PRAIRIE VOICES
A Collection of College of Lake County Student Writing and Art 2025-26
Susan Towers, oil painting
Editorial Staff
Editor: Nicholas Schevera
Assistant Editors: Susan Daugherty, Lee-Ann Frega, Alexandra Swanson
Art Editor: Robert C . Lossmann
Front Cover Art: Laura Hedien
Back Cover Art: Milani Salgado
Design and Production: Maddy Asma, College of Lake County Public Relations and Marketing
Prairie Voices is a collection of student writing and art which is published annually in April. It represents the diverse voices of the student community of the College of Lake County. We accept creative nonfiction, including essays, as well as creative fiction, including short stories and poetry. Please type, proofread, and double-space each submission, and submit via e-mail as a MS Word attachment to assist us in the editing process. Include your name, address, and phone number, along with a brief autobiographical sketch relating information about your family, interests, hobbies, and career goals. For orders or inquiries, contact:
Prairie Voices
Nicholas Schevera
Communication/Arts Division College of Lake County 19351 W. Washington St., Room B265 Grayslake, IL 60030 (847)543-2959 Email: com409@clcillinois.edu
Complimentary copies are available in the Communication/Arts Division Office – B213
Copyright 2025 by Prairie Voices
List of Artists
My Writing Process
Barry Jones
Although I can and do write anywhere, I am especially comfortable at home. We have a pleasant house in Mundelein with five bedrooms, one of which has been converted into a library. But I’m most productive sitting on the black leather sectional in the living room with either my MacBook or my Windows PC at my beck and call. I have, this year, eclipsed the 3,000-word mark in one twenty-four-hour period and average roughly 500 words per day. I also like to write in a lounger in the basement, on the backyard deck, and in the library itself.
I’m handy with computers, so I do my “looking up” on them during my reading and writing sessions. I resort to the MLA Handbook for an odd usage question, but the PCs are a better tool for confirming what East Coast upper-middle class women wore to work in the 1890s, or what a prie-dieu is again.
I use lots of pens, pencils, and markers that I keep in six old coffee mugs in various rooms. In the living room, for example, I have a colorful coffee mug replete with seven sharpened Ticonderogas, five pens, four mechanical pencils, and three Sharpies. It sits as pretty as a peacock on the piano, urging me on.
My writing process is to ruminate over the topic for a couple of days as I do other things and then sit down to write a complete first draft, editing and revising as I go. After that one-to-two-hour process, I find something else to do. I come back to it later, perhaps the next day, to give it a final revision. If it is going out to the world, I give it a final-final spit and polish. My custom is to ask, “Do I love it?” After an affirmative, I abandon it.
Mike Kukulski, digital photography
Up We Go
Alexandra Scanlon
Driving down the winding back roads of the Madison suburbs, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white as the realization began to sink in. I had taken too many pills this time. Complete physical exhaustion replaced my daily fatigue and my eyelids felt as though they were sticky with tar while blinking. The reality of my situation was blurred by my false peace of mind. It was less than a ten-minute drive until I’d be at work; I would be just fine. I would arrive, teach my yoga class, and then head home just as I’d done dozens of times before. Xanax gave me the will to take on the day while all my anxieties melted away.
The weather was unexceptionally gray with the dirty, melted March snow depressingly lining the streets. My little Toyota sped along quickly, the littered mess of plastic water bottles and crumpled Taco Bell wrappers rolling noisily across the floor of the car. I often compared my mental state to the cleanliness of my car at any given time. My fingers reached slowly to turn the small volume knob up as I attempted to blast my exhaustion away with a song by my favorite artist, Lights. Her voice was like reverb honey in my ears, my wide yawn drowned out by the pounding bass. Sleepiness was never something I worried about, and I gladly accepted it as a side effect if it meant I could feel the warm and comforting euphoria consume the entirety of my mind, body, and soul for a few hours. The thing is that not feeling this way constantly made life feel far more overwhelming than it was. The guilt I felt when taking a handful of pills so often would effortlessly dissolve a few minutes after swallowing them. I was a better teacher, a better listener, an overall better person on them, and I had no concept of consequences because nothing could go wrong.
Sleepiness was never something I worried about, and I gladly accepted it as a side effect if it meant I could feel the warm and comforting euphoria consume the entirety of my mind, body, and soul for a few hours.
I widened my eyes before rapidly blinking the tiredness away, which worked momentarily. But that heaviness crawled its way back as I approached a familiar intersection and I sank further into my seat, feeling twice as heavy. More concerned with being late to work, I glanced at the clock and barely made out the time through my sleepy haze. I would be pulling into the studio in a couple of minutes and my shoulders relaxed as I slowly exhaled. I would take another Xanax, have the strength to teach for an hour, and before I knew it, I would be home and in bed, drifting off into a sleep so solid that not even an air horn to the face could disturb it. I closed my eyes and smiled dreamily, my mind wandering to things far away from the road. I was not aware of how much time had passed between closing my eyes and hearing the loud crunch of metal over the blaring music. The seatbelt dug into my collarbone as it kept me from flying forward, and I panicked as the air was knocked out of my lungs. My car halted abruptly under the stoplight of the intersection, and I rushed to turn the music off with a trembling hand. I could practically hear my blood pressure spike as my head started to throb. A sick feeling sank into my stomach like a rock as I tried to piece together what had happened. My thoughts raced blurrily through my mind before I jumped and froze as an agitated woman pounded her fist against my car window.
“What the hell is wrong with you!? You were on your phone, weren’t you? You weren’t paying attention because you were too busy on your damn phone. Hope that text was worth it because you are paying for the damage to my car!” She was middle-aged, average height, and her face was contorted in anger and disgust as her irate lecture continued. Her words seemed muffled, as if she were
yelling underwater, and my ears started ringing. I attempted a pathetic apology, but no words escaped through the tightness of my throat. I could only stare emptily while my eyes focused on nothing. Traffic became backed up behind us, and some cars eventually started to pass us with annoying honks and slack-jawed stares.
Eventually, the pounding fist became a concerned knock of her knuckle, and the woman asked if I was okay through the glass of the window. The release of hot tears stung my eyes and brought my attention back to her, and I turned to look up. My hand shaking with adrenaline, I unbuckled the seatbelt and pulled the inside handle to release the door. She repeated herself gently when she didn’t get a response from me, and I nodded unsteadily. I stepped towards where the front of my vehicle had collided with the back of hers and pretended to care about the minimal damage. I was grateful I hadn’t injured her or anybody else. How was I supposed to manage this by myself? The adrenaline and the Xanax were long out of my system as the consequences of my choices silently screamed in my face from the pile of my shattered bumper.
My first call was to my work to explain why I wouldn’t be in. The second, more reluctant call, was to my mother. After a few minutes, an officer arrived to assess the situation.
“What happened here?” he asked simply, gesturing towards the obviously damaged cars. This cop was the last person I wanted to deal with. I pulled some random excuse out of thin air, something
about glancing down for a moment to reach for my teaching notebook when we hit. I was too cowardly to come clean to myself, let alone to the woman I almost injured, or worse. She watched intently as I answered a few standard questions before giving her side of the story. Shortly after, my mother pulled up frantically in her blue Subaru. She parked, cut the engine, and opened the door to run over to me all in one indiscernible moment. I was grateful she was there as we finished discussing the accident and exchanging information. I didn’t feel like a good person anymore.
I’d like to say I dumped those pills down the toilet and never touched another one, but true change never comes that easily. I admitted the truth to my mother that day, although I was quiet about the full extent of my addiction. No matter how strong I thought I was or how badly I didn’t want to burden the people I cared about, this wasn’t something I could handle by myself anymore. For the first time, I became aware of just how seriously my choices affected those around me. Not everyone is as lucky as I was, and not everyone gets a second chance to do things differently. I desperately wanted to feel good enough on my own without taking pills. That little bit of yearning led to a lot of substantial changes as time went on. I changed my way of thinking with accountability and created stronger relationships through honest communication. On the hardest days, a line from my favorite Lights song reminded me of my ability to courageously push forward: “From down this low, it’s only up we go.”
7 Prairie Voices 2025-26 Lori Koschak, watercolor painting
Do Not Fight a Clown
Eli Bolton
Fight Goblins, with their numbers and gnashing teeth
Fight Giants, with their stench and stupid strength
Fight Dragons, with their inferno breath and incredible speed
Fight Gods, with their immortal might and immovable followers
Fight whatever danger you dare to defy
But do not fight a Clown
Insult him, you’ll hear the cleverest comeback conceived
Punch him in the face, you’ll harmlessly honk his nose
Run up to him, a rose roasts your retinas with liquid
Chase him around a corner, you’ll get plastered with pecan pie
Carjack him, a mob of multiple men-at-arms manifests
Nothing works
But if, by some fallacious fortune
You somehow strike the Clown down
Defeating such an ignoramus individual
Your victory paints a villain
Because at the end of the dangerous day
You’re just some asshole who beat up a clown
Joleen Carreon, digital collage
Food, Mythmaking, and the Nation-State
Veronica Arcentales
Guinea pigs are a delicacy in my country. I’ve never eaten a guinea pig, nor have I ever seen one served. It’s a dish from the highlands, whereas I’m from the coast. If I was tasked with crowning Ecuador’s most emblematic recipe, I’d pick encebollado, a fish soup.
In “A Short Essay on Being,” Jenny Boully details her experiences as a half-Thai, working class woman in the United States. Pad Thai, a rice noodle dish, features prominently in the text, as clueless U.S. Americans attempt to correct her on its pronunciation and preparation over and over again. It is, quite literally, a textbook example of orientalism. In Edward Said’s own words, “The Orient [has] a kind of extra real, phenomenologically reduced status that puts [it] out of reach of everyone except the Western expert. From the beginning of Western speculation about the Orient, the one thing the Orient could not do was to represent itself” (284). However, I wonder to what extent Boully’s self-representation feeds into misconceptions about culture and identity.
The word “authentic” and its variants appear eight times in Boully’s short memoir. “I was born in Thailand and had been back numerous times.” It seems evident that the author has credentials on the subject that Westerners lack. She speaks the language. She was raised with the customs. She even practices Buddhism. But, something about the word “authentic” keeps bothering me. I think about it every time I think of the essay. It’s a loose thread, and if I pull it too hard, the whole cloth unravels.
While I understand that pad Thai in the West is made with ingredients that are rarely found in Thailand, I question the usefulness of Boully’s framework. If we take authentic to mean faithful to tradition, we run into a problem: a lack of tradition. The dish was popularized as recently as the mid-1940s as part of a larger strategy to forge a standardized national identity (Ferdman). The fascist Prime Minister Plaek Phibunsongkhram, in particular, is credited with propagating the recipe through the Fifth Cultural
Mandate, in itself a subset of the Nation-Building Regime. Later, Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra introduced a monetary incentive by offering loans of up to $3,000,000 for opening Thai restaurants abroad, with pad Thai being a required item on the menu (Wongworakul).
Boully writes, “I still can’t figure out why an authentic pizza, made in the Neapolitan style, with real mozzarella and real dough, is a sign of snobbery.”
There isn’t anything snobby about Boully enjoying cheese and bread, but there’s that thread again. Let’s give it another tug.
Marianna Giusti writes, “[In] the story of modern Italian food, many roads lead to America. Mass migration from Italy to the U.S. produced such deeply intertwined gastronomic cultures that trying to discern one from the other is impossible. “Giusti is a journalist interviewing Italian academic Alberto Grandi, who has spent a lot of time debunking culinary myths. “[In] 1943, when Italian-American soldiers were sent to Sicily and travelled up the Italian peninsula, they wrote home in disbelief: there were no pizzerias. Before the war, Grandi tells me, pizza was only found in a few southern Italian cities, where it was made and eaten in the streets by the lower classes. His research suggests that the first fully fledged restaurant exclusively serving pizza opened not in Italy but in New York in 1911. ‘For my father in the 1970s, pizza was just as exotic as sushi is for us today,’ he adds.”
The purpose of Grandi’s research is not to quibble about the precise chronology of certain dishes; rather, it is to challenge national chauvinism by exposing its shaky, often ahistorical foundations. Mythology doesn’t occur naturally; it is written by people, and it participates in the creation of ideology. “Today, Italian food is as much a leitmotif for rightwing politicians as beautiful young women and football were in the Berlusconi era” (Giusti). Evidently, gastronomy is a common tool in the nation-building toolkit.
The nation-state system, like many things we take for granted in modern times, can trace its ori-
gins back to 17th century Europe, specifically to the Peace of Westphalia, although it continued to develop well into the 19th century (Farr). The idea of an Italian country for the eponymous people, who speak the same language and eat the same food, is relatively new. At the time of the Italian unification, less than 50% of Italians spoke the language, and rarer still were those who spoke standard Italian rather than a regional dialect.
I wonder what it means for someone like my friend Brandon to be Mexican. He is from the settler state of Mexico, although his family’s presence on the land precedes Mexico. Like me, he’s fluent in Spanish, but he’s also trying to learn Otomí, the indigenous language that his grandparents spoke and did not pass down. It’s difficult to find good resources. Apparently, most native dictionaries and textbooks are aimed at Nahuatl-learners.
I’ve always taken some pride in the Inca Empire. I can’t help it. Their success rate for brain surgery exceeded rates from the American Civil War. They had aqueducts, an expansive network of roads, terraces with irrigation systems for farming on mountainous landscapes, and a complex knotted “writing” system known as quipu. However, Brandon’s frustrations with the Aztec Empire and its legacy, which overshadow varied indigenous communities such as his own, made me reconsider my relationship with the Incas. I am not of Quechua descent, I don’t speak kichwa, and my ancestors were Spaniards and Huancavilcas. Despite the Incas not being part of my ethnic heritage, I eat humitas. I call my little sister ñaña. They are still part of my cultural heritage. Their history has been absorbed into Ecuador’s national project. I tried paella once and I didn’t like it at all. There are no Huancavilca words I know.
pot” narrative. In the United States, there is no official language. There is no official religion. But Boully’s anecdotes indicate that racism and orientalism are pillars in the lives of minorities. Furthermore, there is certainly a dominant culture into which immigrants face great social and economic pressure to assimilate.
I wonder what it means for someone like Brandon to be Mexican. I wonder what it means for someone like Jenny Boully to be U.S. American. My friend Mansoor once asked me, “Why do you always say it like that? The demonym is American.” In Spanish we say estadounidense because America is a continent. Mansoor is the son of South Asian immigrants. His mother is Pakistani and his father is Indian. Earlier this month, I was translating for him at a Mexican bakery. We were buying snacks for an art build. I had already introduced myself to the cashier as Ecuadorian, and she told me she was from Venezuela. Then, gesturing to him, she asked “¿él es de aquí?”
The purpose of Grandi’s research is not to quibble about the precise chronology of certain dishes; rather, it is to challenge national chauvinism by exposing its shaky, often ahistorical foundations.
Out of politeness, I repeated the question in English, but I was certain I already knew the answer. “She wants to know if you’re from here.”
To my surprise, he shook his head and tried to explain his ethnic background. “Pero yo- how do you say ‘was born’? aquí.”
In retrospect, I should have predicted his response. Last year, when I was beginning to befriend Mansoor, I made an offhand remark about timeliness. I was running late for a Cuba Solidarity Rally, and my excuse was, “I’m not used to U.S. Americans being so punctual.” He immediately retorted, “Who’re you calling Americans? You’re talking to colored people!”
Boully recalls playing with her sister when two older white women asked them what their nationality was. “We had never heard that word before, and although we had never heard that word before, we answered that we were Thai, although our nationality was American.” The United States seemingly disrupts the nation-state system with the “melting
I wonder what it means for someone like Mansoor to be U.S. American. I would probably also bristle at being pigeonholed as a member of a country that rejects me, relegates me to a second-class citizen in my own home. I further wonder about the privilege involved in denying that label, comfortably in possession of a U.S. passport, birth certificate, and state ID card.
Before Ecuador was Ecuador, it was part of Greater Colombia. Prior to that, it was a Spanish
colony, and prior still, it was part of the Inca Empire. Thailand was once Siam, was once the Thonburi Kingdom, was once the Ayutthaya Kingdom. What it has meant to be a “national” of these countries has waxed and waned with time. It is highly contextual, never prediscursive. The legal framework of citizenship didn’t even exist until the 18th century.
Illustrating how “authenticity” is a nebulous and misleading concept is easy, but it’s harder to make that point about “nationality.” Regardless, I’m unconvinced by any account that presupposes the construct of the nation-state and flattens ongoing historical processes. The transient, dynamic nature of borders and personhood is better explained by dialectics than ontology.
Marginalized people are, of course, authorities on their own experiences. I believe that wholeheartedly. I also believe that identity alone is not epistemic justification. In her essay, Boully retells an incident in which a friend homogenizes distinct Asian cultures by stating that Thai food is a better version of Chinese food. Boully counters with the
assertion that “Thai food was nothing like Chinese food.” Let’s pull on that loose thread one final time. Naturally, Thailand and China are two different countries with vastly different culinary practices. However, pad Thai which, to reiterate, is a recurring motif in the text, is widely thought to have come from Chinese immigrants (Ferdman). I wonder what it means to be Sino-Thai or Sino-Thai-American, and I wonder what role Thaification plays in both. My questions are only further complicated by regionalism, how Chiang Mai differs from Bangkok differs from Songkhla.
I’ve never eaten guinea pig, which is as exotic to me as sushi, but I’ve eaten plenty of chaulafán, a fried rice dish created in the mid-20th century by immigrants to Ecuador from Guangdong, China. Kou Zegang, the Chinese embassy’s cultural attaché, has stated that the recipe is not Chinese. Ecuadorians, on the other hand, have adopted it as one of our many national dishes. There is no intrinsic Thai-ness or Italian-ness or Ecuadorian-ness.
Works Cited
Boully, Jenny. “A Short Essay on Being.” TriQuarterly, 5 July 2010, https://www.triquarterly.org/issues/issue-138/short-essay-being.
Farr, Jason. “Point: The Westphalia Legacy and the Modern Nation-State.” International Social Science Review, vol. 80, no. 3/4, 2005, pp. 156–59. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/41887235.
Ferdman, Roberto A. “The Non-Thai Origins of Pad Thai.” The Atlantic, 17 Apr. 2014, https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2014/04/non-thai-origins-of-pad-thai/360751/. Accessed 26 Feb. 2024.
Giusti, Marianna. “Everything I, an Italian, thought I knew about Italian food is wrong.” Financial Times, 23 Mar. 2023, https://www.ft.com/content/6ac009d5-dbfd-4a86-839e-28bb44b 2b64c.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. Penguin Classics, 2003.
Wongworakul, Eve. “History of Pad Thai as a Symbol of Nationalism in Thailand.” ArcGIS StoryMaps, 21 Dec. 2020, https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/d0392aa1bf6a48659b9d15fc 557f7a2e.
Sewing Kit
Giuliana Galati
In the crowded city of fashion, I am the tailor, stitching seams of solace. Amidst the crowded chaos, I am the calm, A perfect backstitch among messed up fabric.
Infrequent calls from familiar voices, Inquiring me to fix yet another rip in their clothes, Manufactured like I am, I agree for their fleeting happiness, I am the capital of their slit garments. I am the justified justification. Yet, in their eyes, I am but a feed dog, A smile with no problems, unseen, unappreciated, A machine to repair but itself jammed.
Peace, elusive as fresh air to pollution-filled cities, Inapplicable to the busy threads entwined together, Yet I remain, a seamstress, Breathing calm into their tattered seams.
Laura Hedien, digital photography
Familiar and Safe
Seja Kern
You were familiar and safe, Like the bubblegum pink color
Painted on my childhood bedroom’s wall.
Chih I Liu, oil painting
Like a Raging Fire
Tiffany Toledo
Anais had witnessed the exact moment the sun had killed her father.She had been peeking between the slits in the blackout curtains, made out of her brother’s prom suit and her favorite pair of Lululemon yoga pants. The edges of the fabric had been duct-taped to the walls, as if to hide the fact that they had any windows at all. But the rushed stitching meant tiny gaps, large enough to look through but small enough that light couldn’t reach the inside of their house.
Her father, Austin, had been working the fields when he had suddenly tripped over the shawl that was meant to protect him from the sun’s rays. By stepping outside in the daytime, he loaded the gun. By covering himself up, as she had insisted he do if he refused to stay indoors, she was essentially pointing the barrel to her father’s head and pulling the trigger.
Face down in the dirt, Austin had started struggling with the fabric that surrounded him, legs kicking uselessly as he finally managed to tear the shawl into pieces. Lips caked in the same soil he had used to grow their garden just a few months prior, her father started clawing at his eyes. His blunt fingernails must have made the process more painful as his body began to seize. Even while shaking, he desperately clawed at the flesh of his face, digging until he could finally press his empty sockets into what was once cool earth. It was only then that Anais heard the shrieking, the same shrieking that she would hear almost every night since the emergency alert appeared on her phone.
fall, sobbing loudly as the older woman pulled her forward. She remembers closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of apple pie and smoke, willing herself to stop blubbering like the child everyone liked to think she was.
A few hours later, when the sun had finally set, they covered themselves in the same shawls and dragged her father beyond the fence. There was nothing left of the pigs, cows, and chickens they had dragged there just days before. Her mother had refused to touch him, so it had been up to her and her brother, Marcus, to put their father out of sight. Anais had wanted to cross her father’s arms over his chest, but even while dead, he refused to let go of his eyes, clutched tightly between crimson hands. Distantly, she imagined what it would feel like to hold them.
She remembers closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of apple pie and smoke, willing herself to stop blubbering like the child everyone liked to think she was.
Now, almost an entire month since her father’s passing, guilt still festers in her stomach like maggots on a carcass. Her dreams are plagued by his hollowed face and the squelch of his flesh falling off the bone. Unfortunately, neither of these images are enough to block out the screams of other victims succumbing to the sun’s radiation.
The clock on her bedside marks five in the morning. Even with cataracts in both eyes, she can still make out the neon numbers shining in the dark if she squints hard enough. Her stomach growls, demanding food, but by now she has learned to ignore it. She instinctively reaches for her side, expecting to feel soft fur. Instead, Anais’s fingers brush the rough fabric of her stripped mattress and she recoils, heart in her throat.
Grief and rage had flooded her system at the same time, morphing into an ugly emotion that made her want to vomit. She remained at the window, watching her father’s skin start to broil, until her mother cupped her face between calloused hands. It was only then that she allowed her tears to
“It ain’t real!!” Her father had roared, gripping her mother by the shoulders.
From across the hall, Anais had watched as she shook her head, pointing firmly at the television. Said television was quickly shattered by her father’s fist, disconnecting from the wall as it tumbled to the
floor. Her mother clicked her tongue. “They’re saying to stay inside, Austin. Millions have already died. What else do you want?”
“They’re gettin’ inside your head, Annie,” he had said, shaking out his knuckles. Blood sluggishly dripped onto the carpet while his other hand reached for her mother again, gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger. Anais watched her mother’s face wrinkle, mouth twisting in displeasure. “I’ll do whatever the hell I goddamn want,” he continued. “Criticizing me just makes you a hypocrite, now, don’t it?”
One fight eventually led to a dozen more. Eventually her mother, Annabelle, stopped trying to change his mind. And eventually, her parents stopped playing the charade of a happily married couple.
What if she had tried harder? Anais thinks, staring up at the Taylor Swift posters tainted by humidity. Her father had always been a stubborn man. He had been fueled by love. When the love he received from Anabelle started going to another man, he was only fueled by anger— a raging fire he could hardly contain, threatening to burst through his chest and consume them all.
With one final sigh, Anais rolls herself out of bed. She gingerly pulls on the outfit she had laid out on her desk: her best polo and a glimmering skirt to match. The walk down the hall is silent despite it not needing to be, as both her brother and Anabelle are fast asleep, and will remain asleep, if the dosage on the bottle she used was correct.
Her brother, naked as the day he was born, is sprawled out on the floor like a starfish when she enters his bedroom. They had all taken to sleeping naked because of the heat but only Marcus had insisted on sleeping as low to the ground as possible to further escape it. Widening her eyes, Anais wraps him in a sheet, flipping him on his stomach so that she can drag him by the arms without his skin snagging on the hardwood. She leaves him inside the porch and makes her way back down the hall, her lips twitching. Anabelle likes to lock her door at night but Anais had taken the spare key from her dresser the day her father was forced to give it back.
Letting the door swing open, she watches her mother’s bare chest rise and fall for a few seconds. When she feels nothing but the fire beneath her skin, Anais digs her nails into Annabelle’s ankle and
relishes in the loud thud of her body hitting the floor. Dragging her to the front door proves to be just as easy as it had with Marcus, as Anabelle’s skin slides across the hickory like butter on toast.
Getting both of them through the front door proves to be more difficult, as she has to push the bookshelf out of the way before being able to unlock it. She’s greeted by a graying sky and she quickly drags her brother out into the field first, laying him beside the cross made out of large stones. Unbuttoning her collar, she digs her hands into Anabelle’s hair, pulling her past the field and onto what was once a patch of grass beside the barn. The sky grows from gray to a dark orange as she runs back to her brother, trying not to hiss as her feet hit the dry earth.
She lays beside him and waits.
The sun slowly rises into the sky, light stretching across the field until finally she feels it: heat licking at her skin followed by the smell of burnt flesh filling her nostrils. Beside her, Marcus begins to twitch, a whimper catching in his throat. From afar, Anabelle responds in kind. Focusing her clouded eyes on the merciless star, Anais’s body violently ricochets off the ground as she too begins to seize. She’s surprised when, rather than wanting to pull off her clothes, her hands immediately go for her face. Nevertheless, she lets the fire take control, sharpened nails ripping out her own eyes with ease. Anais feels no pain and hopes that Marcus fares the same.
Her shirt and skirt begin fusing to her bubbling skin, permanently encasing her in her favorite outfit. Just as she flips herself over, burying her clasped hands and dripping face into the dirt, she hears Anabelle begin to screech.
And so, she smiles.
Xeane Main, oil painting
For All that is Family
Gwendolyn Thommes
If I had to encapsulate humanity within one single ideal, or truth of the human experience, I would describe it with the simple notion of family. In reflection of my own life and individualistic growth, I believe that my family and my interpersonal relationships with those I consider to be family have profoundly impacted me, molding me into the person I am today. Whether it be biological or found family, I have learned through the years not only of my own relationships built upon a nurtured and sustained trust, love, and respect, but also through watching other’s interactions with their family or loved ones, that love is plentiful and boundless, and family is a constant that can be found and strengthened anywhere.
The foundation of my being has been created through a culmination of different family members and loved ones, memories of them, the wisdom and knowledge they have granted me, and the values they established within me without even realizing it. The memories of my family that come up first are of my sister: warm summer days spent inside the kitchen, sun streaming through the windows onto our hardwood floor. My feet would dangle from the kitchen table chair as I babbled on to my older sister, her tall and tan silhouette leaning against the counter, looking down at the stovetop, cooking my lunch. I don’t remember what I was talking about, nor do I believe it was anything conversationally striking or profound, but I do remember that she listened. Despite being a teenage girl six years older than myself and managing stressors and changes any teenage girl experiences, my sister would, even if impatiently, watch me while my parents worked and cooked me the only lunch she knew how to: a cheese quesadilla so overstuffed with cheese I sometimes still wonder how I wasn’t sick all summer. And she’d listen to me.
Or, when I would sit next to her as she played video games and would talk relentlessly, vying for the attention of the girl I idolized most in the world, she would listen to me. I reflect on how, as I grew older, I began to confide in her with things I was
afraid to tell our parents. I was vulnerable, I trusted her, and she listened. Even now, she is the one I run to. We are no longer ten and sixteen-year-old girls in the warm, sunny kitchen, but eighteen and twenty-four-year-old women who live miles apart, yet still find time to call each other and gossip. And when I call, I know she’ll answer, and she’ll listen.
My sister taught me unconditional love and support. Even while I was a pesky, leech-like thing clinging onto her as a child, and even when we both knew she wanted space from me, she cooked me my favorite lunch, and she let me watch her play video games. Through her, I learned that when you love someone, you can go to them, and you will have no doubt in your mind that they will take care of you, that they will support you. I observed her begrudging acceptance of my presence because my moody older sister loved me, which meant that she was always there for me to lean on. That’s what family is. It’s love everlasting, love that stands the test of time, fights, annoyance, and anything else. I found a confidant and a best friend within my sister, and my memories of her have shaped my ideals, and how I approach my relationships with anyone else, immensely.
When I go deeper, past the general surface of my familial memories, we hit more subtle yet striking moments. I think of my older brother. He’s a disabled man, twenty-six years old now, and living with severe autism. But what strikes me the most about my brother, both in childhood memories and in the present, is how easy it is to make him laugh. When I imagine it, I think again of the kitchen table. My brother, my dad and I are sitting there, the evening melting into night in a mural of pinks and oranges and purples in the sky, the birds chirping softly outside. And I see my brother’s elated, red face as he doubles over in laughter, laughing at a crude potty humor joke my father made. It made me laugh because I was a little girl, and it made my brother laugh because, truly, it has never been hard to make him laugh. You could mention a show to him like the Simpsons, or South Park, or his and my mom’s
favorite sitcom, Reba, and he’ll quote his favorite moment and burst out into laughter. And the joy on his face when someone laughs with him is an image I will keep close to my heart forever.
It is surprisingly easy to please my brother. The simplicity of the things that bring him joy, that make him laugh like no tomorrow, remind me that the little things are enough to fill a lifetime with contentment, that pleasure is truly simple, and that lavishness is frivolous and unnecessary. And my brother’s laughter is oh so contagious. Even just the memory of it makes me giggle under my breath. He reminds me to laugh often and to laugh freely, over the simplest, silliest things, because that laughter is a relief to hear after watching my brother have an autistic meltdown or struggle with a task or aspect of life that comes easily to a non-disabled person. That laughter is a weight off all of our shoulders, and the value of humor is one gravely neglected. I am lucky to have a brother who doesn’t let me forget to laugh once in a while.
Other memories come to the surface, too. I still distinctly remember the smell of my mother when she came home from chemotherapy treatments, the smell of her then bald head. I remember how soft her breaths were as I sat in bed with her and counted them, making sure she was breathing, because as a little girl, I was so terrified that my mom would leave me. And I also remember waking up on the first night in my own bed after a week spent in the ICU, being diagnosed as a Type 1 Diabetic, and getting so sick, I nearly died. My mother was sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me breathe, counting my breaths just as I did for her a few weeks prior when she was sick. The parallel of that moment is one I think of often, and the only thing I can think about when I remember it is the strength of my relationship with my mom and the unbreakable love and care we have for one another.
as he smiled at me, grinning at his own corny jokes, bouncing me up and down and with delight, despite his aching shoulder and bad back. He taught me accountability and the quintessential nature of hard work, grit, and sacrifice.
I see the twinkle in my grandfather’s eye as he joked around with me, playing with my childhood gullibility, telling me that there were friendly monsters in his basement, or that if I touched the taped-over light switch, the house would explode. But he also would talk to me about the books I was reading, invested in what I was learning. Even today, he buys me books as gifts for Christmas and my birthday every year, excited to discuss them with me. He has taught me the value of knowledge, enlightenment, and intelligence.
I don’t remember what I was talking about, nor do I believe it was anything conversationally striking or profound, but I do remember that she listened.
I also remember the days after school my grandmother would watch me. She would eagerly play hours of Go Fish and other silly games with me, make me the only meal I would eat — buttered noodles — and then watch whatever cartoon I liked that day with me. Even now, she is eager to know what I like and contribute towards my indulgence in it. She has given me the overlooked and necessary knowledge that thought and consideration are essential to relationships, and to expressing love, and that simply seeing and hearing someone is one of the most meaningful expressions of love.
In reflection of who I am, my biological family’s impact is undeniably profound. However, my memories of them are not the only ones that make up my perception of family. I believe in the innate existence and importance of found families. Family is biological, yes, but family is not a stiff, unbendable construct. Family is simply who you decide is family. It is the people you trust the most, the people who have molded you, the people you would fight and die for.
Other memories pop up in little increments. I see my father working more hours than he was required to, sacrificing his weekends and his relaxation to provide for our family, to give us everything he could. And I can still feel his calloused hands in mine
My most important and most cherished friendships are with people I consider to be family. My childhood best friend and I met when we were 10. We grew up together, racing around the cul de sac, playing pretend, and making up stories and games. Now, we’re both about to graduate high school, and we still have the giggle fits we did when we
were 11. We would wipe each other’s tears when we were little and scraped our knees, and now we have the ability to confide in one another about our deepest fears and cry laughing about something silly within the same half an hour. My friendship with him has taught me patience, kindness, and immense, immeasurable loyalty. I have vivid memories of standing up to his bullies, scolding them on the playground, and I would do it again today in a heartbeat. His parents care for me as theirs, and mine care for him as theirs. Our families have congealed into one mess of love and loyalty, and we are all better for it.
Furthermore, my female friendships have shaped me in ways I cannot describe. These girls are my sisters. They are my rocks. I have held them and stroked their hair as they cried about a breakup, or another struggle they were facing, and they have done the same for me time and time again. They’ve taught me the importance of unity, trust, dedication, boundless love, support, and a shoulder to cry on. They aren’t biologically my sisters, but within my heart, they’re an integral part of me. Found family can be and is anywhere and everywhere. It is arguably stronger than a biological family, as you choose a found family, and you choose them for a reason. It is an immense act of love, hand-selecting someone, and viewing them as something integral to who you are and how you have been shaped. I’ve seen its effects on others. I’ve seen my dad find it
in his childhood best friend, who he practically lived with when his own biological family was neglectful or unappreciative of him. Even in his mid-50s, he still calls his best friend by his childhood nickname, and he roars with laughter and a newfound sense of life when they call each other to catch up. These types of families are quintessential because when you choose someone to love unconditionally, to immerse yourself in that deep loyalty, it is one of the most boundless forms of love.
Family, whether it be found or the one you are born with, is a direct reflection of humanity shoved into one category. The possibilities of family are reflective of humanity in the fact that it’s so subjective; each family looks and operates differently, just as every human being looks and operates differently. The one constant within any type of family, however, is boundless love. Family will always be what shapes a person. If a human is a lump of clay, family is what molds and shapes and bends them into the final product. So, if I truly ever do find a colony on Mars and confront some impatient Martins, and am ordered to represent humanity within one ideal, I would choose family to be the representative. It is the lessons we learn from that family and the values they instill in us that make family a mirror of humanity. It is the love that emerges from family that makes humanity worthwhile, keeps it redeemable, and keeps our world turning.
21 Prairie Voices 2025-26 Mike Kukulski, digital photography
They Are With Me
Luisa Campo
Iwake up at the beginning of the morning and remember the essence of my extraordinary childhood with my siblings Jhon and Johanna, all the situations, experiences, battles, and our family. It was a dream, but it was not a dream; it was real. I’m contemplating the sunrise with all its splendor and enjoying a tasteful Colombian coffee at home in Deerfield, Illinois. I smell the pungent aroma with an herbal and fruity intensity, which brings powerful memories. My mind scans with precision every moment when I was with my siblings: my brother painted our home with his creativity diligently, embracing compassion and humility in all his acts of service. On the other hand, my sister smiled as an astronomer, visualizing a starry sky and the immense number of constellations showing their light. She enjoyed her life with a determination to find happiness. Unexpectedly, I start feeling homesick. I observe the blue sky to regain a sense of calmness as my emotions are high.
This is a vivid story, my story in a small but excellent and warm town called Circasia. Circasia is located on the western slope of the central mountain range in the green and incredible heart of the Colombian Coffee region. I grew up in Circasia with my siblings. We lived with my parents: Antonio, my dad; Martha, my mom; and our close neighbor, my grandma Teresa. Our home was comfortable; vast gardens surrounded our construction outside, and the inside held our favorite place, the kitchen, where we spent more time than usual doing recipes with our mom. Then, we ate our favorite recipes for my mom’s cakes and savored them like hummingbirds in an immense garden covered with trumpet honeysuckle, columbine, or lantana plants.
In our infancy, we played soccer with my cousins in my grandma’s backyard for hours. Sometimes, the games ended with a fight between the opponents; as my grandma used to say, “You are very competitive; you should enjoy the games without fighting.” Monthly, we walked in the Barbas Bremen Nature Reserve, the region’s environmental heritage with
a unique topography and rural roads connecting the town with the farms. All the family, including my grandma, participated in this activity. I always saw my cousin Julian talking with my brother about girls; my sister and I didn’t understand them. I thought, “Girls and boys are very different.” In our adventurous track, we contemplated the magnificent and spectacular landscapes, birds chirping like music boxes, flapping frogs croaking and speaking their secrets, the sun smiling down on us, dancing on the surface of the grass and trees, illuminating all our days, brightening the whole forest.
During holidays, my grandma usually prepared a big dinner for the family. We always spent time together, especially on Christmas or birthdays. This was an excellent time to talk, play games, help in the kitchen, or support each other.
Painfully, one morning, on June 25th, 1995, I was in 10th grade. At 10:10 am, I was with my classmates and the teacher in art class. The door opened, and my uncle Fernando walked swiftly into the room and then turned to inspect the rows of students with worried eyes. When he saw me, he shouted with tears, “She is gone, Luisa,” and continued, “La niña Johannita, se fue.” At first, I was confused and upset with him. I thought he was drunk, and twenty-two heads turned to look at me. He said again, “La niña Johannita, se fue,” and “She is gone, Luisita.” For a moment, my uncle stood silently, staring down at me.
Immediately, I dropped my art pencil. I rose quickly with multiple scenes in my brain: my sister’s blue sweater, sitting in the kitchen with my mom talking about how to drive a car; watching TV, Knight Rider or MacGiver, our favorite programs, and our vacation, days ago, in my aunt’s farm in Roldanillo where all our cousins rode horses. My uncle looked at me with tears on his face and said again, “La niña ya no esta con nosotros.” I felt these words impact my eyes. I ran with him to the hallway.
When we were alone, he explained the situation to me; he said, in a broken voice, “Your parents had a terrible automobile accident, and Johanna died.
I’m sorry, daughter.” I felt pain like a swan losing its partner. My uncle gave me a consolation hug and tried to walk with me. We got the car, and I saw my other uncle, Alberto, and Amparito, his wife, crying with their face screaming, suffocating. I was on another planet different from this Earth, levitating above my state for a moment. I tried to understand, but it wasn’t easy.
We arrived at the hospital to see my parents and my grandmother. They were hospitalized. We ran to see the nurse or somebody who could give us information. The nurse appeared and patiently told us, “Jhon, your brother, unfortunately, died too; I’m sorry.” I dove immediately into my uncle’s arms like an extinguished fire; my energy had been snuffed out. My uncles told me, with a melancholy voice, “You need to be strong for your mom and dad; they need you at this moment.” I continued, although I didn’t want to live, thinking it was hard to make sense of this tragedy. How? Alone?
I remember this time in my mind like famous photos. The next day, we waited in a dark and cold funeral room without my parents and my grandma; they continued at the hospital, recovering. I was perplexed; this whirlwind of feelings showed me only confusion, and emotionally, I felt exhausted, upset, angry, frustrated, sad, and in denial that my siblings had died in a breath of air. I asked myself again, “How challenging is it to determine how to cope?” I received all the people’s condolences, but I wanted to hunt for isolation like the sun wanting to be covered by a dark cloud.
spaces there. That December, we didn’t celebrate anything.
In January 1996, it was my mom’s birthday, and all of us were without energy. My mom only had time to touch and embrace my siblings’ pajamas all day. She sat in her bed, her eyes distanced, observing outside through the windows.
It was my birthday in April 1996. However, we didn’t notice it. I woke up with the idea that the tragedy was a dream, but after a few minutes, when I found consciousness, my reality came back with a difficult weight to carry, like an ant with a gigantic leaf trying to survive.
May, June, and August 1996 were my brother’s, sister’s, and father’s birthdays. We were resentful. We prayed, intending to hear our siblings in any space in our bleak house. My dad often called my siblings tremblingly, “Hijito y mi niña, vengan aca,” “Jhon and Johanna, come with me,” with an echo that resonated in the cold walls.
I was on another planet different from this Earth, levitating above my state for a moment. I tried to understand, but it wasn’t easy.
In August 1995, my mom and my grandma were at our home, and the environment was nostalgic. We didn’t talk; only we thought about why it had happened, why us. This month was my father’s birthday; he was not at home, and there was no celebration or motivation. All of us were crying in silence.
In October 1995, my dad returned home from the hospital, devastated. Initially, my dad was disturbed. Throughout the day, he screamed desperately like a volcano erupting with an explosion of all its anger. After that, I saw a vulnerable and weak man sitting in the living room, looking at family pictures in our album. When I saw him, silence covered all the
Thankfully, in November 1996, we started therapy with a psychologist. She guided me through my emotions and said, “You need to write. Write down all the feelings and experiences that you had with your siblings and express all the emotions that you have in a diary.” I wrote in my diary for the first time: “I have my warm home in small pieces like a puzzle; each person in my family has built a life plan. Our lives have changed; I don’t know if for better or worse. The regrets for the last time I saw my siblings carry on my head like a boomerang. And now we should accept our reality with all the imperfections because it is our reality, and life continues.” I tried to celebrate Christmas, but my parents didn’t accept it, so my grandma and my cousin Ximena spent a few hours with me. I floated like a bubble in the air without direction or connection with my social world. I thought no one understood my pain. I was sad, but I felt less suffering.
In January 1997, I wrote about my experiences with my siblings in my diary again. The houses in my town, Circasia, combine colonial architecture and guadua with intense colors and flagrant flowers on the balconies. Palm trees enchant the downtown Park. My siblings and I had played roller skating in
the park on weekends, and we all enjoyed doing “pirouettes” with our bodies and laughing when somebody fell. When we were tired, we sat on the grass and observed bugs. It would take me two years before I could return to the park.
Around this time of year, from February until August, I remembered guavas and mangoes with their finest aromas. My brother loved these fruits. The guava trees were harvested in July and August, while mangoes ripened from February until April. Jhon and I usually played with the tree’s leaves, which rustled in the wind and whipped into the air. Jhon collected these tropical fruits and brought them to our home, where their fragrance impregnated the air.
My diary was my confidant, always in my hands to record my stories. In May 1997, it was my brother’s birthday. I remembered how we used to listen to the sound of the strongest screech and swishing melody of the owls in the dark sky. My siblings and I heard outrageous, strange, and mystical hoots getting lost in the middle of the night; we were afraid of this sound, so we found a place under our parents’ bed to hide. When I heard this sound after the accident, it made me feel both lonely and accompanied.
In my sister’s gloomily lit bedroom, I remembered her birthday in June 1997; she admired orchids, the national flower of Colombia. The bright colors of orchids are like vibrant lights in an aurora borealis. We cherished touching the petals; they were as soft, velvety, and satiny as cotton. Like me, my sister was passionate about nature; her favorite colors were purple and pink. My mom bought a pair of orchids in my sister’s favorite colors to remind us of her presence in our house.
When October 1997 arrived, I returned to my
hobbies. The psychologist helped me a lot in my process. I began reading, exploring diverse books, and riding a bike in deserted areas. I wanted to be alone, but I understood it wasn’t the best option for me, so I decided to talk with my cousins because I wanted to walk in the middle of nature. We returned to hiking with my grandma outside Circasia in the Bremen Forest afresh, and my life entered reality. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t want to do any outside activities. I walked through the immense forest preserve with my cousins Guillermo and Juan Carlos and my grandma Teresa. I came back to visualize all of nature with its magic and greatness: colorful flowers enjoying the breeze between them, crystal and clear waterfalls, flowing and gurgling rivers, enormous mountains with rocks kerplunking as they fell into the river. We didn’t discuss the tragedy there, although we recognized that our lives differed.
On this road, we continue our lives, which my dad usually calls “destiny.” Finally, we face up, step by step, with one positive light: we are together. Time helps us, closes a scar, the torment calms and our frustration decreases. We find sense in our existence, understanding tears are temporary. We fight every moment with courage, comprehending that life is gorgeous with all its defects.
Gracefully, I realize that my family isn’t five people anymore. Today, we are more than thirty, accounting for my husband’s family and, of course, my siblings. I always admit my siblings in my life, like two guardian angels who always give me companionship; they are imprinted on my skin like a tattoo. Gratitude is the most precious lesson I learned at this journey’s end. I needed to embrace my reality and recognize and accept it. Time in hours, days, and years helped me reduce my pain and alleviate my suffering; with resilience, I won the battle.
Prairie Voices 2025-26
Julissa Segura, digital collage
Bittersweet
Jennie Herchenbach
My grandparents’ house changed when my grandma died. Their house was the touchstone for my family.
All the birthdays, Christmases, and Thanksgivings occurred in their house. It’s a relatively small house. A dark red ranch house that they bought in the early 1950s with help from my great grandparents so that they could start their lives and their family—my family.
I was partially raised in that house. Right after I was born, my dad went to jail. I was baby number four, and my sister was only fourteen months old. My grandparents had to drive up to Wisconsin and have an intervention with my mom. She was only thirty-three, her husband was in jail, and she had four kids to feed. She needed to come live with them. She’d have around the clock help without judgment. Well, there was a little judgment.
I loved that house as a kid. I still love it, but it’s different now. When I was a child, their house was my playground. The garden with its fist sized tomatoes and rolling pin cucumbers; the smell of soil is still one of my favorites. There was a hard stone bird bath right in the middle of the yard with the Virgin Mary looking benevolently down on the frolicking birds. In the back right corner was a crab apple tree that extended over half the yard like an umbrella. In the fall, the grass would be speckled with overripe crab apples. To me, it was perfect.
The first thing to go was the tree. My grandpa got tired of the lawn mower choking on the swollen fruits’ flesh. Then, my brothers knocked down the bird bath and the bowl got snapped off the base and would only sit like an askew, jaunty hat. As my grandma aged, her knees started to go, and she couldn’t maintain the garden in the same way. The chaotic beauty of the overgrown plants gave way to two neat rows that were sometimes left to wither and die before they could be harvested. The backyard lost its magic, and I started to stay inside more.
The inside of the house has changed too. When I was younger, Christmas Eve was the best time of year. Christmas was universally loved, but me and
my siblings had a special adoration of the night before. Normal extended family dinners were the typical long dining table set up, which could sometimes feel stuffy and formal. On Christmas Eve, the dining table was shoved against the wall and a multitude of delicious finger food and dessert was placed on top like a colorful high calorie mosaic. My grandpa would go out and buy the biggest evergreen tree that would fit in the low-ceilinged family room, and it would somehow dominate the room from the small corner bay window. My brother and I would spend far too long playing with the toy train that puffed real smoke and encircled the trunk. The tree shined with personalized baubles, with our names written with glitter. We would hide underneath the food table and talk about which toys we were hoping to get in the morning. Something about Christmas morning always feels a bit melancholy to me. There is no longer any surprise or anticipation, and the joy of opening the presents quickly fades. But the mysterious thrill of the next morning is still in the air on Christmas Eve.
It was inevitable that the train would break at some point. It was plastic and from the seventies, and we abused the electric switch. Our grandparents decided we were old enough to not play with it anymore, so it wasn’t replaced. We got too big to hide under the table, or the adults decided we were too big to hide under the table. We had to have more discretion than that by now. The house started to feel quieter. The food lost its excitement when we started to learn where it was coming from. The finicky finger fare caused our parents to snap at us in the kitchen, and if we wanted that complicated recipe so bad, we could make it. We stopped getting toys at Christmas. Gone were the Barbies, the American Girl Dolls, and all their accessories. I would get teased if I asked for another stuffed animal. Then, I became too complicated to shop for. My aunts and uncles, my parents, my grandparents no longer bought new book series to see if I’d like them. They weren’t sure what size sweater I was, or if I preferred lions or elephants.
Gift cards and cash became the norm. “I’m not sure what your style is, so go pick out something you will for sure like!” The hope and the mystery were gone. Adult expectations dictated our experiences. Stress and boredom were slowly infused into the holidays. Thanksgiving and Christmas were taxing affairs, and family birthdays became mindless and dull. We were scolded for not wanting to go. We were scolded for bringing anything for entertainment. Adulthood was polite small talk. My grandparents’ house started to feel ordinary.
When my grandma got sick, it wasn’t a huge surprise. She was ninety years old, and had been slowing down in more recent years. My mom and her siblings came up with a schedule. She wouldn’t need to stay in the hospital. She could get at home care, and she didn’t want to die someplace so soulless. The living room that was the scene of many happy holidays now became a site for hospice care. A hospital bed dominated the room, and my mom had to learn how to dress wounds and bathe her frail mother. Puzzles and books were stacked on every surface. An ever-rotating band of aunts, uncles, and cousins crowded my grandparents’ small house. I watched my mother watch her mother in case she needed anything. I watched my grandpa watch his wife of sixty years slowly fade from life. I heard the phone call in the middle of the night summoning my mom to that house so she could say goodbye. And I heard the grief in my mother’s voice as I hugged her in our darkened hallway. “My mom is dead.”
My grandparents’ house changed when my grandma died. The house started to feel quieter. I still love it, but it’s different now.
The Last Visitors
Sarena Yath
Awoman is sitting in her old, shuttered house. She knows she is alone in the whole world; every other thing is dead.
The doorbell rings.
The doorbell—so foreign, so unexpected— seems to vibrate through the entire house. For a moment, she doesn’t dare to breathe. The oppressive silence that follows the chime is deafening, stretching out into what feels like an eternity. She is alone, completely and utterly alone, or so she believed. And yet…someone is at the door.
She stands slowly, her legs unsteady beneath her. She hasn’t heard another human sound in what feels like centuries, and the thought of someone— anyone—being outside fills her with equal parts dread and hope.
She reaches for the door and pauses, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Her breath is shallow, her mind racing with questions. Who could it be? What could it be? She knows—she knows—that there’s nothing left. But the doorbell… it had been real. She heard it. She felt it. And now, she must face whatever is on the other side. With a deep, shaky breath, she twists the doorknob and pulls the door open.
But there was nothing there. Thick, impenetrable darkness greets her, swallowing the weak light from inside her home. The world outside her door is a void, endless and terrifying. She peers into it, squinting as if trying to make out shapes within the shadows, but there is nothing.
A whisper echoes from the abyss. A voice, low and indistinct, calling her name. “Martha…”
Her heart lurches. She recognizes the voice—it’s familiar, achingly so, yet she can’t place it. It’s as if the voice belongs to someone from a dream she can’t quite remember. She steps forward, her foot hovering over the threshold, but something holds her back.
“Martha…” the voice calls again, clearer this time, but distant, as if coming from the far end of a long tunnel. And then, another voice joins the first, different but equally familiar. “Mom… please…”
Panic rises in her chest. She knows these voices—she knows them—but the harder she tries to grasp the memories they stir, the more they slip away, like sand through her fingers. That’s impossible. They’re gone. They’ve been gone for so long. Haven’t they?
She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog that clouded her thoughts. Maybe she was going mad, she thought. Maybe the loneliness had finally broken her.
But as she takes a step back inside, closing the door behind her, she feels something shift. The air seems to crackle with a strange energy, and she feels a sudden, overwhelming sense of unease. The walls of the house seem to close in on her, the shadows growing darker, more menacing. And then she hears it again. The doorbell. But this time, it is different. It is the sound of a bell that she has not heard before. A steady beep that echoes through her mind.
She stumbles back from the doorway, shaking her head. “No… no… this isn’t real,” she mutters, her voice trembling with fear. “You’re not real!” She clutches her head, trying to drown out the noise, but it grows louder, more insistent until it is all she can hear. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stops. The world around her shifts, blurs, and she feels herself slipping away, her awareness scattering like leaves in a storm. Sleep—she needs to sleep. It is the only way to escape the noise, to find peace.
The noise ebbs away as she succumbs to the pull of sleep, her body growing heavy, her mind sinking into darkness. She lets herself go, the oppressive silence returning, wrapping her in its cold embrace.
But when she opens her eyes again, she is not in her house. The familiar walls, the old furniture, the dusty air—everything is gone. In its place is a sterile room, the sharp scent of antiseptic in the air. White walls, a narrow bed, and machines beeping softly around her.
“Mom?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Can you hear me?”
“I… I heard you,” Martha croaks, her voice weak and raspy from disuse. “I was alone… and then I
heard you calling me…”
Her daughter squeezes her hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. “We’ve been here every day, Mom. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
Martha blinks, the last vestiges of the dream world slipping away. The fear, the loneliness—it was all part of the coma, a nightmare she couldn’t escape. But now, as she looks into the tear-filled eyes of her family, she knows she’s truly awake.
Kris Ramirez, watercolor
Honoring and Embracing My Roots
Rubab Sadiq
Iopen my social media apps first thing in the morning and all I see all over my “For You” page on Tiktok is that the trend for the ultimate summer wedding guest look is wearing a shawl over your shoulders and across your chest. According to the white woman who published that video, it gives the most Scandinavian appeal, just like how my mother always wore her Pakistani traditional shawl called a dupatta. Instead of receiving compliments, she got more dirty looks and comments about how she should wear Western clothes because she lives in a Western country now. Another trend for having the healthiest hair is to use a pre-wash oil treatment. As a child, I remember my mother having me sit on the living room floor in the morning massaging the homemade amla gooseberry oil through my scalp and tying two pigtail braids in the end. Kids in school would approach me with a disgusted look on their faces asking me if I ever wash my hair. Why were all the traditions in my culture normalized when a white person takes credit but when I do it, it’s abnormal? I had to leave everything behind just to fully fit in to be a true American.
It was the first music concert of the school year in our second-grade class. Everyone was swarming around the classroom finding their cliques to form into. Our teacher held her clipboard scrolling through her attendance list waiting for everyone to arrive on time. As I entered through the door with my sweaty palms holding onto the cold metal doorknob, the door creaked open and all the students’ chatter vanished into silence.
All the girls in class were dressed in puffed sleeve princess gowns with a full net skirt covered with rhinestones. Their hair was styled with faux flower hair clips. The boys wore their hair smothered in hair gel with spikes sticking out like thorns while dressed in white or blue formal button-up collared shirts with plain trousers. I could feel my body burning up as everyone’s eyes were eating me alive trailing every inch of my body.
My mother had dressed me in a turquoise blue long kameez shirt that was up to my knees paired with matching loose salwar pants. The silver shimmery sequence of my kameez scratched against my bare skin making me feel itchy everywhere. The boys in my class glanced back at each other with a wide smirk growing on their faces. My ears began to ring as soon as I heard the immense loud giggling from the clique of girls across the room.
I quickly ran towards the back corner of the classroom and sat on the ground pressing my knees into my chest while lowering my head towards the floor. Tears welled up in my eyes as they began to drip down on my salwar. My throat began to close up, but I let out a heavy sigh and quickly wiped the tears off my face as soon as my teacher called us to form our attendance line to go to the auditorium. That day opened my eyes and led to the realization that I didn’t belong here. That I would continue to be the weird-looking brown girl in class.
Every year when it was time to go back to school, I would dread the first day. The typical routine was that the teacher would have to take attendance in front of the whole class. The teacher would stand in front of the old whiteboard covered with faded marker ink and flip through their printed stapled packet flipping through the pages as they called out everyone’s names in chronological order by last name. My hands began to feel clammy leaving sweat stains on the metal desk and my heart would beat rapidly as soon as the teacher would get close to the last names that start with S. When you have a foreign name in a Western country, no one ever seems to get it right on the first try.
I always wait to hear the phrase, “Oh I hope I don’t butcher this name” or “I’m not gonna try this one,” and they would just spell my name out loud. I was the only student in the classroom to whom teacher would always say those phrases. As the teacher got to my name her eyebrows began to draw together while pausing for a quick minute. She slowly began to open her mouth and called out “Rhu-bab.” Everyone in the class began to burst out
into deep laughter.
My cheeks began to feel warm and I could feel my heart drop to my stomach. The other kids in the background began to throw their heads back into laughter with their mouths wide open. One kid glanced at their friend sitting next to them with a raised eyebrow and devilish smirk on their face. “What kind of name is Rhubab?” He said in a mocking tone. At that moment, my mind was replaying that memory over and over again. All I could hear were the kids repeatedly chanting “Rhubab” in a singsong voice. All I saw was the faces of students laughing at me.
The teacher grabbed her bell and rang it very aggressively as if it were about to fall apart. The classroom noises had vanished completely. “Could you tell me how to say your name properly again?” she asked while letting out a big sigh and rolling her eyes as she continued down the attendance list. My head faced down towards the floor, and I replied, lying in the lowest voice, “You said it fine.”
I would never correct them because it never seemed worthy to correct a name that I hated. Deep down I had wished that I had a more American sounding name so that I could have blended in. I found that my name sounded ugly because all the beautiful names were like Angelina or Ashley. The name Rubab was for the weird foreign girl. I no longer wanted to be associated with that title.
you from?”
During the last class of the school day, my teacher gave us the last ten minutes to do our work. I was in my bubble as I hunched over my desk completing my assignments. The two white boys at our assigned table seating were having a small conversation. I tuned them out as I was working until one of the guys stopped and elbowed his friend while tilting his head in my direction.
“Hey, what’s your name again?” he asked with a smirk. “Rubab” I replied quickly while not taking my eyes off of my work. “Where are you from, Rubab? You look different,” he taunted. I took a deep breath and placed my pencil down on the desk. “I’m from Pakistan,” I said while my eyes scanned around the room trying to avoid eye contact. “Pack-e-stan is a country filled with terrorists. You should go back to your country,” he said with hatred in his eyes. My body froze and I couldn’t form any words in my mouth without stuttering. As soon as the bell rang, I shoved my stuff into my backpack and ran out of the classroom. I was ashamed of my identity and I wanted to never get asked that question again. I didn’t want people to look at me like I was an outsider.
They observed me as if I were some sort of exotic animal that they were encountering for the first time and hit me with the question, “Where are you from?”
It was the beginning of my freshman year, a new chapter in my life where I could start meeting more people to make new friends. However, it was never that simple because I was always reminded of how different I was from the rest of the majority white population. Striking up conversations with others would never go easy. Every single person’s eye would scan me up and down recording every detail of my dark brown eyes and brown skin, alerting them that I was not one of them. The look of their eyebrows pulled down and their wrinkled nose tore me apart.
They observed me as if I were some sort of exotic animal that they were encountering for the first time and hit me with the question, “Where are
As I grew older, I realized that I had spent all my time trying to fit in with Western society. I had left my culture to adapt to Western standards. Growing up as a Pakistani American I left every Pakistani part of me that would make me seem like I was fresh off the boat. So that I could come off as just a regular American. I whitewashed myself to the point where I still felt empty because, at the end of the day, I wasn’t enough for the West. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I could never feel like I was content with myself because I was pretending to be someone else.
In the reflection, all I saw was a girl who couldn’t recognize herself. No matter how much I tried to copy what all the kids were wearing in school or watch the latest popular television show I always disconnected from my white friend groups. I could never relate to them because of my different upbringing. I grew up being taught that I should never forget my roots.
My mother had always reminded me of this whenever she would look at the media pages in Pakistan seeing the youth slowly adapting to Western ideologies and practices. Reflecting on what my ancestors fought for back in the pre-partition days when the British colonized South Asia, it was like we were being colonized all over again. Scrolling through my social media, I’d see girls no longer wearing shalwar kameez in Pakistan. Instead, they wore T-shirts and pants around the neighborhood. My baby cousins were being taught to learn English first instead of Urdu and Punjabi. Seeing all these changes in the new generation hit me in the face like I was watching the country slowly be erased off the map and instead become another colonized country owned by the United States. I immediately put my phone down as I lay on my back on my bed, staring at the blank ceiling.
On Eid morning, I woke up with the fresh aromatic spices of garam masala and red chili powder filling the air throughout the home. My mother was down in the kitchen preparing for the annual Eid lunch we host every year. I quickly removed the plastic bags from my hands, which were from the night before to prevent the dried-up henna pieces from getting all over my bed sheets. As I scrubbed off the remaining dried henna pieces off my hands in the sink, I began to admire the deep red stain and the intricate floral patterns that were drawn onto my palms. These designs were made by generations of women before me and this practice continues today. I felt like I was carrying works of art with me.
Normally, I’d wear a Western long-sleeved maxi dress on Eid but this year my aunt gifted our family with new Pakistani suits from her trip to Pakistan. Hanging in my closet laid out was a deep teal heavily embroidered frock style dress with plain fitted trousers and a chiffon dupatta shawl. On the side of the dresser was a gift box with traditional South Asian jewelry set inside. As I got ready, I slid the six gold glimmery bangles on each wrist, which made a tinkling sound each time I moved my hands. I put the gold bell-shaped Jhumka-style earrings through my ears. My mother had put kajal eyeliner around my water line.
At that moment when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I’d never felt so feminine and elegant ever in my life before. I never felt beautiful when I wore regular Western clothing. The way Pakistani
women daily adorn themselves in this clothing and intricate jewelry made me feel like my heart belonged to Pakistan. I will always feel the most beautiful wearing my traditional attire.
Slowly, I began to embrace and accept my culture even more. I began to listen to Pakistani and Bollywood music because listening to songs in your native language touches your heart right away, which no other language could ever express for me. Watching more Pakistani dramas and movies to enhance my understanding of Urdu, I began to feel more seen as I saw the representation of my culture and found it to be more relatable. I went from not wanting to embrace my culture to being prouder.
Now I try to incorporate more of my culture into my everyday life in the Western world. Embracing my culture made me feel more complete. I went from being ashamed of my culture to having the uttermost respect for others who had always embraced it from the beginning. The elders in my family like my mother and grandmother never left their traditional attire while living in a Western country. So why should I abandon my culture to fit into another one? Now I wear my cultural clothing in public feeling prouder of my roots instead of worrying about the looks I’d get.
From these experiences, I learned how valuable it is to be able to come from another culture and that I get to share with the rest of the world the beautiful practices. Despite the stereotypes by the Western media, I have the power to challenge them. By accepting my culture, I was finally able to leave all the internalized hatred I had for myself, and that was essentially the key to self-love. Looking back at what my ancestors had to fight for against the colonizers opened my eyes to how I must hold on to all the traditional practices and beliefs for future generations to preserve our legacy. Although it took me so long to have full pride in my roots after being at battle with my identity, I no longer feel the need to conform to Western societal standards. Instead of hiding my ethnic background from others, I want to let the whole world know that I am a proud Pakistani American. I believe that one goes through a journey to be able to fully embrace their culture.
Victor Torres, digital collage
Consequences of War
Kaloyan Savchev
Peyton Farquhar contemplated his thoughts as he watched the lone scout riding away into the distance until he was a small dot too far to follow. He took his wife’s hand into his and the two of them went back to their home, with Peyton still thinking about the soldier’s words. His wife could clearly read his facial expressions. “What’s on your mind, love?”
He looked at her, “Nothing serious dear, just wondering about what that scout said. That old bridge over at the creek has always been awfully rickety; the thing could collapse at any moment if it had a strong enough push.”
“Oh Peyton, you aren’t actually thinking of going over there are you? What if it’s dangerous?”
The pair arrived back at their house and Peyton opened the door for his wife, “Don’t worry about me dear, I know these lands like the back of my hand. If what that soldier said is true, I could head out there under the cover of night, collapse the bridge, and be back home within a couple of hours. Nobody will know who did it and it would be a big help to the war front out North.” His wife sighed and sat at their kitchen table, looking defeated towards him.
“I know I can’t talk you out of this so just be safe please, all right? It is good to be patriotic for your country, but you don’t want to get carried away. It could get you killed! I want you back home by morning, all right?”
Peyton Farquhar embraced his wife and kissed her forehead. “I will love, I won’t be long. The Confederacy will thank us for it.”
Peyton Farquhar spent the rest of the afternoon scrounging his house for the tools he needed and came up with a shovel, an ax, and a box of matches. Could have been better, but it’d do. At sundown, he left the property with his horse and began the trek to the creek. Thirty miles is a long way to go so he decided to travel under the cover of night as an extra precaution.
“Hopefully there are no people at the bridge,” Peyton thought to himself. The last thing he wanted
was to deal with other Southerners questioning him, or even worse, Union soldiers. After a long couple hours of riding, Peyton Farquhar finally reached the bridge with no person in sight. “Thank God no one is here,” he thought.
Peyton dismounted his horse and walked to the edge of the creek to take in the scenery. The only noise around were the sounds of the creek and the wind rustling the dark canopy of trees above. Peyton looked towards the bridge and gasped, “The scout was right!”
At the base of the bridge, a sizable amount of driftwood had clogged up the creek, forcing the water to divert to the side. Wanting to waste no time, Farquhar picked up his ax and climbed down to the base of the bridge. He began by chipping away at some of the supports with the ax, the loud thumps disturbing the quiet of the night. “If I can weaken some of these beams, the bridge should burn easier and collapse.” After what felt like forever, Peyton finished cutting away at the supports and climbed back up onto the bridge. He dropped the ax and took out the matches from his pocket, contemplating where to begin the fire.
Before he could do anything else, Peyton heard the galloping of horses and not much later a band of soldiers appeared into view on the path ahead of him. The soldiers were on him in an instant with their rifles raised. “Citizen of Alabama, surrender immediately!” one of them called out. Farquhar dropped the matches and raised his hands. The soldier in the very front wasted no time getting off his horse and subduing Farquhar to the ground. “Care to tell us what we captured you here for?” he asked while picking up the matches.
“No,” Peyton replied.
“Sabotage of Union property my friend! And in a war zone no less. This is a very serious and punishable offense, so you are coming back with us. You screwed up big time!”
The soldier got Peyton up and led him towards the others where they began escorting him to their camp. During the march, Peyton thought to himself
how could they possibly have known he was going to be there, until he remembered the young scout from earlier. “He was no Southerner; he was a spy!” he thought. “And I fell right for his plot!” Peyton began thinking about his family, wondering what his wife would do when he didn’t show up in the morning when the group finally reached the Union camp.
There were a lot more soldiers around here with varying styles of clothing, likely signaling their ranks in the army. Peyton was led to a table where a man wearing many medals was standing behind a stack of papers. “We caught another one sir, this time trying to sabotage the bridge at Owl Creek.”
The soldier set down the matches and ax and shovel that the others had retrieved in front of the higher-ranking man. He looked Peyton over and nodded in disappointment.
“The Confederacy is getting desperate if they are sending out regular folks like this. Very well, what is your name, Southerner?” the man asked.
“Peyton Farquhar.” He took one of the sheets of paper and wrote something down before handing it to another soldier next to him.
“Peyton Farquhar, you have been arrested on crimes of sabotaging Union railway, bridge, and track systems. These are incredibly serious offenses punishable by death.” He waited for a reply from Peyton, but to his surprise didn’t get one, so he continued, “Normally crimes like these do not require such serious actions, but these are not normal times. This is a war we are dealing with. A firm example must be made so any potential future culprits see what happens and think twice before trying anything stupid. Unfortunately, you will be that example this time.”
The man signaled to the soldiers nearby with a hand gesture, and they busied themselves with some horses. “Nevertheless, these are the United States of America we live in and everyone deserves an opportunity to prove themselves innocent. We will be taking you to a more secure outpost further up North to stand before a military council and we will go from there.” The man patted Peyton on the shoulder, “May God have mercy on you for your family’s sake.” A duo of soldiers grabbed Peyton by the arms and led him away to the horses that had been readied for travel.
Mike Kukulski, digital photography
The Weight of Dead Silence
Janet Gallegos
Private Henry Calloway stood resolutely under the harsh sun, beads of sweat running down his back and soaking into the itchy wool of his uniform. The air was thick with humidity, oppressive and stifling, as the relentless buzz of mosquitoes circled his neck like an annoying threat. He swatted them away, his mind focused, bracing himself for the grim proceedings ahead. Today, he wasn’t merely a soldier; he was an unwilling witness to the stark brutality of war.
The prisoner, a man with wild eyes and a haunted expression, stood firmly bound at the gallows, the ropes looming ominously above him. Henry had been part of the unit that captured him days earlier. They had found him hiding in a thicket, his breath ragged and his eyes wide with fear. The chase was long and arduous, and in the heat of battle, a desperate man becomes a target. Now, as he observed the man’s trembling form, Henry felt a strong pang of empathy. This was not just an enemy; this was a man with a life—perhaps a husband, a father, or a son.
As the soldiers focused on preparations, Henry’s thoughts firmly turned to home. He pictured the small farm where he had grown up, the fields of corn swaying confidently in the breeze, and the laughter of his younger sister ringing out in the air. It had been far too long since he had experienced that warmth. The idea of returning to his family to a life unmarked by the scars of war filled him with both resolve and a bittersweet ache. He would see them again. He would return, not only as the man he once was but as someone stronger, determined not to let the darkness of this conflict consume him.
The soldiers’ gruff voices broke through his thoughts, their laughter ringing out in stark contrast to the grim reality surrounding them. Henry frowned, acutely aware of the weight of the moment pressing down on him. With determination, he turned his gaze back to the prisoner, who stared into the distance, an expression of both resignation and defiance etched on his face. The tension in the air was thick, as if it were holding its breath, ready to erupt at any moment.
What had brought them to this critical point of no return? Henry contemplated the unrelenting cruelty of war, which twists men into mere shadows of who they once were, hardening hearts and destroying lives. He vividly remembered the faces of his fallen comrades, their dreams snuffed out like candles in a raging storm. The futility of it all gnawed at him. This execution is not justice; it is simply another consequence of a conflict that shows no signs of ending.
As the executioner prepared the noose, a powerful urge surged within Henry to intervene. He could shout out, create a distraction—anything to stop the impending doom. Yet, duty anchored him firmly in place, binding him to the moment like the prisoner before him. Suddenly, the crowd fell silent, a heavy stillness sweeping over them as the order was given.
And then it happened—a sharp crack sliced through the air as the rope snapped taut. Henry’s heart raced as he witnessed the man jerk violently, his body hanging suspended in a moment that felt like an eternity. Time stretched and warped, blurring the lines between justice and cruelty, duty and despair. In that instant, a part of Henry’s soul fractured, splintering under the heavy burden of what he had just seen.
As the body dangled lifelessly, the world around him seemed to dissolve. The heat, the buzzing mosquitoes, the distant sounds of the encampment faded away. All that remained was the haunting realization that this was war—chaotic, brutal, and indifferent to the humanity it trampled beneath its boot.
Pig Bajie Carrying His Wife on His Back
Kam Hok Tong
This story happened about 60 years ago.
We were 18 or 19 years old then and had just been admitted to Tsinghua University. The girls in our class lived in Building 6, and the boys lived in Building 7 not far away. The colorful life of school is fascinating. Soon, we all became good friends who talked about everything. Song Lili and I made a vow to cultivate a steely will, an upright character, and a strong physique.
The school motorcycle team was recruiting new members. Driving a speeding motorcycle is an activity for the brave. It just fit my heart and Song Lili’s heart. We both went to sign up and took the tests. When it came time for the road and physical exams, we learned that there were very few girls who had signed up. The road test was done on bicycle, and even though we were able to ride tight figure eights, neither of us was admitted.
At that time, there was a lack of public facilities for gatherings in the school, so we often held small group events in the boys’ dormitories. One evening, the Director of Girls’ School Life informed us that Song Lili and I were going to Building 7 at 8 p.m. She said, “You and Song both signed up for the school motorcycle team. At 8 o’clock this evening, the head coach of the school’s motorcycle team will be meeting with the new members in Building 7 and offered to meet you and Song Lili.”
I was unhappy and said, “Neither of us were admitted. We are not new members, so we’re not going.”
The director said, “The head coach said that both of your physical fitness tests and cycling road tests results are good. He wants to see if both of you can cultivate your skills for the future. In short, it’s a good thing. You guys go!” As soon as Song Lili heard this, she pulled me along and left.
I was very unhappy but came to the southwest gate of Building 6 with Song Lili. We stood under the canopy at the door, looking out at the empty field leading to Building 7 in front of us. Due to the continuous rain for many days, many places had large areas of stagnant water, and if we walked over,
our shoes would definitely be soaked. We both had the only pair of cloth shoes we wore on our feet, and of course we had to cherish them.
Song Lili suggested that we take off our shoes and walk over barefoot. As soon as I heard it, I responded, “What? Walk barefoot?” I immediately said, “No, I can’t walk without shoes. And what would we do if we stepped on glass shards?”
Song Lili said, “I will carry you on my back. You can pick up our shoes. If I step on a shard of glass, I will just pull it out. It was a common practice in my hometown.”
I said, “How about inflammation and infection? What can we do?”
“Our folk practice is to sprinkle some incense ash on the wound, and it will get better in a few days,” Song said.
“Just put some incense ash on it” turned out to be such a simple solution. I remembered again that there was a quiz question about a farmer transporting a wolf, a sheep and a cabbage across a river. So, carrying me on her back over water sounded like a good idea. I was immediately happy. But when I saw the scrawny Song Lili in front of me again, I said, “No, I’m too fat. You can’t carry me.”
Song ignored my words and took off her shoes and put them in my hands. She was standing at the foot of the steps in front of Building 6, bent over, ready to carry me on her back. I hesitated and took off my shoes, holding two pairs of our shoes in my hands. She clamped my legs from behind with both hands, making sure my body was against her back. Then she lifted me vigorously and set off.
I was clinging to her back. The two pairs of shoes in my hands were just under her chin. I asked Song: “Are the shoes smelly?”
She said, “It’s okay.”
So, I clasped my hands together tightly. I was so nervous that I didn’t dare say a word. I was afraid she couldn’t carry me on her back and we’d both fall down. Without saying a word, Song Lili carried me steadily step by step toward Building 7. Soon we were halfway there. I started laughing. I sang,
“Carrying my wife on my back. Carrying my wife on my back. You are 18, I am 19. “
Song asked, “What are you singing?”
I said, “It’s the song sung by Marshal Tian Peng, ‘Pig Bajie’ Carrying His Wife on His Back.” I continued singing, “Carrying my wife on my back. Carrying my wife on my back. You are 18, I am 19.” I said, “You are Pig Bajie, I’m Sun WuKong.”
“Pig Bajie Carrying His Wife on His Back” is a small story in the famous Chinese classical mythological novel Journey to the West. The book was written about the four Tang monks and apprentices; the senior brother, Sun WuKong; the second senior brother, Marshal Tian Peng, also known as Pig Bajie; and the third brother, Sha Seng, went through hardships and dangers together, nine hundred and eighty-one difficulties, on their journey to the West to learn scriptures. On the way, Sun WuKong once transformed into a beauty to seduce Bajie. Bajie was a womanizer, so he was tricked and teased by WuKong. Bajie willingly carried this fake beauty on his back and sang this song of “Pig Bajie Carrying His Wife on His Back.”
Hearing it, Song Lili could not help laughing out loud. Her strained nerves suddenly relaxed and she seemed to forget that we were walking up the moss-covered slope in front of Building 7. All of a sudden, her feet slipped, and both of us fell down. I was lying on my back with Song on top of me. Our two pairs of shoes had gone somewhere. Song quickly got up and looked for the shoes. I remained in place and did not move. Song found our shoes, came back, and pulled me up. I was crying and said, “My trousers are wet. What should I do? People will say I have peed my pants.”
Song asked me to turn around. She looked at me and said: “It’s dark now. It’s okay. Nobody can see it clearly.” Song pulled me and we ran into Building 7. Then we put our shoes back on.
As soon as I entered the boys’ dormitory, I stood there with my back to the door and did not move. There was no common sitting area, so our male classmates politely asked us to sit on their beds. My pants were wet, so how could I dare sit? If I sat on someone’s bed wet, when I left, everyone would see the place where Tang Jinhe sat just now, and wonder why was it wet? How can this be explained? So, I must not sit down.
The head coach was waiting for both of us. He
said happily: “You are Tang Jinhe?” I nodded. Then he stood a little farther away, looked at me and shook his head and said, “It’s a pity, it’s a pity!” I knew he meant that I was too short to make the motorcycle team. I was angry and thought the motorcycle team doesn’t want me, and there’s nothing good about riding a motorcycle. I don’t want to go yet!
He said that Song’s weight was not up to standard, and she was too thin to drive a motorcycle. Neither of us met the criteria to enter the motorcycle team, so we hurried out of the boys’ dormitory.
Soon, Song and I arrived at the northwest gate of Building 7. The open space between Building 6 and Building 7 appeared in front of us again. Song said to me seriously, “Stop singing that song. What a mess of “Pig Bajie Carrying His Wife on His Back.” Let’s go, I’ll carry you on my back. I promise I won’t fall down again.” Song Lili carried me on her back without hesitation. I picked up our two pairs of shoes and we returned safely to Building 6 this time.
We have both loved motorcycles our whole lives, but we’ve never gotten the opportunity to ride one. The selection criteria were too harsh. This made me, who was too short, and Song, who was too thin, have no chance with motorcycles in our lifetimes.
Dragging our sick bodies, we have been running around with our busy lives. We are frequently in and out of the hospital. The vow of iron will and upright character that we made back then is long gone. The two of us really staged a scene of “Pig Bajie Carrying His Wife on His Back.” The “wife” was thrown to the ground by Pig Bajie. It was as if it happened yesterday.
Now, Song and I are nearly 80 years old. Song Lili is not in good health. Even if her health were good, she couldn’t stage “Pig Bajie’s Carrying His Wife on His Back” again, and if the “wife” would be thrown to the ground, she couldn’t be glued back together.
Baobab Street: September 15, 2024
Lianna Sylvan
Baobab Street is a lifeline deep-rooted in the African savanna. Named after its tall, water-storing trees, the street has sustained its residents for over three thousand years. It has been my family’s home for generations, its trees growing and working alongside us. Our creased hands mirror the lightning bolt shapes of the baobab roots like signatures of our kinship with them. The trees’ produce runs in our blood, fortifying our bones. When we reach our final season, we return the favor; we rest in the earth, tangled up in their roots, where they digest us. Though seasons change here, the living and dead forever dwell together, connected by the trees.
In dry seasons, when the rain slows, the baobabs bless us with giant, mineral-rich, vanilla-flavored fruit we enjoy baked, fresh, juiced, and preserved as jam and jerky. Sometimes, the fruits grow too fast to harvest in time. Hundreds fall and ferment. While the stench of rot warrants retching, our hunting fathers appreciate the warthog meat it attracts. Our mothers bake it with fresh guinea fowl caught in traps overnight, and then wrap it in a batter of fruit and chicken eggs. The carefully formed pies are deposited into preheated clay ovens and left to transform. As the pie crusts harden and the meat simmers, a pungent smoke escapes from the chimneys, stimulating appetites across the entire village. On windy days, the greasy smoke and dust swirl together, reflecting sunlight back and forth like a game of dibeke, basking the expectant neighborhood in an orange glow. After an hour, breakfast is ready. We lean against the tree trunks, enjoying our sweet and tangy pies—fat dripping from our smiling, glowing faces.
The trees provide more than fruit and game. When their canopies are sparse, their thick trunks make up for it, storing water during wet seasons. Some years, this is the only clean water for miles. One tree can hold enough for the whole street to drink and bathe in daily for months. The oldest children bathe first, cleaning up before their trek to school and work. The youngest kids, ever dirty from running after galagos, bathe last. In wet seasons, little
grows and rain douses us too frequently. We survive on the dried food, and if a monsoon storm knocks down any shelters, the displaced safely cozy up inside hollow baobab trunks. Forty bodies can fit inside of them! The trees protect us from almost everything.
The gravest storms come from within ourselves. Most of our fathers drink alcohol like water—sometimes in its place. When the Marula beer is ripe, security becomes unpredictable. Mischievous children, inclined to wander too far or leave elephant shrew in their neighbors’ beds, find themselves tied up with baobab rope as punishment. Escapees’ legs are whipped with bushwillow sticks. Some newborns don’t make it to their second month of life, with their parents too drunk to pay them attention. Contrarily, my father is attentive and gentle, often braiding and oiling our hair, then laughing when we mess it up horseplaying. Like the beloved trees, he feeds us when we’re hungry and shelters us from discomfort and danger. Despite his efforts, Mother passed away delivering her eleventh child. Father says eleven is an auspicious number — it must be true, because Mother traveled to heaven quickly and became the Sun. He drinks a little to dull his grief, but works hard. When he’s busy, our aunties fix our hair and dry our tears. When they’re occupied with their own children, the trees watch over us, and we, each other.
Like the trees, our teachers, we support each other. We share songs to lift spirits, just like the flycatchers and pigeons in the branches above us. We bloom like fleeting baobab flowers, marrying, making love, and rearing our own children. We swap legends of faraway places where no one drinks alcohol, and the departed dance beside us. We exchange these tales around campfires, accompanying them with shadow puppets cast on the tree trunks. We nod off, entwined to keep warm. Dawn comes, and Mother, the Daystar, shines, reminding us to rise.
Reincarnated or still breathing, we’re connected by invisible roots. Wherever we travel, our spirits stay on Baobab Street, grafted into the trees that keep us, and our ancestors, alive.
A Ghost in Summer
Wakako Cheung
Walking closer and closer to the silver, massive, old, yet well-preserved airplane in a giant warehouse, my heart was beating fast while my mouth felt parched. The air conditioner was roaring like a sea lion, making a harsh sound echoing across the gigantic shop, jam-packed with Smithsonian-owned historic aircrafts. Despite the warm, sticky wind slapping my pale face on a sunny summer day, my hands were trembling slightly, sweaty but cold. It was as if I had suddenly encountered a ghost buried in our conscious and unconscious memories shared by generations for a long, long time. The ghost is something forgotten and unreal in our daily life, but it suddenly pops up as somebody with flesh and blood, stirring our emotions in an instant like a tsunami wiping out everything nearby. Then, it forces us to face the unpleasant past. “This is Enola Gay, Boeing B-29. It dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan during World War II. Let’s move to the next building,” the middle-aged, light-brown-haired supervisor in well-worn Levis blue jeans said casually in his perfect American English, urging the group of seven to ten summer interns to walk a bit faster.
Enola Gay…? Did he say Enola Gay? I was staring at this handsome aircraft as if I had become a slender tree standing alone in the middle of nowhere. Instantly, this proud-looking bomber took me away to the past in history books. The unreal turned into the real. The other college interns were chasing after the supervisor like ducklings, taking only a quick glance at the airplane. The fresh, yet arrogant face of the silver, metallic plane reminded me of the historic photo capturing General Douglas MacArthur, triumphantly standing with the pipe in his mouth, next to the Emperor of Japan standing upright and immobile. Speechlessly, I turned my head and ran after my peer interns.
The sun was sizzling hot, and the spotless sky was a child’s innocent smile. Countless cicadas were
chirping loudly, while the group of school-aged boys was laughing proudly, showing their white teeth, which made a vivid contrast to their perfectly sun-roasted faces. “Mom, what to eat for dinner?”
I asked avidly. “Shall we go to the small local place recommended in the travel guide book? We can’t miss okonomiyaki here in Hiroshima. We can’t have it in Tokyo!” Despite the slight pain from the blister on my heels I had gotten after a long walk with my new, pink sandals, my steps were light. On the flat, wide, well-kept road along the narrow river, my heart was bouncing from having my mom all to myself for the last several days while we traveled together.
It was just before my departure to college in the suburb of Washington D.C. My mom was the one who suggested visiting this historically unique Japanese mountainous city located along the Hiroshima bay. “Ah, that’s it, that is the one…” Suddenly, I heard somebody whispering. Alongside the small river, the ruin of a three-to-four story, brick, domed building was silently standing. Literally, only the faded, brownish, brick exterior walls were remaining. It was like a dying, skinny, old man with no fat and muscle, the ribs protruding. An invisible, yet definite boundary was laid between the sorrowful old man and the healthy young men, between the past and the present. This is the man who was hurt by the atomic bomb dropped on August 6th, 1945, the man who has been witnessing all the dark and light since then. After a moment of silence, my mom said gently, “Let’s enter the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum.” Urged by this ghost-like old man, I was slowly, yet forcefully sinking into the unpleasant past. Right after stepping into the dark, gloomy exhibition hall, countless voiceless voices of the atomic bomb victims echoed solemnly in my ears:
“Mama, Mama…” “Where are you? I wanna go home…”
“Aaa, Aaa…”
In my head, some were sobbing, while the others were wheezing at the last gasp. A girl with bobbed hair, boys and girls in their school uniforms, a young
man with black round frame glasses were popping out from the black and white pictures exhibited behind the glass wall, turning themselves into reality. The artifacts such as the torn khaki pants, burnt glasses, and faded letter to a mother were quietly, yet articulately telling what had happened. Overwhelmed by the gravity of sorrow as heavy as lead, I begged my mom to take me out of the museum. Amid the pitch darkness of sorrow, I was crying out for bright sunlight. Rising back from the past to the present, countless cicadas were now singing a requiem for the souls of the unrest. My mom put a band-aid on my heel. “Shall we go to eat okonomiyaki?” she asked me gently. Speechlessly, I dragged my feet to the nearby tram station.
***
“Ah, that’s the photo…” My smile disappeared instantly. On the white-walled hallway lit by glaring fluorescent lights, a one-square meter photo in a white frame was wordlessly staring at me. “This is the quickest way to the gym for bigger kids. We have one more small gym for preschoolers.” The plump, middle-aged lady pointed the way. While my husband was restlessly chasing our daughters, who were skipping around the lady, my mind stayed with the black and white, Pulitzer Prize-winning photo. It was a masculine ghost showing off a dramatic moment of six United States Marines raising the U.S. flag on top of rubble during the Battle of Iwo Jima, one of the fiercest battles between the U.S. and Japan during World War II. This iconic photo of American heroes was eloquently speaking: “Welcome to the U.S. Welcome your daughters to our school.” Unavoidably, I felt uneasy. My girls already looked comfortable with the new environment, mischievously sticking out their Chupa Chups blue tongues. The poisonous-looking cobalt blue was flashy like a sharpened knife. Speechlessly, I looked away and turned my steps to the gym. ***
history books to take a nap, while the others chatted as if they hadn’t met each other for a long time. Despite the English literature class that was literally torturing me, World History 100 was somewhat a relief. With decent knowledge of modern history gained through my years at a college in my home country, I was a toddler among newborns.
“The first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Japan, on August 6th, 1945…then followed by the second one on Nagasaki on August 9th, 1945… then the war ended shortly after…” The professor read the textbook in a flat tone. “The next assignment is an essay about World War II…”
Amid the pitch darkness of sorrow, I was crying out for bright sunlight. Rising back from the past to the present, countless cicadas were now singing a requiem for the souls of the unrest.
All of a sudden, a sharp inspiration came to my mind. I secretly whispered, “It would be interesting if I could reflect on how other students think about the atomic bomb in my paper.” The next day, I was in the cafeteria, eagerly distributing several dozen survey forms to whoever passed by. “Do you know the U.S. dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan in 1945? If you know, what do you think about it?” Fearless curiosity and naive open-mindedness are tokens of the youth. Despite these rude questions, many students shared their honest opinions. Many said things like, “An atomic bomb wasn’t a good thing, but it certainly ended the war sooner” or “That bomb consequently reduced the casualties. So, it was sort of a necessary evil.” The perspective was a bolt from the blue. That was the exact moment when I realized the values I had believed as common sense weren’t necessarily so. The floppy disk that saved the essay has gone somewhere and is still missing, but the lesson learnt at that time still remains with me: There are many versions of “history.”
In the dimly-lit lecture hall, I was taking notes of what the professor had said. Although I could barely see him, his voice was loud and clear. Some students were hiding their faces with their briefcase-sized
Visiting ancestor’s graves, biting into watermelons, and watching the National High School Baseball Championship on TV are some of the summer memories that stand out from my childhood. These were and are still somewhat common scenes in August across Japan. For a young girl, August was a month of fun and fear, a month when the living met the dead. Through the conversations with aunts
and uncles, and the anime, describing the tragedy of World War II orphans in Hiroshima, broadcast every August, I was repetitively exposed to the bloodiness of the atomic bomb, the misery of World War II, and the Japanese as a victim of the war. One summer day in August several decades ago, I sat in front of the spotless, flat screen TV with my newlywed husband, cheering for the high school baseball team from my town. In response to the sound of a siren, I closed my eyes at exactly the same time as previous years, while the baseball game was suspended: a one-minute interruption to offer a moment of silence for those who were killed in Hiroshima. My husband asked me in English with his Cantonese accent, “What is this siren for?
Why is the game interrupted? What are you doing?”
For a young woman in her late twenties who grew up in a small city in Japan, the answer was obvious. This was an unconditional reflex just like your leg jumping up if a doctor hit your knee. “What’s the difference between a regular bomb and an atomic bomb? Both are the same for me in the sense that they both kill people. Without any atomic bomb, the Japanese army killed thousands of Chinese miserably during the war. What’s the difference?” my husband innocently asked.
I had nothing to say. I was staring into emptiness. The Nile River suddenly appeared between us.
Art Noel, digital photography
Monopoly Showdown
Isha Patel
It was one of those sunny, breezy park mornings when the air felt alive and crisp. The park stretched wide, a patchwork of green and golden grass which crunched anytime you moved. Trees towered overhead, casting shadows that danced across the ground, and their leaves whispered with every passing breeze. There was a path curved around a pond where ducks lazed around, occasionally breaking the stillness with a splash. Nearby, kids raced around jungle gyms, fighting over who was the fastest. Unlike them, Evelin, Verda, Leo, and I had no real plans. We thought to just chill or toss the frisbee, but it all changed when I pulled out my Monopoly game from my bag.
“No freaking way, you brought Monopoly? To the park?” Leo raised an eyebrow, half-amused and half in disbelief. I couldn’t blame him. Monopoly was one of those games that never failed to ruin friendships—or at least test the limits. But with this group? We were already doomed to make it competitive.
The minute the board was set up on a patch of grass, a very familiar feeling began to creep over us.
“Remember when we played this in class?” I laughed, giggling even at the memory of our old Monopoly wars. It was toward the end of last year when no one really cared anymore, not even the teacher. We’d pushed desks together, shoved books aside, and spent entire periods playing Monopoly. The sun would stream through the windows, making the room feel more like a hangout than a class.
As long as we stayed quiet, the teacher didn’t care what we did, so naturally, we took full advantage. We’d spend entire class periods scamming each other over fake real estate, whispering deals and plotting under the radar. Evelin would get serious, trying to play it smart, while Leo just enjoyed watching the rest of us squirm when we landed on his properties. Verda was a wild card, and I lived for making sneaky trades, plotting with her to bankrupt the others.
“I still can’t believe you tried to cheat me out of my railroads,” Evelin huffed before smirking at
Leo. She was already on edge, and we hadn’t even started playing yet.
And just like that, the game started, and past and present began to blur together. We were no longer in that half-asleep-teacher’s classroom, but somehow, it felt no different. Leo was still the chillest until someone landed on one of his properties. “That will be all your money,” Leo casually said, flipping through the fake bills with the confidence of a Wall Street broker.
Verda was as unpredictable as ever, playing the long game, piling up properties in weird, random clusters that never seemed to amount to much of a threat until suddenly they did. “You guys are just too focused on the big names,” she said, scooping up the lesser-known spaces. But we knew better than to underestimate her; Verda always had a plan even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else.
I was still the schemer, partnering up with Verda behind the scenes. We’d trade properties, make it seem like we were playing nice but behind the scenes, we were both trying to outdo each other, while scamming Leo and Evelin in the process. It was a dangerous game, but that was half the fun. The trick was to stay quiet enough to avoid suspicion but bold enough to pull off the biggest moves.
Then, of course, there was Evelin. She was still fairly new to Monopoly and played cautiously at first, clutching her money like it was her lifeline. But by mid-game, she’d flipped the switch. “I’m taking over,” she said, after receiving a full set of properties. From cautious to ruthless in record time, she was out for blood, determined to wipe us all out. By the time Leo landed on one of her hotels, she was beaming like a conqueror who had just staked her claim on new territory.
“Time to pay up,” she said with great satisfaction. Leo groaned as he counted out the money, while Verda and I exchanged glances, knowing this game was slipping out of our control. Evelin, the newbie, was now our biggest threat, and she wasn’t shy about it.
“You created a monster,” Verda whispered to me
as Evelin raked in the cash. Leo was peculiarly quiet; no doubt he was already plotting his revenge on his next turn. He never showed his hand until the last moment, yet somehow even when he didn’t appear to care he would still manage to make us pay for underestimating him. By the time the sun began to set, our Monopoly money was scattered over the grass, and we were still yelling over trades, rent, and one dicey roll. I looked over at Verda, and we both shrugged our shoulders. We knew our schemes hadn’t exactly panned out. Leo had somehow managed to stay rich just by being a ruthless rent collector, and Evelin? Well, she was out for blood now, and I had to respect that.
As we packed up, the memory of playing this game in our classroom came flooding back. Same vibe, same energy, only now we had no teacher to tell us to be quiet. The tension from earlier had melted into laughter and inside jokes, and we couldn’t stop talking about how, no matter how many times we played, Monopoly always seemed to bring out our most dramatic sides.
In the end, it wasn’t a question of who won though Evelin did walk away a little too proud of herself. Rather, it was a question of how, whether inside a classroom or at a park, this game knew just how to make us feel like kids once again: scheming, laughing, and losing ourselves in the ridiculousness of it all.
Xeane Main, watercolor painting
Love Remains
Anna Gawedzki
There has been a lot of loss in my life. My father died today, February 17, 2024, in Poland. He was 83. I was going to see him in three weeks. I was so excited to finally go and visit him. Now it is not going to happen. I don’t even know what to say… I feel like the ground has been pulled from under my feet. “The pillar of our family has died,” my brother said. My father was a people person, hardworking, an inventor. He loved to sing and play accordion. He was proud of his kids. He missed us all. This was an unexpected blow to our already fragile family. We are orphaned now.
My father was my first teacher. I learned so much from him, how to tie my shoes, how to ride my bike… He would sing with me, play music, and take me to the forest to teach me about mushrooms, trees, and animals. We would go on many adventures together. He cooked my breakfast. He taught me how to stand up for myself, be strong, and be brave. There are many other things I learned from him such as common sense, problem-solving skills, and just how to live life. I remember when we were little, my brother, my sister, and I would run to the end of our road and wait for Dad so we could ride on his motorcycle with him back home. It was so much fun. Sometimes in the winter we would go for a run with him after dinner.
Now, I feel lost. I have to go and visit my family. This is one of the hardest things I have had to go through in my life. I know it’s going to be good and worth it in the end. For now, though, it’s tough. It’s like being pregnant. I know it will be joyful and wonderful, and I anticipate having the baby in my arms soon, but nonetheless, there is the birth to go through; there is no other way. There must be pain to feel joy. The anxiety is what put me in the hospital. I guess I needed this. I feel better knowing that I am healthy enough to fly to Poland. I have medicine to take “as needed” to get me through.
In 2015, my oldest brother succumbed to pancreatic cancer. He was sick for a long time with kidney cancer, awaiting the “go-ahead” to be put on
the kidney transplant list. After being on dialysis for two years, he found out that the cancer attacked his pancreas. “How much time do I have?” No, I didn’t get to see him either. Just like Dad, he slipped away faster than I thought possible. He was a firefighter. He was brave and funny. He would also take my sister and me on forest adventures. He would show us how to look for bullet shells in this one open area of the forest. He had a small shovel hidden under the moss. It was dangerous, but he always made sure we were okay. He taught me how to ride his motorcycle.
I wish I could say he was not affected by the cancer, that he was himself until the very end, but he wasn’t. He became angry, upset, depressed, and destroyed. He was broken. He was not anything like the guy that would always make us laugh. He was an introvert, but at home he was a hilarious jokester. He knew how to make any tough situation lighter. He taught us how to dance in my mom’s kitchen. We would decorate the Christmas tree together and always eat through all the candy that was supposed to be hung on the tree. He knew how to live, before the news about stage IV came, that is.
Mom died 27 years ago, another victim of the Stage IV scenario. She got the news in October and was gone in February, so quickly, without any hope. She wanted to live so badly. After all, my younger siblings were thirteen and fourteen, way too young to lose a mother. It was so fast… so unexpected.
Mom loved to read fables and fairy tales. Often, she felt embarrassed to admit it, so she had me check out her favorites at the local library. She loved to help people, neighbors and strangers alike; she was hardworking and raised five kids while working and taking care of our grandfather. I felt helpless in the face of the imminent death of my beautiful mother. It was especially difficult to come to terms with the fact that I did not have enough time to show her the love I could have, with moments just slipping away.
Cancer is like a life sentence, a punishment, for someone not guilty of a crime. The sadness and
helplessness are often reasons why sometimes we distance ourselves from the sick, when they just want to live and often show us how to.
I frequently wonder if the obscene amount of cancer cases in our area in Poland has anything to do with the Chernobyl Nuclear Disaster fallout. We were in the direct path of the radiation cloud, but no one knew this was taking place. Kids and adults alike were outdoors going about their day as usual. No one suspected anything. So much radiation... I
Coffee & Tea
Tori Ramirez
As I watch the numbers on my digital clock change from 12:00 a.m.to 1:00 a.m., from 1:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m., and from 2:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m., I get the sudden urge for tea. When I sit up and start to make my way to the kitchen, the creaking of the hardwood flooring reminds me of how old this apartment really is. Slowly, as I approach the kitchen, I notice the soft light coming through the kitchen window. As I look up through the glass, I see you. You look exhausted, as you patiently wait for your coffee to brew, almost asleep standing on your two feet.
I start to heat the water in my kettle, your kitchen light being the only light source I need. I stand in front of my stove in the same way you did a few seconds before, dead on my feet, craving something warm to calm my nerves just enough to get a few hours of sleep before morning.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I look through the window to see that you’ve moved to the counter closest to the fridge, pouring sugar and milk into your cup. The second thing I see is your eyes and as we make eye contact, you wave continuing to stir your cup of coffee and its added contents. Your slow wave and sheepish smile are infectious and I find myself doing the same: a small smile and an easy wave. I turn to the kettle on the stove that
remember when a couple days afterwards rain fell, and the streets were covered with yellow foam. It was strange. I wonder if there is a connection between people getting cancer and the Chernobyl disaster. Maybe.
Today I finally started looking forward to this trip. It will be good to see everyone and spend some time together since we do not know how much time we really have here.
now sounds with that annoying high pitch whistle, pouring the hot water in my mug and placing in a tea bag.
Turning to leave my kitchen, lightly blowing the steam away from the top of the mug, my eyes scan the window for one final time. You sip your coffee with grace and caution, then raise the mug just above your head, maintaining our eye contact, saying good-bye with the small and wordless gesture. I choose to wave in return as we head our separate ways carrying on with our late nights, or rather, our early mornings.
Writers’ Profiles
Veronica Arcentales is a translator, teacher, and aspiring physicist. In her free time, she enjoys reading science books, learning languages, and above all, chatting with her sister.
Eli Bolton enjoys reading and writing and hopes to give people this same experience by becoming an author in the future.
Luisa Campo Londoño earned a bachelor’s degree in physical therapy in Colombia. Currently she is taking an ESL class and English 121. She lives with her husband Jorge and her two sons, Antonio and Nicolas. She enjoys reading and hopes to work with children and contribute to society.
Wakako Cheung was born and raised in Japan. Before moving to Lake County with her husband and two daughters, she studied medieval history in the United Kingdom and had a career as an interpreter and public relations researcher. She enjoys writing as a way to reflect and connect with the larger communities.
Giuliana Galati is an art major at CLC. This is her first published work.
Janet Gallegos is a first-generation college graduate and has an extreme passion for writing. She graduated with her associate degree and will continue to work for her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice.
Anna Gawedzki is working towards a fine arts degree. She enjoys ceramics, drawing, biking, gardening and family.
Jennie Herchenbach is an avid reader who dabbles occasionally in writing and hopes to become more involved in both.
Barry Jones returned to college after a career in technology, and is pursuing writing, his first love. One of his goals is to read 300 pages in one day. He has reached 250 pages once, but his eyes popped out by 9 p.m. He thinks that they're rolling around the floor behind the piano.
Seja Kern is a current student in the CLC nursing program and has been writing all her life, mostly short stories and poems.
Isha Patel is majoring in computer science and accounting and loves to unwind with a good show or book and finds writing to be a favorite way for self-expression, whether it's through essays or stories. Isha also enjoys crafting, finding it relaxing as well as fun and creative, and is always looking for new interests, whether it’s through a new project or simply enjoying the little moments in life.
Tori Ramirez is a queer, Hispanic student currently working towards a goal of becoming a marine biologist. In their free time, they enjoy reading graphic novels, baking and watching horror movies with friends.
Rubab Sadiq aspires to always hold on to every part of her Pakistani culture; and has two fur babies name Kenai and Koa. In her spare time, she enjoys reading.
Kaloyan Savchev is attending CLC to study history and political science and enjoys photography and caring for birds.
Alexandra Scanlon earned her 200-Hour Yoga Instructor Certification and taught for five years in the Madison area. She is in her first semester of an associate degree. Psychology and writing are her two current passions and hopefully someday, she can use all she’s learned to help, heal, and educate others.
Lianna Hauoli Sylvan is a singer/songwriter and yoga enthusiast who is committed to promoting mental health through music and somatic therapies. She creates music for dance, meditation, and affirmation, and is pursuing psychology to deepen her impact and help make mental wellness tools more accessible, especially for those overcoming trauma and chronic illness.
Gwendolyn Thommes is majoring in communication sciences and disorders, aiming to become a pediatric speech and language pathologist. In her free time, she enjoys reading or writing, and she is proud to be deeply involved in extracurriculars at CLC, most prominently, CLC's Student Government.
Tiffany Toledo is an aspiring teacher who enjoys writing in her free time. She also enjoys crafting and playing with her cats.
Kam Hok (Jane) Tong grew up in Beijing, China and later immigrated to Hong Kong. Her sons moved to the United States as college students, and for the past couple years Jane has lived here with them. Jane feels a strong connection to Prairie Voices because she has been told since she was a child that she isn't a Beijing girl; her ancestors, dating back to the Jiaqing period of the Qing Dynasty (17961820) came from the prairie region north of Beijing.
Sarena Yath grew up surrounded by art, and her goal is to pursue a career in tattooing and eventually open up her own studio.
Maddy Asma, ceramics
