The Elixir, 2022-2023 Edition

The Elixir 2022-2023

edition

Cover Art

Jordan Smith

The Elixir 2022-2023 Edition

Mission Statement

The Elixir is a journal annually published 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.

Letter from Editor

Dear Readers,

Thank you for picking up this year’s copy of the Elixir! It has been a pleasure to get to work on this edition with an amazing team of people. This year’s edition is truly a culmination of the hard work of Brenau students. I have greatly enjoyed everything that people have contributed to this year’s magazine, and I hope that you do as well. This year’s Elixir has no theme, because we wanted to showcase the diversity of our student body and their abilities. We wanted to allow for limitless imagination and creativity, and that is exactly what we got.

This year we also were able to partner with another Brenau Organization, Poetry in Motion. This on campus project was created by Jodie Jernigan to connect both English and Film. Filmmakers and dancers create short films based on a poem, bringing them to life. We are excited to partner with this group for their third year, under the direction of Brianna Gutierrez, and we hope this partnership will continue. When you are looking through the book, these works will be indicated, and the videos will be accessible through QR codes. A huge thank you to all of the poets and filmmakers who created beautiful works, and a thank you to the staff of Poetry in Motion for allowing us to work with you.

I cannot finish this without thanking the staff who helped curate the book that you are about to read. To my lovely assistant editor, Reed, who has helped me so much throughout the process, and our wonderful advior Dr. Megan Clark, who we could not be here without. Thank you to Dr. Huy Chu for letting us use the MacLab to create this book. And once again to you, the reader for picking up this book. This has been a wonderful experience for all of us, and we hope that you enjoy this book as much as we do.

Thank you,

Baylee Schneider Editor of the Elixir

Sarah Kay

My identity is my own to be cherished, not a display I must curate for others to see. Poetry in Motion

A year of heartache, a year of hurt, A year of learning how to make things work, A year of all the things I’ve seen and heard, A year of love and loss and finding worth.

A year of art, a year of heart, A year of feeble-footed starts, A year of coming together and falling apart, A year of finding when it’s time to depart. Cats purring, Dogs panting, Horses biting my hair.

Humans crying, I am sighing, We are so unaware.

Driving up to the highest peak, Seeing nothing but fog and trees, A break in the clouds reveals to me That I am happy to be alive.

I am happy to be alive.

I am thankful to be alive.

The mountains are endless, The sky is limitless, The ground pulses with life. The trail is unending, My love is unbending, To hate would be a crime.

To hate myself, To hate anyone else, To break the things I swore.

I am all I want to be because I know I can be more. My body is beautiful and it takes me where I wish to go. My mind is beautiful and it learns the things I wish to know. My hands are beautiful and they plant the seeds I wish to sow.

My life is an endless pool of potential and I can be exactly who I want to be; I am free;

Amit Katz Poetry in Motion

Olivia Anderson

Nobody Has Ever Loved Me As I Loved Her

As she dances in the dark theater, I love watching her move. The way her body curves on the polished wood stage Feels like she’s meant for my eyes only.

I love watching her move, Every part of her body kissing the floor In a way meant for my eyes only. I want her to kiss me in the same way, with her whole self.

Every inch of her body kisses the floor

As if she’s never loved anything more in this world. I want to kiss her like that, with my whole self; Nobody has ever loved me as much as I love her.

She can’t love anything more in this world. The precipice of the stage grabs her heart, pulling her closer So she cannot love me as much as I love her; One more breath and she’s lost forever.

Her heart belongs to the stage, So hypnotized by the lights she can’t even see me. One more breath and she’s lost forever, Her body melting into the cold wooden floor.

Blinding lights hypnotize her so she can’t even see me Even though I sit in the same red polyester chair. While she melts into the cold wooden floor, I sit in the middle of the middle row.

I sit in the same musty red polyester chair.

Dozens of eyes all around me, In the middle of the middle row My eyes only see her.

Dozens of eyes all around me

Yet they don’t see the way her body curves on the polished wood stage. Mine are the only eyes that see her in that same light blue leotard She always wears as she dances into darkness.

Jenna Patton

Nobody Has Ever Loved Me As I Loved Him

I didn’t even have a chance to light the candles before you barged in, drunk. I hid all the alcohol in my apartment so tonight could just be about us. Did you notice the nice bouquet I set out?

The orchids are fake so you don’t spill the water if you knock it over.

I hid all the alcohol in my apartment so hopefully that won’t happen. I tried to set the table just like mom used to. The flowers are fake though - and she’d never approve of that. Let’s not talk about mom.

I tried to set the table just like her, But talking about her just makes things worse. Let’s not talk about mom.

We sit in silence, plates bare of my burnt chicken.

But talking about mom might trigger something in you, If my inedible, burnt chicken doesn’t set you off first. We sit in silence, your arms crossed over the place where my burnt chicken should be.

It’s always something.

If my inedible, burnt chicken doesn’t set you off first,

You’ll comment on my going to school for art instead of business. It’s always something.

That’s why I have to keep my walls free of art - it might end up shattered.

You’ll comment on my “useless passions.”

Everything around you is simply fuel for a fire. That’s why I have to keep my home like a blank canvas. One day you’ll find relief that doesn’t equate to alcohol on your breath.

Everything around you is fuel for your fire. The shadow behind those eyes is evidence of how much you miss her. One day you’ll find joy in the midst of the grief. In the meantime, I’ll hold the shattered pieces of the smudgy, clouded painting that is you.

The thin line of your lips pressed together, mustering the strength not to lose it in front of your daughter is evidence of how much you miss her. Did you notice the nice bouquet I set out? Orchids, mom’s favorite. So go ahead - fall apart. I’ll pick up the pieces. I’ll turn them into art by the light of the candles that next time, you’ll give me the chance to light before we sit down.

Sara Reed Wilson

WaterLily

2nd Place Cover Art

Katie Watkins

Young

Wayward pillows and blankets lined sleeping sentinels

comfort I knew in nights with popcorn kernel gums and sugar teeth

Crusty morning eyes

that unstick and see cracks of under-door-light cackling bacon grease sticky syrup smell

end of breath and bodies with mine

Now I know nights when morning won’t come days on endandendand

I left home

Others returned to take up their guard what would it mean to stay?

Do I know myself to makemake better wounds, ruins of couldshouldwould have been this way young

Anna Beringer

Circles and Squares

Squares are pretty great, they tell me

Look at those beautiful corners

Crisp, clean, perfectly aligned

Everyone loves squares

But truth be told

From the bottom of my heart

Squares aren’t for me

Too pointy, too jagged, edgy

I’ve always preferred circles

With their smooth, bulbous curves

They fit into the palm of my hand

The glint in my eye

The hole in my heart

I’m surely not the only one to prefer circles

But the squares and circles don’t get along you see

They hit and beat and push the circles until the smoothness wears away

The graceful curviness becomes abrasive, and sharp

But the squares don’t care and the keep at it

Until the circles have had enough

And start fighting back

Chipping away the corners of the squares

Whittling away the edges

They don’t care anymore either

I don’t care to end up as a pile of undistinguishable scrap

So I’ll keep my shapeliness to myself

To know, to feel, to understand circles and squares

Triangles and stars on my own

Without help from the creator of the shapes

The Father

He carves figures out of wood

In his workshop

Masterfully shaping the soft tree branches into squares and circles year after year

For as long as i’ve been alive

He tells me that he makes the squares with me in mind

Not all the squares

Just this one

He puts it in my hand

I smile.

Jordan Smith

Under the Sun

Sara Reed Wilson

A Sonnet For A Changing Day

Poetry in Motion

Nothing at all happened on that gray day

Only the leaves that flew by on the breeze

And I was feeling both quite sad and gay

The day it had a quiet sense of ease

I walked along as though within a dream

With dainty petals falling into place

There was but one thing that did shine and gleam

The sun, it came to smile on my face

Clouds drifted through the endless blue-gray sky

With birds muffled and no longer to sing I stopped a moment just to question why It seemed as though there was a change to bring Come forth the cold, and bring the world anew Come forth the spring, and turn frost into dew

Jess Goodwin Poetry in Motion

Sara Reed Wilson

A Sonnet For An Endless Night

Everything did happen on that bright night

The leaves lay still and silent on the ground

And I was filled with both anger and fright The night was anxious, waiting to be found

I stumbled as though within a nightmare

With branches cracking, breaking apart now There was but one that did not seem to care The moon, he had no crease within his brow

The clear was endless, black and indigo The crickets cried and screamed, it hurt my head I ran along not wanting now to know It seemed as though everything would end dead Go back the cold, do not come close to me Go back the spring, from you I wish to flee

Susan Schroeder

Ode to Ophelia

Time wastes away, yet here I wither day by day. The ice has yet to penetrate my veins, for here I remain in my watery grave. You may inquire, how did such a gruesome death one acquire? My garden has always been my solace, my haven among men. But of course, a love of mine would frequent it every now and again. Kind words that were sweet like honey would be exchanged, Our romance had blossomed as the seasons changed. This son of Adam had become my life-line, the very essence of heaven divine Not once would I have dared to dreamt of a day where he wouldn’t be mine. He would hold me when the sunshine shone on and the clock struck twelve, Every afternoon he would greet me with a “ my darling mademoiselle ”. But the sun does not shine forever, as the moon is sly, conniving, and altogether surprising.

The month of Augustus marked my twentieth trip round’ this earth, And on that fateful morn my darling met me by my hearth. Golden and precious was the locket he bestowed, as my adoration for him continued to grow.

I knew that our affections were more rare than a treasure trove. The celebration continued and as I was held within his embrace, I noticed a peculiar look upon his face. He burst out in tears, a river flowing from his eyes, As he uttered the very words which I shall forevermore despise. “ My angel sent from the gods above, there might be an ending to our love. I must halt my visits to this garden for it is no longer safe, I have been requested for war and my calling to duty awaits. I will be commanding a ship out at sea, and oh my darling, promise that no matter what happens that you shan’t ever stop loving me ”. I felt my soul drift away as a leaf would blow in a October’s wind, For my heart is an anchor that will sink the moment he has sinned.

Two months have passed since my love went away, And the trees are dying in my garden on this cold atumn’s day. What was once my heaven has now been damned my hell, Only the arrival of a brown-packaged letter could have broken me out of this spell. Delicately I unwrap the parcel that has been bestowed upon me, and inside of it I hope for the answer to my dreams.

But upon my hasty reading of the letter you see, even the demons in the fiery depths below must have felt the earth crumble from the weight of my screams.

My love had sacrificed his life in battle, but not before he sinned even lowlier than some cattle.

He killed many of “ the enemy ”, including even those who were kin to me. Of my family now there is nothing left, and it is by the commander this act has been blest. I realized my time was running out, so inside I went to dress up in my best white ball gown.

And for the once in my twenty years I let my golden hair fall down. I carefully retreated into my garden that had now become a graveyard of my past, Flower upon flower I shoved into my hair so I could be laid to rest at last. In a frenzy of panic I glimpsed at the pool of water some may call a pond, For my funeral shall be prepared where me and my darling had first created our bond. Slowly I slipped into the murky depths, for nature shall always prevail. Nothing lasts forever, I knew that the second he had set sail.

Sara Reed Wilson

The Goddess Awaits

Olivia Anderson Loveless Ghazal

When he stopped me on the street and said “you need to know this”, Immediately I knew he would again propose a life that’s loveless.

The crash of the front door startling my aching body; Wondering who will come back first, kind of loveless.

The Sunday mornings he spits coffee grounds in my eyes Only to turn around and hold me like death, kind of loveless.

The competition between my screams and the Vols game For his ice cold, Jack Daniels fueled anger, kind of loveless.

The weekday lunches I pack to the brim with denial and shame He eats in his corner office on 12th street, kind of loveless.

The candlelit dinners at his parents’ haunting gray house, Where his mother cowers from his father, kind of loveless.

The wounds a thousand olive branches could never heal, And the bonds Hercules himself could never break, kind of loveless.

Jasmine Martin Ars Poetica

Now I lay, my pen down to sheet I pray to the Lord my words will reach.

I rack my mind, my world, for words to find their way unto the page. For some kind of purpose, for the creation.

That if I find something good, grip on real tight. That I will find a way to reach those, who can find it hard to hear.

This would be enough to make her stop, and think before she ends what little hope I have.

For him to understand my truest intentions. Why my thoughts are running on stupid, my mind stuck in fleeting moments.

My anger with a victim to fling onto. Feasting on fears that creep out the gutter when they see the faintest of light.

It is moments like these that I wish I could cry, but the words are enough to capture this. When my body refuses to allow some form of release.

The words enough for my thoughts, feelings, and ramblings taking shape, running amuck on the page.

Abigail Wilks

Dear God

Am I not what you thought I would be?

Was I not made in your image like the rest of them?

They know the sin I carry within me

They know that I am different

Am I wrong to think she’s pretty? But didn’t you make her too?

In terms of women, you made plenty

Is liking them something I can’t do?

Your people stare in my direction

They always judge what they don’t know

What they can’t see in my complexion

Is that it’s you that I follow

They think I work against them

They think I’m their enemy

But I’ll still go to heaven

They’re still my family

So why then do they judge me? What do they think they know?

They think they’re more holy

They think you are my woe

Sara Reed Wilson Medieval Cathedral

Anna Beringer

Hey, Did You Know?

Hey did you know?

Did you know how much He loves you?

Did you know how much He cares?

I know you hear it all the time

but do you really know?

Because if you knew

If you really knew

You’d see it all around you

He’s everywhere

You just have to look up

Hey did you know?

The sun rises every morning

He loves us that much

You’d see it if you looked up

Kindness from a stranger?

You know that has His name written all over it

The air you breath

The water you drink

Look up and see

Hey did you know?

When He died,

He died for you too

Everyone talks about dying for the world

But if the world was just you, He’d die still the same

Did you know that?

Just look up

Because He’s not playing around

He doesn’t play with love

Hey did you know?

You’re forgiven now.

You’re walking in His perfect freedom

Did you really know that?

Because if you did

You’d be changed forever

If you only knew

If you’d only look up

You’d know.

Genesis Lorenzo

What Do I Need To Do?

I have been silent. I have been pushed away. I have walked out, and I have stayed. I wanted to know how it is to spend, Spend time with the family, Spend time at home. Raise a family. Do it on my own. But, am I helping? Or Am I giving up? What it’s like to be above How does it feel to be in charge? What it’s like to be the boss What else do I need to do? How much does it cost? To reach what I’ve been fighting for

Everyone says it, but anyone gets it Here is where it ends, this is what it takes To become greater and greater, a new path needs to be taken

This is what I pay for being seen, heard, and a woman

I hate hanging out with old friends. It always makes me want to cry. The space between us is tangible, palpable, but we don’t say a thing. I drove an hour each way to see you today, and meet up for coffee. I pay. This seems like our unspoken agreement as I have rich parents who talk to me and you used all your savings to buy a new transmitter for your partner’s car. You’re moving out of state at the end of the year. I am not sad. I am a bit worried, but you’re an adult, just like me. I don’t bring up my birthday, and how you and my new best friend treated one another with cold hostility. My mom says it’s okay if you two don’t “gel.” You tell me you’re talking to your mom again. I tell you I’ve had two family members die this past month. I show you pictures from my mom’s elopement in Greece. You tell me your partner lost their job, you ask if our mutual friend is doing well. I respond with “That’s too bad” and “I would assume so.” A pumpkin cookie latte sits in front of me, watered down now, condensation thick on the clear plastic. The coffee shop is cute, and recently remodeled. You point out where things used to be, and I try very hard to picture it, but I can’t quite do it. A playlist of 2010’s indie hits drones on and I hum along every now and again under my breath when conversation stalls. We talk for two and a half hours until you stand up and say that you have errands to run. Outside, we hug twice and promise to meet up before Christmas. It’s a promise we won’t keep. The air is crisp, it’s the day before Halloween, overcast but still bright. There isn’t much activity on a Sunday, even in the center of town. On the drive home there are various shapes littered by the side of the road. I can’t tell which are corpses and which are debris.

Sara Reed Wilson solidarity Regan Spinks

I Found Your Note in the Trash After Closing after Nancy

Stohlman

A wad of paper catches my eye as I empty the trash can in the foyer. It is crumpled on the floor behind the wastebasket, a scrap of receipt tape hidden almost out of sight. I almost leave it, but something compels me not to. Maybe it’s because you smiled when I took your order. Maybe it’s because, in the span of two minutes, exchanging nothing more than idle chatter about the weather and the awkward pleasantries of old friends, I was reminded of decades ago and the feeling of home whenever I was with you.

Maybe it’s because, out of the corner of my eye, I saw you poured over your table long after your coffee was gone, hand moving against the page with a frantic precision.

I unfold the crinkled paper with careful hands. I’d recognize your handwriting anywhere–I watched it blossom from the scribblings of a schoolgirl into the more refined penmanship of a woman. The words are hard to read, crossedout and rewritten so often that the ink bleeds across the page like a Rorschach test.

I read, but the words I once yearned for with everything in me now feel foreign to my eyes. There is no relief. No gratitude. No solace. Twenty years too late and hollow as the Jack-O-Lanterns we carved every October.

Jordan Smith

Caught in a Breeze

3rd Place Cover Art

Jillian Pittman

The Letter He’ll Never Write

Poetry in Motion

This is a letter to the woman within us all.

I’ve found myself in full admiration of your existence.

Though you cannot feel it, I’m beside myself in falling more for you as I begin and end each day.

There could never be enough time to exemplify how your hands make me feel secure nor the

way your eyes encapsulate my entire being for one moment in time. Have I always adored you within myself?

I hug you now as I’ve hugged you a thousand lifetimes before this moment, like my arms were created to be molded around your shoulders ever so gently.

As I wonder when this began, love reminds me she is an eternal sunshine that radiates beyond what we can comprehend in this life.

Let me render your touch as a privilege and not found in lust, And let our skin intertwine creating something so beautiful and divine. I will forever be immersed by your existence.

This is to be your symphony.

Brianna Gutierrez Poetry in Motion

Mia Sønderskov

Magnets

There exist books about miracles. I know this because you keep one on your nightstand. I’m standing at your bedside holding your hand, clinging to the last bit of life lying in the bed. I don’t believe in miracles, but I imagine how your rattling breath becomes quieter, more even, how your eyes clear as you stand up to give me a hug. I don’t believe in miracles. I turn around and leave the room, so you don’t see me crying. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me cry.

On the fridge, a selection of the magnets we buy for you whenever we are traveling. You used to have more before the move, you must have had at least a hundred magnets, one for all the places you’ve been with us in our thoughts. When I come back to the room, I carefully take your hand in mine. The dying is fragile in the same way an infant is fragile. You change the position of your hand a bit, so it fits better in mine. Your eyes find their way back to your bedroom, you are looking at me like you are really seeing me now. When you held my gaze earlier today, you were mumbling incomprehensible words to me. I couldn’t understand what you tried so urgently to tell me then, but I think you’re trying to tell me the same thing now. I’m not sure I understand now either, not before I see how you try to form a smile. How there’s love in your eyes. Your gaze makes up a room, a room for no one else but us. I don’t think of it as the room of the ill, not anymore. We never really shared a lot. I tell you that we love you. My brother nods and says a barely audible “yes”. Your eyes rest on mine, and I hope you know that I’m telling the truth.

A couple of years ago, my brother brought back a magnet from Athens. He gave it to me, and I put it on my fridge. Over time, the magnet became too weak. It was made of porcelain, and every time it fell to the floor, another piece broke off. I kept putting it back until only the black magnet was left. Now it stays there and keeps an old note of an appointment with my therapist. We’re not going to give you any more magnets, the last one was a flamingo from Miami. I don’t believe in miracles, but I’ve never gotten a chance to say goodbye before. You look to the ceiling, but you tighten your grip around my hand. We both need to let go, the guilt of having to do so burning in my chest, the anger, too. You aren’t the one who should be lying in this bed. I need to go back to the hospital; A few weeks ago, I talked to you about how hard it is to be in the hospital, the unspoken hope that we would both come home alive. You’re still gripping my hand like you have no intention to let go. All I want to do is stay. I release your hand, and it feels like an act of violence.

In the car, my brother and I talk about how horrifying it must be to die hoping for a miracle. When I arrive, you only have a few minutes left.

Jill Brookshire Warm

warm (wôrm), adj 1. holding or releasing a gentle measure of heat recognized by one’s senses: a warm touch. 2. characterized with empathy, compassion, affection; intimacy between two closely attached. 3. the feeling of home as the fire in the living room spreads its blanket against the wet winter. 4. the oddly similar feeling that sits as a lump in my throat, clouded with anger or fear or both, as I watch everything burn. 5. this sting, this swollen skin. 6. this tingle of whiskey in my stomach. 7. this bitter bite of coffee over-bloomed. 8. this Sunday night, this Monday morning. 9. this hand in my hand, in my hair. 10. this air that is yours and mine. 11. ours. 12. where the lump is arguably a delusion 13. and I am encompassed 14. falling 15. into the arms of the only safety I have ever known.

Sara Reed Wilson Hotsprings

Size large to extra large

That has been my size for as long as I can remember

Except for the time, maybe for a year or so

When I was starving myself and following a list

Where I shopped for a medium size

I still kinda miss her

I miss the size, not the list

Sadly, it goes hand in hand

My weight and size has always been a defining point

It told me if I was going to have a good day or not

It said to me if I could wear the clothes I want

If I a guy I liked would like me back

If my grandmother would call me gordita

It’s a battle that constantly happens and never stops.

Count your calories

Count your carbs

Don’t count

Throw away your scale

What’s your BMI?

Food is fuel

Food can kill

Be careful what you eat.

Are you hungry or thirsty?

Eat what you want

Don’t eat emotionally

Don’t eat

Eat

Size large to extra large

Midsize to plus size

I don’t care; I can’t care

I want to feel free from this battle

I’m tired, and I’ve accepted

It doesn’t matter

Even if I accept it, it’s not enough

You should exercise, it would be good for you

Let’s do it together; we will hold each other accountable

You look great now, but you could look better

It’s bullshit with a side of fries

Size large to extra large

I look into a mirror

I count the rolls and stretch marks

I notice where I lost and where I gained

I pick apart where my hips and stomach meets

I take a breath and sigh

It’s a body, and it’s mine

For better or for worse

I choose to embrace it, even if it hurts

L to XL

Poetry in Motion

Jeilianne Vazquez

Raleigh Phillips Poetry in Motion

Jasmine Martin I &D

I would do anything to make the pain go away. Forcing food down my throat.

I’d do anything to live. Just to make it another day. Screaming until my mouth runs dry.

Forcing food down my throat.

Everyone laughing while I was a stranger at my own family’s dinner table. Screaming until my mouth runs dry. Can anyone even see me?

Everyone laughing while I was a stranger at my own family’s dinner table. Feeling out of place in my skin. Can anyone even see me?

My hair falling out in mounds, piling onto the floors.

Feeling out of place in my skin.

Then I cut all my hair laughing as the weight fell away. My hair falling out in mounds, piling onto the floors. I reached onto my head for a comfort unknown.

Then I cut all my hair laughing as the weight fell away. They finally looked at me with eyes full of concern. I reached onto my head for a comfort unknown. I no longer needed their words to numb the pain.

They finally looked at me with eyes full of concern. And I laid down the crusted hard shell, covering my skin. I no longer needed their words to numb the pain. I would do anything to make the pain go away.

Olivia

Anderson

Shattered Oranaments

My body wasn’t mine. I was frozen in the corner of the upstairs hallway, hiding in the shadow created by the right hand wall of my room jutting out over the foyer, watching a man clean up blood from the floor downstairs. I had seen him before, he was a family friend, but I didn’t really know him. Distressed whispers came from the other side of the house but my ears had stopped working. Everything was fuzzy. I couldn’t take my eyes off the blood. It was only a few drops, but it was a few drops too many. I had never seen bleeding knuckles in real life before. Our large Christmas tree, full of glass ornaments that had been in our family for generations, still glowed in the corner, illuminating the scene. We shattered one of those ornaments this year. The man darted a glance up at where I was hiding, sending a jolt through my body. I scurried back into my room, carefully slamming the door. My body wasn’t mine. I looked at the clock on my iPod touch I was supposed to have given to my parents at bedtime, but a babysitter had put us to bed that night. 2AM, it read. I stared at the clock for I don’t know how long. My body wasn’t mine. My mind wouldn’t stop racing with words and images that I wanted to forget. That I never would forget. Kids, your mom is a . Smelling the on both of them from upstairs. He’s trying to the window. dripping on the floor. Mom, please call the . Holding my younger brothers in my bed, . Did he try to you or the kids, ma’am? Memories mixing with tears, all replaying over and over and over and over and over and over.

My body wasn’t mine. I woke up to my mom’s sobs, my aunt trying to comfort her. Good morning, sunshine, my aunt offered with a pitiful smile. I had never felt so dark. My body wasn’t mine. I saw the shattered glass from the framed watercolor flower painting I made that he punched. The house still smelled faintly like the chocolate chip cookies we made with our babysitter the night before. My brothers and I got carted over to my uncle’s house for breakfast. The adults had to fix things. He made eggs, bacon, and toast that I couldn’t eat. My body wasn’t mine. My younger cousins were playing with the Christmas presents they got two days earlier. Magic was still in the air for them. You shouldn’t have had to see that, my uncle said. No shit, I thought, though in words more appropriate for a nine-year-old. My world had shattered like our antique ornament. The minutes and days and weeks that followed ran together.

My body wasn’t mine. I was only allowed to see him a handful of times over the next three months. I wished and prayed that the judge wouldn’t let him come back. But he did. He did and everyone pretended like it never happened. Nothing was any different, but fragments of shattered eggshells covered the floors, piercing our feet. I started hiding more and more. My body wasn’t mine. My body has rarely been mine since.

Anna Beringer Stop, Wait

Stop, wait, stay, go stop, wait, I don’t, know Lord, please, I can’t, decide

Stop, wait, stay, go

I thought I knew your answer it seemed so perfect, so clear, so right I prayed so hard asked so many times but I never listed, to hear your answer Stop, wait, stay, go stop, wait, I don’t, know Lord, please, I can’t, decide Stop, wait, stay, go

I prayed so loud that all I could hear was the sound of my own voice and I didn’t stop to hear what you were telling me.

So when I wouldn’t make the right choice You made it for me

Stop, wait, stay, go stop, wait, I don’t, know Lord, please, I can’t, decide

Stop, wait, stay, go

They say when one door closes another opens but what if the first door never shuts?

What if the second door opens and you’re just standing in a hallway in between two open doors?

How do you know if it’s time to shut the first door yourself?

Stop, wait, stay, go stop, wait, I don’t, know Lord, please, I can’t, decide Stop, wait, stay, go

So I call out to you again, help me! I know you have the perfect answer but help me to make peace with the answer.

Help me to pursue your answer with humility and not pride. Father in heaven I know you hear me help me to stop, wait, and hear you back Stop, wait, stay, go stop, wait, I don’t, know Lord, please, I can’t, decide

Stop, wait, stay, go

Kelysia Benson

A Mermaid’s Tale

Jenna Patton Package of Glitter

Wait a second. You’re not Herr Drosselmeyer. No! Return me to my mark on stage left this instant, young lady!

But it’s too late. Wielded by Party Girl #4, I’m careening through the bustling backstage, when I catch a glimpse of his cape, and that pocket I’m supposed to call home in an ever dwindling three minutes. Damn this young dancer for pulling me away from my beloved glow-in-the-dark X as the overture pours through the speakers.

She’s skipping gleefully now - that little monster - choking me in her sweaty grip, when I hear him calling for me in a shouted whisper. “Hey! Has anyone seen my prop?”

Is that what you think of me? A mere prop!? Have you forgotten my role in the grand reveal of the precious Nutcracker - the titular character for heaven’s sake!

I want to call out, “Here! I’m right here!” and give you a piece of my mind while I’m at it. But the rippling, excited chatter struggling to quench itself around me drowns out my every attempt. Suddenly I’m shaken senseless as the young girl tosses me up and down relentlessly. “STOP IT YOU INSOLENT LITTLE...” My thought is interrupted as she misses the catch. I’m freefalling now, plunging toward the dusty backstage floor.

The explosion is that of an atomic bomb - a second and third plume of me cascading down in a wide circumfrence.

The mothers that flock to me then use that same whispered shout when they tell Party Girl #4 “it’s okay,” but are sure to let me know how much of a mess I am.

A blue light in the distance illuminates a table just enough for me to watch a mother scoop a handful of glitter from a tub into a fresh drawstring bag.

And suddenly I’m being swept away by the bristles of a broom when I spot Herr Drosselmeyer glancing at me one last time, sliding the new package of glitter into the pocket of his cape.

Regan Spinks What Every Cashier Should Know

1st Place Poetry

I see they gave you the corporate training guide to work your way through: don’t even bother. This is a beast you have to learn for yourself.

Registers one and three are your best bets. Avoid six at all costs: customers see it first and forget all the others exist. Two, too: pretty sure it’s possessed.

When the line snakes all the way around the queue and soccer moms start to tap their feet in impatience, call for back-up, but call by name: the bystander effect is real.

The woman who just walked in with crooked teeth and chipped nails will try to start something: don’t rise to the bait.

Don’t push the credit card unless a manager’s standing right behind you. Get one application, they’ll be on you like a pack of bloodhounds.

Most importantly, don’t be afraid to say no: No, I don’t have more in the back and No, I can’t refund you without your card and No, I can’t give you fifty percent off for a damage you made and No, I can’t take back your six-month old chlorine-stained swimsuit and No, I can’t tell you if we have any chintzy Rae Dunn mugs for you to resell and No, I can’t wrap your last-minute baby shower gift ‘real quick’ with this line behind me and No, I can’t give you this cheese platter for free because it doesn’t have a price and no.

Trust me when I say the biggest lie you’ll ever hear is that the customer is always right. Chin up, my friend. You’ll soon find out that the customer is always wrong.

Olivia Anderson Spaghetti Satire

Characters

Ruby - college senior, Myla’s housemate, 22

Myla - college senior, Ruby’s housemate, 22

Setting

On campus apartment Time

The present

• Lights go up on a small table with 2 chairs. On the table sit 2 plates of spaghetti and a basket of garlic bread in the center. Ruby and Myla sit tensely at the table eating. Soft jazz plays in the background. Both are wearing generic athleisure - crop tops and leggings. An uncomfortable lack of conversation permeates the room until Ruby can’t take it anymore.

Ruby: (slams fork down) I can’t take it anymore!

Myla: (sighs) what now?

Ruby: What now?! (gestures in exasperation) What do you mean “what now”?

Myla: Well, we resolved whatever the hell your problem was like an hour ago so it must be something new.

Ruby: Seriously?! You call walking out on me to make this dagum bland spaghetti resolving a problem?

Myla: (offended) First off, you always say you love my spaghetti and second it was either that or cussing you out and my momma always told me “if you don’t have anything nice to say”.

Ruby: (leans back in chair, miffed) I can’t believe you’re still acting like this isn’t your fault.

Myla: (aggressively leans over the table) Shut the front door! My fault?! My fault.

Ruby: You were the one who ate the last of MY Dino Nuggies when you know all I want after a long day of classes is my DINO NUGGIES!

Myla: Well we share everything else! You use my towel when you forget yours and I’ve said nothing. Nothing! You just need to make like Elsa and let it go.

Ruby: I don’t give a flying flick flack about Elsa and you have no proof I used your towel.

Myla: (stands up abruptly sending her chair sliding back) It was wet before I got in the shower!

Ruby: (stands up in the same way) That is besides the point! You still ate my nugs!

Myla: You know what? Maybe I did. But have you thought about the fact that I made us this spaghetti to make up for it?

Ruby: (visibly softens) wait . . . you what?

Myla: Uhh. . . yeah. I even burnt some of the garlic bread because I know you like it crispy.

Ruby: (moves across the table towards Myla) You did that just for me?

Myla: Maybe I did feel a little guilty about the nugs.

Ruby: (takes Myla’s hands) No one’s ever burnt garlic bread for me before.

Myla: (stares into Ruby’s eyes) You deserve it.

(Ruby and Myla begin violently making out)

Myla: (in between breaths) Is this . . . a bad . . . time . . . to tell you . . . I . . . I also ate your ice cream?

Ruby: (recoils in horror) YOU FANANGALING FIEND!

(Ruby throws spaghetti straight in Myla’s face as lights fade)

Laila Reed

Explosive Waves

Jenna Patton

Ode to Homework after Ross Gray

I’d never admit it aloud, to my parents or my peers stressing over their own studies it can be, sometimes, the sweetest moments of the day, for me, over cups of black coffee, or even a nice, warm chai held within a coffee bean sleeve and surrounded by seven best friends and five open laptops a damp dog and his soggy nose bops my heart filled to the brim while a frisbee whistles by and a man with a stool and a good-natured guitar in need of a tune strums a song we recognize from an late 2000’s Ed Sheeran album I must be grooving there in my metal chair under string lights and wisps of clouds it is said that everything looks different in autumn when the sun shines a golden light calling attention to changing leaves performing for you and I yesterday green, today bright yellow and orange cascading down to land near frolicking goats and girls who wish to join them beyond a buzzing electric barrier at the foot of a mountain shrouding tables where hushed gossip issues this day’s a miracle a diamond found in dust to sit like this dregs of latte in my cup while my precious posse preps for another week on the coffeehouse patio or the grass, breathing in crisp mountain air basking in a chance to escape from everything.

Katie Watkins

Lone Steeple

Sara Reed Wilson

The Bear

3rd Place Prose

I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for it to go all wrong the way it eventually went. I just saw you in Tesco one day, and we were instinctively drawn to each other. Or at least, I was drawn in. Two animals, two ships passing in the night. The gold band heavy on my finger, Daniel’s life insurance policy sitting open on the desk. It would all go to me someday when he died. If he died before I did, that is. If I died first I would get nothing but the cold taste of dirt and defeat.

Our eyes first met over a whole carton of apples you were stealing and I knew then. I knew from Daniel’s reaction to your large form, your intensity, the volume of which you roared, the weight you threw around. You were the key to my freedom. This bear was going to kill my husband.

He ran frantically about the store, dodging displays to try and get away. I drew nearer to you. Was it out of comfort? Pity? I’m not sure. Approaching the ferocious beast I placed my hands on your large head. We were not afraid of each other. Carefully, I placed a peck square between your brown and fuzzy ears. We locked eyes and then you knew your mission, understood my intent. You were to kill my husband.

I watched with glee as the chase began and was quickly lost. No man, especially not Daniel, can outmatch a bear in a grocery store.

Once it was done I actually cheered. Cheered for you. Cheered for the bear that killed my husband. I watched your cold, dark, dead eyes meet mine. It was done.

And yet. At the end of your rampage I was left with nothing. No insurance money, no house on the cape, no heavy gold jewelry. Nothing but the cold taste of dirt and defeat.

Xander Curry

Untitled Skull

Mia Sønderskov Beat

We make plans weeks in advance. We ask, “How do we get there, how much time do we need?”. We buy cheap blankets, crackers, barbeque chips, white bread at the grocery store. We buy drinks too, usually water and diet coke, but not too much. We don’t always know where the closest restroom is. We take the train, or sometimes a parent will drop us off. We drive on our own, eventually. We park strategically, as close by as possible, or a parent will come by close to 7 pm and take our stuff with them, or we don’t wear jackets, so we can dump everything in a trashcan and get going. We wake up at 2 am, we put on a carefully selected outfit, we do our makeup, we ask “does this look okay?”. We bring the blankets, the snacks, the drinks in plastic bags. We double-check to make sure we bring our tickets. We check one more time. We bring chairs, sometimes, the cheap black ones used for camping, the ones with cupholders. We know this helps our comfort severely, but we generally don’t complain. We take a seat on the pavement while the sun sleeps in, it is February, or March, or April, or October, or November, it is rarely ever during the summer. We write numbers on our right hands with a black sharpie. We generally don’t complain, but when we do it is, like most people, about the weather. We generally don’t complain about the weather, but when we do, the thought of thousands of people squeezed together in a room, hours from now will keep our hands and feet warm. We don’t do much when we’re here, maybe we listen to music, maybe someone brought a deck of cards, maybe we talk to the ones who came before us, or after us, the ones who look just like us. We fall asleep on the street, far away from home, just to pass time. We are all here together, it doesn’t matter if we’re in Copenhagen, Berlin, London, or Los Angeles. We throw away our trash when the time comes. We hand our jackets and our scarves to one of our parents who will keep them safe, or we put them in the back of our car. We have a strategy. We have a strategy that speeds up the process, gives us the best opportunities for a good spot. We show our tickets at the door, then put them back in our bags for safekeeping. We are not allowed to run so we speed walk to the stage. We have a strategy. We let out a roar when the lights go out. We are finally breathing, here, together. We are all the same, tonight, it doesn’t matter where we were yesterday or the day before that. We know it doesn’t matter where we will be after the show, tomorrow, or a week from now when we do it all over. We know that, tonight, all that matters is the bassline pumping in our chests like a collective heartbeat.

Sarah Campbell

The Windowsill

My favorite place is the windowsill

I like to read

I like to knit

I like to paint

But mostly, I love to watch

I can see everything

Friends coming and going

Cars driving by

The sun setting and the world living

I love to watch the people walking by I can hear their words

Even though I’m high up

Even though I’m inside

Even though they don’t see me

Like little ants walking across greens and grays

I wish they would see me

I watch everyone come and go

Friends

Aquaintances

Strangers

Coming and going

And going

And going

They used to sit up here with me

But they’ve all moved on Only I remain

And forever I’ll stay at my favorite place the windowsill.

In the Hallowed Halls of the Nunnery

Sara Reed Wilson

Jenna Patton

Hallowed Halls

2nd Place Prose

I wonder if the little ones know they’re walking through hallowed halls. That the lightbulb rimmed mirrors they sit in front of have faced hundreds of thousands of kids just like them – my name is still scribbled under the third desk from the right: Peter Pan 2012 - Jenna Patton, Indian Brave. Some of the dancers who have sat in these ancient chairs and worn these immortal costumes have gone on to bigger stages, some have not. The costumes have outlived two. Many have closed the book on ballet, but they’ll always remember their time here.

The stage is coated in thick layers of glitter and one communal bottle of hairspray that seems to have just enough to secure every pointe shoe ribbon sits backstage. The carpet in the green room is 1 million years old, but generation after generation of “Away in a Manger” girls will sit on it with their card games and picture books. (Maybe today they’re wielding tablets, but I always brought my cards.) and a few doors down, they’ll find a room entirely devoted to just head pieces, and it feels a little smaller now. The buzz of Miss Paula‘s singer sewing machine in the laundry room has quieted now. And Silent Night, the first dance I ever did en pointe, is a memory, erased from the production like so many others.

The girl playing Mary on Saturday - she learned to walk in this grandiose theater. This is where I learned to walk too, and run and jump and leap and worship. It raised me, this theatre, with Chick-fil-A on every other countertop, freezing but not forgotten, and lipstick stains on our white angel costumes. The baby girl doll used for Jesus every year, and the flower bundles collected after every bow and closed curtain. One day these tiny tots, the ones who stay, will lead those bows, just like me.

Katie Watkins

Daydreams and Demons in Your Eyes

there a piece dies Not death shift

you leapt grocery store aisles along a cart of bread and milk

a waltz, a boy you could talk to anyone, make everyone feel home now don’t. now can’t.

when you’re a girl,

You’re not adult when you’re eighteen You’re adult when grubby men stare at your breasts and butt all you feel is wrong your fault.

you could be 18…17…16…15…14…13…12…11…10…

You’re adult

When you begin to clutch your purse like its your lifeline

When you stop going out at night

When you hate being alone because it makes you afraid When your father tells you not to worry he knows nothing

He can’t see the fear of dark alleys and empty parking garages

You become the adult that others can’t be your own protector

Not death change

see the creases in your skin and wonder if these hands are the same that built mud pies at sweaty summer camp dusk and folded bits of scrap paper into fortune tellers

1…2…3…4…5…

You’re going to live in the jungle, have 10 kids, and be married to a racecar driver

Slather retinol like religion evade the deadly sin of no sunscreen

Before you loved an overestimation of age now it’s your greatest fear you have new things to care about you never noticed before You’re adult there peace dies

Not death initiation into adult perpetually stuck in nothing

before a choice paralyzed by moments silenced by yourself

better not try rather than fail better not ask

stages of your life pass–weary blur and every young cell of flesh has died No, not death, an end. an end. to who you thought you’d become a ritual of losing your skin

becoming a pick-and-choose personality someone you don’t trust a solitary specter In a holy rite of hesitation

can you Build-a-Soul™ from bitter pieces those who loved and left you You love who I am. I’m you.

No, not a death, a closingshiftingchangingending. cycle of becoming gravity pulling you into blackstar You are so much, You are nothing.

How Can Wood Live Longer Than Me?

Sara Reed Wilson

Sarah Kay

As My Love Increases, My World Grows

Poetry in Motion

When I was younger, I wanted to see buildings touch the sky. I wanted to see the world move seemingly endlessly upward; I always thought it was so beautiful, and I can understand why,

But as I grow older, I begin to realize I’m not a birdI was never meant to be.

I’m beginning to see the beauty in all of the things I can touch: The smooth of a ceramic glass, the wetness of thrown clay, the skin of someone I love. I need less and less of the inventions created to help humans fight gravity.

I need more and more of the ground beneath my feetI know who I am meant to be.

I will still delight in seeing the sky and soaring through the clouds, I will still find joy in all in the moments when gravity doesn’t work, But my world is so much bigger now. I love the crisp leaf crumbling under my foot, I love the taste of tea in the morning, I love the chirp of a bird at noon, I love the cry of cicadas at night, I love a hand curling around mine, I love a home cooked meal, I love the purr of a cat, I love the cold nose of a dog, I love the God who gives it all, I love myself for receiving with gratitude. My world is made of love, and it keeps getting bigger,

I am ever thankful-

Thankful for breathing the mist on a cool day, For running a loop in the summer sun, For finding my own way, For becoming one.

One with myself,

One with my world,

One with the earth between my toes.

One with my God,

One with my passions,

One with all I’ve come to know.

One with my failures,

One with my successes,

One with the painful ways to grow.

One with growing-out-of and letting go.

I release my fears with hesitation like a well worn pair of hand-me-downs, But I never miss them.

I am allowing myself to be all I want to be. As my love increases, my world grows, Thank you:

Lily Hart Poetry in Motion

Sara Reed Wilson

For Fear of Falling Down the Stairs

Do you remember that feeling? When the world slips out from under you and suddenly everything is turned sideways, upside down, sideways again, and then upright? Your knee scraped, maybe, your phone screen cracked, perhaps. It could happen anywhere, if you really think about it. On the steps outside the crematorium after your uncle’s service, black heels betraying you. Or heading to the basement at your grandma’s house, wool socks slipping on the beige carpet. It could happen right outside your own front door, as you text your friends “I’m on my way!” or your boyfriend “goodnight :)” or maybe just scrolling when you should have been paying attention to where your feet were landing. And just like that you’re on the ground. Your legs and feet and gravity working in tandem to bring you down. A sudden sense of shame and fear, anger and defeat. It’s a startling kind of feeling, knocking the wind out of you, wondering if you can get back up. Breath returns and it’s time to assess the damage. You make a mental note, limbs intact, phone okay, nothing lost and nothing gained. Alone you sit on the second story landing, cheeks burning in embarrassment at the thought of anyone coming across your downfall. Your heart slows. You check the time. You send the texts. No one is around to notice. If a girl falls in a stairway but no one’s around to see it… You question if your ankle is good enough to stand on, if you have mud on your ass, if you made a fool of yourself. There’s no way of knowing until you stand. You decide that it was out of your control, falling down the stairs, that is. And so you add it to the list of unavoidable things out of your control. You stand up. After all, you still have one more flight to go.

Regan Spinks

the questions that keep me up at night

when does a heart break beyond repair?

how do you deal with a lifetime of heartache and not crumple under its weight?

how many losses can you experience before there’s nothing left but grief?

how do you watch your loved ones die, one by one, until nothing remains but their memory?

how many times can you remember their smile before it fades?

how long does it take until the warmth of their last hug turns cold?

how many times can you say “i’m fine” before the lies tear your insides to shreds?

how do you cope with the days since you last saw them stretching into years;

with the knowledge that the best friend you ever had is gone, and you’ll never know another like them; that years will come and go, that you’ll grow to be just as old as they were, but to them you’ll always be nineteen, on the cusp of something bigger but never quite taking the leap; that they’ll never know who you are–only who you were–and will never see the person you become?

when does that knowledge become too much?

when does a heart break beyond repair?

Sara Reed Wilson London Park in the Summertime

Sarah Campbell

My Grandparent’s House

2nd Place Poetry

A bright pastel yellow

Among sad browns and reds

Grandma at the stove, making peanut butter graham crackers

Me at the counter, doing second grade homework

I can change the channel once I’m done

Or maybe play on the computer

Or with Grandma’s many toy frogs

The kitchen is the same light yellow as the outside

Christmas Eve with Sacagawea dollar coins

Fourth of July watermelon juice on a varnish wood table

Mom’s working, so Dad and I walk next door together

And wait for her with her dad and step-mom

Sometimes the whole family would come over for a weekend dinner

Always bright, happy, pastel yellow

But time had to go on

I was 12, then 13, then 16, then 18

People got sick

People died

People had kids

People moved away

People moved far away

Someone else’s grandparents bought the house

They renovated the roof

They painted over the walls

A dull stormy gray

Among rusted, dreary browns and reds

Sarah

Delay

One Last Hug

As I watched you take your last breath, tears fell from my eyes like heavy rain hitting a window pane

As I held your cold hand in mine, the emptiness in my heart swells like chimney smoke on a cold winter night

As I close my eyes, the glimpse of your lifeless face invades my dreams like gnats swarming unwashed dishes

As I dress myself in black, the weight on my shoulders grew like weeds on an abandoned tombstone

As I step through the chapel doors, my mother’s clammy hand encases mine like the heat from a scolding summer day

As I felt my unshed tears threatening to fall, the scent of pink roses makes my lips curve into a smile like your laughter always did

As I stare into the open casket, a familiar warmth surrounds me like the feeling of one last hug

Katie Watkins

I Give Everything

They say it’s like gulping water instead of air. eyes dried from tears cracked overwashed hands dying for living. life of nothing. away.

They say sleep won’t come to those who try to those who ask away.

When I can say, “I’m well” And lie away

When dull laughter stings ears

I know something is wrong.

With me, the world, with god scabbing and scraping to get at the heart of it

They say it’s like a constant crashing wave. heart sunk with dread thoughts carried away.

prodigal sons don’t return from away and this is all I’ve known away.

Everything I give, I gave away.

Abigail Wilks

He’ll Take Again

He twists the knife And deals the cards His throne of life

Made out of hearts

His brilliant mind, His wicked sin She takes it all, The thick and thin

She plays to play

He plays to win He’ll take what’s his He’ll take again

He bites the hand That feeds him well

She lives her life Within his shell

She takes not once But bears the cost

She’ll change for him

Until she’s lost

She is not good She has no worth

He is righteous She is cursed

Through all her service

He won’t give in He takes what’s hers

He’ll take again

Sydney Jones

Broken Woman: Where is Your Fire?

When you came into this world you were full of fire. So innocent and beautiful

Whenever you entered a room, your presence was known

You were so confident in your skin that you didn’t care about what others said about you.

Your fire was so bright that it pulled others toward you.

Your fire was so bright that not even Hell itself could tame your fire.

Once others saw this fire, they decided to take it away from you.

People tried to weigh you down, but you didn’t go down without a fight. You fought them with all your strength but they came at you hard ,and you struggled to recover.

You asked different people for help but none of them came to your rescue. So-called friends ... disappeared

Your own blood....walked away from you

People you thought cared about you ignored you. You had to beg a stranger to help you

You’ve been pulled in so many directions that you can’t remember the path you were supposed to take.

You have been pulled left to right , right to left, down and up, up and down , but I ask you where is your fire

You were on your back this time and I knew you felt defeated. I kept encouraging you to get up,but you didn’t move.

You cried nonstop and eventually balled up into a knot. You slowly got up, but this time you were shaking. Now, when I look into your eyes, all I see is pain. I yelled at you to get up, but you didn’t.

Society is telling you that you shouldn’t let people see you cry ,because you will be considered weak.

You seem afraid to do anything.

Broken woman, where is your fire?What happened to you?

Broken woman, I see you on your knees. I ask you again,where

Ray’Candra Scott feeling blue

Sarah kay Soggy Clothes

Life feels like swimming, fully clothed. Soggy cotton against sun kissed skin, The smell of grass and mud. Life feels like wading through cool water, fully clothed Fabric pulling against the current. It is so unexpected, so against the rules, but it doesn’t matter. The meaning is in the sentiment that nothing matters. We are living on a floating rock, so I will swim in its beautiful waters when and how I want.

One of the few places in the universe that has liquid water, so of course, I want my clothes wet.

I want to feel the warmth of another being in the cool of the water, I want to know the coarse textures of fabric growing heavy. I want to experience the soft mud, squishing between my toes. I want to be dirty and pure and whole and small.

I want to love life for what it isFleeting and unmonumental, but beautiful.

Sara Reed Wilson The V&A

Sarah Campbell

Do you see me?

Hi

Its me

I’ve only spoken to you

In whispers

Static

The creaks of your floor boards

Sometimes I like to stand

Or walk

Or run around

Just out of reach out of the corner of your eye

You might feel

My chill across your arm

My finger run up your spine

My breath on your neck

Do you notice me?

Am I just a shadow on your wall?

I don’t mind either way

Truely

I love watching you

You and your full life

Of love

Happiness

Laughter

Excitement

I want to make you

Excited

Amused

Happy

I want to be in your life

At night, just before you go to sleep,

As your eyes close one last time, I reveal myself to you

Do you ever see me?

Ariana Long

Autumn Air

Colors,Patterns, and Falling Leaves

Paint a Picture of you and me

Gold for the light through the window pane

The morning I woke and learned

your name

Red for my hair, brown for yours

Tangled Up before you went from bad to worse

Tell me what you want, I’ll do it.

Hurt me and I’ll love you through it.

Kiss me like you hate me

Hold me like you care

Love me like it’s summer but autumn is in the air

Ariana Long Colors ,Patterns, Fallen Leaves

Baylee Schneider Dreams Poetry in Motion

When I was young, I was unafraid

But then I grew up And learned to fear

When I was young

I dreamed big dreams

But then I grew up And learned to doubt

When I was young

I was naive

But then I grew up And understood

That all of the dreams that were lost

And the fears that were gained

Created the you

You see today.

Baylee Schneider Poetry in Motion

Genesis Lorenzo Hey Sunshine

Hey sunshine, Running around, I found a place to hide, but I wasn’t alone, there was someone there... In the darkness.

Why am I in the darkness? I need to be up; I need to run up the mountain. I do not want you to stay in the darkness. Please stay with me. Please run away with me.

Day one, I aggravated your mess; you cleaned mine. I broke down; you held my hand. You wanted to cry; I escaped. Why am I running away?

Day two, I hurt you; you gave me love. I avoided you; you stayed there. Why do you prefer the darkness. Please go. Run.

Day three, I choose you, I want you; you are scared. What did I do wrong? Why did I make you go?

I overthink instead of expressing.

I did not want you to leave; I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to fight. I wanted you to survive. I wanted us to survive.

We amek promises, and we break promises. This is how we work. I want to walk; you want to run. This is how we work. I want to dance; you want to dance. I am here. You are here.

Hey sunshine, stay there. I am headng there.

I’ll be there. Do not get tired. I am not ready. Just wait. I’ll be there.

Hey sunshine, I am here. I hope it’s not too late.

I wanted affection, I rejected it. I almost fell into a hole. Someone pulled me up. You were that someone. Sunshine did not fix me. Sunshine embraced me. My noise wouldn’t stop. My noise got louder. My pain got sharper.Our love got strongrer. Your presence got permanent. You got me.

I saved myself from falling. You saved yourself from dying. This is us, sunshine.

Jillian Pittman

When it Rains

Poetry in Motion

I wonder when the rain touches your skin, if you think of me and let it in. The way it felt falling against mine, Oh, what a time to be alive.

I remember how the rain felt upon your skin, complimenting each sequence of life, always allowing each day to begin and end. I wonder if every rainbow makes you wonder, why I paused in those moments of plunder, marveling at the unique colors painted the sky, Will you ever find another soul like mine?

Do you crave that soul in which you lost, or do you not understand your loss?

Maybe I’ll never know why, but I’ll continue to love each day by and by, and ponder why your presence haunts my mind.

Tiffany Oltjenbruns

Poetry in Motion

Jill Brookshire I Do Not Beat For You A Sestina

My head cradles two sopping eyes. Touch my tears, they’ll melt your skin. I feel your breath on my neck, on my hair, I shiver. No one knows, nor do they need to know. The taste on my tongue is only describable as you. Or maybe it’s just my heart pumping blood into my mouth.

My heart begins to shrivel, drying up from all the beating. My eyes drying out from gaping. I taste the sadness on your lips, the pain in your voice. Your touch stings like a scorpion, and mine like vinegar in an open wound. Knowing is better than not. Or maybe all that I need to know is that you are still breathing.

When our breaths combine into one I know where your loyalty lies truly. Your heart beats with mine. I know better than any what makes you tick, what makes you break. Your eyes are windows, stained glass. The touch of my hand is enough to shatter. Taste the blood on my knuckles, it is not mine.

When I taste the morning I forget about the night. Each breath begging me to live. I touch the skin on my face to remind myself that I am real, I am here. The beating of my heart echoing into my ears, rattling my bones which rattle ours. My eyes swollen, your eyes full. Trapped, and I fear that I am the only one that knows.

But the look on your face when you see me shows that you know as well. The taste of your kiss feels like an apology, or maybe a death sentence. Your eyes lock with mine and for a moment I forget; forget the things we’ve done. But you know that I know too much to forget. My heart reminds me that I am still alive. I touch your chest, your bruises, and I feel that you are still alive as well.

But one day touch will not be enough to bring me back to life. I know your pain, and I know mine. My heart does not beat as it used to; it does not beat for you. I still taste your skin, the skin I’ve touched more than my own. I close my eyes and I hold on.

When touch feels more like distance, and when all I taste is blood, and when I know that I cannot hold on any longer, and breathing is all I can do to stay alive, I must tell my heart to be strong and follow my eyes away. Away from here. Away from you. Away from us.

“If they’ve never known It, then they will never know” Is what my mother said when I asked her about It It eats at me daily, It makes me feel alone But It’s been with me all my life, and I can’t live without It

When I go to a party, It follows me there It tells me that we should leave early I wonder what it’s like to live without a care To live knowing that It’s something you don’t carry

When I was a child, my mind was endless I had an imagination of plenty But now that I’m older, It is relentless And in terms of imagination, I don’t have any

It has taken my life in It’s steadfast grip I feel like i’m drowning in It It’s most dangerous when I let my mind slip My heart goes with it

I decided one day that I had had enough That It had taken enough from me I ended It’s reign so tough And took control of myself finally I have soldiers with me everyday Those who won the battle I never let them slip away I wrangle them like cattle

For my life is my own, and forever it shall be I will not let It take control, not ever again It’s falsehoods will not take me And It’s punishment will never win

I am myself now, free to move and slip away Depression is just a word now, one that means nothing to me My happiness is something It can never take away And my past self is someone I will never be

Anna Beringer

Big Beautiful Blossoms

The church was covered in flowers

The walls and the altar and the sweet smelling brims of ladie’s hats

Lilies and Daffodils

Woven into little girl’s hair

Blossoming in the window box

Feeding off of the soft tinted light from the stain glass windows

Unlike most funerals nobody was wearing black

Nobody was crying

No not crying, they were smiling

A gentle glow from within

A room full of warmed and full hearts

Children laughing

Parents chatting

The quiet organ plays in the back

No this wasn’t a normal funeral

Because the person in question didn’t stay dead

He arose again.

Three days later.

It wasn’t a funeral at all

It was a celebration

Far greater than the mind can imagine, there is a lot to celebrate

More than just a death

And more than just a resurrection if one can wrap their head around that

The people in that church

And all around the world

Were celebrating freedom.

Complete and utter freedom from their sin, Forgiveness for all their wrong doings, And an invitation.

An invitation to step out of the darkness

And into his wide open, extended arms.

Like the flowers lining the perimeter of the room

They have the chance,

We have the chance,

To emerge from the dark, dirty, underground

And bloom in the bright beautiful day.

Fed and nourished by the beautiful light of our Lord

And watered routinely by His spirit

We will grow into big beautiful blossoms

Reminding all those around us of the goodness, and mercy that was so graciously given.

Sarah Kay

Tiger Lilies

Poetry in Motion

Lavender smells nice but doesn’t suffice, Gardenias are lovely, but a little too pure, Chrysanthemums smell funny with less virtue than vice, And orchids too frivolous, like incense or myrrh.

Deep orange and speckled with lusty reds, The colors or fresh tangerines and budding rose heads, Framed with green that rivals the pine, The flower I’d like to call all mine.

I hold the petals, full of life. And suddenly my sorrow dissipates. Others I’d pick, I’d bring a knife, But you are too beautiful to take.

I lay among the weeds, cold with dew And all I can think of is the sound of you, Full of joy and blood and color

Growing straight from the deep, nurturing mother. A spatter of tiger lilies grow wild on the side of the path, Wilting beneath the sun’s hot wrath. A spatter of lilies reach toward the sky

I reach too, but I wonder why We can’t reach towards each other. You reach toward another.

Your orange shrivels in the heat,

And as I try to be more like the sun, I hurt you with my intensity. Your petals fall in the light

And as I try to catch them, you die by my plight.

Erin Delaney Tiger Lilies

Jordan Smith Buried Under Flowers

Katie Watkins

while this poem took paper

3rd Place Poetry

my love takes care

bending bone

soothing hair

brushing soul

pouring eye

eating awe

thinking help

playing soft

stopping loud

bringing near

stinging hope

springing hearth

itching dream

waving wit

being shock

icing need

seeing breath

crossing pain

walking thought

singing time

flying home

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

while this poem took to paper

I wrote my wedding vows

Anna Beringer He Knows

He knows

He knows what’s on your heart

He feels how heavy it is

He hears your labored breaths

And watches the fear in your eyes

He saw when people hurt you

And He felt the sting of each word

But He also yearns to carry all that weight for you

He’s there to keep filling those lungs up with air

He wants to dry every tear from your face

He desires nothing more than for you to run to Him

His arms are open

If you only knew

If you only understood

How much it hurts Him too

Because He loves you so much

He’s so in tune with how you feel

He wants you to have relief so badly that He died

For you

For you to not feel the pain, the heaviness, the sting

He’s offering you freedom

Will you take it?

Will you take His hand?

Will you follow Him?

Will you take off your heavy load for Him to carry?

His arms are strong

His heart is big

His ways are wise

He knows

He knows how hard you’re trying

He feels how much you love Him

He hears when you praise Him

Loudly or under you breath, in your head, he hears

He watches you adhere to His will when no one else is there

He saw how much your heart changed that day

And He felt the freedom you gained

The beautiful, everlasting freedom that He gave to you

It makes Him so happy

To be with you in worship forever

He feels so happy

He knows what you’re going through

And your journey, your heart,

It makes Him so happy

Church of the Nazarene

Katie Watkins

Lying Down on the Lawn

Sara Reed Wilson

Katie Watkins

I fall into bed

And wake in daze days newnew with worries to sort little separates me from my drunkard uncle Him, me, and a few years

I’ll be no different how many addicts were young once too

Where have days gone?

I would say

I used to love poetry I was gonna be a teacher

he said I served my country because I was proud

I loved his stories, stitches in my side, ash of an open fire cool beach wind

he was giantelectric I was young and knew nothing of lonely nights in unfamiliar lands

my years stretch he was here once too

I see the kid runningrunningrunning

baseball cards, 8-tracks slamming doorscabinetsdrawers my mom, him, and

hiding beers under her sweaters hiding grades hiding girls no easier for her she has scars her scarsmine she wanted to runrunrun

runrunAnd wake in a dizzy haze what else am I drunk on maybe the not knowing

how often do we hate others for what we despise in ourselves

It’s Christmas after making a drunken mess my uncle tells my mother that she loves him he stares, he waits she laughs for him she stoops, gathering her brokenplatepieces I wonder if she cries

Mia Sønderskov

Checkmate

When I say I lost everything, what I really mean is I lost feeling in my left shoulder blade like I lost that orange sweater I really loved. I mean I lost my train of thought. I mean somewhere along the way I lost my birth certificate.

I mean I lost my milk teeth the same way I lost my childhood friends: one by one until all of them were gone, leaving nothing but an empty space to fill. I mean I grew a new set of teeth but the emptiness never left.

What I mean when I say I lost everything is I lost pound after pound until I prayed for God to take me instead of someone else.

I mean I had a second home and lost it. I mean my best friend’s dad died of cancer when we were 8. I mean we lost her mom six years later while I was busy killing myself. I mean I lost my faith in God the same way I lost my faith in men, the same way I would chew my food and spit it out: I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

I say I lost my faith in men, and what I mean is there are only so many pieces you can take from a body before there is nothing left to take.

I mean no one wants a girl who does not swallow their pride when asked. I mean I still don’t know how I woke up naked in that bed. I mean I lost years to men who did not want me but would not let me leave. I mean I once loved someone who would kiss my scars, hand me a knife, and watch me stab myself in the back. I mean I thought this was beautiful.

When I say I lost everything, what I mean is I stopped counting my blessings and started counting my losses: I mean I lost count of my losses. I mean I can say goodbye in more languages than I speak.

I mean for a while I stopped saying hello. I mean checkmate. I mean I lost everything, but the game starts over. I mean I say I lost everything the same way I say I’m broke when I’m not, not really.

Olivia Anderson

Growing Down

Poetry in Motion

When life is an ocean and I can’t help but drown

I remember growing up is nothing without growing down

In the same way a tree needs roots to rise

I grew up by growing down

In the same way a caterpillar molts into a butterfly

I grew up by growing down

In the same way I lost friends to find myself

I grew up by growing down

In the same way my hands need to be empty in order to be held I grew up by growing down

In the same way a chapter must end for the next to begin I grew up by growing down

In the same way I lost control to find freedom

I grew up by growing down

In the same way I relapse only to see how much progress I’ve made I grew up by growing down

In the same way I learned the meaning of trust by being betrayed I grew up by growing down

In the same way diamonds are created by pressure I grew up by growing down

In the same way I know I won’t feel this way forever I grew up by growing down

In the same way I didn’t know I could swim til I started to drown I grew up by growing down

Jenna Patton

Poetry in Motion

Ariana Long Flyin’ Home

Sara Reed Wilson

Plane Story

Her plane just fell out of the sky one day. That’s what they say these days.

Or maybe it was that a bird flew into the engine. Or it caught fire because someone was secretly vaping in the restroom, further fueling their nicotine addiction but ending their life. Or maybe it took a nosedive because some entitled asshat in first class refused to put his phone on airplane mode. Or maybe it was aliens.

But maybe it just fell out of the sky for no reason. And my older sister didn’t even have time to react. I imagine her in her pristine sky-blue uniform with the little buckle shoes and chic scarf left over from the days when people got dressed up to fly and flight attendants couldn’t weigh more than 135.

“Tanya” read the bronze name badge which she always said clashed with the silver buckles on her sensible Mary Jane shoes. She wore those shoes even when she wasn’t working. She would smile and laugh with you, and even when she was obligated to do so, she always made it seem genuine.

The flight attendant Tanya didn’t have time to be a hero, or if she did, we never heard about it. There were no survivors. What did Tanya do when they came over the intercom to say they were going down? Did she soothe the motherless child flying unaccompanied? Squeeze the hands of her friends, her fellow “sky maidens”? Did she pray, and if so, to who? We never talked about it much, what to believe in, what the end looked like. Tanya liked to live in the present, as people who die young always seem to do. So I guess I’ll die when I’m old and angry, my face wrinkled and frowning, retired and miserable after teaching civics or something to over-privileged kids in Cape Cod and wearing sensible shoes.

Our brother planned all the memorial stuff, he’s better at that kind of thing anyways. Tanya didn’t have plans or a will or anything, but there wasn’t a body to bury or burn, and she had nearly no assets to divide. That’s what Dan said anyway. Our brother Dan, the Certified Public Accountant. He asked me if I wanted to say anything about our sister Tanya. And I said no.

Every story I knew someone else could tell better anyways. So many people reached out after the crash, to Dan or I but mostly to Dan, to offer condolences and share what a “bright light” Tanya was. It sounds cliche but it feels true. They call her funny and kind and a fierce protector to her friends, loved ones, and anyone who needed protection, really. But who was there to protect my sister, Tanya, the flight attendant? When one day her plane just fell out of the sky.

Katie Watkins

Problems

tearing silken sheets fight breath waking sweat

sharp morning, fluorescent suns coolness of cement walls he chastises me for thermostat on 68 degrees for moldy sink dishes using his toothpaste I scold for twisted blankets for misplaced car keys using my towel and end in soft kisses

scouring problems in others there has been reason for this. for me.

miniscule grumbling honey bees will they swarm overtake sweet syrupy blossoms crushing their petals

will this babbleunravel carefully woven threads

Anna Beringer Search

Poetry in Motion

I see you searching for something

Someone

Anyone

Who can heal you

Inside and out

I see the broken bones and broken spirit

I weep over the disease living in your body and your mind

You desperately hunt for everything to be mended

I can

I can do that.

Come to me

Touch my robes and be pain free

Speak my words and see sickness dissipate

Wash the mud from your eyes and see again

Listen to me and learn to walk

Search no longer sweet believer .

I see you searching for something

Someone

Anyone

Who can love you

More than a smile or a kiss on the head

It’s kind of my specialty. I can do that. Come to me

I’m begging you

My whole and perfect forgiveness

I’ve laid it right in front of you

Give me your sins and watch them be washed away by my river of blood

Show me your mistakes and see them fit perfectly into the holes in my hands

Let go of your old self as I repaint every corner of your soul to reflect my utter mercy

Search no longer sweet believer.

I see you yearn for someone who can love you deeply

Deeper than the hole you dug yourself into

A full kind of love

I see you searching for something Someone Anyone Me.

Where a person knows everything that makes you unlovable

And yet loves you even more

I can

I can do that.

Come to me

Sit in my presence and feel my warmth

Open your heart and I’ll move right in

Stretch out your hands to me and I won’t leave them empty

Search no longer sweet believer.

I see you searching for something

Someone

Anyone

Who can free you

Breaking chains

Pushing down walls

Rebuilding hearts

I see you searching for me.

Anna Beringer Poetry in Motion

Regan Spinks Numb

For all the poems about pain, writers forsake its alternative: being numb. It’s fitting, really. The feeling seems trivial until something makes you numb.

In the dead of winter, rain cascades like sheets of ice, piercing through you until the frigid cold seeps into your bones. Your hands are blue, numb.

Piping hot chocolate fresh off the stove burns your tongue, scalding your taste buds ‘til they’re good as gone, unable to feel. Too numb.

Though you promised you’d stick together, your friend group dwindles, life pulling you apart until you no longer notice the loss–you grew numb.

And now you, Regan, are staring at a forgotten Christmas wreath in the hospital parking lot in the black night. You can still feel his warm hand in yours as it turns cold. And you are numb.

Mia Sønderskov

Dead Bodies

It’s early spring and we’re at the zoo, looking at monkeys. I watch as some of them play around, jumping from branch to branch, going as far as the cage will allow them to go. I watch as a monkey pushes another one into the water and flees the scene. I tell you about this one time in Italy when I saw a little girl push her younger brother into a pond. This is what watching the monkeys reminds me of; we are animals, too. The fleeing monkey watches us curiously as we walk around this cage, we have built for ourselves. It stretches its arm, and it almost looks like a greeting. I don’t know if that is the case. A note on the cage informs us that the monkeys recently gave birth to four babies. You ask, did you know that monkey babies are called infants, too? I did not. The note explains that a couple of days ago, one of the infants died. To allow the monkeys to grieve, the zoo lets the monkeys keep the dead body for a couple of days. We are staring at a troop of mourning monkeys. I look around the cage, trying to find the dead baby. What I find is a lifeless infant carefully placed on a tree branch towards the back of the cage. Two grown monkeys are sitting next to it, hugging each other tightly. Another monkey sits on the other side of the dead infant. It’s a beautiful image, and I almost reach for my camera, but I don’t. Instead, I imagine my family sitting in our living room with a dead body between us, the smell of my slowly decaying grandmother filling the room. We don’t care about the smell; we are mourning our loss. We’re not in a rush to let her go. But this is not how we grieve, because we are not monkeys. We’re letting other humans dress up our loved ones, we’re letting them put the body in a casket. We’re letting them carve a name into a stone we can visit when the pain is too much to handle. I don’t tell you that I’ve never learned how to let the grief go. I carve their names into my skin, I put my losses in moving boxes, and carry them with me wherever I go. They’re getting heavy, but what else am I supposed to do with all these dead bodies?

Jordan Smith Snowfell

Olivia

Anderson

Still Still

She’s just lying there. Still. So still. Like she was never real in the first place. I’m still. My eyes are stone. She’s just lying there. On my grandmother’s white rug. Well, it used to be white. So still. She’s a butterfly resting on a flower. I’m still. My hand is clutching a brown wooden bat. Well, it used to be brown. She’s so lovely when she’s still. I used to love her. Truly I did. But she was never still. So I stopped. She was always running. Running to, running from, running for. I wanted her to be still like me. Still with me. Now she is still. Now she is lying on my grandmother’s rug. Now she is part of my grandmother’s rug. She is my home. These walls that preserve my mother’s fingerprints, echo my grandfather’s voice, now have her blood running through their veins. She will never run again. She found her home. My home. Our home. Why is she still? My hand is clutching the red bat. Why am I still? She is lying on my grandmother’s red rug. She’s not supposed to be that still. She’s a hummingbird, not a butterfly. My eyes become molten. The walls begin walking towards me, their arms outstretched. I drop the red bat. My knees sink into my grandmother’s red carpet. She’s so still. Her eyes are opals, gazing empty at me. I’m not still. My body shakes, electrocuted by her eyes. I can’t stay here. This home we made for each other, from each other, cannot house us both. I will myself to stand although my body continues to convulse. Her eyes try to pull me back down. I thought you wanted me to be still. You’re not supposed to be that still. The walls with their plaster arms push and grab me as I stumble to the door. I feel opalescent lightning on my back. Red footprints follow me through the door and into the yellow grass which cascades over hills for miles. Miles and miles of red. I’m so still. Why aren’t you still? I have to run. Run to, run from, run for. We should have been still together, but now she’s too still and I’ll never be still again.

Olivia Anderson

We Who Are Strangers Poetry in Motion

Although we crave unity, we are stuck, withdrawn. Soul and body remain severed by the unending cruelty Of the places we once considered safe. It is unfamiliar, painful at times to be severed. Yet in a world filled to the brim with madness and cruelty, It is no surprise we find ourselves lacking this unity. Though we crave community, how can we not be withdrawn? For when we are withdrawn, we are safe. From blue china plates, we devoured cruelty, Substituting it for our desires that would never be fulfilled. Safe

To say we were always jealous of the love and unity

Spilling over on others’ plates. We sat at the dinner table severed;

Our entire selves crumbling into the salt shakers, withdrawn. We have never felt safe.

As children our eyes glowed in the dark, watching as our worlds were severed, Glued to wallpapered walls, withdrawn. We craved stability. Love. Unity.

But in return, we received only stale cruelty. After a while we forget what it’s like to be safe; What it’s like to feel the warm embrace of unity. Instead our souls hover above us, withdrawn. Through we try to draw connections through all forms of cruelty, We only find ourselves more severed.

Caylin Rhodes Poetry in Motion

Regan

Spinks

Happenstance

Nothing at all happened–nothing, no more. That night out on the beach beside the shore in moonlight’s faded glow and fire’s spark, when our eyes met ‘cross the sand, precious and dark.

I did not watch as you then walked toward me in the night, then took my hand in yours. I did not smile as your eyes met mine, and as my lips touched yours, I did not sigh.

By happenstance, a fleeting brush of fate brought us together once, but far too late to change the course our lives would take us on. I had you then in bliss, but now you’re gone.

Though your kiss still haunts me in ocean’s roar, nothing at all happened–nothing, no more.

Sara Reed Wilson

Eventbrite: A Graphic Journey

The Picasso in the corner

Has two faces in the black

A young girl stares out at the room

Another girl stares back Their eyes are locked together

Held in a close-lipped stare

Each considering the other

And the secrets that they share

The bitter taste of famous men

Who share none of the credit

I was looking forward to the show

And I also chose to dread it

My favorite part was looking back

At that strange familiar face

And finding myself yet again

In that flat and distant place

Maleah (Syd) Slade I Am Not Promised Tomorrow

Lilliquin Farino

The Difference

Poetry in Motion

Can you hear me?

Do you see me?

Are you with me?

Am I invisible to you?

Do you not feel my presence when I walk into the room?

Is this all that I am to you?

Don’t you see the gifts that I have?

Don’t you feel the power that stems from my roots?

Why am I here?

Why must the fruits of my labor be shared?

Who are you?

I am the moon

I am plasma, like fire

I am strength and I am forgiveness

But I only bow to those who hear me

I am courageous and yet I envy

I am raw, I am the amber that is never extracted

When will it feel this good?

The walls in which I have built will exhale a whole city Moss grows on the cornerstones

When will it come to fruition and when will I be enough?

When will the voices be heard, heard loud enough to wake the city

Here I am in my own demise

Flowing from one state of being into the absolute core of the next Wallowing isn’t enough

I am strength

I don’t need you.

Lilliquin Farino

Poetry in Motion

Katie Watkins

Eddie-Boy-Met-Sally-Just-Sixteen

what are ten years a blink of an eye whiplash tryst fender bender affair

heroin lows and methamphetamines life out the grave life unseen

He told her Party it up now. We’ll be out of coke tomorrow. between them a difference sinister

He knew nothing but the droogs and drag the ugliness of sex losing in low places

can’t steal from a thief same stole from her cancan’t not whenshouldwould steal away steal home

He stole peace in quiet places he stole dark he stole space life is nothing if you can’t be alone

And whole worlds reduced to the surface of skin one moment his reconciliation moreandmore than silky balm of a hundred years time turning of poor little blood of thought and wish barking in the strange language frothing green at the mouth

And hands of time closing on the girl’s throat burning brains at both ends where do ten years go he’s stagnate in pools of beer sweat and waits to pounce on Sally still smelling of french fry grease pancakes sticking not when he should but when he can verminous leech

caressing her apron she drops it on the table her tips roll to clutching fingers another thing he takes

And blows her cash it turns to smoke here and gone coming back again

in time for Sunday service then on Monday she sulks to the red rot car silent and gray

And blows her cash on Eddie-boy’s bail outs no mind to rats who sleep it off in jail

melody of gibberish languid and cool It could be your misfortune to stay

4pm in the Cafe

It’s 4 PM in the cafe, and I’m afraid I’m getting wary. College students hogging chairs don’t seem to know that their voices CARRY. Karen just arrived and she can’t have any dairy. The couple in the corner’s PDA is unnecessary. My patience for the “Bible Study” group is extraordinary.

I swear if I have to speak to one more self proclaimed missionary. The regular’s pursuits of me are getting rather scary. A first date’s going badly, a fact that’s rudimentary. “Any more red cups?” teens ask, “Nope.” Nothing here is merry. The chances of surviving ‘till we close are getting pretty hairy. Where’s my knight in shining armor? Or something more literary? Once upon a time I said this job would be temporary.

Jenna Patton

Anna Beringer Would You?

What if the satin shoes didn’t shine like they used to

What if the stiffness in the tulle went flat

What if the crown on your head lost its sparkle

Would you still love it?

If the toes didn’t pointe like you wanted

The leg didn’t make it up high enough

You couldn’t spin and twirl around anymore

Would you still try?

What if the music stopped playing

What if the stage went dark

What if the audience never arrived

Would you still come?

How many times will your dream die

How many tears will you shed

How many sleepless nights

How many people will have to break you

Before you stop?

Its seems like no matter who asks you these questions

You never have an answer.

Because your old, soft, worn out shoes lost their shine a long time ago. That one leg never did hit the high note. The darkness never seemed to bother you.

The tears haven’t ever stopped streaming down your little face, And you have been broken by many, many, people. But here you are.

In your old dull shoes, floppy tutu, and broken crown

With your aching feet, tired muscles, and churning stomach. The bruise on your arms, stains on your face, and scars in your heart are evident. But not as evident as the smile on your face

When you let yourself dance.

Tiffany Oltjenbruns

The Green Striped Wallpaper

Poetry in Motion

The green striped wallpaper that clung to the kitchen walls of my childhood home were lined with hues of embarrassment and perturbation. Growing up, I would avoid having friends come over to my house because I was concealing its very existence. The stripes had an uncanny similarity to bars of a jail cell, entrapping me into a life of solidarity. The unfashionable, unpopular wallpaper paired so perfectly with the green speckled countertops, creating a display of chagrin.

I tried my best to fit in at school, assimilating into the crowds, copying what others did. I wore my clothes a specific way and curled my hair every day. I woke up and forced my family to arrive early just so I could spend time with the popular kids. Despite my best effort, I didn’t have many friends. And I knew if they saw my green striped wallpaper, I would quickly lose all chances of keeping them.

I was no match against the gatekeeper of my friendships. The thick pieces of paper mounted to the foundation of my house inevitably would be seen. I dreamt of ripping the paper down, however the wallpaper hid secrets of its own. Beneath the stripes lay more green wallpaper... one with a new pattern, one more complex than its counterpart. A new challenge to face, a new shape to conceal. It was never ending, I gave up. The wallpaper had won.

I am now in my 20s, the wallpaper is being torn down. Piece by piece, each little stubborn shred peels away. I never got the chance to show off the quaint little stripped wallpaper of my childhood home. All those memories flaking away. Ripped, every little scrap. The walls are no longer striped, there is nothing left to conceal. The naked walls look back at me; it’s vulnerable, unable to hide the cracks and bruises. The walls are exposed, there is no going back. The stripes are gone now, where will the walls go next?

Bailey Heffernan Poetry in Motion

Regan Spinks

In My Childhood Bedroom on the Precipice of Everything and Nothing

1st Place Prose

Just inside my childhood bedroom, upstairs at the end of the hall, stood a bookshelf, thin, lightly-stained wood, probably from Pottery Barn Kids or maybe some secondhand shop–with my parents you never could tell. It held four shelves, on them my most prized possessions, including:

- my worn-out collection of Mary Kate and Ashley VHS tapes, the ones I scavenged for on Sunday afternoons when we stopped at Goodwill after church, my pristine Gymboree dress dusty from kneeling in cramped aisles of clearance bins of VHS tapes and

- books, so many books, with tattered covers and torn pages and hand-scrawled dedications of loves come and gone, no longer cherished by those names immortalized in ink but slipped into my mom’s cart to be kept safe on my bookshelf, - along with my Metro Card from the summer I turned thirteen, when I roamed the streets of Brooklyn with my best friends in the sticky July heat, carefree and thrumming with possibility the way only a teenager can, not knowing that one day those I held so dear would be just another trinket on my bookshelf,

- like the miniature dry erase board stained with signatures from the only sleepover I ever hosted, of old friends who never talk to me and cousins I never talk to,

- or the wooden cat silhouette propped atop my bookshelf: first my Grammy’s, then my mom’s, then mine, painted pale pink over its original black when it made its journey to my bookshelf, to lie in wait until someday I got a place of my own and took it with me, - along with the time capsule I made in my sixth-grade history class, tucked away in the corner daring me to open it, though I never did–wait until the perfect moment, Mrs. Durham said–a moment I had yet to find. But maybe I would. And maybe one day I’d take that time capsule off the shelf, - and with it, the piggy bank stuffed so full it was close to bursting, crammed with lint-covered pennies and dirty dimes rescued from the dustpan because my grandfather always said never throw money away, - and handed me a wooden nickel that he said was authentic but I’m pretty sure came from a tourist trap in Cherokee, but I didn’t tell him that; I tucked it into my pocket and, when I got home, sat it on my bookshelf, a reminder of his bright spirit that would remain long after he was gone.

And one day I’d take it, along with my other trinkets, my tapes and my books and my time capsule–when I found the perfect moment–and set them up just so, along with mementos yet to be acquired, dedications unwritten and ungiven, and I’d have as many bookshelves as I wanted.

Zoë Metelerkamp

In the day, gently fading

Poetry in Motion

As we lay stretched small beneath big skies

It seemed that summer always was Parched soil tasting long awaited rain, Mud swimming between toes as we scrambled, splashed, and spluttered in the freedom of each bend in the river long running, The waters, our own blood, The banks, our own bone, The wind, our own breath. And breath and breath and breath

Running barefoot through dry grass each blade hissing of the snakes that we did not fear

Scraped skin ripe as strawberry stains, Until,

The sun,

Sinking scarlet

Burning low into the promise of the emptying day

Air still hissing her salute, Swallows still swaying her song

Even as night rises in all her robes

So deep, so saturated

That at times I still catch her lingering light before night dyes blue

And my blood roars with the rivers of days when we felt the world surge and beat beneath our feet

And there were whispered rumours that we would rise to meet it.

Zoë Metelerkamp

Poetry in Motion

Katie Watkins

Coke’s Chapel

Baylee Schneider

A Letter To A Stranger

I’m certain we are connected in more ways than one. We met on a quiet afternoon in the auditorium surrounded by the stained glass windows and long echoed stories. I was so focused I didn’t even notice you walk in. Telling stories as you walked between the seats, currently empty. I doubt you even realized I was there. Somehow a conversation was struck and it flowed so naturally. Time flew by without a moment’s notice. The memories shared from years past connecting a simple place and simple person to something much bigger. The gleam in your eyes filled with laughter and tears as you reminisced on your Alma Mater. It was like nothing had changed and everything had. History passed from mind to mind keeping it alive. It’s amazing what places can do to you when you return. They take your heart and pull you back into the past, allowing you to relive all of it at once. The stories living within the walls waiting to be told and passed down.

I hope to pass down all the stories I was told on that quiet afternoon.As minutes turned to hours, we parted ways quickly as the theater began to fill, I barely caught the whisper of your name. However, I will always remember the stories of times long ago.

The Brenau Elixir Staff

Editor of the Elixir

Baylee Schneider

Assistant Editor

Sara Reed Wilson Advisor

Dr. Megan Clark

Staff

Anna Beringer

Abigail Smith

Olive Knapp

Kendra Shaw

Iceley Self

Acknowledgements

ATP Printing

Brenau Humanities

Brenau Studio Art

Contributors

Poetry in Motion

Readers

Brenau University