, The rough capsules scraping her throat. The echoing slap of papers slamming onto her desk resounds throughout the cubicle Her jaw clenching at the date stamped on each file in blood red letters Due next Tuesday Why is it always Tuesday? Stumbling into the bathroom of her apartment She seeks to drown the tension in her muscles Yet, the warmth from the water does nothing to ease the ache in her shoulders Eyes well with unshed tears, longing for some semblance of relief.

Staggering to the bed She hides beneath the feather-filled duvet, Finally allowing the silent tears to fall in salty streams painting her cheeks. Peeking from beneath the safety of her cocoon Red-rimmed eyes fall onto the mechanical menace that started this nightmare The neon green digits displaying 1 2 : 0 0 It’s finally Wednesday Madison Freeman

Praise Him With Dance Dance Film, submitted by Madison Freeman https://youtu.be/gINlvMbvkEA

Light Dances Mirella Reily 56

Klismos Isabella Gray

A Double Sonnet to Scars My mother hands me a lightening cream. I look down at my legs and I understand why. She never like my ugly, dark spots. Scars are what tom boys get from being too rough. I put a dollop of cream on my finger. Each cool dot penetrates my skin, and it burns. Sometimes it makes me itch and I stop. Why do I have to bleach the scars from my skin? The tube the cream comes in is light brown. I am brown with speckles and slashes of umber. Is there an ideal color of brown? A brown lighter than the tube on the counter? Scars remind me of deep, brown loam Scratched into the earth by nature or by man. I found the tube when I moved back home. It brought back memories of finite summer days. The days filled with itchy bug bites and scraped knees. Back when my mom let me play in dirt. They remind me of anxiety filled days. Days where my nails mindlessly opened my skin. My mother stares at scar when I’m back home. Sometimes mother sees them more than she sees me. She comments on how they have darkened. Dark circles under my eyes she ignores. As my mother rubs my uneven skin, My skin prickles over old scars and bug bites. I asked my mom why she cared so much She said she only wanted what’s best for me.

Bea Mathis

Canticle Dance Film, submitted by Katie Watkins https://youtu.be/aCmTEKIYAFM

Cloud Cover Hope Vigil-Shuck

A Thing that Never Changes The man came down to the harbor with a bouquet of blue roses and a breakfast, The sea breeze ruffled his hair, Seagulls circled above him, they sang loudly, waves echoed, and the steaming sound of the cruise ship roared like a great welcome concerto The passers-by knew he was looking for her again, He sat on the bench, eating breakfast, but his eyes were fixed on the passengers from the cruise ship, the sea of faces One after another, until the last one The song of the seagulls not change, the same echo of the waves, and the same wind The man straightened his bow tie and patted his suit, stamped his feet, stood upright, and gently put the flowers on the bench. He said, tomorrow I will come again because our promise is a thing that will never change. Yuyang (Eve) Zhao

Acknowledgements

In a year filled to the brim with new protocol and new ways of living, what else could be more fitting than a new format for the Elixir! I would like to start out by thanking the writers and artists who contributed their work. Sharing your art is like sharing a piece of yourself; sometimes that kind of vulnerability can be scary. Thank you all for trusting our staff with your pieces. It has been a joy to soak them all in. It has been a pleasure to be surrounded by beautiful art, poetry, prose, and film work in this time. I would like to thank the Elixir’s advisors, Dr. Brim and Dr. Frazer for deeming me worthy of Editorship, and my fellow editors for their contributions to this year’s issue. Thank you for trusting me enough to run with this digital edition, and allowing me the freedom to include dance films in our submission pool. Thanks to Jodie Jernigan, organizer of the Poetry in Motion collaboration and our own Multi-Media Editor, for facilitating the submission of a large portion of our dance film submissions. To Professor Huy Chu and Professor Claudia Wilburn, thanks for helping a clueless English major learn how to use Adobe Creative Suite. This issue would not have been possible without you! Thank you to my friends and family, as well as my wonderful professors and mentors for your love and never-ending support. Thank you to the real, strong women of Alpha Chi Omega for challenging me every day. Without you, I may have never stepped into this leadership role. And finally, to the readers of this issue, thank you for supporting the Arts & Humanities at Brenau University.

The Elixir

The Literature & Arts Magazine of Brenau University 2020-2021