Dazed Starling: Unbound Advent 2021

The Dazed Starling: Unbound

Founded in 2021, The Dazed Starling: Unbound is the online literary journal of the Department of Modern Languages & Literature at California Baptist University.

Address correspondence to: Dr. Erika J. Travis, Managing Editor The Dazed Starling CBU, Modern Languages & Literature 8432 Magnolia Avenue Riverside, CA 92504 (etravis@calbaptist.edu) The Department of Modern Languages & Literature offers a Master of Arts degree in English, Bachelor of Arts degrees and minors in English and Spanish, and a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and minor in creative writing. To learn more about the programs and professors in the Department of Modern Languages & Literature, explore www.calbaptist.edu.

The Managing Editor would like to thank Dr. Chuck Sands, Provost of CBU; Dr. Lisa Hernández, Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences; Dr. James Lu, Chair of the Department of Modern Languages & Literature; Rosemary Welsh, Department Secretary; and all of those who offered their encouragement, guidance, and friendship during this publication process. The Dazed Starling is currently published with funds generously provided by CBU’s Department of Modern Languages & Literature.

©December 2021 Respective Authors

Dazed Starling Unbound

December 2021

Advent

DS: Unbound Advent 2021 Letter from the Editors Dear Readers,

Thank you for joining us on our first Advent edition of the Dazed Starling: Unbound. In years past, we haven't been able to have both a fall and spring publication, but thanks to our growing program and technological advances, we're excited to expand the space for creative expression here at CBU. Advent is the traditional time of preparation for the celebration of the birth of Christ. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the lighting of candles, singing of carols, and reading of Scriptures remind us that the miracle of the Incarnation is rooted in and produces hope, faith, joy, and peace. And that no matter how dark the world may seem, the Light has come into the world, and that Light will not be overcome.

So whether or not you light candles on an advent wreath, we invite you to enter into this season of anticipation with us.

We hope these creative works encourage you and help you reflect upon the mystery and miracle of God's great gift to us.

Merry Christmas, The Dazed Starling: Unbound Editorial Team

Erika Travis & Yage Wang

CONTENTS Hope

Solstice

Noel Cooper

Superheroes Hope Ocegueda

Still River

Michael Metzler

Hope: A Memorial Gretchen Bartels-Ray

Faith

A Part of the Child Olivia McKee

The Merry Tiding Charity Latchman

Silence

Jennifer Tronti

Jesus Washes the Disciple's Feet (Art) Xiaomeng Angela Ding

Joy

Green & Gold Amberly Garcia

An Irony in Winter Allan M. Bedashi

The Pink Candle D.T. Collins

Epiphany (Art) Lynn Wolfe

Peace

Nature’s Wandering Soul Chloe Hiemstra

Counting

Tara Bushelman

City Lights

Emily McGinn

The Remnant (Art) Lynn Wolfe

THEREFORE, THE LORD HIMSELF WILL GIVE YOU A SIGN: SEE, THE VIRGIN WILL CONCEIVE, HAVE A SON, AND NAME HIM IMMANUEL. ISAIAH 7:14

Hope

SOLSTICE The people walking darkness have seen a great light The darkness encloses, enfolds, engulfs The light whispers, “Only for a season” The darkness presses, crushes, smothers The light whispers, “Not forever”

On those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned In the deepest darkness of the year Comes the advent of the Light The night will end, the sun will come The hope of life after all is dead

In him was life, and that life was the light of all humankind Remember that light, the frail candle Holding the darkness at bay Live in that light, the roaring flame Driving back the shadow

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it Give thanks to the Lord, For he is good, His love and his light Endure forever

Noel Cooper

Superheroes You know that part of the action movie when the protagonist is in the middle of a fight scene and get thrown to the ground. The whole world seems to slow down.

Laying on their back, looking up at the sky, catching their breath and the camera pans close to their face. Everything stops. The calm moment when the hero we’re rooting for regains their courage. The moment before the villain realizes they don’t have the power to defeat their opponent.

This is what it feels like when your depression lets you come up for air. For a small moment, you are able to clearly view the world again. Oxygen seems crisp like fresh cold water on a hot valley day where dehydration is unavoidable. The smoke-filled air is cleared long enough to remind you that not all air is dirty and unforgiving. This is the moment that reminds you of what you are fighting for.

Breathing can be easy. Waking up can be tolerable, eating can be enjoyed. You are able to see the beauty and love and potential within yourself that comes and goes like lightning but it’s there. It is. Let this moment be enough to sustain you when the depression pulls you back down.

When the fight is cruel and you are crueler. There is no telling how much longer you will have to fight or when you have the strength to capture your demons but the hope of knowing breaths of fresh air exists is good enough for me.

Hope Ocegueda

Still River When the night fell, The world went to hell.

In a hole, in a well, in that hole of a well, In the darkness of night, without promise of light, In this hole of a well, I slept.

I woke with the night, and I saw in the darkness A tree in the darkness, not close, but the farthest; A tree within reach, but not close, just the farthest; A tree, in the darkness, Of wood.

But it wasn’t the tree That stood out to me, Not the tree or the darkness, the night or the blackness; No, it wasn’t the tree that quite stood out to me, The tree or the darkness, Or wood.

But the moon and the tree, Both together, and we All sat by a river, and a shine, just a sliver Of moonlight reflected, a moonbeam deflected As we sat by the river That night.

Many people passed by, But I waved them goodbye, ‘Cause the river and me (and the moon and the tree), Were together and I Could see only the sky, The light of the moon, And me.

Michael Metzler

HOPE: A MEMORIAL

I. Golden Delicious You hold out a golden apple to your brother and ask him to bite into it to loosen that delicious first chunk but not to swallow the sweet morsel, fragrant as fall and just plucked from a sparse tree at what we generously term an orchard (it’s only there for city folks’ slow Saturdays), but to leave that first bite lying there in the dusty apple all for you.

He laughs and without an added beat complies but looks at you like you’ve really lost your marbles now, Baby Girl.

For one delicious moment, he’s forgotten what every seven-year-old knows: that only those with two front teeth enjoy apple straight from the tree, forgotten what you daily remember: that the train you jumped in front of hit your head and knocked out both your front teeth. I see the shadow drop

when he remembers you’re different, more miraculous than before, snatched back to life not as Katy but as Hope.

II. Hope Running You could sure run—I know.

I was on the other team, and trying to guard you was dizzying.

You ran with that celestial, not growing weary style of running.

The game was done, but you were never spent.

Is that what happened?

Did all that running catch up with you, and then you just didn’t know how to be so very weary when you’re used to being more powerful than a locomotive?

But you couldn’t run fast enough, and you weren’t faster than a speeding bullet.

Then all motion stopped, and that day lost my Hope.

III. Darkness and Day Sometimes, I feel like the darkness is winning.

Sometimes, the darkness takes the day.

But, in golden light, He reaches out to you and offers an apple

from the tree of life, with His own bite taken with holy teeth but left there for you and for me.

We will run again through golden fields, never weary, never faint.

Day will win in the end.

Gretchen Bartels-Ray

THE WORD BECAME FLESH AND DWELT AMONG US. WE OBSERVED HIS GLORY, THE GLORY AS THE ONE AND ONLY SON FROM THE FATHER, FULL OF GRACE AND TRUTH. JOHN 1:14

Faith

Introduction to Creative Writing Spotlight

A Part of the Child The nomadic lifestyle became part of this child.

North Carolina to California, Korea, Louisiana, Arizona, Texas, and Virginia.

Her home was the runway, her dad’s favorite mode of transport, and this became part of the child.

She’d travel to Hawaii after bumpy flights to Japan, sleeping with snakes in Guam was never part of the plan. eating exotic food wherever she went, spicy curry isn’t part of the average four-year-old’s diet, and this became part of this child.

Even though nomadic, it made her existence no less joyful, for the life she lived was as fulfilling as any.

Constantly living in anticipation of the next adventure, her family became one of the only unchanging factors in her life.

All of this became part of the child.

Her own parents, one with red curly hair and the voice of an angel always smelled of sweet fragrance that still takes the child back in memory.

The other, so full of love for the child, would come home after a long day's work and dance with her to Johnny Cash.

When she tried on his work boots, they came up to her knees and as time went on, they began to shrink, or maybe she grew.

This became a part of the child.

Their home, always full of warmth, happiness, good food, and love was always the child’s sanctuary wherever she was.

Whether Osan or Tucson, an only child, or one of four.

As the family grew, so did the child’s love for them.

Her family became a part of this child.

Observing the brilliant reds and pinks of the sunsets while naming various jets in the skies as they soared overhead, wondering if one of them was her father.

Learning to cook and sing from her mother, while her dad took her to build and launch rockets while eating popcorn.

Learning how to love and care for a family, and ride a mountain bike, all of this became a part of the child.

No matter what the child did, she always knew her parents loved and cared for her.

Encouragement was never faltering, she strived for greatness not out of fear of consequence, but out of the pure bliss it was to be the recipient of their praise, and one of their foremost prides and joys.

This became a part of the child.

All of this became a part of the child.

These became a part of the child who went forth, who now goes forth, and who will always go forth, having been who these things have shaped her to become.

Olivia McKee

The Merry Tiding

Changing leaves dangle from a tree, ornaments rightly placed for the season.

Starlight comes sooner and the winds from the north briskly make its way, humming soft nightly hymns.

A child was born, a child to live as a lamb, a man to be a king, a crown adorned with thorns –His honor satisfied.

This is what the night whispered as the earth dreamt.

Morning breaks with bright, rubied gladness, and the last flicker of starry candles puffs out, smoky clouds lifting higher the songs.

A patient, full table prepared with coupled hands, remembering the songs with humbled hearts, reverent and hopeful to the ancient promise that makes every wintery December the emblem of His Noel.

Charity Latchman

Silence Without a right, the fern is green living in the sanctuary of the tree.

Spirits move and lift the fronds.

Like little crosses that hang in air, the fern imitates in silence.

Rooted, the fern endures day, and by night kneels.

Jennifer Tronti

Xiaomeng Angela Ding

FOR A CHILD WILL BE BORN FOR US, A SON WILL BE GIVEN TO US, AND THE GOVERNMENT WILL BE ON HIS SHOULDERS. HE WILL BE NAMED WONDERFUL COUNSELOR, MIGHTY GOD, ETERNAL FATHER, PRINCE OF PEACE. ISAIAH 9:6

Joy

Green & Gold In this pristine moment, they see me. Green and gold filter through, coloring my soul like the last leaves of summer. For a fluttering moment, they understand what I am, who I am.

Green and gold. Sunlight dancing on the silvery pines. New beginnings and tender endings. Smiles and giggling with my sisters.

It encompasses me and scrawls all over my mind, resplendent on the green and gold. Like stained glass dripping.

Like rainbow chasing. Youthful bliss and sincere wishing. Green and gold for the everlasting soul.

It’s crisp. Meandering thoughts are clarified in the aha moment. The epiphany breaks the stumbling labyrinth, tumbling forth like the waves on the shore.

Green and gold. Butterfly wings and the gilded song of a bird.

So soft, seemingly simple, but complexity radiates within.

I try to color in my soul, but the lines are hazy. There are no limits, but perhaps there are rules. The structure is indistinct but familiar all the same. I scribble the colors over my soul on stormy days when the rainbows are near but so far away. I stroke the soul gently when my spine feels like a wishbone about to snap. I wildly dribble and dash on the hues, dying my soul with unabashed splendor, reveling in the thought that I am alive and galloping.

Galloping, tumbling, stumbling. Where am I going? Eternity glistens like an emerald ever before me.

But today, in the late afternoon sun, between the limbs of a tree, I just want to inhale, collect it all in a second, and then breathe out. To share. To smile. To hope.

Endless rambles are silent in the shade of the present. Linger and sip. Restore my tender heart with a wash of green and gold.

Amberly Garcia

An Irony in Winter

The golden chaffs of harvest have winnowed and fallen to the ground, and the season of snow and frosty chill has closed his door to the warmth of sun-kissed days.

The fallen leaves of autumn now lies helplessly at his feet.

On Apollo's chariot, the blessed sun has journeyed south and the bashful moon is cloaked in misty garb.

The trees stand naked in the silent fields and the furry hare limps through the snow on frozen toes, and on barren boughs icicles hang like chandeliers.

The birds have ceased to sing, and the hound lies on the doorstep mat with ice-cold nose.

A chilling breeze blows through this winter land.

But winter, though he be cold, ironic is he, for despite his frosty brow and icy stare, beneath his chill, a warmth there be.

For it is during this season that goodwill reigns and kinships are rekindled, carols are sung and gifts are opened.

And before a lighted fire, in the warmth of friendship, we raise a glass to Auld Lang Synge, on a chilly winter's day.

Allan M. Bedashi

THE PINK CANDLE

D.T. Collins The candle melts, drop by drip, uncurl down the sides, form waves crest towards gravity, it is pink, the candle, that is, because we couldn’t afford new candles this year and mom had to use what was in the old oak cabinet drawer that holds the best dishes that we only use on holidays, but it is not a holiday, I am in the hospital, we read, from the Bible, obviously, and from a devotional book that somehow connects Handel’s Messiah to advent, why is advent in the hospital? We never finished the book so I don’t know most of the stories, but I do remember the first one about swords and performances and men with questionable fashion statements having to leave their swords behind because too many people were at the opera, is it an opera?

It is not a musical, and the last story, back to the advent book, is about Jesus' birth cause that’s what Christmas is all about, I wait, we wait, waiting, wait for the story to end, for the chocolate to be handed out, to put out the candle with the brass candle holder I polish, used to polish, every fall with the rest of mom’s brass candlesticks, I smell the polish now, or is it the disinfectant, we wait for Christmas to arrive, as I wait now, in the hospital, the pink curtain blocks the door as we wait for the doctor to come back. I hold my mother’s hand as we wait.

Lynn Wolfe

THE TRUE LIGHT THAT GIVES LIGHT TO EVERYONE, WAS COMING INTO THE WORLD. JOHN 1:19

Peace

NATURE’S WANDERING SOUL Daintily you flutter, softly you land, But I know not when you’ve come upon my hand.

Your presence is forever, behold, You flap your white wings, like a wandering soul.

Flitter, flutter, petite and pale, Hide, little one, before our God brings hail.

Explore around the garden and find a flower to claim.

You rest in my garden, but I know not your name.

You watch over the garden, keep watch over me, I hope one day, you will not cease to be.

Your wings create a symphony, I am in awe of your gentleness and beautiful brilliancy.

You are more than a small creature with white wings, You tug at my heartstrings.

Every flap, every flutter, every swerve you make, I pray the Lord awaken you and guide your wandering soul To Heaven for your sake.

Chloe Hiemstra

Counting Green and red and many lights look like strange stars hidden in puddles.

White. Tiny pinpricks of white, floating down from heaven.

Three people, covered in coats and huddled for warmth and softly swaying in rhythm. They might be smiling.

Green needles clinging to life, rejecting the ambient light around them.

Far above, a yellow star shines, refusing to be hidden by the snow.

Soft gloves, worn and loose in the fingers.

The bench is damp, through the familiar hole in the ring finger glove. It’s easy to run a finger across the wooden striations.

Warm, damp breath, brushing the nose and billowing up from the scarf in slowing puffs.

A single hair, plastered against the brow and mingling with the damp eyelashes where it does not belong.

The wind; not howling but singing in its own strange way.

Voices raised in simple song, one harmony floating above the rest.

Boots, plodding firmly and intentionally against the ground before easily fading out of hearing.

Someone has hot chocolate. It’s warm.

The needles have their own call, their own scent, and it doesn’t need to fight to be known. It’s simply there.

Fading salt in twin lines.

Tara Bushelman

CITY LIGHTS It never rains here.

The house is knife-slit silent, the sky no longer purple, but black.

Still, I sit awake.

The window pants, open-mouthed in the heat, but it never rains here.

Suddenly a crispness in the nothing air moistens a dehydrated tongue. I hear the musical footsteps of a liberating army prancing from above.

The sound should be funeral-organ sad but I just breathe.

Beyond, the city burns fiercely, a midnight torch refusing to die, flickering dangerously as the skies cry.

Across a bay of clay-tile roofs and roads scarred by pristine cars that should be chipped by salt air, I think I see a green light.

It has not been more than a minute or two, yet the footsteps fade.

I lie down in the darkness, eyes brighter now.

Tomorrow the proof will be gone, the spots on the pavement dry.

The rain, my secret with the trees and God and no one else.

Mightn’t it have been a dream?

A vivid brain trick in the night?

The green light, a fraudulent memory blissfully carved into my retina to tease me when I blink.

It will all be gone by morning because it never rains here.

Yet as my eyelids sink, the city lights seem to near, wearing a gentle creature’s rhythmic voice whisper-singing an unwritten lullaby: “You’ll know me one day, but you have time...

It’s time, it’s time, my dear, it’s time to close your eyes.”

Emily McGinn

Lynn Wolfe

I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God Ephesians 3:16-19