Inscape 2024

A. Mantel

E. Campbell

E. Millstead

R. Campos

D. Morris

Z. Cook

S. Niemeier

E. Decoske

A. Pearson

R. Dennis

T. Pierson

E. Elder

T. Plowman

C. Edwards

C. Raley

K.Gaines

J. Reyes

C. Morris

S. Smith

S. Jones

A. Sprick

N. Kee

A. Valencia

A. Lunsford

N. Zunguze

2024

S. Maddux

INSCAPE

Inscape 49

D. Ard

Central Methodist University

Contributors

Magazine of the Arts 2024

INSCAPE Celebrating the Arts

at Central Methodist University

Inscape © 2024 by Inscape, Central Methodist University’s Magazine of the Arts.

Inscape is one of the creative endeavors of the students, faculty, and staff at CMU. This unique publishing opportunity is one of the many educational experiences that CMU’s Department of English, along with Sigma Tau Delta, provides.

They have a distinguished record of placing students in graduate and professional studies as well as in education and other professional fields. The Mu Lambda Chapter of Sigma Tau Delta is an opportunity for students to share their love of English with one another while participating in campus activities, conferences, and publishing of Inscape. If you would like more information about Sigma Tau Delta, please contact: Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar Associate Professor of English 411 Central Methodist Square Fayette, Missouri 65248-1192 khatwalk@centralmethodist.edu 660-248-6308 Or visit www.centralmethodist.edu/academics/english for more information about the Department of English.

The Inscape staff and Sigma Tau Delta wish to thank the staff at Modern Litho, Jefferson City, Missouri, for their assistance in producing and printing this issue.

All CMU students, faculty, and staff are invited to submit their creative work for possible publication in Inscape. Please, contact the editors at inscape@centralmethodist.edu if you have any questions or are interested in submitting for the next issue, which will be released in the spring of 2025.

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INSCAPE Central Methodist University’s Magazine of the Arts A project of CMU’s Mu Lambda chapter of Sigma Tau

Delta.

Issue 49/2024

Editors Zy’Shonne Cowans Alexia Sprick

Faculty Advisor Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar

Inscape was founded in 1975 by Central’s Tau Tau Tau honorary fraternity, Mu Lamba chapter of Sigma Tau Delta (the International English Honor Society), and the legendary Scribblers and Scrawlers.

3

Table of Contents Bluelight Bubbles in the Wake Sydney Jones Cover Note from the Editors

8

Inscape Definition Editor Biographies Team Biographies

9 10 11

Poetry 1st Place: Wrinkles and Lines Shaynlin Smith 2nd Place: Grave For a Memory Alexia Sprick 3rd Place: Tea Party Politics Shaynlin Smith For Sale Emily Decoske ABCs for Life Naftal Zunguze Forgotten Lullaby Emily Millstead Getting Older Sydney Jones Learning to Swim Elizabeth Elder Let Go Zutorya Cook Mouse Trap - Jennivev Reyes Of Course I Still Remember Naftal Zunguze Peeling Potatoes Katie Gaines The Changing Aubrey Lunsford To My Last Star Cass Harris Winter’s Garden Katie Gaines The Life Cycle of a Dead Tree Emmalee Campbell Wildflowers in the Median Shaynlin Smith The First and Last Is Hope Emily Decoske

15 16 18 20 21 23 25 26 27 29 30 31 33 34 36 37 41 43 45

Visual Art 53 st 1 Place: The Days Are Long, The Years Are Short Sydney Jones 54 2nd Place: Viewing the Gibbous Moon via the 12 inch Scope Saige Niemeier 55 3rd Place : King Minos, Judge of the Damned Tyler Pierson 56 Birth Noah Kee 57 4

Alex , The Mad Scientist Saige Niemeier I Painted This In Exchange For Coffee Saige Niemeier A Forest’s Looking Glass Sydney Jones Possibilities Saige Niemeier Worse Reputation Than Reality Amanda Mantel Springtime, Japanese Garden Dana Morris Marigold Girl Katie Gaines One With Nature Katie Gaines Lake at Maroon Bells Dana Morris Wildflowers at Ma roon Bells Dana Morris Beckon Noah Kee Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here Tyler Pierson Avoidance of Eyes Emily Decoske BPD Zutorya Cook Happiness Naftal Zunguze Tamed Impalas Naftal Zunguze Bluelight Bubbles in the Wake Sydney Jones Shades of Blue Naftal Zunguze Red Going Up Emily Decoske Impression Through a Frame Emily Decoske Shoe Fence, Rice, CA Aubrey Lunsford Pigeons in Amsterdam Caleb Raley Alley Springs Recille Dennis Passing Chenoweth's Noah Kee Adronitis Amanda Mantel The Promise Emily Millstead Innocent In-a-War Sam Henke

Fiction 1st Place: Red Carly Edwards 2nd Place: Old Friend Emily Millstead 3rd Place: Goodnight Jennivev Reyes Don’t Tattle Tale Zutorya Cook The Invitation Elizabeth Edler Where the Sun Exists Rita Campos Vengeful Fury Teddy Plowman Emetophobia Aubrey Lunsford

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

86 88 96 104 107 109 113 119 5

Creative Nonfiction

125

1st Place: A Walk at Winter’s End Daniel Ard

126

2nd Place: Bone-Warming Chili Amanda Mantel

132

3rd Place: Bones Anna Valencia

139

A Checker’s Past Samantha Maddux

143

My Grandma's Letters Rita Campos

146

The Jacket A'Justin Pearson

149

The Captain Rex Helmet Emmalee Campbell

152

Young Writer’s Day 2023

155

1st Place Winners Worldbuilding: The Uvarian Chase Iris Snider, Salisbury 156 Poetry and Collage: Innocent In-a-War Sam Henke, Salis-

bury

Flash Fiction: Aaron’s Funhouse: Elexa Lutz, Salisbury

159

160

Contributors

165

Acknowledgements

170

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Note from the Editors We would like to begin by thanking you, dear readers of Inscape, for choosing to pick up this book.

This magazine is the product of countless hours of dedication and hard work from the authors, artists, and the Inscape Editorial team which made this issue

possible. We are extremely thankful for every reader who has picked up this book and enjoyed the results of our hard work and dedication, and we thank you for deciding to be part of this year’s publication.

This year, we had over one hundred and seventy submissions to Inscape. While we were excited to have another year of record number submissions, it also made this year’s publication process much more challenging for everyone. We were faced with the difficult process of selecting the very best pieces in each genre. As we went through submissions, our appreciation for the arts grew tremendously. This volume contains a wide variety of genres and perspectives from a poem describing potatoes, to a fiction story capturing the devastating effects of sexual as-

sault, to a picture that captures the loving embrace of a mother and her son.

As we look to the arts, we want to think about things that are unknown to us, experiences that are different from our own, and think about the things that can resonate with us. We hope that as you read this magazine, you are able to learn something 7

new about the lives of others and ourselves.

We would like to end by thanking everyone who participated in this year’s publication, including our faculty advisor, Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar and our Editorial team—Sydney, Zutorya, Jasmine, Noah, EmmaLee, Jennivev, Teddy, Cass, and Emily—without whom this

would not have been possible.

Thank you, Zy’Shonne and Alexia

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in· scape / in-skeip / n.

Word coined by British poet Gerard Manley Hopkins for the individual or essential quality of a thing; the uniqueness of an observed object, scene, event, etc.

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Editor Biographies

Zy’Shonne Cowans Zy’Shonne is a senior English major from Glasgow, Missouri. He is a member of Central Methodist’s Cross Country and Track and Field team. He is also a member of SGA and Sigma Tau Delta. In his free time, he enjoys reading, writing, running, and being with friends and family. This is Zy’Shonne’s second year on the Inscape team and his first year as an Editor.

Alexia Sprick Alexia is a senior English Education major from New Franklin, Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta.

In her free time, Alexia loves to read, write, and spend time with her cats. This is Alexia’s second year on the

Inscape team and first year as an Editor.

Team Biographies EmmaLee Campbell Emmalee is a junior English major from Rocheport, Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta and she loves reading and writing. This is EmmaLee’s first year on the Inscape team.

Zutorya Cook Zutorya is a senior Professional Writing and Publications major from Marietta, Georgia. She is a member of Central Methodist’s Women’s Basketball team. In her free time, Zutorya works in the Writing Center, travels the world, and spends her time with her dog, Zoe. This is

Zutorya’s second year on the Inscape team.

Emily Decoske Emily is a junior Biology and Professional Writing and Publications major from Cairo, Missouri. In her free time, she enjoys reading, painting, and fishing. This is Emily’s first year on the Inscape team.

Cass Harris Cass is a junior Professional Writing and Publications major from Tahlequah, Oklahoma. Cass is a part of Central Methodist’s Esports team as a player for the Rainbow Six Siege team. Cass is also active in both the 11

World Tree and Alliance organizations. This is Cass’s first year on the Inscape team.

Sydney Jones

Sydney is a senior Professional Writing and Publications major from Columbia, Missouri. This is Sydney’s

third year on the Inscape team.

Noah Kee Noah is a junior English major from Franklin, Missouri.

He is involved in the Navigators, Fellowship of Christian Athletes, the Center for Faith and Services, and the Writing Center. This is Noah’s second year on the In-

scape team.

Teddy Plowman Teddy is a senior Psychology major from Sedalia, Missouri. They are Vice President of Alliance and World Tree. They love to write, play video games, and talk to their friends. Their interests also include studying psy-

chology, space and astrology, and taking naps. This is Teddy’s first year on the Inscape team.

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Jennivev Reyes Jennivev is a freshman English major from Seattle, Washington. She is a member of Central Methodist’s Volleyball team. This is Jennivev’s first year on the In-

scape team.

Jasmine Stewart Jasmine is a senior English Education major from Macon, Missouri. She is involved in Sigma Pi Alpha, Cheer, and STUNT. Her hobbies include reading and trying new coffee. This is Jasmine’s first year on the Inscape team.

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.

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Poetry “Poetry is the one place where people

can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.”

-Allen Ginsburg

First Place Poetry Wrinkles and Lines Shaynlin Smith Beauty is fleeting and so is our time.

I pray that I live to grow wrinkles and lines.

They mark my expressions, both joy and fear.

A collection of badges to honor each year.

May the plot thicken as my days wear thin.

Creases on worn pages like creases in my skin.

No longer supple, a small sacrifice; A lifetime of fulfillment would surely suffice.

Some throw their money and hearts at a cure, But natural aging is so wondrous and pure.

From sunburnt grins and freckled memories To the stretched abdomen of a mother-to-be, Abundant grace sprouts as lines branch like roots.

Bodies change vastly with their marvelous pursuits.

To bear my children, I’ll bear silver streaks.

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To laugh carelessly, I’ll sport grand grooves on my cheeks.

To grow old with you, I’ll pray for wrinkles and lines, Since beauty is fleeting and so is our dear time.

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Second Place Poetry A Grave for a Memory Alexia Sprick In another world, my mother is alive, Happy,

Thriving,

Grounded, No lumps in her chest.

In another world, my mother shares stories, Past, Present,

Future, No halt in my remembrance.

In another world, my mother says I love you, Today, Tomorrow,

Yesterday, No silence between us.

In another world, my mother rests in her bed, Warm, Secure,

Safe, No unvisited grave.

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Except, In this world, my mother is breathless,

Numb, Detached,

Thoughtless, Her bones cold and brittle.

In this world, my mother has no stories, Unspoken, Confused,

Mute, Left only for my imagination.

In this world, my mother said I love you, Sometime, Somewhere,

Somehow, Slipping away from me.

In this world, my mother rests in a coffin, Silent, Covered,

Lifeless, A grave for a memory.

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Third Place Poetry Tea Party Politics Shaynlin Smith The centerpiece of flowers, delicately arranged.

Mischievous lovers, strategically estranged.

Cordial threats and cruel compliments, exchanged with crude grace; All in the name of the harsh game to save face.

Hands linger on dormant daggers, soon unveiled from their sheaths.

Large hats match the egos that lie underneath.

Constricting corsets, like garrotes, infamous air thieves.

Conceal pain nicely with ruffles and puff sleeves.

Never tarnish silver or precious reputations.

Build alliances on corrupt foundations.

Table runners chosen wisely, from yarn that’s handspun.

The crowd scopes the subjects, “Which one shall I shun?”

Dainty nibbles from scones; As always, smooth and discreet.

Smug chuckles and murmurs, demanding defeat.

The hot kettle whistles, simmering secrets to keep.

Carefully pour; Tea scorches fierce when it seeps.

Don’t dare consume the decadent, decorative pies.

Guests spew such hate with sugary eyes.

They argue that women lack experience with fights, But most transpire in between tea cake bites.

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For Sale Emily Decoske “Catharsis!” the sham hawker cried “What measure is a soul, When weighted down by weariness,

Fatigue, and life worn droll?

“Escape I offer, sell to you, For just a paltry price!

Instead of bottling your pain, you give it up to vice.

“Relief is worth the highest crown, Worn on the grandest head.

One sovereign for a longer life!

The miser drowns in dread.”

I flipped a coin into his hand, He gave me back a flask, I could not read the words on it, Too cowardly to ask.

I downed the drink without a thought 21

And felt my insides warm.

My fuzzy head was whispering One drink would do no harm.

The tears flowed from my crusted eyes, My throat was sore with screams, The laughter bubbled off my lips, My body wracked with dreams.

The colors fled as I got up, The world was painted gray.

I felt an empty, vain relief, I’d last another day.

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ABCs of Life Naftal Zunguze At first, Being alive for the first time, Can be strange and confusing, Dreaming of becoming someone someday, Exploring the various outlooks of life.

From there, Gateways of experiences are given to us Having known the world long enough to,

In times, live it up to our maximum.

Just in time for maturity to take over.

Knowledge becomes everything to us Letting ourselves drift into entertainment, Making the most of what we got…

No, life can wait, existing is fun!

Oh, no worries, we have plenty time left!

Parties, games, sloth, this can go on forever, and ever, and…

Quick question? Why do I feel like I’m…fading away?

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Running out of time? Wait! we aren’t done yet!

Slow down, we can wrap it up now, don’t leave!

Time’s up? That’s impossible, we’re still young, we…we can change!

Unchangeable? Please, one more chance, we can do bet-

ter, we promise…we Vow not to…waste more…time

Waste…more…time…

X…marks the spot…

Young, wild, full of life…yet out of time Zoning out of our own existence.

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Forgotten Lullaby Emily Millstead I stand alone before your old grand piano.

The dust has began to gather upon the keys, lid, and chair.

I sit upon the bench and stare at the keys.

I can feel you near.

My fingers make contact with the keys.

I can feel your hand upon my shoulder as I play your lullaby.

Comfort envelopes me as I continue the sweet melodies.

I play the keys slow and steady at first, Giving in to the sweet sounds.

The sounds that I believed I had long since forgotten.

I do not dare stop playing.

Even though I cannot see your face, I know you are smiling.

I yearn to reach out for your hand.

To feel your skin against mine.

I wish I could touch your silky brown hair.

To hold you, just one more time.

My once bright smile begins to dim.

Our song is coming to an end, and my hands start to slow.

I never want this song to end, Because if it ends, You end.

You cease to exist.

Tears now stream down my face as I play the final note.

I reach for your hand, but it is gone.

You are gone, And I am alone once more.

25

Getting Older Sydney Jones Simpler times have sulked away, and I’m not sure where they’ve gone I miss the orange tree— it’s thick green leaves, it’s patchworked brown bark

Throwing fruit at one another like golden summer snowballs Itchy skin where the dripping juice dried in long sticky lines Remnants left in the grass; spit-out seeds and ripped up orange rinds.

The white, warped shed in the weed-filled corner of the

backyard Chipped white paint, long metal nails sticking out; rusted from rainfall A lousy structure with a sinking roof, a broken door I try to make my mind go back, my soul to focus on Simpler times that sulked away, oh, I’m not sure where they’ve gone.

I miss rolling down a hill, turning green from blades of grass.

Pretending to be princesses, or pirates with parrots Eating popsicles ‘til stomachs were sickened by sugar Stirring up cold lemonade while he mowed the lawn

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Learning to Swim Elizabeth Edler Every time I swam, I was terrified of the water.

Not because of the fear of drowning, or the coldness, or the darkness, but the feelings that take over.

Loneliness.

Panic.

Nervousness.

Anxiety.

Every time I jump in, I wonder if I’ll make it back out.

Will I let the pressure of the water consume me?

On multiple occasions, I’ve had the feeling of being underwater, without truly being underwater.

It happened a lot when I was alone, in a big crowd of people, overwhelmed with stress, or avoiding attention from others.

Time moves differently, my actions slowed.

Voices became muffled.

My vision becomes blurry, with the sting of chlorine.

The pressure caving in on my chest.

But when I came back to the surface and snapped back to reality, out of breath and my heart rate up.

I realized my fears, 27

For it is in staying in those uncomfortable situations, that I was able to tread water, and learn how to swim through life.

28

Let Go Zutorya Cook When I think about love, I think of you.

Your eyes, a language, before words intertwined, I feel as if I knew you in another tine.

In a crowded room, memories of us remain, amongst the forgotten faces, you’re the one I recall, A constant presence, standing tall.

You linger in my life, in my thoughts so deep, Like an addiction I can’t escape, a secret I keep.

For this hold you’ve gained, the craving you’ve instilled, a desire I can’t deny, No, for this addiction, I can’t comply.

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Mouse Trap Jennivev Reyes A loaded spring trap tied to a low hanging bar made of metal and all things sharp Dangling the piece in which you seek A piece so wonderful you wish to eat The thought sweeping in Just one bite Just one touch Just one cut Just one light Just one more.

Lusting so deep it tickles your bones reaching greedily for one more…

Snap.

Crack.

Trap. and just as you imagined Death did us part.

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Of Course, I Still Remember Naftal Zunguze

I still remember, On a summer’s day, the 6th of June, 1965.

Margaret Young, the love of my life, with her pearly dress, as her and I danced in our beautiful sunflower field, Happiness reflected from her smile, her laughter, her eyes!

Eyes as blue as the ocean, the wind waving her golden hair.

As she kept repeating “This is the best day of my life”!

While Kitty Kallen’s “It’s Been a Long, Long Time” played in the background, Our favorite song after the war was over, very fitting.

I promised to never let go of her, ever.

And she truly is the love of my life.

Of course, I still remember!

It was sometime in the middle of June, 1965.

Margaret, my love, wore a shiny dress.

We danced in the middle of some pretty, yellow flowers.

She was very happy that day, you could see in her eyes!

She had the prettiest blue eyes, and beautiful blonde hair, she kept telling me how that was the happiest day of her life.

Our favorite song, “Long, long time” was playing.

That was a great time, especially after the war.

And I told her I would always be by her side, 31

Truly, the love of my life.

I think I still remember, Let’s see, it was a sunny day, in the 60s I believe.

Maggie had on a white dress if I remember correctly, We were standing in a flower garden of sorts.

She was in a good mood that day…

Her eyes and hair were lighter shades, I don’t remember what the special occasion was.

It has been a long, long time ago.

Post war, I still have shell shock.

Even as she went onto the other side, She was my love.

I don’t remember.

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Peeling Potatoes Katie Gaines Potatoes are like grim-faced old men wrinkled with time, their coarse like leather from working in the potato fields all day.

In the dry, rainless summer weather they toil, tanned from the sun, squinting.

Their shirts are starched and white, clean like the moon they were planted under, but dirty in the spots, fresh from the soil, where they forgot to wash.

33

The Changing Aubrey Lunsford Change is not a beautiful thing.

It’s like ripping your heart out,

And putting it on a platter to be feast upon.

It requires you to tear every part of yourself apart, And analyze it down to the most minutiae of details.

Then try to put all the pieces back together, Trying to remember where they go or if they even belong.

It requires your limbs to shift and contort, Just to point you in the right direction.

And to tie your stomach up in endless knots, Until you can build up the courage to speak your truth.

It requires you to make every mistake, Before you make the right one.

And to forgive yourself Before you forgive the rest.

It requires you to let go of the people who destroyed you, And learn to love the ones you pushed away.

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Change is not beautiful, But the outcome can be.

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To My Last Star Cass Harris Lo, my light, my future.

The career I had once dreamt, Goodbye to you Whom I once held so dear.

Ever expanding cosmos My hope to look upon you In the brightest light And the greatest of scopes Were extinguished by the choking thumb of reality.

The expanse of stars I had once dreamt, The computers and telescopes and lab coats.

I trade it for ink black and paper white, for quills and typewriters and press badges.

I had once dreamt of things far beyond my reach, That my hands would hold the sun, And the fabric that everything is pinned to.

But my eyes do not behold the rhythm behind the rhyme, And my eyes are not blinded, and my hands feel empty.

For my hand now grips the pen.

For my eyes lay upon the word.

For my feet remain on the ground.

Among the clicking of keys that now punctuate my life, And the paper that my words will be written, My eyes will drift skyward, To your brilliance And your promise of a frontier Expanding to the Forevermore.

36

Winter’s Garden Katie Gaines

Dead flowers in winters garden, dead and wilted— like the ones you planted in my heart, forgot to water, and left for frost.

37

Many Midnights Ago Sydney Jones A walk through Bamford Vineyards; A stroll I used to take So often as a young girl, Upstream from Willow Lake.

Holding the calloused hand Of a boy with copper hair, Who led me carefully past signs: “No trespassing! Beware!”

We ducked through twisted branches; Our shadows abstract shapes; Filling our worn-thin pockets up, Bulging with Bamford grapes.

We laid in foot-high soft green grass; Our jokes were short and clever, He tied me rings from blades of grass And talked about “forever.”

Sometimes we would stay out all night And talk about our dreams, Until the sunbeam rose up; Stark gold amongst the green.

Of all the things we talked about; Dreams whispered to the stars, Not one of them would come to pass; Not land, or fancy cars.

Not children running wild, Not slides, or tire swings, Not camping on the beach in May, One knee, or wedding rings.

38

After a swim he’d tell me tales; We’d let our clothes drop-dry.

He’d say: “each vow I give you is A star up in the sky.”

And then one clear and cloudless night I waited by the gate I watched the moon move ‘cross the sky; My love was running late.

Without him there to warm my skin, Without him there to hold, I weaved a crown of soft green grass; My hands grew stiff and cold.

I drifted off; was sound asleep And dreamed of eyes so blue.

But then I woke up all alone, Clothes soaked in morning dew.

An early winter frost blew through The day after he fled.

The ice crystals got to the roots And killed the grapes, so red.

The owners put it up for sale But no one bid, or bought.

Abandoning their whole lives work, They left me there to rot.

Those people packed brown boxes up Amidst the frozen streams, They peanut-packed their villa up; They tissue wrapped my dreams.

For many years it sat and died; The vineyard’s gates were closed.

The soil became rough, and dry; 39

The brown vines decomposed.

And so I saved my money up, And read the almanac.

I taught myself to grow a grape, And bought the vineyard back.

I fell in love; I married well; Adopted a last name. But, The grass outside still smells of him; The stars still look the same.

.

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The Life Cycle of a Dead Tree EmmaLee Campbell The leaves are all fallen on the ground now, Flattened until there is no shape, their rot spread across the sidewalk Color has fled from their veins, escaping to be seen again next year.

The trees are bares, devoid of their foliage, and I can see right through them.

Like a skeleton of self, they have no substance to speak of No real life except for their pumping veins.

The end of the year is upon me, and I look at the bare, sad branches of the oak.

It used to be strong, carrying many a life upon its limbs, Now the branches are brittle and inconsistent.

Untrustworthy.

I touch a fallen stick on the ground, it crumbles beneath my fingers I long to do the same.

To shed the expectations set upon me, By my overambitious self, settling into a lofty idea of superiority.

I am sitting on a high branch of oak in the wintertime, Where the wood is creaking, and the last few leaves refuse to let go.

They don’t understand that their time is up, 41

they have been used and dropped.

My fingernails bite into deadened bark, scrabbling up higher and higher And yet, there I am, swaying at the top and gripping on for dear life.

This tree, this husk of what I could’ve been.

My past selves litter the ground, some still containing their vitriolic vibrancy, The leaves of myself, aspects of a whole, all dropped to preserve the person.

I feel lonely, on the top of that dying oak, the last fragment of me in a fog of dread.

It rolls in now, shaking me, fluttering the leaves

left on trees around me.

Unexpected and new, the possibility of nothing The idea of everything left of me being erased and made anew.

My selves will grow again, but there will be a time that is only me Just me, bare and new and open to the terrifying elements I might just let go, so this will all be over with.

42

Wildflowers in the Median Shaynlin Smith I have hundreds of cars all racing through my head, On highways and backroads, stuck in ditches and at dead ends.

Traffic or flat tires bring them all to a halt, But you, my darling, bloom between somber strips of asphalt.

When my thoughts resemble such gross monotony And bumpers align in rows of repulsive symmetry, Your bright colors, a haven to which I can flee; My wildflowers in the median gleam vibrantly.

Both focus and roadside assistance out of reach; I fear not abandonment, for your company I keep.

Your calm petals restore inner tranquility; My wildflowers in the median sway peacefully.

When I am burdened by broken-down, sputtering dreams, The deafening horns and sirens are somehow put at ease.

Your buds, they caper, in the melodious breeze; My wildflowers in the median dance just for me.

I’ll vacate my vehicle, blossoms to retrieve.

Wandering through our moments, each one vivid and unique.

Into my brunette braid, the clippings I will weave; My wildflowers in the median worn gracefully.

When our bodies falter and memories recede, 43

I pray deeply our flower-sowing tradition succeeds.

In the minds of our children, we’ll plant lovely seeds.

Our wildflowers in the median seldom concede.

When they have hundreds of cars racing through their heads, On highways and backroads, stuck in ditches and at dead ends.

When traffic or flat tires bring them to a halt, They, my darling, will have our bountiful blooms without fault.

44

The First and Last is Hope Emily Decoske The one who ever wanders on And never stops to rest, Has crossed the north and south and east, And now is heading west.

From what I’ve heard, his hair is long, His shoes are made of holes, He wears a sack strapped on his back, They say it carries souls.

I laughed at this, yet I’ve heard from A town that he went through,

Their ghostly spooks and nightly fears: Into his sack they flew.

His eyes are sunk deep in his skull, Is he even alive?

What else could charm an undead beast, Or deathly force survive?

When west he walks, he walks my way, Will I glimpse him at last?

Will he arrive to save our lives, Or by our corpses pass?

The ghasts have slain the fields with blight, A puck burned down my home, The exorcist they killed off first, 45

Our doom we all bemoan.

No one can say from where he came, Or where his ending lies, The tales have passed the centuries For one who never dies:

In Tatterfall: a distant town, He slew a mighty wurm, In Coufingol, in Goldenhall, The ghouls he took in turn.

The days wear on, the sun is hid Behind the gloom and smoke.

They say a fool who wanted strength

With spells a fiend awoke.

Now walking with the waning sun He still is far away.

Before him flee his many foes, They add to our dismay.

Out of the west they come in force, The fiend they rally ‘round.

The soldiers sent to battle them Are rotting on the ground.

Where do they go, the souls he eats, The ghosts he seals inside?

What kind of burden is that sack, What hell does he abide?

46

The light is dim, the air is thick, There is nowhere to run.

When they find our crude hiding place, Our days on earth are done.

They say he even faced the Host: A cavalcade of dead.

They tore at him to steal his soul, He took their souls instead.

A bloody sun, or maybe moon Climbs into the abyss.

I hold a rusted iron blade, My life I soon will miss.

The fires lit, the iron set, And salt spread on the fields: If we will die, we’ll take them too, We mortals will not yield!

The shadows writhe, and soil squirms Beneath their slimy feet.

Their gaping maws and toothy jaws Our lives, our land will eat.

Can I fight on without the skill To wield this sharpened cross?

Many have died on either side, But we are at a loss.

Now right in front, a looming mass Of flesh without its skin.

47

The others run, while I stand firm, A sacrifice, a win.

It crushes me, my blade runs deep, The iron poison spreads, In agony, my victory,

In death takes down the dead.

A red wrought light envelops me, As blood fills up my lungs.

My final cry it suffocates And splatters off my tongue.

The time flows past; I am here still?

Why am I now not free?

I hover over stiffened flesh, My death denied to me.

I am a shade, a shadow husk Of who I was before.

Another haunt among the horde, A human life no more.

I rage at this cruel irony, I tear my tether free.

I leave behind my broken home, I’ll end this tyranny!

Against the sun I flicker on Across the wasted land.

He did not come in time for us, 48

Revenge I will demand.

A shadow on a distant slope, My essence ripe with fear: The one I longed for endlessly Will strike if I draw near.

He calls to me, it calls to me, My will breaks through the snares.

I taunt him, drive him, lead him on, My life the hunter spares.

His blackened eyes bore into me As days and nights blur past.

What value is my company?

Why does he let me last?

Along the way he gobbles souls Of wicked beastly haunts.

How many once were human kin?

The nagging horror taunts.

At last we reach familiar ground, Now foreign, wasted, death.

I wonder if, in all the land, Any still draw a breath?

The fiend, a glutton for a fight Does not have sense to run.

He forces all of his fearful thralls To fight for his own fun.

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The one with long hair trailing down, The man who never rests, Holds out his hands to let them in, To stifle their protests.

A howling wind, a rushing force, Begins to suck them in.

Each disappears into the sack.

A slit, my spectral grin.

I crow and holler, screech and cry, At fiend, at him, at fate.

While he had come to save the day, He had arrived too late.

A silence now, the sack is shut, The sun takes back the sky.

Its light beams down and strikes the ground, And it begins to cry.

No green, no life, just blood and waste, What was the point of this?

Why had I bothered to return?

His eyes, lost in abyss.

He looks at me, and then he speaks, “The first and last is Hope, The darkness comes and steals off some, And leaves the rest to cope.

“While you were dying on this field, I saved some other lives.

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My reach and strength is limited, The lucky one survives.”

I have no words to answer him, I give him only thanks.

I tired sigh, now saddened by His efforts to be frank.

I ask him to deliver me, To let my soul find rest.

But he only eats wicked ghosts, And cannot help the rest.

He looks at me, in pity says: “I once was human too.

I stole something I shouldn’t have, Curiosity I rue.

“In foolishness I opened sack, Released an evil might.

Until I seal it up again, I must forever fight.

“And so I wander ever on, And never get to rest.

But if you come along with me, We both can journey west.”

They say some of my kin survived, They say the grass grew back, They say the wander wandered on: The Hope, the shade, the sack.

51

Visual Art “Every artists dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”

- Henry Ward Beecher

First Place

The Days Are Long, The Years Are Short Sydney Jones

54

Second Place

Viewing the Gibbous Moon Via the 12 in. Scope Saige Niemeier

55

Third Place

King Minos, Judge of the Damned Tyler Pierson

56

Birth

Noah Kee

57

Alex, the Mad Scientist Saige Niemeier

58

I Painted This in Exchange For Coffee Saige Niemeier

59

A Forest’s Looking Glass Sydney Jones

60

Possibilities Saige Niemeier

61

Worse Reputation than Reality Amanda Mantel

62

Springtime, Japanese Garden Dana Morris

63

Marigold Girl Katie Gaines

64

One With Nature Katie Gaines

65

Lake at Maroon Bells Dana Morris

66

Wildflowers at Maroon Bells Dana Morris

67

Beckon Noah Kee

68

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here Tyler Pierson

69

Avoidance of Eyes Emily Decoske

70

BPD

Zutorya Cook 71

Happiness

Naftal Zunguze

72

Tamed Impalas Naftal Zunguze

73

Bluelight Bubbles in the Wake Sydney Jones

74

Shades of Blue Naftal Zunguze

75

Red Going Up Emily Decoske

76

Impression Through a Frame Emily Decoske

77

Shoe Fence. Rice, CA Aubrey Lunsford

78

Pigeons in Amsterdam Caleb Raley

79

Alley Springs Recille Dennis

80

Passing Chenoweth’s Noah Kee

81

Adronitis

Amanda Mantel

82

The Promise Emily Millstead

83

Innocent In-A-War Sam Henke

See pg. 159

Fiction “Fiction reveals the truth that reality obscures.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

First Place Fiction Red Carly Edwards

In English class, I sit next to the window because it helps

me write better. I like looking out of it, watching the leaves blow off the trees and the students walking by. It makes me feel calm and independent; safe.

Today, I was looking out of the window like any other day.

I did not see my normal view. I saw red and blue lights flashing fiercely. I wondered if someone fell in the gym and broke their arm like last year. I scribbled a little red heart in the bottom left corner of my paper. It was peaceful in the room.

In a matter of seconds, it was not peaceful anymore. I looked down at the red heart I had scribbled in the corner of the white paper, and I could no longer see it. The page was all red, but not the red that came out of my new Bic pen, a dark red that I had only seen in movies. I looked down and the dark red ink was pouring out of my torso as if I was a paintbrush creating a huge mural. I wanted to scream but my voice had left me. I felt no pain, I was just cold.

An alarm sounded that I had never heard before. My teacher ran to the door, slammed a homemade curtain down over the small rectangular window that allowed little hallway light to shine through. Everyone looked confused.

My teacher quickly grabbed any heavy object she could push by herself and moved it in front of the door. A girl 86

on the other side of the classroom let out a blood curdling scream, one that you would hear if a killer clown was running after you in a movie. I watched as the same dark blood that was still pouring out of me, rushed out of her right thigh. My teacher ran to her and covered her mouth with her hand, her skin pale white which was unusual because she was a very sun-kissed woman. Another student took off his jacket and tied it around the girl's leg. Everything was getting

blurry, and I felt myself slipping out of my chair.

My teacher gathered everyone but me in the corner of the classroom, farthest away from the door. I was crying. She was crying. Everyone was crying. I laid staring at my classmates horizontally as I was now feeling the cold tile floor on my cheek. No one broke their arm like last year. It was not calm. It was not peaceful. I was not safe. I closed my eyes as the alarm pounded through my head. I thought of my par-

ents. I thought of my brother. My dog. Laying in a dark red puddle I opened my eyes once more and traced a small heart in my own blood. The door handle shook once, twice, three times. Why was no one helping me? I am going to die.

With my eyes still closed I felt a cold breeze prick my skin and awaken any life that was left inside of my body. I heard voices of men urging everyone to put their hands in the air.

The sobbing that I thought would be the last thing I listened to, turned into crying wails of relief, let out by everyone except for me. As I was having what I imagined would be my last thought, I was scooped off the floor, my almost lifeless body falling like a ragdoll thrown around by a young girl. A ragdoll that I owned as an eight-year-old, whose red hair matched the streams of blood still gushing out of me. I missed that ragdoll, and being eight years old, and not being able to say that I survived a school shooting.

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Second Place Fiction Old Friend Emily Millstead

The warm morning air blew through my open window. A light breeze caressed my cheek as I breathed in a heavy sigh. The old rocking chair beneath me creaked and groaned as I slowly rocked it. My hands were gently folded into my lap, and my eyes were closed. I could feel the tears building up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

I heard birds sing from across the street. It sang a joyful tune that brought a smile to my face. The loud engine of a school bus passed by, sounding the end of the school

day. The children from across the street were laughing as they exited the large yellow vehicle. They rejoiced at the end of school and the beginning of summer, by running quickly down the street to their homes. I opened my eyes to the comforting warmth and golden glow of the sun. The leaves upon the branches near my window shone a bright green. They wavered around with the warm gusts of wind, which carried the lovely scent of honeysuckle. A flash of color caught my eye as a bright red cardinal landed upon my windowsill. The small bird looked at me with a friendly gaze, and I knew right away.

“Well, hello there, old friend!” I said with a smile. The bird chirped back in a bright tone. He had vibrant red feathers that radiated in the bright sunlight. His beak was similar in color. The only contrast was the dark black mask that he 88

wore on his face.

“I bet you're hungry, aren’t you?” The bird hopped towards me in response. He tilted his head to the side as he watched me intently.

“Well, we can't have that, can we?" I leaned forward in my chair. I grasped the arms firmly and pushed down to raise myself from my seat. At first, it was difficult. I couldn't quite find my strength, and I fell back down to the seat of my chair. The bird chirped a few times as if it were cheering me on, encouraging me to try again. I attempted once more, finding more momentum and strength to haul myself up. Once standing, I began to make my way to my nightstand. My feet shuffled on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. I laid the back of my hand on my lower back as I moved. Usually, pain is so prevalent that even small tasks are hard to accomplish. Today was no such day. I felt the energy surge through me as I walked, and for a moment I felt free. Once at my nightstand, I reached into the top drawer and retrieved a small bag of birdseed. I had decided to always keep some in the drawer for circumstances such as this. I frowned at the contents of the

bag. It seems I forgot to refill my supply. Fortunately, there were about a handful of seeds left.

“It isn’t much my little friend, but it's something.” As soon as I finished my sentence, my door flew wide open. My daughter stared at me with a fearful gaze.

89

“Mother, what are you doing?” she exclaimed. “You need to sit down. I don’t want you to…”

“Fall?” I interrupted. “I am perfectly fine. It is good for me to get up every once in a while. Also, you don’t have to yell at me. I’m old, not deaf.” My daughter stared at me for a moment before responding.

“You know what happened last time you decided to walk around the house," she paused before continuing. Unsure if she should continue her sentence. “You could have died last time, Mom. You are lucky that we were here.” I scoffed at her and rolled my eyes. I reached my hand out to touch the base of my spine where I had fallen and hit my back against the floor. The memories of “last time” were all too prevalent in my mind.

“Yeah, well I didn’t, but I bet that is what you wanted,” I muttered before grabbing the arms of my chair. She rushed forward to help me, but I dismissed her. “I don’t need help. I'm perfectly alright to sit by myself,” I snapped as I plopped into my chair. She sighed in defeat.

“Don’t get up without my help, okay? I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” she said as she turned to leave.

“Fine," I said, looking away from her. She sighed again before closing the door behind her. I pulled out some of the birdseed and threw the bag onto the floor before 90

looking back at my friend. He just sat there looking at me with kind eyes. I laid the seeds down on my windowsill, and he hopped over and started eating. While he ate, I began to talk to him once more.

“I'm so sorry you had to see all that. I know that she means well. I just wish that she wouldn’t see me as a fragile old woman.” I sighed as I looked upon my dear friend and smiled a sad smile. Another warm gust of wind gently tugged at the leaves outside. I took a deep breath before continuing our one-sided conversation.

“I’m afraid this may be our last visit,” I said softly. The words hurt as they left my lips. He stopped eating and looked at me. His eyes seemed sad. “You are going to have to find another old lady to fatten you up.” a confused look flashed through the bird's gaze.

“They are taking me away tonight, and they are selling the house," I said quietly. He was no longer interested in the food that I had provided for him. Instead, he flew over to me and sat on my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “It's nice to have company, even if that company can’t respond.”

We sat there silently for a while, both looking out at the warm sunny day. I remembered the days when I could run freely without a chaperone. Memories began to play in my 91

head as I sat there. I looked over at my friend who had made himself comfortable. His eyes were closed as he laid in a makeshift nest that he had made with my wispy hair.

It was clear that he had no intention of leaving any time soon.

“Would you like to hear a story?” I asked. His eyes

opened and he made a quiet chirp in response. “Hmm, let's see. Oh, I know.” I cleared my throat and started to tell him about my life.

“Once upon a time, there was a young woman who loved music.”

The memories flooded back to me as I recounted my youth. I told the little bird everything. I shared childhood memories of my parents and my brother. I talked about how much I missed them and told him to never take the ones you loved for granted. I told him about my journey through school and how I had picked music as my profession. I wanted to teach children the joys of music. I wanted to show them how music changed my life for the bet-

ter. I told him about the strapping young man who stole my heart and swept me off my feet. We had met in the most unlikely way possible, but I guess that's how these things tend to happen. I later married him, and we started a family. We moved to this beautiful house about three years after we had our daughter. I shared the heartbreak that I had felt when my husband, the love of my life passed away. I told him about my husband's hard-fought 92

battle with cancer, and about how brave he was. Even as he took his last breath, I held tight to his hand and stayed by his side even as it destroyed me from the inside out. I recalled the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and ice-cold lemonade that I would offer the children from the neighborhood, whenever they came to visit me. They would always ask for stories or for me to play them a song on my piano. They always brought me so much joy.

Each memory, big and small, filled me with happiness as I shared my life with this tiny creature. He simply sat and listened for hours on end. The company subsided my sadness for a long while. The bird brought me comfort even though he could not hold a conversation. A knock upon my door broke me from my concentration.

“Come in,” I said. My daughter slowly opened the door and walked to my side. The bird continued to stay nestled close to me.

“It’s time to go, Mom,” she whispered. I let my eyelids close as the tears began to well up in my eyes once more, yet I still held strong and refused to cry.

“Do we have time to take one last walk through the house,” I asked with my eyes still closed. I was too afraid to open them. I was too afraid to look my daughter in the eyes.

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“Of course, Mom. Would you like help?” I thought about saying no to her question, but my legs began to tremble. I forced myself to open my eyes as I looked up at my daughter.

“Yes, please,” I whispered, barely able to speak. I looked to my shoulder and noticed that the bird remained.

“Watch out for my friend.” At first, she looked at me with a confused expression, but then she looked at the bird nesting in my hair and smiled.

“You always have your way with animals,” she said smiling.

Her smile slowly faded as she approached me. I smiled half-heartedly as she reached for my hands. Once we were standing, she pulled me into an embrace. Her eyes started to fill with tears. “I Love you, Mom,” she whispered, “and I always will.”

“I know, sweetheart,” I whispered, squeezing her tighter.

When we parted, she hooked her arm around mine, and we walked to each room of my home, reminiscing for the last time.

My heart sunk as we navigated the sea of boxes throughout my home. There were boxes stacked high with everything that I owned. I sighed as we walked by boxes that read “Pictures, Kitchen, and Books...” all my possessions encased in cardboard.

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When we finally made it to the door, I reached out my shaky hand to grab the doorknob. The metal was cold against my skin, yet I savored the feeling and pretended that I was opening the door for the first time. Although I knew when I twisted it open and stepped out of my home, I stepped out of it for the last time. My daughter led me to the iron bench on my patio and set me down while she put the last of my things in the car.

“I guess this is where we say goodbye, my friend.” I held my hand to my shoulder, and the bird hopped into my hand. “I will miss you,” I whispered as I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. He looked at me for the last time with his kind eyes. I lifted my hands to the sky to let him know that it was okay to fly away. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he soon opened his wings and disappeared into the afternoon sky.

“Thank you.”

My daughter helped me stand and escorted me to the passenger side of the car. I fastened my seatbelt as I stared at my home in its entirety one last time. The windows were dark and lifeless. It didn’t feel right. When she turned the key, the engine roared to life. We slowly backed out of the driveway and onto the road. The forsale sign posted at the end of the driveway stood out like a sore thumb. I forced myself to turn away from it and look at the road in front of us. I stared at the descending sun, and the sun stared back as if it were an old friend.

Only then, did I allow a single tear to roll down my cheek.

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Third Place Fiction Goodnight Jennivev Reyes My eyes snap open as the light from my alarm clock bares 3:09 a.m. Sweat wraps around my body like a blanket. I groan, the spinning in my head making the room continually shrink. My eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, darting between the closet that hides to the left and the bathroom on the opposite side. I comb my thin short hair with my hands. Small breaths from my girlfriend lying next to me fill the air, it's too quiet. I will never forgive myself if she knew the dreams that haunt me and the eyes that gawk at my soul.

My legs take me to the bathroom. My eyes drift to the mirror. Strands of my dirt brown hair stick to my skin like fingerprints on glass. Taking note of my sunken eyes, I unconsciously take a deep breath. I turn the cold nob on the sink, water flowing quietly into the drain. I dunk my hands into the cold water and spread the water around my face and neck. Chills slide down my spine. The only thing I’ve felt in weeks is terror from these nightmares.

They continually keep me awake, take my supply of oxygen, and make my mind spiral. Every single day I dread sleep. I dread laying down and counting sheep attempting to return to the nightmare land of unconsciousness. To try everything in my power to avoid sleep. I’ve worked so much I could take the next 3 months off with no problems. Stepping out of the bathroom, goosebumps cover my arms. The hairs on my body stand straight as a cover of 96

thick air drapes the room. My breath is leeched from my lungs as I scan the room. Nothing is out of place, but

everything feels different. Something is taking up space, I can feel it breathing.

“Siras…” ringing drowns my senses. I feel the invisible thing exhale down my neck. I’m frozen in time. My legs twitch to run, move, or reach for the knife hidden beneath our bed; anything to protect me from whatever is invading my space.

“SIRAS…” my girlfriends voice breaks my trance. The goosebumps disappear, my body visibly relaxes. She grips the sheet to her chest as her eyebrows furrow with worry.

“Did you have that nightmare again?” Her voice softer than wool.

“Yeah,” that was all I could muster before dragging my feet to the bed. “You can go back to sleep, I’m sorry if I woke you,” I kiss the top of her forehead and attempt to relax into the soft mattress.

“I understand you don’t want to talk about it with me, but I’m worried.” Her eyes roam over my chest and low hanging sweats as if searching for injuries. “I don’t want

you straining your body more than you have been” her eyebrows knitting further together. I’m praying to whatever god there might be she can’t feel how hard my heart is beating. How much fear shot through my body and settled in my soul. I hope she couldn’t see how much I was wishing, hoping she would forget how vulnerable I felt right now. She places her head on my chest, her braided hair draping against my arm.

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“Don’t fight your demons alone Siras. You’re not alone.”

She breathes through her words letting sleep overtake

her.

I shut my eyes seeking to fall back asleep, but my body can’t seem to relax. I try practicing my deep breathing and I relax every part of myself one by one. For a sec

ond, I can feel my muscles relax, my limbs sink into the soft blankets. As my mind wanders to the idea of sleep, I can’t shake the thick air, the breathing down my neck, and the shrinking feeling. My spine stiffens, the anxiety crawling back into my skin. For the rest of the night, I laid in bed obsessing over what that thing could’ve been. …

I peal my eyes open; the red light reads 6:00 a.m. Since I’ve been overworking myself, I didn’t have anything to do except a big meeting with a bank company named, Halo bank.

Their old security company shut down and they are asking for our help to install our own top-notch security systems and guards. We pride ourselves in our ability to keep people safe and secure. My technology is revolutionary and anything that happens to my security team or technology, I personally handle. The meeting is set at 11 a.m. downtown in my office building and I had four hours to kill before I have to leave.

Sitting up carefully, I stride out of the bedroom to the kitchen. As I close the door behind me, careful not to 98

wake my sleeping girlfriend, the same presence from last night emerges. I cannot see it and frankly I’m too frozen in fear to look towards the presence. My eyes don’t dare

stray from the blank wall in front of me. I can feel eyes all around me, mocking me, edging me to look. My spine stiffens and my vision adjusts to the sunrise seeping through the windows. The white popcorn wall moves to-

wards me slowly, as if the walls eyes are maintaining eyecontact. The world seems to stop, the hairs on my body rising.

Sweat beading off my neck dripping down my back. The oxygen has left the walls that are continually caving in on me. Using every strength within my mind I pivot on my foot and head down the elongating hallway to the kitchen.

I half expect a pair of eyes to meet mine as I pivot. The eyes bore holes into the back of my neck as I pick up my pace to the kitchen. I make breakfast for my girlfriend and I eat before her 8:00am and my 9:30am leave time.

…

All through breakfast and during my car ride to the office I couldn’t take my mind off the feeling of the eyes. Alt-

hough the eyes stopped as soon as I entered the kitchen, the reminiscent of the stare has been keeping me on edge. A ball of anxiety rolling through my spine like a rock down a hill. It feels like butterflies have swarmed my heart and started to feast on every blood cell that enters or exits. Every time I try and distract myself with music or other trivial matters my mind wanders to the paranoia that has made a nest in my bones.

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“Good morning, Mrs. Bane” my blond hair, doe eyed assistant calls out to me as I enter my office building.

“Good morning, Trisha” My voice cracks.

She gets up from her desk as I pass and falls in step behind me. “You have nothing but that meeting with Halo company’s CEO, Don Thatcher. You also have lunch with Mrs. Picket at 1. Also, Johnathan called yesterday asking

for your assistance with a break in that occurred two nights ago, would you like me to schedule that?” She guides her pen across the paper listing the different meetings for the Monday morning.

“That’s fine, schedule it after the lunch in.” I reply stepping into my office to prepare for the meeting with Don.

“Phone call with Johnathan at 3 sir.” She pivots on her foot and heads back to her desk.

The door shuts behind her and I sink into my chair facing the door I came from. My shoulders slump over, my elbows digging into the top of my knee. I feel a mess, distracted, and not nearly focused enough to promote our company to one of the biggest clients we could potentially gain. This client could change our name and put our security team on the map. Breathing deep, I rub my face and attempt to clear away the anxiety that seeps into my blood. Just as I file my papers neatly on my desk, Don walks in with a pretty brunette by his side.

“Hello Mrs. Bane, it's nice to see you again” his voice laced with annoyance. I don’t have the energy to snap back like usual, so I smirk mirroring his words.

“I'm going to get straight to the point. I’m looking for 100

someone who can be on the job as well as in the chair, if you know what I mean….” His voice rambles off the list of criteria he expects from my company, explaining in detail

how he wants each to be met.

“I can assure you,” I cut off before he goes on for the whole meeting, “my technology, that I created myself, is secure and safe. For the right price our business can in-

clude the dirty work as well.”

His answering smirk tells me that I enticed him enough to take the deal, yet his rambling continues.

“I understand that Mrs. Bane, but you know I take this very seriously…”

Suddenly, ringing fills both ears, drowning Don’s words. I do my best to hide every change in the room. Every piece of oxygen that was once in here replaces with molasses.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. Frantically, I peal my eyes around the room, trying to pinpoint the thing that’s making me lose my sanity. The walls are caving in. The warning signals in my brain telling me to grab the knives in my desk drawer just in case something pops out. Every muscle strained against my navy suit, wait-

ing to pounce at the slightest movement.

I am just being paranoid, nothing is there. I’m just being paranoid. I echo this mantra praying it pushes the anxiety out of my stomach threatening to display what I had for breakfast on my desk. A gust of hot air travels down my neck. I feel a giant smile followed by a silent laugh stretch and puff behind me. I fight every intrusive thought to turn around and do unspeakable things to whatever is laughing 101

behind me. I must be professional with Mr. Don in front of me.

“Mrs. Bane.” His voice breaks through the thick air. Sweat

beading down my forehead to my neck. “You seem distracted. And might I say very pale, are you feeling unwell?”

He snips. He seems more interested in my listening abilities than my health.

“Yes, sorry, go on.” I use all my mental power to listen to him, but my mind wanders. What if the paranoia I am feeling isn’t paranoia. What if my dreams, this feeling, the thing that’s haunting every part of my life… is real? …

Lunch with Mrs. Picket was as boring as ever, but I must have lunch with my sister at least once a month. That was

the deal. If I had lunch with her once a month, she would no longer be breathing down my neck about mother or other trivial matters.

The phone call with Johnathan proved to be very informative on how to improve my security system. I created the system from scratch, and I love it when I get feedback to make it more secure, more efficient, and better than my competitors. For the rest of the day, I tend to use my computer and work on the new upgrades for the system.

Testing out different alarms and system upgrades can better improve the video feed and efficiency of the technology.

“Siras,” my girlfriend appears in the doorframe to my office in my room, “I’m going to stay with Catalina for to102

night, will you be okay?” Her long legs eat up the distance between us.

“Yes love, don’t worry about me. Have fun with cat” a smile spreads on my face, its cute when she is worried

about me.

With a hug and a kiss, she runs to the room to pack her overnight bag. In less than 10 minutes, she’s ready for her best friend’s apartment.

“I'll be back in the morning Siras!” She calls before slamming the front door, with a click of the door locking.

The house is quiet without her but it's nice to be able to work on my coding before I try to sleep off the paranoia.

I glance at the corner of my right computer monitor, 12:00 am. Midnight. I’ve been working for 3 hours. Rubbing my neck, I head to the room to try to get some shut eye.

I undress to my underwear and lay under the covers. The dark room influencing my eyes to close and body to relax.

To help my mind relax, I reflect on the events of the day.

I think about the

meeting with Don, my lunch with my

sister, and the warm embrace of my girlfriend's hugs after work, the best part of my day. I’m seconds away from falling under the spell of sleep when the room gets hot. Uncontrollably hot, the air sticking to my body. A blanket of sweat settles through my skin. Frustration runs through my already boiling blood. Hot inhales and exhales coat the side of my neck and ear.

“Goodnight Siras… I’ll see you soon,” an unfamiliar voice 103

Don’t Tattle Tale Zutorya Cook

I lay in bed one morning dreading the school day. I walk to the front of the house revealing that my parents left, it’s a done deal, I’m not going. I open the closet door in

my room and smile the goofiest smile possible. My boyfriend, my high school crush, was sitting on the ledge above all my shoes smiling right back.

“They’re gone,” I say signaling for him to get out of the closet.

“You know, one day we won’t have to do this. We’ll be the parents of the little monsters doing it,” he says with a chuckle but a somewhat straight face. I didn’t laugh. At that moment, all I could think about was the time I met a real monster.

...

On an average June night, rain overcame the house, and the wind blew, shoving the leaves against the windows.

Her brothers and sisters and a whole swimming team

,

filled the house mostly in the basement. Lori sat alone in the dining room.

The silence provided a temporary

escape from the chaos of her everyday life. As she settled underneath the large dark brown wooden table, her heart began to calm, and a sense of peace washed over her. The lowly dimmed light from the lamp allowed her to sink into her coloring book. However, as she began to 104

relax, a strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck as thunder struck and the leaves beat against the window.

Slowly, she looked around to find a boy standing by her, his presence felt both eerie and unjustified. He was close and small enough to see his body, but big enough that one could not see his face from under the table, a bit bigger than Lori. He seemed to blend seamlessly into the shadows.

“Can I show you something?” the boy asked, confident she would say yes.

“Now, what,” Lori responds hesitantly not wanting to be bothered during her quiet time.

“Here, I’ll show you. Trust me,” he insists.

As she slipped into his trickery, the soft glow of the lamp cast a warm ambiance. With a gentle tug, he unzipped the zipper on his pants, allowing it to gracefully slide down below his thighs. The fabric poured down his legs, pooling at his feet. She sat, head tilted, momentarily frozen. The room was so quiet now that her thoughts were screaming at her. The other kids could still be heard in the distance but felt oceans away. The boy took a seat and put his hand out for her to grab. Like a puppet, she found herself slowly inching forward, the soft shuffling sound echoing

through the room. The leaves kept beating up against the windows as more thunder added to the noises as if marking the end of her innocence. Finally, she reached his lap, placing her right hand in his, a familiar hand. As the boy pulls back his shirt, she shyly tries to snatch her hand back but is stuck in his grasp.

“Just do this,” the boy says pulling her head closer.

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After the boy left, the storm seemed to go with him along with a piece of Lori. Lori doesn’t move or make a sound. Once the house was back to normal capacity, Lori got up, walked back to her room, and climbed underneath the cover completely covering her body.

Early the next morning she is startled awake by the

leaves beating against the window, the storm continues its rage. Hurrying her downstairs, her dad gently touches Lori’s shoulder. Lori drops her phone, shyly smiling at him as she dips away from his hand to pick up her phone. As she reached the kitchen, the table was set with boxes of snacks, cereal boxes, used cups, and milk stains. She turns around to retrieve a bowl, facing the dining room.

She slips away into her mind.

She snaps back to reality as a voice cuts through her daze, “You good?” her sister asks, reaching for Lori’s shoulder. She responds with a head nod simultaneously standing to avoid being touched. The words she wanted to say left her mind. All she could do was think about getting out of that house where anything was possible.

...

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to have little monsters,” Lori says to her boyfriend with the straightest face.

"So, what are we going to do about that?" he says with a side-eye before peering at her in dismay

106

.

The Invitation Elizabeth Edler

I lay on my couch, intensely staring at the popcorn ceiling.

I stare so long it feels like the little bumps are jumping out at me. One hand is behind my head, becoming a

makeshift pillow in my bare apartment. The other hand is firmly grasping a letter I opened 2 hours ago. Not just any letter - an invitation. An invitation for my ten-year class reunion, signed personally by Jessica Albert. The memories keep flooding back to me as I look at her penmanship.

The invitation reeks of that oh-so familiar perfume she wore back in high school. I bring it up to my nose, shuddering at the smell. I frantically get up and go to the bathroom, trying to catch a breath but it’s like my lungs have stopped working. I turn the faucet on and listen to the water. It doesn’t help. My skin starts to get itchy and my vision becomes blurry. I hurry to strip and turn on the shower. I haven’t felt this way in forever. Why does she still have this effect on me?

High school graduation is usually a happy day. Excited seniors ready to start a new chapter of their life and emotional parents who can’t accept that their babies have

grown up. And it’s usually followed by a series of parties all around town. It should basically become a holiday at this point. For me, graduation wasn’t fun. As I walked across the stage to accept my diploma, no one clapped or cheered for me - except for my parents. I heard a few coughs and giggles from my classmates, but I didn’t have any friends who yipped and yelled for me. As soon as I walked off that stage, my parents and I got into the car 107

and drove 4 hours to Seattle. I haven’t been back since. Not even to see my parents - I always make them come to me. Never have I ever thought about going back in these 10 years.

That night, I woke up in a panic. Nightmares have become a typical part of my nights, but this one was different. It was about her. Jessica Albert. I was back in

high school, being pushed around by Jessica and her friends. I could feel the hot curling iron melting into my skin like it was happening. I could feel my ankles start to bruise from the swings of the golf clubs. I felt the sting of the ink pen breaking my flesh. It was at this exact moment that I decided to do something about it. I had created a happy life for myself in Seattle. Why in the world would I let Jessica take over my life again? I will be going to that reunion. And I’ll make sure there’ll be hell to pay.

108

Where the Sun Exists Rita Campos

It was Maya’s 14th birthday. She loved her birthday, and every year she wished she would wake up on the other side of town, the good side. Growing up, she always

heard stories about the wonders of the good side, about buildings so tall that touched the sky, waterfalls with crystal clear water, white sand beaches, and no smoke. The day before her birthday, she would go to bed so excited and hopeful that one day, her desires would come true.

However, once she woke up, every single year her dreams were crushed. This year, it was not any different. Maya woke up, afraid to open her eyes and still be and that terrible, dirty shanty town. When she finally gathered up the strength to open her eyes, she was still in that same sad place. She went to her mom’s room, but she was not home, her dad was passed out on the couch with a half full bottle of beer in his hand and many more empty bottles on the floor. She felt relieved that he was not awake.

Her twelve siblings were home but did not remember that it was her birthday. Maya felt so utterly alone, however not surprised.

Maya and her family lived in a one room apartment, just outside the good, rich, clean side. That side of town belonged to the factory's workers, the housekeepers, the “Cleaning people,” as Maya called them. Her dad was an acholic with anger management issues, and her mother worked two jobs and had too many children to pay attention to any of them. Maya was the youngest, she was still able to somehow find light in darkness, unlike her siblings.

109

When they were younger, some of them cared and looked after her, others were just born hopeless and indifferent.

Maya’s favorite sibling, Hugo, was the kindest of them all.

He was older than her and always remembered her birthday, but as the years passed, the city started rubbing off on him and he became like everyone else, distant and cold.

The town was always dark from the smoke of the factories, and people forgot that the sun existed. There were no bright color houses, or grass or flowers. All there was, were tiny apartments built on top of each other, designed to fit as many people as possible in them, with no concern for safety or happiness. What Maya hated the most was the smell. It smelled like death and sadness. It was so hard to be happy in a place like that, so Maya kept holding on to the hope that one day she would wake up in the good side of town. Some days, she would climb to the highest building in town, where she could almost see the sun. It was her secret place, and those little sun rays that touched her skin and slightly warmed her for brief seconds would make her forget for while how dark her world was.

On the bottom of the building, lived a little stray dog that Maya always played with. She would even bring food and water for him, whenever she had some. The dog would

always make her day better. He was also part of her secret place.

The years passed, and nothing changed. On her 16th birthday she was still wishing to get out of there. That day her mom never came home. She met a rich man in the good side of town and ran away with him, leaving them all behind with their father, who was incapable of even taking care of himself. All of Maya’s siblings also left home that 110

day, even Hugo, afraid of what their dad might do. Some tried to talk Maya into going with them, but Maya stayed.

As hopeful as she was, she believed she could fix her dad now that it was just the two of them. She woke up her dad and helped him get up from the dirty couch.

“Dad, get up! I want to show you something.”

Maya wanted to take him to her secret place, she wanted him to feel the sun as she thought he would regain hope and get better. But as he was getting up, still drunk from the previous night, he fell. This was enough for his eyes to turn dark, and rage took over his body. He had never laid a hand on Maya before, but since there was nobody else there, he took out his anger on her.

That day the sky turned darker for Maya. She could no longer see the light; she became hopeless just like everyone else in that town. She did not have the strength to leave her dad, and she no longer dreamed about the good side of town. The beatings became worse, and deep down she believed she would not survive. One day, when her dad was after her once more and she was desperately trying to escape from him and fight back, the little stray dog from her secret place started barking at him.

The dog missed Maya as she had stopped going to her

secret place, so he came looking for her and found her just in time. It was enough for her dad to get distracted and give Maya a few seconds to get up and run. She ran away to her secret place, and the dog followed her. She named him Elpis. It was the Greek word for “hope.”

Maya saw the sun again, and she did not feel alone anymore, she had Elpis by her side. She decided to run away to the good side of the city and make her dreams come 111

true with some money that she had saved over the years, by asking on the street to strangers who felt bad for her.

Maya spent her 18th birthday on the good side with Elpis, and it was everything that she had ever dreamed of and more. They grew old together and visited all the wonders of the good side. They climbed the tall buildings and almost touched the sun. They went to the waterfalls and

played in the green grass and trees as tall as the sky, they went to the beach and played in white thin sand.

They learned how to swim, and they felt for the first time the fresh air. In that side of town, it smelled like ocean and flowers, there was no smoke, and she could see the sun everywhere. Maya and Elpis would have endless conversations where she was the only one talking and he would just listen, confused. Some days she wished that Elpis could talk, but she later realized that he did not have to. He did not only save her, but he also taught her that it is possible for love and hope to exist, even when words do not. Elpis became her sun, and she thought to herself “Anywhere where the sun exists, there is hope.”

112

Vengeful Fury Teddy Plowman Rivera remembers the good old days, before the treachery.

She remembers the joy and laughter that filled the

walls of her family’s cottage.

Now, the only thing inside

those walls are echoes of the past.

her of the horrors.

Silence that reminds

She was the only one left after... that

night.

She was in the kitchen making stew, as her parents, Trakas and Phina, were outside playing with her little sister, Ena, playing with her little tea set. beginning to set.

The sun was just

Her family were farmers at heart, trad-

ing in the nearby towns for money and selling their crops.

They made enough to get by, and they were hap-

py.

Her mother was a cleric, and her father was a pala-

din.

They told stories to her as she grew up of all the

days they went adventuring with their friends, and how they met in a tavern one night.

Rivera had inherited their

magic abilities and had been training since she was young to become a great sorcerer.

She dreamed of becoming

as great as her older sister, Preslyn. wand nearby, just in case.

She always kept her

It was carved from an apple

tree her parents planted when she was first born and had a protective crystal inserted on one end, with decorative pink flowers made by Ena. was good in those days.

She treasured that wand.

Easy, carefree.

Life

Happy.

That’s when it all changed.

As she made the stew, she heard the most gut-wrenching sounds coming from outside.

She put out the fire and

raced to grab her wand, but when she stepped outside, 113

she saw the horrors that awaited her. Preslyn, or... What once was her sister, had begun to change. She could hear snaps, creaking, grunts of pain and anguish. Her

sister was on the ground thrashing, and her parents were holding Ena farther away. Preslyn seemed to be screaming in pain, as her body changed and morphed. Her skin

changed from its normal coppery tone to a strange dark purple, almost black. Her hair turned from a dark brown to a silvery gray. Her voice went from how she usually sounded to... something much worse.

She was no longer the sister that Rivera remembered.

No... she was... A fiend.

her beloved sister?

What had happened to

What was going on?

How could she

possibly protect her family? She raced in front of her

parents and Ena shook with pure fear as she watched what her sister began to shift into. A hag.

“Great heav-

ens... What has happened to our baby?!” Her mother cried out.

Her father grasped tightly onto Ena, as Ena cried

into his chest.

“Preslyn!

What happened?!” Her father

yelled. It was too late though.

Preslyn was gone.

What

remained was a blight upon their world. She had become a hag.

Rivera was scared beyond speech. She could not believe what she was seeing. Her sister... Her idol... She was gone.

She wanted to cry, but she had no time to even

think.

The hag flipped the table with the tea set across

the grass, landing with a loud crash. The hag let out a shrill cackle, before swiftly launching at Rivera. She cast a shield and blocked the attack as best she could, but she was thrown back, smacking her head on the house. She 114

groaned in pain, before trying to get up and help her family.

She scrambled over to her parents and tried to pro-

tect them as best she could.

She was so scared.

It

made her blood run cold, fighting off this vicious and wicked creature. out, sobbing.

“Don’t harm Preslyn!” Her mother cried

Rivera bit her lip, before replying, “That is

not her anymore mother!

She has become a hag!”

She fought as hard as she could.

She was not very

strong, and her spells were only beginner ones, but she would do whatever it may take to protect her family. tried her best.

She

They fought for what felt like hours, before

finally, the hag cast a spell that caused Rivera to fly back, hitting her head and knocking her unconscious.

The last

thing she remembered seeing before she blacked out was the hag slicing at her parents.

When she awoke, hours had passed.

She was confused,

but the sight awaiting her when her eyes opened made her scream in horror.

“NO!” She cried out, scrambling

over to her parents and sister.

“MOTHER, FATHER, ENA!”

She yelled, tears rolling down her cheeks.

She scrambled

to all three, checking each one for any sign of life. was too late.

Yet, it

Their bodies lay dead and cold, their once

coppery skin gone pale, blood pooled all around them.

Their hair had become matted with it, and their

eyes were glazed over.

Wounds covered them, and yet,

even in their final moments, they had tried to protect little Ena.

Even though it wasn’t enough to defend against a

hag.

Rivera lifted her head and screamed above, “Why

have you forsaken us, great Selvardine?!” She bowed to the ground and heaved with sobs, until she felt she could no longer let out any noise.

115

When she lifted her head again, she could feel nothing.

What was once a happy and joyful day for her sister

now felt like she had somehow fallen into the Abyss below.

She sat back onto her knees and stared blankly at

the ground. Mere hours ago, she was happily cooking and caring for her beloved family. Now, here they lay before her, taken to the heavens above far too soon. Rivera could feel something snap within her, like a thread being pulled too thin finally breaking. Her once bright and

cheerful eyes, now growing dull and lifeless. She couldn’t believe it. Her beloved parents, her little sister, were gone.

She failed them.

She failed to save them from

their gruesome fates. She wished the hag had taken her too.

She wondered why the hag didn’t just kill her as

well. She felt the image of their bodies engrave itself into her mind, as she slowly reached down and gently closed their eyes.

She kneeled over them and sent up a prayer

to the Selvardine for her family.

She was about to stand when she felt a strange presence near her. She jumped up, ready to defend herself against whatever may be approaching, when she saw the one thing she believed she would never see again.

Her parents.

Only, they weren’t her parents. her, dead.

No, her parents lay beside

These must be her parents’ souls.

She teared

up again, her eyes stinging with tears. “Mother?

Father?”

She spoke, almost a whisper. They smiled warmly at her.

“Rivera, our thiramen lyth.

How we miss you.” Their

voices sounded so different than when they lived. Rivera wanted to hug them both so badly. She sniffled, facing the ground in the shame she felt. “I am so sorry.

116

I failed

you both.

I failed Ena.

knees with a sob.

I am so sorry.” She fell to her

Her mother, Phinas, placed a cold but

gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Rivera, my beautiful little

girl... You could not have saved us.

I am so sorry you

must live with our deaths, but just know, you are not at fault.

We love you so very much.” Her father, Trakas,

kneeled beside her.

“Understand, child. We have come

back to aid you.”

Rivera looked at him, confused.

“Aid me?

Father, what

do you mean?”

Trakas placed a cold hand over hers, before sighing. have already lost Preslyn.

You must go after her.

“We

The

hag she has become will not hesitate to steal more souls and kill again. strong.

Innocent lives may be lost.

You are

You must protect the weak and avenge our

deaths.”

She looked up to her mother’s spirit, as it crouched down beside her and her father. on her cheek. her parents.

Phinas smiled and put a hand

Rivera was shaking slightly, looking between “I can’t do this alone.

Please... Help me.

I

am scared.”

Her parents nodded, saying in unison. with you, darling one. widened.

she?

“We will always be

Ena will be as well.” Rivera’s eyes

“She has already reincarnated?

Where is

Can I find her?” Her parents chuckled.

Suddenly, a

little white cat came from the woods, running over to Rivera.

“Ena?

Is that truly you?”

The cat meowed and purred happily, doing a small spin.

“My word, Ena.

sniffled.

You look absolutely beautiful.” She

“I am so sorry, all of you.

I failed to protect

your lives in this world before.”

117

Her parents placed a loving hand on her back, and the cat meowed, rubbing against Rivera’s hands. first, with a loving gaze at his daughter. not to blame for what happened. lies beyond, remember? you, and to love you.

Trakas spoke

“Rivera, you are

We do not fear what

We will be with you to guide As long as you need us.

You will

never be alone.”

Ena meowed, and Rivera picked her up ever so gently.

“Ena, will you serve as my familiar alongside mother

and father?” Ena purred and licked her hand as if to agree.

Rivera sighed.

“Let’s get ready then.”

For several days, Rivera cleaned up the bodies and got ready to head out into the unknown.

When the time

came, she buried her parents and sister in the earth, covering them with grass and sweet-smelling leaves, as well as beautiful flowers.

She prayed to the gods above that

the bodies help the animals and soil to bloom the most beautiful flowers where they lay.

Her eyes, once bright and glittering with hope, now looked dull and disturbed, the thread inside her had snapped.

She could no longer come back from this.

was truly haunted now. ly.

She

Still, she had to avenge her fami-

Ena meowed and hopped into her backpack, sticking

her head out happily.

Rivera smiled, and she only knew

one thing for certain.

No matter what, she will find the

coven of hags out in the great unknown and bring them to justice.

Her beloved family would not die in vain.

She

took her first step into the cold and cruel world, and she didn’t look back.

118

Emetophobia Aubrey Lunsford If I could stop, I would.

My hands were dry and cracked

open, but I still kept scrubbing.

...

The park was my favorite place to go as a kid. I liked the slides and the swings, but I liked the merry-go-round the most.

One afternoon when I was around six, me and a few other kids were spinning around and around on it. We kept spinning faster and faster, laughing our heads off. It must have been just too much for one of the little girls though, because she began throwing up. Her vomit splashed back on her and some of the other kids beside her, but I was lucky enough to not get hit with it. All the kids quickly jumped off, screaming and running away from her in disgust. She began to cry, and her mother quickly rushed over to help her. I was more shocked and disgusted than anything, and the smell was repulsive. Mom drove me home after this, and I was left with the image of the girl throwing up replaying in my mind all night long.

A few days later, I began to feel sick too and began throwing up. It was the first time I had ever thrown up a lot and I felt like I was dying. Mom told me I probably caught it from the merry-go-round girl. I didn't go back on the merry-go-round ever again after that.

That's when it began: the fear.

I always carried hand sanitizer after this. It would be emp 119

ty by the end of the school week.

When flu season hit its peak, one of my classmates threw up all over our first-grade math teacher’s classroom. I closed my eyes and covered my ears tightly, hoping that it was nothing but a dream, but the smell made it all too real. When I took a shower that night, I scrubbed my body three times in a row. It was bright red when I was fin-

ished.

...

“Kasey, are you going to the party the seniors are throwing tonight?” Jess asked.

“I can't, I have too much homework to finish, maybe next weekend,” I replied, lying. Jess was my friend, but she had just gotten over the stomach flu a few days ago, and

spending too much close contact with her wasn't a good idea. I decided to go to the party next week. I ended up leaving after the first drunk person said they thought they might be sick though.

...

My therapist told me I needed to face my fear and making friends could be one of the first steps to facing it. I told her I couldn't stop my fear from controlling me though.

“Yes, you can Kasey. You control your fear, it doesn't control you, you have to remember that” she said.

I decided to make that friend a few weeks ago. It was a good decision, maybe the best decision of my life. She and I have been hanging out a good amount, more than I had even hung out with my friends in high school. This is 120

a good thing, I can kill my fear, I tell myself. I haven't gathered the courage to tell my friend the truth just yet though.

Today my friend got sick while we were hanging out. At first, I covered my ears and closed my eyes, my heart pounding out of my chest as she puked into her toilet. I really did feel bad for her, but at the same time I didn't

even want to help her and that made me feel like a monster.

My fear doesn’t control me.

My fear doesn’t control me.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t.

As I repeated this in my head, over and over again, my breathing slowed, and I did something I thought I'd never do. I went to the bathroom and helped my friend. It took everything in me to do it, but I did.

I drove home after this and began scrubbing down.

If I could stop, I would. I scrubbed my hands.

If I could stop, I would. I scrubbed my arms.

I began to scrub my hands again, but this time when I looked down there was blood draining down the sink. I began to cry and fell to my knees.

That night, I went to my local park, got on the merry-goround, and spun and spun till I felt sick. Then I spun a little more and actually got sick. At first, I was terrified as the hot bile rose up into my throat. When it was over though, somehow, I felt more relieved than I had in 121

years. I began to laugh, thinking of the fact that I was in the same situation that girl on the merry-go-round was in all of those years go. And I was okay, just like she was all along.

I can stop and I will.

122

123

124

Nonfiction “To me, the moment you’re talking about nonfiction you’re talking about reality.”

- David Shields

125

First Place Creative Nonfiction A Walk at Winter’s End Daniel Ard Mild winters are so odd. Not in a bad way, mind you, but it’s odd to overheat with just bedsheets trying to sleep in

the dead of winter, especially here in Fayette. When I got here a couple years ago, there was a foot of snow everywhere, snow days every week for the first five weeks. It was kind of nuts, honestly.

Hell, it was warm that morning. My living room window was open all night – Lord knows it got cold before sunrise – so the wintery, uh, sixty-degree air felt kind to me. It tasted like spring in February. It’s an adjustment. It’s been

a few winters like that now: it’ll stay warm until December or warm up in early March. A lot of folks say it’s global warming or whatever, but it’s out of our hands. It’s a nice day to live and as many of these days as we get, I’ll take it.

I tried out a new style this semester. Something totally original for rural Missouri, a plaid shirt, blue jeans, and boots. It felt nice for a change. It’s not bad to hike in

either. I went around DC Rogers a week or so ago, four and a half miles. There’s a lot of cool stuff out there, I’ll tell you.

My friend J and I had been talking about hiking around DC for almost a year now. The plan was to rent a canoe or something and make it to the other side that way.

There’s a bend in the lake that you could take a boat down easily enough, and it takes you down to a creek 126

and a hell of a lot of mud. Mudflats? Maybe that’s what they’re called. Something expansive and filled with sunbleached reeds and dry cattails and enough mud to swallow your foot to your knee if you stepped in it. Cool stuff. I’m getting off track.

Anyway, J and I started out around the bottom of the hill leading into the lake, right around the part of the

road that ends up running straight along it. According to J, there was supposedly a trail we could walk, and after searching the thickets lining the woods all along the hill, we found that was, in fact, not the case. I had brought a walking stick, so I beat down the thorns where they were the thinnest, and we plunged into the forest along the lake.

J took the lead for the first bit as we made our way

slowly through the underbrush. The ground was surprisingly slippery here, the earth still wet under the leaves of the forest floor. Lots of browns and rusted reds and the occasional evergreen. We traveled along the bank of the lake for some time, looking for boulders perching on hillsides or old, graven oaks (there were many here) for landmarks to go by, in case we were to go back. Not long afterwards, we came across this giant, imposing bastion of a tree. Its branches were gnarled and bare, towering over us at the crest of a small hill some distance in. J spotted some rebar footholds embedded in the trunk and began squirreling his way up it, until he perched up on one of the higher branches. He called down to me and said that he had a great view of the lake from up there. I am afraid of heights, so I watched the big blue puddle make its best attempt at hiding behind the trees. I watched it sparkle and wave from the 127

ground. After that brief pause, we pressed onward, cutting through a small clearing and onward around the first inlet, thick with cattails. J spotted a small structure just at the far tip, some sort of run-down shack, and we strolled through a pine tree grove and down to the building. The place was an old, old duck blind, little left remaining save for an old mesh bag for onions filled to the brim with crushed beer cans and some empty shells, presumably birdshot. There was some clay shale along the shore, so J took some for a souvenir. I wrapped the flat rocks in some paper and stuck it in my pack.

We continued along the shore, eventually cutting back onto the hillside, and after trudging up to the top, we found a flat and open section of the woods. Lots of mature hickory, oak and maple, little underbrush, and no thorns. J and I talked for a while about God, dinosaurs, and how humans must’ve been pretty scary if we were cavemen. “The hairless monkeys who don’t get tired,” I said. He grinned in agreement. We trekked through these hills for quite some time, at least a mile, and we walked through at least three creek beds before we came to a wider creek.

“If we follow the bed, we can avoid this last hill and shave some distance off,” J suggested. I agreed, and soon

we were trudging up the hill anyway, since the direction he pointed turned out to be upstream.

Regardless, there was a copse of evergreens up at the top, and as we broke through the trees, the place opened into a valley of sorts. Huge boulders dotted the hillside, more skeletal, giant oaks, more pines. There were no thorns here, just a thick carpet of leaves coating the forest floor. Better yet, it led to the shore, another inlet. The 128

water was shallow, but pulled back deep along the valley, narrowing down to that little creek. There were more golden reeds, fluffy cattails, sleeping stalks, trees, and plants. It looked like God Himself made an amphitheater out here, and we had walked in during the off-season.

There were no shows here, just some birds practicing their auditions for the soon-to-be spring. I think she judges each animal and plant and at the end, with a big smile, lets them all into the ensemble to play their myriad, verdant chorus.

Our feet found sound purchase as we marched down the gentle slope into the small valley. The earth was firm here. It was a bit cooler here, and I didn’t know why. I took the lead at this point, and as we made it to the shore, J dared me to try to walk out on the mud and see how far I could make it before I sank. It took one step. Bastard. I grabbed a cattail on my way out of the muck, though.

We realized we’d have to walk down to the creek to find a spot solid enough to cross, so we walked for some time by the water. My steps occasionally made that sucking sound from the mud pulling against my boots. Lots of little birds flew about the place, and it made me wish I knew more about them. There was this red-headed woodpecker I saw; he flew off just as I pointed him out. I didn’t know we had those in Missouri.

We made it to a crossable point and J fell in, much to his chagrin. I helped him up and didn’t make a fuss about it at the time, as a good friend would, but I never said I would not write about it. (Come to think of it, such a thing could not be anticipated. I’d apologize to him lat 129

er about it.) We continued up another hill and onward until we came near someone’s property. We wouldn’t have known it was, if it wasn’t for the oddly placed fully functional grill right on the corner of what was marked as an open pasture on the map J had. Someone was grilling’ right by the lakefront. I didn’t blame him one bit. We had come to a rockier, steeper section of the shore, and since the sights were not much to see, J told me about a book he was reading. It was about a group of cross-faded college students running someone over and not talking about it, only for someone (of course) to find out about it and (of course) start killing them off, one by one. He made it sound interesting as he told it, but as he described some of the twists, both of us couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it was. One character calls another after he gets a note. Then, he got off the phone and he got shot. No

buildup, no nothing. I thank God every day that he didn’t make me a mystery writer.

Anyway, having made it past that rather treacherous part of the journey, we came to this wide, open flatland, a relatively huge peninsula covered with grass thick enough to be the hair of a horse. J continued along through the woods, but I started running out into the field. I am sure that I might have gotten my foot stuck somewhere if my

foot found bare earth, but I didn’t. The longing for Elysian fields. Heaven’s grass must be golden in the same way.

There was a cypress tree right out by the tip of the peninsula, and I made my way over there untiI I had come right up on it. There, rising from the shallow earth, partially submerged in water, were the roots, knotted and gnarled and raised up like little teeth. There were hundreds of little nodules rising from the shallow water, 130

brown, polished and blunt, but all around the same height. The tree spurred by the water surrounding it made these. I am sure of it. I had no clue how, nor did I care to know. Seeing something and knowing nothing of it is far more beautiful than knowing the thing and seeing it for yourself.

I called J over from the forest, and he was amazed by it

too. We found a few more trees like that as we continued toward the dam near Peter’s. (We had decided about halfway through the hike to use the road from Peter’s to DC on the walk back instead of returning whence we came for a shorter return time, if you care to know or walk there yourself.) The rest of the journey was short from this point on, as we had only one more creek to cut across before we made it out of the woods. The brush closed in around us once more, thickening as we got closer to the edge, until we finally were within sight, and we rejoiced. Each step was sweet, knowing we had conquered this place we had spoken of traversing so many times before.

We came to that last crossing, made the leap, and climbed up the bank onto the dam. We both cheered a bit, especially J since I pulled out a bottle I had kept in my pack the whole trip. We both took a swig, nearly threw up (it was horribly lukewarm), took another swig, put away the bottle, and then stumbled our tired feet back along the long road to the car on the other side of the big, blue lake.

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Second Place Creative Nonfiction Bone-Warming Chili Amanda Mantel Crunch, crunch, crunch. I watched my feet make desolate trenches in the blanket of snow that was once white and pristine, but is now muddy and grimy. I carried two fivegallon buckets of water as I trudged from the faucet to the pasture to give fresh, unfrozen water to the cows. I looked up and saw the dinghy, cloud-covered sky that filled me with a sense of forlornity. I am not paying close attention to my feet anymore and I stepped wrong. This caused me to slip and slosh the icy water down my leg. It started soaking through my pant leg and shoe. I set the

buckets down and a soft, aching chuckle escaped from my lips. I looked to the sky, let out a sigh, shook my head, picked the buckets up, and continued the glum trek to the water tub. I reached the gate after too much time swearing and thoughts of my back giving out. Its metal body creaks and moans with resentment of the cold. It reflected my own opinion of the day. I tried to unlatch the chain and was met with a frozen refusal to open. I continued to pull on the chain. It finally ripped away from the latch, and I am reminded of when my finger got stuck to a frozen fence and left a layer of skin when I pulled my hand away. I quivered at the thought and my finger throbs at the memory. Finally, the gate creaked open with a sorrowful whine, and I finish the long walk to the water tub.

I set the icy oceans down and cracked the water, turned into ice, that I poured for the cattle the day before. I filled 132

up the tub with the new water. It will freeze again by tomorrow and I will have to repeat this process again. Once I finished, I started the long, morose walk to the truck.

This was my last chore for the day. I set the buckets down by the faucet and hobbled to the truck as quickly as possible considering my leg might have frostbite by this point. I creaked open the truck door and went inside to wait for my father to finish his chores.

My father got into our tired truck that is ten years older than me. He closed the door creating the screeching sounds the pack of coyotes we had in our field last night made. My dad fought to start the old rattle-trap, it reminded me of two bulls clashing heads to win mating rights.

My father clawed his victory from the unforgivingly cold Ford, and we started the slow roll home. There is no heater, so the bone-chilling cold continued to clutch onto every inch of my body as we puttered down the road from the farm to our house.

The snow-covered lanes passed by the window and my stomach started to complain. I looked at my father’s face and realized how much he had aged. His weathered face shows signs of trudging through Missouri winters for the past forty years of his life. I took a moment to appreciate everything he did for me. He didn’t talk much, but I knew his love for my family has roots as strong as a walnut tree. I asked if he knew what mom was cooking for dinner.

He said in his warm, gravelly voice “chili, I think.” When this quiet utterance reached my ear, my hypothalamus released enough dopamine to make me forget about my frozen leg, the cold, dreary day, and the rest of my worries.

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As my mind buzzed with the warm, wonderful thoughts of eating my mom’s chili, the sun peeked through a hole in he clouds and the day seemed to come alive. I rolled down the window and heard the few birds that were tough enough to stay through the winter, singing their songs unbothered by the cold. I realized winter can be beautiful as I saw the sunlight glint off the untouched, white blanket coating the ground. We rolled to a painstakingly slow stop, and I jumped out of the truck almost face planting because my leg was still numb. I caught myself just in time and started my walk to the house with a skip in my step, or as much of a skip as possible with a numb leg.

I walked into the house and was met with one of the most mouth-watering aromas. It filled my nostrils and made my stomach let out a hungry exclamation. My dad walked in while I was taking my boots off. He took off his boots as well and we both started peeling our frozen layers off one by one; removing about a gallon of melting snow in the process. After getting out of our wet clothes, we walked from the mudroom to the kitchen.

As we walked into the kitchen, I saw my beautiful mother standing by the crockpot stirring her euphoria-inducing chili. She turned as we walked in, and I saw her face light up with her signature warm smile that showed how much we meant to her. I walked over and gave her a hug.

“It smells amazing, mom.”

“Of course it does, Amanda. It is your grandpa’s chili recipe.”

“I know mom, but you are the one preparing it now and I cannot imagine another person making better chili than you.”

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“Oh, hush now, I am sure someone out there makes better chili, go wash up now, Amanda.”

As I walked to the sink to wash my hands, my dad walked over to my mom and kissed her forehead. This put a smile on my face as I scrubbed my hands. I loved seeing the small signs of affection they shared. It showed how much love they still had for each other after twenty-five

years of marriage. As they talked, I finished washing and drying my hands. Then, I moved to sit on the counter. As I approached my usual seat on the counter, I saw the ancient index card that held the secrets of my grandpa’s chili recipe. The beat-up index card was laying on top of my mom’s opened recipe book; a compilation of old recipe newspaper clippings, handwritten recipes, and every other recipe she has ever found. Most of the recipes are just as stained and beat up as the chili recipe. They are all so tattered that I could barely read the words written on them. I picked up my grandpa’s chili recipe and looked at the old writing.

I tried to imagine what it would have been like to see him make this chili. According to my mom, my grandpa was a gruff, old man. A little rough around the edges, but he loved my siblings and I more than anything else in the world. Although I cannot remember him very well, I still liked to imagine what he would have been like in life. I chuckled as I thought about him wearing an apron in the kitchen. In this imagined scenario, he stood in front of the chili pot stirring it and talking with my grandma. They would be bickering about something trivial that did not matter but would still anger my grandma. After my grandpa riled up my grandma, he would leave his masterpiece for a second to give her a kiss on the forehead. This 135

would show her that he was just joking around. She would smile as he returned to finish the chili and they would start bickering about the next useless thing. As much as I would have loved to see him in an apron cooking his famous chili, it will never become a reality. He sadly passed away when I was little. I believe he watches over us from heaven now and smiles when my mom makes his recipe with her own added twist.

These tweaks to the recipe are why I believe she has turned the recipe into her own creation. The main difference being the exclusion of the chili powder my grandfather would have added. My mother used to add chili powder. However, after seeing me tear up while eating the chili, even after using almost half a box of crackers and roughly a quarter of a block of cheese for every bowl, she decided to stop putting the spice in. When she changed this portion of the recipe, my brother started voicing his opinion. He loves spicy foods, so when my mom stopped adding it, he was a little upset. He still complains every time she makes chili.

“Mom, can you please add the chili powder this time.”

“No, Robby you know your sister does not like it spicy.”

“But mommmmm, why do you always have to make it so

Amanda likes it?”

“Robert Richard, you can always make it spicy, but you cannot take it away so add your own spice if you want it that bad.”

“Ugh, fine.”

I always smile when they have this banter. It has become a tradition of sorts. My favorite part was when my mom 136

told my brother to add his own spice because she waves the chili spoon at him and pretends to hit him. If my mom was to make chili and my brother and her did not have this little argument, I would think something was wrong.

They both said these lines with smiles on their faces and she always tried to swat at my brother with the stir spoon.

This disagreement between them was never serious and he evaded the spoon easily. After giving up on trying to hit him, my mom would tell us to go set the table.

As my brother and I set the table, my mom brought the food in. We sat down at the dining table to share this amazing meal together. This was my favorite part of the day. It is a little slice of peace and comradery not seen much during the busy thing called life. I got to relax and enjoy a wonderful meal with the people I hold closest to my heart. To start the meal, we all pray: “Bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, our lord.

Amen.”

Then, my mom thanked God for the food, our wonderful family, and for the incredible life he has blessed us with.

After we finished praying, my mother started dishing out the chili. My dad always got the first, and biggest, bowl because he was outside in the harsh, winter weather all day. She served the rest of us, and I finally got to dig my spoon into the scrumptious, mouth-watering chili. I was itching to stick the first bite into my mouth. However, I must be careful because, in the past, I have scalded my mouth, and burnt all my taste buds, while trying to eat chili before it was cool enough. I blew on my spoon continuously to make the chili an edible temperature. My stomach complained and I began to salivate as I waited 137

for my favorite comfort food to be ready.

Finally, after a much-anticipated wait, I got to eat my first bite. When it hit my taste buds, it felt like I entered a new reality. The shivering-cold claws, from being outside, started to lose their grip as the chili made its way to my stomach. I am being thawed from the inside out and my leg started to regain the feeling it lost when I sloshed the

icy water on it earlier. All the worries from the day melted away as I continued to eat. I got that warm-fuzzy feeling the movies always talk about. How could something so simple be so jaw-droppingly good? I looked in my bowl and saw the key ingredient that answered this question. It is because of the hamburger meat my mom used. This is not just any old, store-bought meat. No, this is our own, home-raised beef. Sometimes I thought about the hard work it took to run our farm and thought, “is it worth it?”

Then, I ate my mom’s chili and thought “the hard work pays off and we get to reap the results.” As I contemplated these questions and thoughts, the warm sunlight shone in through the dining room window. We all looked and admired the sunset God bestowed on us that night. I closed my eyes and thanked him for everything in my life, especially my mom’s chili. It can turn the most dismal days into amazing ones.

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Third Place Creative Nonfiction Bones Anna Valencia My grandmother has quite a few recipes that have come about through the years that she made just for the

grandkids. These dishes were acquired over time, not following any particular recipe, but rather the picky requests of her daughter’s children. Of all the siblings, my brothers were the pickiest eaters, but we all enjoyed the simple recipes that Grandma would whip up in the kitchen. She still uses that same kitchen today, with green cabinets, yellow walls, and the same long polished wooden table.

Her table is always lined with placemats to ward off the crumbs and water condensation. Her specialty in the kitchen, which she made for me and each of my siblings, is a simple pasta recipe. We may be the only family that calls this dish “Bones.”

My grandma has a certain way of cooking that benefits from the love and attention that she adds along the way.

Her kitchen is where some of my favorite meals have been made, that I could never repeat with the same authenticity. I certainly could try, but her recipes are meant for her kitchen and her hands only. I also firmly believe that her kitchen utensils are superior to most, especially to mine, because nothing has ever tasted half as good coming from a bowl of my own. These utensils and ingredients have been the same throughout my lifetime, her care and consistency keeping them alive for many years.

The same bowls that I ate out of at five years old, I can still use to this day.

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Her recipes have upheld the same level of consistency. Her favorite recipes are in a wooden recipe box that resides comfortably in her kitchen pantry. This box is filled with recipes that have been passed down for generations before her and some that she just added throughout her lifetime. My favorite recipe does not require a place in the recipe box. This one she has memorized, whether that is because of its simplicity or how many times she has made the same recipe, I am not certain. Her years of experience also play a significant role in this consistency. She asks us before she throws the pasta in, “How hungry are you?”

This evokes a mutual consensus that we are all very hungry, starving if we were being dramatic that day. This admission provides her with a measurement for how many noodles to throw in the boiling water and she has rarely ever been incorrect.

Now around twenty years ago, the recipe originated when my grandmother was charged with the task of feeding my very picky older brother. Although he would argue that he was not that picky, the simplicity of the upcoming recipe provides evidence against this claim. My brother was a fan of uncomplicated recipes; he did not enjoy dishes that hid the identity of the main ingredients. So, Grandma put simple ingredients together to make a pasta dish that even a

stubborn six-year-old would not refuse. The recipe has only four ingredients, and although it is not the most flavorful dish, it is one that holds many memories. I have watched her prepare this meal more times than I can count.

Grandma places a metal pan onto the kitchen stove, water sloshing inside, waiting patiently to boil. As the water begins to heat up, into the liquid Grandma plops a cube of chicken bouillon, giving the noodles a hint of flavor to rest 140

in. The aroma of chicken, not too overpowering once in the water, escapes the jar and fills the kitchen as the steam begins to waft throughout the room. As the sweet hint of chicken floats around the warm kitchen, our stomachs grumble even more. The water dances with excitement to announce that the noodles are ready to be added. Out comes the blue box with the word “Elbow” right in the middle, in big white font. The tiny curved noodles rattle in the box as they pour out and into the water below. Grandma sets a time on the stove; eight minutes to go.

We wait for eight minutes, watching her get out the bowls and spoons. She asks what we want to drink. The choices are always milk or water. Younger me would have said milk, but now it’s always water. I grab my cup from the top shelf, the same one I have used for years.

As the timer creeps closer, Grandma grabs the butter nestled in its fancy crystal china cover from the fridge, much too fancy for the meal we are having. The timer goes off, a loud and quick beep, and the noodles are done. She uncovers the yellow-tinted butter that has gently softened from its time outside the fridge, grabs a clean butter knife, and slices out four chunks. In goes the butter, into the broth below, all four melting in

unison. The butter adds a creamy haze to the chicken broth and a butter consistency to the noodles.

Now it's time to eat. Grandma reaches out and we hand her our white plates to be filled. Each child gets the same amount of noodles with a slight amount of broth for them to rest on. Once we are seated, out comes the cheese to top our noodles. The crispy flakes of parmesan are the key to this recipe. I felt especially fancy 141

when she would bring out the real parmesan, the fat flakes were always my favorite. I have never enjoyed the way the crumbled parmesan tastes with the noodles; if they were the only option I would skip the cheese and dive straight for the salt. We all shake the salt over our noodles a ridiculous amount of times. I am the only one that reaches for the pepper, giving it a few gentle shakes over my plate.

The noodles slip and slide off our spoons as we scrape the food into our mouths, losing many noodles in the process, and falling right back onto the plate. A few make it through, their buttery warmth filling our mouths. The parmesan pulls along as we drag the noodles up, cheese sticking to the rim of the spoon in the process. The warmth of the noodles begins to fill up our stomachs, grumbling no more.

Although this meal began with my older brother, who gave its name “Bones” when he heard the words elbow macaroni. In his young five-year-old mind, this meant that he was eating bones. We all call it by this name and have for many years. This name has induced weird looks and questions when we refer to it as such in front of our friends.

This meal, as simple as it is, is something that all of us ate growing up. My siblings and I would beg Grandma, and only Grandma, to make it for us. We still request this reci-

pe today, no matter how much our tastes have matured or the new meals we try. This meal, made with love by our Grandma, is home to us. Bones will be a dish I will eat for the rest of my life

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A Checker’s Past Samantha Maddux

I thought I was the greatest checkers player to ever walk the earth until I was about nine years old. I had won every game that I had ever played at my grandma's house. I

still remember the day that I was first defeated.

It was an extremely hot day. I was at my childhood best friend Sara’s house. It was much too hot for us to play outside. So, we entertained ourselves inside her house. I can’t recall exactly what we did today, but playing video games and watching movies were common for us. I remember while we were doing one of these activities, we noticed an old cardboard box lying inside a glass cabinet.

I asked my friend what it was, and she opened that cabinet and pulled it out. She took the top off the box and revealed a board patterned with red and black squares. I could see that the box also contained many small round pieces of plastic. Half of the pieces were red, and the other half were black.

“It’s an old checkerboard”, explained Sara, “It used to be my mom’s when she was a kid. I play checkers on it sometimes with her. Do you know how to play?”

My grandma was about seventy when she taught me how to play checkers and I was three years old. My grandma may have been old and thin, but she was strong. She could lift me off my feet and into her arms as fast as my father could. She had a slightly different color hair every time I saw her, because she would dye her hair regularly, but could never remember the exact shade she 143

liked. She was great with kids and could always make me laugh. We played a lot of games and did a lot of things together, but playing checkers with her was something special.

I loved everything about the game. My grandma’s eyes shined as she showed me how the pieces moved. Her eyes always shone when she would teach me something. I

would ask her how to move the pieces and she would explain it to me in a way that didn’t make me feel like a child, even though I was one. She knew how to make things make sense to me. She would play game after game with me. I never tired of the game and neither did she. Me and my grandma would play for what must have been hours. I never lost any of these games. I was a natural talent. I barely had to even think about where to move the pieces, I just seemed to know.

“Yeah, let's play a game”, I said confidently.

I felt sorry for my friend. She had no idea what she was in for. She was going to be in awe of my amazing skills.

We started the game, but it wasn’t like every other game that I had played. I was losing my own pieces and fast. I couldn’t keep up with my opponent. She quickly gained more of my pieces than I had of hers. She kept kinging

her pieces and the few of mine that were left remained regular pieces. I couldn’t understand what was going on.

Sara eventually beat me at the game.

“That was fun,” Sara said with a little bit of a laugh, “What do you wanna do now?”

I sat at Sara’s dining room table dumbfounded. I didn’t understand. How could I lose? I had never lost before. I 144

played the game the same way I always do. What was different now? I started to reflect on my past of playing checkers and came to a realization. Before playing this game with Sara I had never played checkers with anyone except for my grandma. I knew then that every time I had played with my grandma, she must have let me win. Why would she do that? I never thought anything about my checkers abilities again.

About seven years later when I was sixteen me and my grandma played our final game of checkers. She had started to become more forgetful in her old age and moved into the house with me and my parents. One night I dug out my old checkerboard out of a closet and asked my grandma if she wanted to play a game.

When we started to play, she asked me many times how

to move the pieces. Sometimes she would move them wrong. I felt bad trying to win. It felt like I was taking advantage of her weakness. But no matter how bad of a spot I moved my pieces to, she moved hers to a worse spot. I eventually gave up on giving her opportunities to beat me and won the game. I put on a fake smile and pretended to be really happy about winning the game like I always had been in the past. I will never forget seeing a smile on her face.

My grandma was happy because she thought she made me happy. I realized then and there that my grandma always let me win because all she wanted was to make me happy and to spend time with me.

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My Grandma’s Letters Rita Campos Birthdays are always special days. It is the one day in the year where we feel unique for no grand or extraordinary reason. We are celebrated by our loved ones, and even by people we don’t really know that well just for existing

for one more year in this world. People give us gifts, throw parties, use it as an excuse to have a good time, and make it all about you. It is the one day in the year where everything is about you. Birthdays can also be not so good days. They can be a reminder of how unhappy you are with your life for one more year, of how utterly alone in this world you are for one more year. They can either be exceptionally joyful or exceptionally miserable. In my case, they have always been the first one.

Every year, since I can remember, I’ve been extremely excited for my birthday. I absolutely love the attention, the love, the gifts, the parties and everything that comes with birthdays. I am not one of those people that dreads the day I was born. I think it is a pretty good reason to celebrate, and I’m not trying to sound arrogant, I just love life.

The main reason why I adore this day, however, is because of the gift that my grandmas always give me, every single year.

Since I was a little kid, and even when I couldn't read yet, both of my grandmas would write little letters for me.

Each of them would write me a letter on a colorful paper, telling me how loved I am, how proud they are of me, and how it warms their heart to watch me grow and turn into the woman I am today. Last year, one of them start146

ed her letter with “My sweet Rita, today we celebrate one more year of you. One more year of you filling us all with joy and love” and ended with “Your grandpa would have been so very proud of you, my sweet Rita.” Everyone in my family calls me Sweet Rita but it meant so much more in that letter. Also, since both of my grandpas are no longer with us, they write a line for them, telling me how much they miss me and how proud I make them. This is the gift I look forward to receiving the most, every single year.

They always handwrite them and believe it or not it makes them so much more special. Every single year I keep the letters. They belong to a little box that I decorated myself when I was younger, with glitter and pink markers and heart stickers all over it.

Having these letters kept throughout the years is almost like keeping my grandmas too, inside that box where they will forever remain. These letters eternalize them and the love they feel for me.

These letters and my grandmas are the reason why I love life so much, and why I am so confident in everything I do and why I am never afraid of taking risks. I know that no matter what, they will always love me the same and will always write me these letters. These letters give me the strength I need to face life. These letters have taught me how to love and how it feels to be loved.

There is a bittersweet feeling to these letters though, a feeling that only recently I have recognized. Every time I read the letters, I feel this sense of fear and anger. Fear from just imagining a world without my grandmas and anger because they are not eternal. No one is, but 147

grandparents should. Some would say that a grandparent’s love is the most pure, unconditional, and everlasting feeling a person can ever experience, and I agree with no doubt. This is because they watch us grow while they have already lived most of their life. They are no longer learning hard new lessons. They are no longer trying to figure life out. They have already learned. They have already fig-

ured everything out. They live for their family, regardless of mistakes and bad decisions they might make. Just pure unconditional love.

This love can never be replaced and leaves a hole in anyone’s heart once it is gone, which always makes me wonder how empty I will feel once I can longer receive these letters from my grandmas. How will I be able to look forward to my birthday when I know I won’t get these letters?

Will I fell utterly alone in this world and be reminded of it every single year on my birthday? Will I become one of those people that dreads the day I was born in?

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The Jacket A'justin Pearson

As I sat there sobering on my bed with the lights on watching Monday night football, I found it hard to think of any particular things that hold significant value to me. I scoped around my dorm room, darting through all my totes, a dozen drawers, and many hung clothing. Initially, I did not find a single item that I could sit and think about how much it means to me.

Then I looked at the jackets

that hung on the rack by the door. On the rack hung a gift I received from my grandmother. This jacket was a Nike windbreaker, black and white with gray sleeves. I remember getting it like it was yesterday.

The day I got the jacket, my siblings, my mother, and I went over to my grandmother’s apartment. She had just recently moved and when we arrived, I was shocked because there were so many memories of her old apartment.

We used to build so many fortresses, she tried to teach me how to shuffle playing cards, she taught me how to play solitaire, and always had food for us to cook.

When she moved, I was not upset because this just meant new ventures lay ahead for me, my siblings, and my cousins. At the time, my grandmother was full of life and excited to see all of us. I loved my grandma dearly and she loved all of us, that is why she gifted every single one of us something that she thought we would love.

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Although I do not remember what she got everyone else, I know what she got me.. This jacket, or windbreaker, was the last thing my grandmother gave me. It was my freshman year of high school, the last time I got to speak to my grandmother. Oh, how I wish I could go back in time.

Back to when times were simpler, and I had a sense of feeling for my future. Now I’m stuck and I don’t really have a sense for my future which brings us to the significance of the jacket.

The jacket she gave me went missing for some time. I was sad and upset with myself for losing it because I knew it was a mere misplaced thing that happened, something that I do occasionally too much. I believe it was missing for two years. Some of it had to do with my family moving into a new house before my senior year and then the second year I was in college. Just before the school year started, I packed up everything, did my laundry, and I went downstairs to the laundry room not expecting to find anything of importance to me. I looked over in a white basket that was right by the washing and drying machine and there it was rested upon several blankets. A smirk appeared on my face as I came across an item that on the outside looked like a regular Nike windbreaker, but to me it is more than that. It held

the value of love, but it gave me a sense of protection, a feeling of hope, and a constant reminder that God is always on my side.

The jacket she gifted me is like having a guardian angel right by my side because I believe good things will happen to me if I have it in my life. My grandmother has saved me from many situations where I thought my life was over in a flash, but by the grace of God it wasn’t.

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For instance, there was a situation where my three siblings and I chilled in different places throughout the house. Our lives couldn’t been gone, but they weren’t.

After the situation, everyone came to the same conclusion that our grandmother would always protect us.

A year later, my brakes went out while driving on the highway to Columbia from Fayette, and I didn’t hit or crash into anything.

A few months later, my power steering fluid broke on me while driving from Kansas City to Fayette, and I didn’t hit or crash into anything.

The jacket she gave me reappeared when my life was getting rough. I didn’t have any positive thoughts, and the jacket was a reminder to myself to have faith and to trust those in Heaven who watch over me.

The jacket was a reminder of being perseverant. That’s what I’ve always been embracing challenges.

My grandmother loved that the most about me.

Just recently, a deer decided to run out in front of my car, and it only hit my headlight. It didn’t take me, which was a blessing.

So, holding on to the last gift that she gave me will forever be a constant reminder that even though she is no longer here with us physically, she is mentally and spiritually, which is why I wake up every day.

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The Captain Rex Helmet EmmaLee Campbell

The plastic helmet of Captain Rex stared blankly back at me as I unearthed my winter clothes from the guest room closet. It was scuffed, but still in good condition, almost the same as it had been when my brother got it for his tenth birthday. I remembered when he got it because after that he wore it around everywhere, especially in the little “movies” he and I had made together, defeating evil or making a building explode. I understood why he left it at the house. He got married and he took more important childhood toys to his own house—like his enormous Lego stormtrooper carrier he got from our aunt for Christmas.

The helmet looked almost forlorn on the shelf, cocooned

by my plethora of colorful sweaters, stored there for winter. It was the only thing left of him there, in the new guest room that my mom had repainted from the hard navy blue that my brother had picked when he was just a little boy.

Picking it up shot me back to childhood. It still fit on my head, even at twenty, even if I had to let my hair down.

Now I could see through the tinted visor, though. I flipped

the switch on the side and jammed in the little square button, making the tinny voice of Clone Captain Rex of the 501st squadron announce his rank. I think it was taken directly from the show, but the six phrases that he spoke were almost burned into my brain by now, tracing their words into the wrinkles in my brain.

It was the only thing that my brother and I watched together when we were kids. We hated each other for a 152

time. Nothing ever seemed to go right between us, our relationship never quite clicked. We hit each other, we yelled, I got squished into the backseat whenever his friends were coming over, he got to use the tv because all I did was read, and nothing ever seemed to level out between us. But there were a few things we could agree on, like how awesome Star Wars was, how mom’s pasta sauce was delicious, or maybe we were bored at the same time.

I missed him then, in the empty guest bedroom across from mine, plastic clone helmet still on my head. The room that used to be his, where I would ask him for help with math and he would yell at me to turn down my music, or we would just talk about how our lives were moving so fast. Where he would joke around, swinging around a toy gun and answering all my questions with the phrases burned into that helmet's speakers.

My childhood house felt empty then. I was alone, my mom was running errands, and my dad was at work. I was sitting on the floor of an empty room, and before that I had spent long hours in the heavy sunlight reading some fantasy novel, wasting hours. My brother, though, was away, having a job, being married. He had meaning in his life; he was moving forward. I felt miles away from

him, even if we were only three years apart. I felt stalled, he looked prepared.

I used to hate the way he tried to parent me, I still do most of the time, but I miss the way he helped me. Not by any of his flimsy advice, no, but by just being my older brother. By him laughing at the worst joke I just made or raving about his most current interest. By being a per153

son who just loved me, was a person in my house, just a few steps away.

There were so many times in my life that I didn’t think he loved me, because we hated being together and were stuck too close together for too long. Other times though, some of them with that Captain Rex helmet, were gleaming golden with nostalgic love.

I saw my brother’s face in the reflection of the visor when I stared at it on the shelf again, surrounded by swaths of my knits and sweatshirts. I snapped a picture and sent it to him, with a pithy little message. He wouldn’t respond for three days, but when he did, it made my day.

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Young Writer’s Day 2023 On Wednesday, November 8, 2023, Central Methodist University’s English Department hosted its eighth Young Writer’s Day. It was the first one since the COVID-19 pandemic. Students from Jamestown, Smithton, Marshall, Salisbury, and Boonville were invited to participate in a day full of creative activities. Students were placed into groups and each group participated in different sessions.

Students were introduced to material from different genres, The rest of the time was theirs to create a work in that genre. Students submitted their materials to the faculty and students in charge. The best works from these students are featured in this year’s edition of Inscape.

Sigma Tau Delta was instrumental in the success of the eighth Young Writer’s Day. Members helped with every aspect of the event. Sigma Tau Delta strives to “provide, through its local chapters, cultural stimulation on college campuses, and promote

interests in literature and the English language in surrounding communities,” as well as to “foster all aspects of the discipline of English, including literature, language, and writing.”

The English department and Sigma Tau Delta are proud to present the work submitted from this year’s Young Writer’s Day: 1st Place — Worldbuilding: The Uvarian Chase by Iris Snider, Salisbury 1st Place — Poetry & Collage: Innocent In-A-War by Sam Henke, Salisbury 1st Place — Flash Fiction: Aaron’s Funhouse by Elexa Lutz, Salisbury

Kavita S. Hatwalkar, PhD Professor of English and Chair of the Humanities Division

Central Methodist University

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First Place: Worldbuilding The Uvarian Chase

Iris Snider, Salisbury “Stop! Do you hear that?” Farrah yelled as she grabbed the back of her brother, Bilal’s vest.

“Hey! What gives?” Bills yelled in retaliation. Just as he was going to add to his argument, Bilal’s head shot up when he heard what sounded to be rumbling in the distance.

“What do you think tuna could be, Senbal?” Farrah questioned, turning to look at their guide, Senbal.

“It’s nothing normal, that’s for sure. Let’s keep walking.

Whatever it is out there, it's not a force to be reckoned with.” Senbal ushered the siblings.

As time passed on, the rumbling began to quiet down and the only other noises heard were the shuffling of their own feet against the sand, and Farrah and Bilal’s bickering. The more they walked, the more the wind seemed to pick up, and walking was beginning to be very difficult to do. Sand blew into their eyes and tears formed on their faces.

“Just hold off a little longer. We should be out of this storm within the hour.” Senbal said, reassuring his companions.

Sandstorms were common in the desert wasteland of Uvaria. They left as quickly as they came, but of course, there were some exceptions. After what seemed to be an eternity, the flash sandstorm finally died down, allowing the group a breath of fresh air. They decided it was probably a good idea to take a break from all their walking. It was only a few minutes before Bilal’s cried out: “Oh! Why do we have to do this? It’s hopeless! We’re never going to find the ring of eternal flame and I’m starting to believe we’ll never make it out of this wretched desert.”

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Halal brought his hands to his face and began to cry.

Bilal sobbed for a few moments before Senbal snapped.

“Quit wallowing in your self-pity and get up! You call yourself a man? We still have work to do, and you crying is going to get us nowhere!”

“Senbal’s right, Bilal. We must keep moving, or else the real terrors of Uvaria are going to meet us face-to-face.”

Farrah crouched down to soothe her brother who now looked like a child sitting on the floor. Bilal obliged. He took a few moments to collect himself and eventually got up.

“You’re right,” he sniffed, “crying won’t do us any good.”

Senbal was about to direct the group when suddenly, a wave of sand crashed over them. Startled, they all looked up and there they saw it, the infamous sand viper.

“It’s a sand snake.” Farrah exclaimed, "I thought they only existed in books!”

“Run!” Senbal yelled. They all scattered in different directions as the huge snake barred its fangs and hissed. Its first pick was Farah. It chased after her and eventually caught up to her. Just as the snake was going to take a bite, Bilal pushed Farah out of the way.

“It’s the heart,” she called out, “I read once that you have to stab it in the heart to kill it!”

Bilal immediately got up, pulled on his sister’s hand and began to run. Senbal ran toward the snake, sword in hand, and aimed for its heart, He was ten feet away from its heart before he was sent flying in the air. He landed on the sand and instantly got back up.

“Over here, you ugly scaled monster!”

The snake turned its body toward Farah and charged toward her and Bilal. Because of the distraction, Senbal had a clean shot at the creature’s heart. He ran and was finally able to plunge his sword into the snake’s body. A highpitched shriek was the last noise that came out of the snake’s mouth before its head dropped onto the sand.

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“You did it, Senbal!” Bilal shouted as he and his sister ran toward their savior.

“You were incredible!” Farah yelled while helping Senbal stand up straight.

“Incredible and all, we should leave as soon as possible, we don’t know if there are more of them out here.” Bilal suggested.

“He’s right.” Senbal groaned, “we need to leave.”

They grabbed their belongings and left as quickly as they could. With Senbal standing between the siblings for support, the trio walked away in hopes that they were one step closer to finding the right of eternal flame.

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First Place: Poetry and Collage Innocent In-A-War

Sam Henke, Salibsury In a bombed out hospital, A child swaddled in rubble cries out.

Gunfire repeats itself through empty streets, Mocking the children who once laughed there.

A city of twisted steel and broken glass Is no place for a playground No place to raise a child.

The empty carriage Answers a question Better left unasked.

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First Place: Flash Fiction Aaron’s Funhouse

Elexa Lutz, Salisbury Aaron’s obsession with horror movies had just gone too far, so I thought. Let me give you a little backstory on

what I mean.

We live in the most ordinary town known to man. We live in Frankville, Minnesota. I’m in tenth grade and my best friend Aaron is in eleventh. And we both love horror movies, and our favorite time of the year is Halloween. We meet up almost every weekend to watch horror movies.

I’m starting to think Aaron is becoming a little too obsessed with them. Lately, when we are watching them, he

will make comments about how the kids in the movies get what they deserve and how it's crazy that the killers never get caught.

For the past two years, weird things have been happening on Halloween. Things like kids going missing, seeing fog come out of nowhere, and screams coming from the woods. All the people in town are scared, and some parents won’t let their kids go trick-or-treating because they think they might be next. The police have been investigating the disappearance but haven’t gotten any leads. They couldn’t find any bodies and were beginning to give up.

Personally, I think Aaron has something to do with it. The only reason I say that is because it’s suspicious that all the disappearances are going on, and he’s been saying those things.

I decided to ask Aaron about it. I got him by himself the 160

next day after class and asked him. He told me he had no idea, but he was acting uncomfortably about the topic—almost like he was hiding something. I decided to do my own investigation. It was nearing Halloween after all. It was in five days, so that meant I had five days to figure out what Aaron was up to.

It is now the day before Halloween, and I haven’t found

out anything. I decided to look through his notebook while he was in the bathroom. He always carried it around everywhere and wrote in it all the time. When I opened it, I found a list of names on the very back page. They were all people who often got bullied and didn’t enjoy life in Frankville. I decided to follow Aaron and see what he was doing. Finally, around 10:30 p.m. he left his house through his bedroom and headed down the street. He found two of the kids on his list and followed them onto the haunted trail that went through the woods.

He followed closely behind them. When the two kids were alone, a bunch of fog came out of nowhere, and Aaron grabbed them and led them deeper into the woods. They both screamed but he covered their mouths and said something to them. I ran after them and followed them to a big house with a barn off to the side. It all looked like it was abandoned.

Aaron and the two kids had gone inside. I crept up to the window and found that the inside was nice. Almost like it had been recently remodeled. It looked lived in as well.

Aaron and the two kids were nowhere in sight, so I decided to look inside. Once I got inside, I heard some noise coming from upstairs.

I went up the stairs and there was

a long hallway and at the end there were big double 161

doors. They were opened slightly and there was music coming from inside.

I peeked in and in the room was every single person who had gone missing over the past two years. They all looked very happy and were dancing to the music playing. I glanced over and saw Aaron standing in the corner and went over to talk to him. When I got over there, he

looked scared to see me and immediately started to explain himself. He told me he knew what it was like to be an outcast and he wanted to give these people a better, happier life away from it all. He built this house for them all to live in and there was a school in the barn so they could finish their education. He also said that he never forced them to live there, and they could leave if they wanted, but everyone chose to stay. He said he got the idea from watching horror movies and just thought: what if

I did the opposite for people and helped them? I thought it was cool that he did that for people, and I decided to stay and live there too. After all, life was much happier here.

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Contributors

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Daniel Ard Daniel is a senior Chemistry major from Salem, Missouri.

He is a member of Phi Mu Alpha, theater, and choir. In his free time, he enjoys writing, reading, carpentry, and gardening.

Rita Campos

Rita is a Junior Communications major from Porto, Portugal. She is a member of Central Methodist’s Volleyball team. In her free time, she likes to read and write.

Recille Dennis Recille is a part of Central Methodist’s faculty and staff from Slater, Missouri. In her free time, she enjoys being outdoors, hiking, gardening, walking, photography, spending time with family, and making crafts.

Elizabeth Edler Elizabeth is a freshman Biology major from Boonville, Missouri. She is a member of the Central Methodist’s Dance team and Kappa Beta Gamma.

Carly Edwards Carly is a junior Political Science and Professional Writing and Publications major from Lone Jack, Missouri.

She is a member of Central Methodist’s Women’s Soccer team and the Association of Student Athletes.

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Katie Gaines Katie is a sophomore Elementary Education major from Huntsville, Missouri. In her free time, she likes to read, write, paint, bake, and be outside in nature.

Aubrey Lunsford

Aubrey is a freshman English major from Centertown, Missouri. In her free time, she enjoys writing, reading, and she is passionate about films and filmmaking.

Samantha Maddux Samantha is a sophomore English Education major from Rolla, Missouri. She is involved in Sigma Alpha Iota and

Chorale. In her free time, she likes making art projects and singing.

Emily Millstead Emily is a junior Vocal Music Education major from Holden, Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Alpha Iota, SNATs, NAFME, and Central Methodist’s Color Guard.

Dana Morris Dana is a part of Central Methodist’s faculty and staff from New Franklin, Missouri. She is a professor of Biology, director of Stephens Museum of Natural History, and she co-manages the CMU Besgrove-Hodge Wildlife.

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Saige Niemeier Saige is a Junior Communications and Psychology major from Jacksonville, Missouri. She is president of Game Geeks and in her free time she loves panting, playing games, and collecting playing cards and weird socks.

A’justin Pearson A’justin is a sophomore Business Management major from Kansas City, Missouri.

Tyler Pierson Tyler is a part of Central Methodist’s faculty and staff from Omaha, Nebraska. He is a curator for the Ashby-

Hodge Gallery of American Art.

Caleb Raley

Caleb is a sophomore Instrumental Music Education major from Mokane, Missouri. They are involved in Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia, Alliance, World Tree, and NAFME. They are also involved in Central Methodist’s concert band and clarinet quartet. Their hobbies and interests include playing the clarinet, plants, space, The Legend of Zelda, Breath of the Wild, books, and cats.

Shaynlin Smith Shaynlin is a senior Business Administration major from Drexel, Missouri. She is involved in SGA and the Nation 168

al Society of Leadership and Success at Central Methodist. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, playing with her dogs, and watching movies with her family.

Anna Valencia Anna graduated from Central Methodist in the fall of 2023, receiving a Bachelor’s Degree in English. Anna was published in last year’s Inscape and was also a member of the Inscape team.

Naftal Zunguze Naftal is a junior Business Management major from Mozambique, Africa. He is involved in Delta Beta Tau, CFS, AASU, theater, and is vice president of International Eagles.

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Acknowledgements The Inscape team would like to take the moment to thank all of those who played a part in making the 49th edition of Inscape possible. First of all, we would like to thank Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar, our faculty advisor, for all of her support and advice in putting Inscape together. Our deepest appreciation also extends to Dr. Amanda Arp, Dr. Erika Gotfredson, Dr. Travis Johnson, Dr. John Porter, Dr. Smothers, and Dr. Ryan Woldruff for being tireless supporters of Inscape. Furthermore, we would also like to extend our gratitude towards Sigma Tau Delta and the Student Government Association for their roles in promoting and funding our publication. Finally, thank you to all of this year’s wonderful contributors. Without you, none of this would have been possible! Thank you for allowing us to carry Inscape into its 49th year!

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