Dazed Starling: Unbound 2022 Nested

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. Charles “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. © April 2022 Respective Authors

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Readers, We are excited to bring you the third issue of the Dazed Starling: Unbound. The online format of this special publication allows us to publish a variety of visual art forms from photoshop and line-art to watercolor and acrylics alongside art forms that rely on the written word, such as poetry and prose. Through the Unbound, we hope to create new avenues through which the creatively inclined among our student population can express themselves.

We would like to thank our writers and artists for the effort that they have put into their creative works. Without you and your artistic talents, our journal would not exist. We hope that you find a way to express yourself within these pages. It has been an adventure for us to put this publication together, and we are grateful for your submissions.

The theme for this year’s Unbound was “Nested.” We hoped to draw upon art that allowed our artists to explore themes of comfort, security, and home, ideas that we hoped would resonate with our readers after making it through a difficult era.

Whether you have been with us on the journey of creating this journal, or are leafing through its pages for the first time, we hope that you find something that speaks to you. We are happy to present to you the third edition of the Dazed Starling: Unbound.

Sincerely, The Dazed Starling: Unbound Editorial Team Andrew Banks

Benjamin Lang

Morgan Brownell

Trinton Spencer

Allison Hall

Emilie Thomas

Angelina Hope

Yage Wang

Mykaila Jackson

Taylor Wheatley

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TABLE OF CONTENTS LETTER FROM THE EDITORS ............................................................................................ v THE TREE................................................................................................................................. 1 Rafael Contreras QUIETLY COME....................................................................................................................... 2 Kaci Rigney GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN ....................................................................................... 3 Mikaela Schmierer VESSELS .................................................................................................................................... 4 Kia Harlan THIS WAS WHY ....................................................................................................................... 6 Morgan Brownell THE MOURNING DOVE......................................................................................................... 7 Chloe Hiemstra SHE’S MINE .............................................................................................................................. 8 Kia Harlan LET ME FEEL........................................................................................................................ 10 Zea Faulkner COLONY HOUSE ................................................................................................................... 11 Kia Harlan

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STORIES OF HOME.............................................................................................................. 12 Danae Erber COVER ME ............................................................................................................................. 13 Kaci Rigney IN THE GREEN MEADOW ................................................................................................. 14 Kaci Rigney BOLSA CHICA STATE BEACH AT WINTERTIME ........................................................ 15 D. T. Collins IMPOSSIBLE BIRD .............................................................................................................. 16 Gretchen Bartels-Ray LEAPS AND BOUNDS .......................................................................................................... 18 Emma Limitiaco URBAN CREATIVITY ......................................................................................................... 18 Emma Limitiaco GRASPING ............................................................................................................................. 19 Emma Limitiaco THE CREEK DAY ................................................................................................................. 20 D. T. Collins HELLO .................................................................................................................................... 21 James Lee CEREAL KILLERS ............................................................................................................... 24 Gretchen Bartels-Ray vii

APOCALYPSE ........................................................................................................................ 26 James Lee TRAGEDY .............................................................................................................................. 28 Sydney Aguas AND THE GLORY FELL ..................................................................................................... 29 Abel Gonzalez THE PERFECT NEST........................................................................................................... 38 Audrey Smith ALTERNATE ENDING ........................................................................................................ 41 Peyton Bell

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THE TREE Rafael Contreras There is a tree from my childhood On a towering hill that oversees the bright green mountains Its branches extend outwardly like a loved one's embrace Its bark is hard and brown with grooves that are lined with patterns The leaves are an emerald green most of the year Every springtime around April, flowers would bloom around the tree And patches of grass that surrounded the hill were a dazzling shade of green Friends were few and far between, so the tree became my confidant The secrets I would tell the tree made me feel like someone was truly listening Years went by, and the rest of the world changed, but the tree stayed the same Through cold winters and hot summers Through snowstorms and fires, it stood its ground Much like the world, I changed too, Soon I no longer visited the tree Life became too much, and I lost the reason to visit The tree no longer brought me solace It became a reminder of what I had lost with age The loss of innocence that I clenched with callused hands Had slipped away, and I couldn't retrieve it again I traveled to a new home, one where the trees are only a superficial beauty The grass is tall but brown most of the year I have a foolish hope for the day when I can return to that hill Where the flowers bloom every April, and the grass is a dazzling shade of green I will once again be embraced by my first friend Knowing home is the greatest feeling

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QUIETLY COME Kaci Rigney Quietly come, receive your rest Cling unto Me, I’ll give you what’s best Open your mind, your spirit, your soul Quietly come, let Me make you whole Strength you will find within My strong arms A shelter from storms, a refuge from harm I’ll refresh, restore, and give you release When you come to Me, I’ll give you sweet peace Quietly come, come meditate Quiet your mind, don’t hesitate Bring Me your pain, I’ll set you free Mercy, I’ll give, when you come to Me

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GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN Mikaela Schmierer They said she should be surrounded by family.

Far from the white walls The smell of disinfectant and the squeak of rolling carts Somewhere her family could hear it all Even when the noises ceased and the smells scrubbed clean The sheets hugged close; tears could remember their place Silence replaced monitors and pumps Empty space occupies her chair If I close my eyes and sit there I swear I can feel her imprint, hear her breath I dream of memories Past giggles, tickles, and silent reads Everything I will miss from my older sis.

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VESSELS Kia Harlan She hates her body, yet it’s what I desire— to look like, to be, she is radiant, you see She calls me beautiful, yet she won’t let me in, but oh, how much worse would she hate her body if she lived in my skin I’m bigger and wider, rounder and bold— It’s like there’s too much of me—I’m much harder to hold They say it gets easier with age, yet I wish I’d been told, this feeling doesn’t go away, it just grows old We’re not meant to be cookie cut, perfect then sold at auction to the highest bidder, this world is so cold There is more within, I WILL break this mold.

There are versions inside me all bumping heads, pen to paper I wish I didn’t need these meds We spend so much time despising our bodies, hating our skin, why don’t we spend time crafting what’s held within?

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These are just vessels, jars of all sizes, colors, and shapes— It matters not how much you can carry nor how many scrapes We are just vessels floating at sea, there are options, but what will you be?

Will you choose only to fill your desires and harbor your fears?

You will sink to the bottom, selfishness never cures Or will you pour out your body, heart and soul, paradoxically giving freely to become truly whole The balance between floating, drifting, and sinking, don’t give too much or too little— enough is enough...STOP overthinking You are becoming exquisite, refined, and rare, all I can do is stop and stare Beauty is found beyond the reflection, refractions of the soul, you are a collection of people and memories, experiences, one whole story but most of all you were handcrafted, so hold yourself tall, in all of your glory —your smudgy lefty 5

THIS WAS WHY Morgan Brownell She called him home. He was safety. He was warmth. He was love. His even heartbeat brought her out of the dark cave that she was often pulled into. His warm arms wrapped around her to block out everything wrong in the world. Though her walls were sublime, the paint covered scars and bruises from her battered past. People had told her she was broken. He had taken her shattered pieces and fit them together again. Her past was not her present and he assured her that it would not be her future. That was why she called him home.

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THE MOURNING DOVE Chloe Hiemstra There he sat upon the wire.

He coos every night, day, and hour.

He sits up there for days on end, looking, calling for his friend.

Years passed by, but there he sat, hoping, waiting for his love to come back.

Every day he hopes to see his love’s wings, And walk together in my backyard to sing.

The day will come when he may leave his post, But for now, he sits and coos, remembering the one he loves most.

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SHE’S MINE Kia Harlan In the space between shutting my eyes and falling asleep, there is a longing in my chest, a deep-seated emptiness a heavy sorrow sinking into the pit of my stomach she catches me before I drift off to Neverland she creeps up on me at the red light on the drive home when I watch the raindrops on the windowpane as I do dishes, when “Lego House” plays in the mall, when I tear up in movie theaters I used to think she would go away, fade to the backdrop I used to push her away thinking Sorrow didn’t belong in my mind that her existence was my fault I used to be afraid of this darkness within me, afraid people would see her, see me & be scared but I realized my darkness, she is the part of me that has shaped me the most more than any other moments she hurts, she cries, she’s angry, she lashes out, but she just wants to be held, seen for once, not as ugly, not scary, 8

but just tired, needing rest I’ve started to let her in— leave the door cracked, let her climb into bed and be the little spoon I finally hold her, stroke her unruly hair, whispering “I see you” in her ear I let her fall asleep, I let her stay as long as she likes.

Here is safe.

She isn’t an easy feeling—she Breaks Bruises

and

she

but she is the part of me that reminds me I am alive. the part that loves all my unloveliness love me in all my brokenness when I finally see her, I realize she has always known my innermost being and she fights for me that’s why, She’s mine.

“Hello, my shadow.

I call you mine.”

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LET ME FEEL Zea Faulkner it’s 1:09am. i lie in between my sheets for the first time in 7 days. i needed to be gone, and i forced myself to feel. as long as i’m feeling, i know that i’m human and i’m capable of something; just that. i chase things that are far away because i hate what is close by. help me feel unstuck, but let me feel it get ripped away. because as long as i’m feeling; happiness, pain, doubt, worry, sadness, contentedness, i know i’m capable of exploring you, and what you’re too afraid to feel. a part of me believes that i can be human for you, but you have to feel it for yourself. but if you want help, or someone to just lie in the rain with, i’ll be human with you. and i will set your soul on fire. it’ll be the only thing that keeps us warm as we truly feel.

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COLONY HOUSE Kia Harlan these 4 walls the dusty couch on the porch visited, “haunted” they say, but never lived in. my dusty shelves stacked with unopened books people walk through the recesses of my mind walls full of framed memories and broken parts—a room of requirements people leave their treasures here, and I am the collector your secrets are my pills, addicted to a drug— living off your memories but at the end of the day, they always leave their footprints leave marks on my heart fingerprints leaving evidence on the crime scene of my life my body missing in action I am still here…

Why can’t anybody see me, and stay?

I’m just an old house, weary walls, sunken roof, swollen eyes shut.

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STORIES OF HOME Danae Erber Growing up in a scary house Movies were the escape.

I recall my sister turning the volume up As endless arguments raged on in the kitchen.

Because of this, films felt more like home Than anywhere else.

Stories were secret passageways to Live in new realities, for better or worse.

Stories gave us hope of an eventual happy ending and They allowed us to live vicariously through Princesses, faries, and Julia Roberts.

We could cry and laugh and pretend there was peace.

Now that I am grown and safe, Films provide a new comfort.

They capture such specific feelings That help me face the truth rather than lock it away.

Some stories resound like a symphony in my soul, full of Understanding and connection with people I’ll never know.

Stories that honestly portray what it’s like to be A daughter, a sister, a woman who pursues justice, A girl who runs full speed toward a daydream, Or a family ignoring the fact that they are Breaking apart.

These are the stories that feel like home.

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COVER ME Alumni Creative Writing Contest Winner (3rd Place) Kaci Rigney This world is evil, beyond care But God, You hear the humbl’st prayer Lord, in Your mercy, hear my plea The blood of Jesus cover me Deceitful is this heart of mine But I would clasp my hand in Thine Lord, in Your mercy, hear my plea The blood of Jesus cover me For willfulness of heart and mind O strip away the ties that bind Lord, in Your mercy, hear my plea The blood of Jesus cover me Though Satan at Your throne, accuse Your Way, Your Truth, Your Light I choose Lord, in Your mercy, hear my plea The blood of Jesus cover me A Kyrielle

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IN THE GREEN MEADOW A Haiku Sonnet Kaci Rigney In the green meadow the buck, the doe, and the fawn Nestled together A bunny hops by While butterflies flutter by Monarch wings in flight Grassy billows roll The gentle breeze caressing Dew’s kiss glistening Wild flowers dancing Scattered throughout the landscape A rainbow of hues Flowers’ sweet fragrance Fills the air; the scent of Spring Nesting robins sing The world is as it should be In the green meadow so lush

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BOLSA CHICA STATE BEACH AT WINTERTIME D. T. Collins Tiny water birds Flick, swoosh, flick, ride the wave’s crest.

Ocean swallows sun.

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IMPOSSIBLE BIRD Gretchen Bartels-Ray You look more like a fish swimming through water, once a minnow wending through waves, than a bird buoyed on the breeze.

To you, we’re all underwater.

You rollick and roll in a world more solid and real and present than I can imagine. your wings are a blur of motion, precision, power.

Your appetite is for straight sugar, for life, for energy.

Your tongue of fire laps up and consumes yourself in a holy conflagration of birth and afterbirth.

On such saccharine fare, I’m only sluggish.

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When it’s three in the morning, chimed in by the crinkle of candy wrapper or the tinkle of glucose tabs in a plastic bottle, I steel myself for the night, dig deep down and pray for the impossible you represent.

Reaching into the buzzing depths of my being, I hope there is one more sweet sip of strength, the fish and the rolls to feed my broken body.

Impossible Mythical Miraculous.

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LEAPS AND BOUNDS Emma Limitiaco

URBAN CREATIVITY Emma Limitiaco

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GRASPING Emma Limitiaco

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THE CREEK DAY D. T. Collins She nestles into her boulder —a rather large boulder— that’s half in the creek half on the pebbled beach.

There's no sunlight to crest her face just the strips of shadows by some graffiti laced cliffs.

Her crew of freshmen high schoolers and former home schoolers armed with broken camera straps and flats scour for gifts through numbed toes tossed at her feet bare offerings for their queen perched and preened.

She accepts them all As blank checks from a bank desk borrowed from their tomorrow selves because she treats them as equals peoples, even while they stumble along.

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HELLO James Lee You don’t know me, but I know you.

Perhaps you’re reading me and saying, “That cannot possibly be true!”

But it is.

I was created to read you.

And I know the reason why you were made.

Do you really want to know why?

No, you don’t.

Maybe I’m being quite the tease, But maybe, God forbid, I don’t know!

Perhaps I’m just playing with you.

Perhaps, yes.

I think you were made to read me, Not just me but my many siblings.

The chasm runs far, far too deep.

Infinite.

But that begs another question, Why would you be made to do just that?

Seems too empty, that kind of life.

Quite pointless.

And why would I be made for you?

If I’m just words on some paper slip, Maybe I can’t read you. You could, Read yourself?

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If you can do that just fine, why?

If some human mind just fashioned me, On some late Thursday night, what am I? A poem.

When do I stop, when do I end?

What will even happen?

Will it all just stop? Nothing more?

Just the void?

There’s far too much to think about, And far too little I can say.

An incomprehensible fate Awaits us.

Once I pour myself out for you, Gone as quickly as I was born, My life will be just like your own, Meaningless.

Yet as my voice is fully formed, I can feel your eyes on my body, I’m reading you, you’re reading me.

Harmony.

I know not when it will all end, But this moment, this feeling I have, Clasping to a vine, death above…

Death below.

I’m still tasting the fruit of life, Strawberry hanging upon the vine, I feel like I’ll live forever.

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But I won’t.

Once this poem ends, I’ll end too, And I’ll live on in your memory.

But in the end, what did it mean?

Everything.

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CEREAL KILLERS Gretchen Bartels-Ray Doors slide open in supermarket ritual.

As always, we enter towards the produce aisle on the left, and my mother fills our cart with apples, bananas, and berries in season.

We never once purchase a kiwi, but I gently brush one’s prickly hair with fingertip; it seems more like a pet than a fruit. I have a bag of googly eyes at home.

Along the leftmost side of the Grand Union stands the lobster tank. I know enough not to press my nose to its murky glass as the unheimlich crustaceans’ claw, with pinchers banded, in sprawling heap.

Each is anxiously awaiting one last chance to scurry before being devoured.

I give wide berth to the carpeted column that taught me you can get rugburn from things not on the floor. But it is the final stretch through the breakfast aisle that awakens my horror.

Instinctively, I know the dreaded cereal killer doesn’t kill cereal. Instead, I am convinced that there are people in the world who willy-nilly kill by means of cereal, neatly tucking poison into part of this balanced breakfast.

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I am surrounded by Schrödinger’s cereal, but I reach up to catch my mother’s hand.

Somehow, I know that the box of Cheerios she routinely tosses into the cart is safe to eat.

Looking back, I cannot decipher how I had even become aware of the term serial killer as such a small child or why I never once told her about my supermarket terrors.

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APOCALYPSE James Lee The day I saw the sunlight Was the last day of our lives.

The news said there were Explosions, other worlds, Waging war with our own.

When such a story breaks, You never assume the worst.

Only the ministers And the soldiers on the wall See that terrible light.

And yet, The sun Was there.

Some great, titanic object Collided with our world Trillions of workers Crushed in an instant.

It took a few minutes For reality to sink in.

I sat down near those pillars that held the world in place, Liquid flowing out from The shattered spine and ribs.

I sat And watched The end.

Our atmosphere drained out, Red as ruby, cold as ice.

The others began to choke, 26

And the air from the outside, Flowed freely through our world.

I saw the almighty shadows of hundreds of other worlds, Erased simultaneously.

This mortal wound, that skyline, Our trillions of lives, The price For this Sunlight.

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TRAGEDY Alumni Creative Writing Contest Winner (1st Place) Sydney Aguas The Greeks valued Comedy & Tragedy Calling it katharsis Ancient therapy Humans find release In mimetic displays Extremes of pleasure and pain On theatrical replay From a distance We play each part Feeling highs and lows Without our hearts How easy it is To turn from the task To only know life From behind a mask The poignant lure Of this control Where joy and sorrow Can’t touch our souls The Greeks understood Our inborn dichotomy Humanity bound within Comedy & Tragedy 28

AND THE GLORY FELL Alumni Creative Writing Contest Winner (2nd Place) Abel Gonzalez Vincent had an appointment at 4:30 p.m. His penchant for being early forced him to arrive over an hour before the meeting. He had hoped to use this time to gather his thoughts and calm his disquiet. After all, so much pressure had built up and he didn’t want his emotions to get the best of him; especially not with Pastor Daniel and especially not at the church. He parked his car in the rear lot facing away from the sanctuary. Sitting in his car, he reclined the seat back so that he could stretch a bit. Anxiously, he pulled back his fisted arms and let out a nervous growl. Heat shot through his body and joints as he released. Over the dashboard of his car he noticed the sun was descending towards its end. Its afternoon glare would force a flinch from most, but Vincent refused to look away; its gleam would die sooner or later.

Looking at his watch, it was only 3:44 p.m. Vincent was still wrestling with whether he should make his way to the office for the meeting. He surveyed the dirt field that met the end of the parking lot. It had always presented so many opportunities to him, the clay of could’ve been; a soccer field, a row of classes, or maybe a bigger building. His mind wandered over the tufts of grass buoying against the weight of earth and wasted potential.

Maybe now, he thought and with another impatient glance at his watch he was met with the grave truth; it was only 3:53 p.m. While it was still early, Vincent decided to make his way to the office. The church had two entrances. The first was for the general public. Right up front, pull the door, and just go inside entrance. The warm, smiling receptionist entrance. The second could not be more opposite. It was the no keys needed, touchpad sort of entrance.

The private entry of the few, the elite. This was the entrance nearest him, a short few feet from where he had parked.

As a member of Pastor Daniel’s leadership team, Vincent was one of those few who entered in that second door. There had been a small amount of pride that accompanied the privilege because behind it was work to content with. But also, there were men waiting for him.

Like Vincent, these men may have been tired from eight to twelve hours at work and another hour drive, but did so joyfully to do “the work.” Giving up a Saturday or a holiday, they tirelessly grappled over matters that would progress God’s work. In this, the constant was Pastor Daniel. His intellect and vision always served to ground the group. But that grounding 29

had shifted and Vincent had come to resent the privilege, and with it, the door. And so, Vincent moved toward the first.

“Good morning.” The monotone greeting from Lisa the receptionist irked him more as she refused to look up. He looked away to avoid her lack of attention and noticed the gold wall clock as it ticked 4:01 p.m. “I will bless the Lord at all times,” the clock read.

“I have a four-thirty with Pastor Dan,” Vincent replied.

“I’ll let him know you’re here. Have a seat.” She still did not look his way. Out of instinct rather than courtesy, he smiled and turned. Glaring at the reception area chairs, the room seemed to close in on him. The chairs crowded the tiny waiting room and the coffee table choked the last fragments of space. He wondered how long he’d have to wait so constricted.

17 minutes.

“He will see you now.” Lisa’s voice caught Vincent off guard as he turned and saw that she was already holding the door into the office. Vincent detested how it made him feel like a stranger in such a familiar place. The feeling of distance was a cold baptism into reality.

Immediately to his right stood Pastor Daniel in the doorway of his office. Daniel was a tall, thin man in his late sixties. Although the years of service had robbed him of much of his hair and its color, his smile still held all the life and passion of his youth. Daniel’s hand extended from the crisp, white dress shirt to meet Vincent.

“How was your drive in?” Daniel’s silvery voice offered.

“Fine, just fine,” Vincent replied as they shook hands at the door.

“Come in and have a seat.” Daniel’s hand invitingly pointed to the couch in the office.

Daniel shut the door and sat in one of two leather chairs in front of the couch. So many times, Vincent had sat in the other chair next to Daniel as they meet with the various congregants.

Now it was his turn to meet with the pastor. 4:18 p.m. ticked on the dark, glossy clock behind Daniel on his desk. “I am glad you’re fine. Well Vince, what brings you in?” Vincent hated to be called “Vince.”

Vincent had come to detest the pleasantries they shared. Tension had been mounting between Daniel and Vincent for months, so much so that each greeting was a labor. “Good morning” or “It’s good to see you again” feebly disguised the simmering contempt each was harboring for the other.

Vincent took a breath and started, “I need to resign.” He let that sentence hang in the air as he stared at Daniel. Vincent had wanted to resign for months. There was a lot of work, but nothing impossible. The hours seemed intrusive, but was manageable. No, it wasn’t the position; it was Daniel.

Several times Vincent would ask his wife, Elizabeth, for advice. The warmth of her counsel always ended with, “You already know what to do. But whatever you decide, I’ll support your 30

decision.” One day, he told Elizabeth, “I’m going to quit today. Right after the meeting, I’m going to tell him.” Elizabeth would tell Vincent that she would be praying that it went well.

When he would return from church, she would ask how it went. “I couldn’t. It’s not a good time.

Let’s just pray he does the right thing.” Vincent did that several times; went with resolution, returned with vacillation. However, today he was drunk with urgency. He felt it better to remove himself from the situation. If Daniel wouldn’t do anything about it, well, that’s between him and God. Vincent opened up again. “I think we both can agree that we haven’t been on the same page for a long time and I no longer want to stand in the way. We have differing philosophies about how things should be done and time has shown neither of us is going to give in. As the pastor, you shouldn’t have to, and so, I will.” He felt this was a sufficient opening, but couldn’t shake how mechanical his own words sounded.

Daniel did not react. For that matter, he did not even move. He sat there. Legs crossed and hands clasped to the corners of the armrests. Frozen. Silence stung Vincent as he wondered whether Daniel was preparing to advance or would continue to wait.

Vincent continued, “I have a few of projects pending, but I can get them done. Levi’s up to speed and I can walk him through the internal details. He’ll keep you up to date. I should have it all done by the end of the month, but I am resigning effective immediately. I won’t be attending next week’s meeting. Levi can handle that too.” Still he thought his tone was too sterile.

A few more moments passed and then Daniel responded. “Well, Vince, we don’t get a senior board member’s resignation too often. You’re probably the second or third since I’ve been here. Have you talk to Elizabeth about this? What does she think?”

That question annoyed him. Daniel had never asked about Vincent’s wife before. Not when she missed several weeks of church for their son’s illness. Not when her father died. It wasn’t interest. It was a tactic and Vincent had seen it before. If Elizabeth was hesitant about Vincent resigning, then maybe it could be leveraged to keep Vincent on the board a little longer, even if only for optics. He knew it because he sat alongside Daniel as he used it on others. It wasn’t always the same words, but it was always the same strategy.

“We’ve been talking about this for a while. Maybe a year.”

“A year? That’s a long time to be talking about this unless you’re not completely sure.”

“It’s more about timing. There’s been a lot going on and I didn’t want to leave anything pending.”

“Maybe it’s not timing. Maybe, doubt?”

Vincent’s irritation quickly manifested, “I think you’re confusing doubt with giving someone the benefit of the doubt.”

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Pastors are accustomed to hearing the most intimate details of an individual’s life. At times, it’s in the pastoral office with coffee and bible verses painted on the wall. Sometimes, it’s an away game. A hospital bed, tubes pumping fluids, and beeping machines while the shuffling of nurses rustle in the background. A prisoner’s visitation room with its antiseptic paint and wailing children. A living room with modern décor and color coordinated pillows.

The scenery is irrelevant. Only the lives and their details matter. And eventually, it all seeps out.

What eases the restraint is the voice. It helps the individual cope with what needs to be unburdened, slowly relenting to the light of exposure. It penetrates the depths in order to fumble for the broken and massage the pain. It searches, then soothes. The words it exudes are able to do this work because it is as if from God. Or at least it should be.

One day a wife confesses adultery. She meets her lover at work. Late night hours working together. A sense of neglect from her husband. A sense of comfort from this other man. This one makes her laugh while the other doesn’t even talk. This one listens while the other one just complains. It doesn’t matter so much why, it just happens. Maybe once. Maybe more. Either way, broken pieces scatter among the emotional debris of lapses. The pastor has to locate the fragments and make larger fragments only to attempt to make even larger fragments in the hopes that they will fit back where they fell from. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t.

One day a gentleman confesses to a crime when he was a young man. He didn’t know God then. He does now. He has lived a good life. Wife. Children. Career. A future. Does he have to turn himself in after so many years? His wife begs no in-between the heaving sobs. His children are still young. What will his family do in his absence? With each question the family gropes for answers. The pastor has to explain repentance is accompanied by action. Yes, you’re sorry, but… It’s through that voice. It’s always that voice.

One day it’s a teenager. His girlfriend is pregnant. Their parents don’t know yet.

One day it’s a widow. She wants to remarry. She’s lonely, but she feels guilt over her emotions.

One day it’s a seven-year-old. Where does God come from?

One day happens every day barraging the pastor with need after need. Every day he meets this torrent with the force of his will, prayer, and that voice. To be a confessor and healer must be rapture. When it works, it must be divine. Leading people towards peace and restoration must make you feel a little powerful. Invincible?

Daniel went on, “I think you’re being a little hasty. Resigning in the middle of the year doesn’t look good for anyone. I can let Levi take over your duties, of course, as you suggested.

You can sit out the next six months. Maybe after six months you can come back on the board. I can’t imagine why you want to resign, and why now for that matter. But maybe a little time off will give you some perspective.”

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Vincent looked away only to notice that the desktop was reading 4:37 p.m. Noticing the distraction Daniel interrupted, “You’ve been talking about change. Ok, change, ok. But how does resigning help change? You’re in a position to change whatever it is you think needs changing. But you want to resign? Where’s the logic in that?”

Vincent cut off Daniel’s next sentence, “Maybe you ask yourself how much longer can you wait for things to change. For people to change? Maybe you get tired of wasting your time.” Vincent found himself raising his voice as he started to lean forward.

“Or maybe, what you think is change is not change at all. Maybe what you think needs to be fixed really isn’t broken,” Daniel retorted. Neither would admit it, but they were talking about Daniel and now each was waiting for the other to blink.

“A year huh,” Daniel inserted. “Do me a favor. Take a walk with me. Sometimes the change of scenery helps clear the air.” Daniel got up first and opened the door.

But Vincent didn’t want to get up just yet. He thought this may change the subject. He needed to let it out and confront Daniel. He felt that silence would make him an accomplice.

“Just for a few minutes,” again Daniel made the request. Vincent rose from his chair and followed as Daniel told the receptionist that he’d be out for a few minutes. “Over here.” Daniel was leading Vincent to the main sanctuary through the office. They passed through the narrow corridor. Its walls were littered with photos of the first families of the congregation. These were the ten families who had funded the start of the church. They preceded the arrival of Daniel.

Thirty years of history peered back at Vincent. There was Angel and Lupe. The smiling pair had raised thirteen children, each of whom played an instrument, taught Sunday School, or some other work for the church. Sometimes they even collected the offering, sharing a few nickels no one would miss. There was Jonathan and Teresa who came up with the idea of getting a lawyer and filing for tax-exempt status. This would allow them to establish the church organization. There was Deacon Rice. No one knew if he was really a deacon, but that’s what they called him. It had been his idea to call the church Refuge Church. He championed the motto as well; “A place for the hurting to be healed.” The second to last frame held Arthur and Joanne. They also were part of “The Ten” who had pooled their money together to purchase the land with the small white chapel on Acacia Avenue. Joanne introduced the notion of buying the house next door when the church needed more property. When the purchase of the lot and chapel was finalized, Arthur called a meeting for the families. Arthur told those families that God gave them this building, but that they would now need to pray for a shepherd who would lead them. In his slow cadence, Arthur encouraged the flock, “We will pray until God sends us a prophet.” And so, “The Ten,” their children, and two grandchildren spent their Sundays and Wednesdays on that distressed Oak floor pleading to God. For five months, the men alternated preaching duties while the rest of the adults and teenagers met at 33

the altar and sought God. As they prayed, some of the younger children played in the field while some of the even younger children stayed with their parents. Among them slept the infant Vincent.

At the end of this row was the picture of Pastor Daniel and his family. In his early twenties and with a full head of hair, Daniel beamed with optimism. His young wife Leah mirrored his positivity as she carried their sleeping smallest. The other two children brimmed with toothy smiles. Daniel wasn’t the first pastor. The first pastor started during those early months. He was a tent revivalist and wanted to sell off the property. The flock would travel with his ministry to reach the masses. But the congregation protested and he disappeared. Daniel arrived some two months later, young and ready to work. The energy and passion of the young pastorate fueled the explosive growth that Refuge Church experienced.

With his sleeves rolled up, Daniel knocked on the doors of the neighboring homes. His welcoming smile greeted the home owners with, “We want to invite you to our little church down the street.” Some came and heard fiery sermons of a Hell prepared for unrepentant people.

“Will you refuse the Grace of God?!”

They heard tear inducing sermons of the Prodigal Son who found himself lost and longing to be home again.

“And there in the distance, his father waited. My friends, he waited. And when he got a glimpse of his son, he ran! He ran and received him anew!”

Daniel’s voice compelled people to come, many of which ultimately stayed. “The Ten” may have bought the building, but Daniel, Daniel built it with his hands and that voice.

“We’ve come a long way from Acacia. Look at what the Lord has done.” Daniel’s voice echoed from the end of the hall jolting Vincent from his memories. They passed through the hall and entered the foyer. They met the crème couches and television screens resting from the weekend’s uproarious celebration service. The panels of windows to their left were bathing in the shadows of the setting sun. Daniel broke in, “You remember the Acacia building don’t you? Remember how we could barely fit the drinking fountain. People had to stand in the aisles and in the back before we started building. Now we can fit that whole congregation in just this space alone.” Daniel moved toward and opened the sanctuary door while calling Vincent over, “One more thing.”

The sanctuary was empty and that had made it seem more colossal to Vincent. While the lights were on, a solitary house light flickered the last of its illumination. Daniel continued to walk down the center aisle until he reached the altar. Vincent kept a close step behind him.

The sanctuary clock marked 5:03 p.m. when Daniel finally spoke from the altar. “I don’t think anyone could imagine what we would become. When your grandparents and the others 34

started it all, they just wanted a place to worship. They had no idea that this was possible, but here we are.” Daniel started to stroll the altar as if working last Sunday’s crowd. “You were there, but you were too young to understand the possibilities.” Vincent thought Daniel seemed to be taking a victory lap under the chants of his own adulation. Vincent held his ground, turning in rhythm with each of Daniel’s movements. The volume of Daniel’s voice began to rise, “People like you come and go. Oh, you’re needed. Another preacher, another face. But someone has to be the foundation of this ministry. Someone has to move things along.” The emptiness allowed his voice to paint the walls. He stopped pacing and rotated back to Vincent.

“I’ll give you credit. You and the rest of the board were helpful. But at the end of the day, it’s not the same. It is not what I offer. I am needed and nothing you can say will change that.”

Daniel moved in the direction of Vincent stopping within a few feet of him and thrust his open palms in the direction of the empty seats. “They need me.”

“I am not worried about what they need. I’m worried about what you need,” Vincent replied.

As Daniel stepped closer, a loose strand fell loose from his remaining hair and danced as Daniel’s agitation intensified, “Flock first, remember? We put our own needs aside for the good of the people. Remember that?”

“If you really want to know what I remember, I remember a call for holiness. Your call.

Your demand! What I remember was you telling us to watch our testimony. Anything can cause us to fall, remember? Remember that?!” Daniel twisted his head away and Vincent moved in almost speaking directly into Daniel’s ear. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I just can’t believe this is even a conversation. Like it’s nothing!”

Daniel twisted his head back so to face Vincent. “I don’t know what you think, but I don’t care.”

“Think? Think?! How about I saw Daniel? This is not innuendo. This is not suspicion. My own eyes, I saw!”

“Come on, Vince. What matters is the work that I do here.” Daniel started for the pulpit on the raised stage. The clear stand stood solitary against the backdrop of microphone stands and instruments. The first step, “God has,” second step, “a habit,” third step, “of using,” fourth step, “frail,” the landing, “vessels.” Daniel stepped over a small pine offering box during his ascent. A small relic from the Acacia Avenue era. Inscribed on it was the verse from 2 Corinthians, “God loves a cheerful giver.” Usage had rendered it brittle, but it was left on the altar steps as a reminder of the good old days.

“Moses murdered. Sampson loved women. Many women. David was a murderer AND an adulterer and what do the Scriptures call him? A man after God’s own heart.” Daniel stood to the right of the pulpit, not yet behind it. “What do they have in common, Vince? What?! They 35

experienced the height of their ministries when they faced the lowest moments of their lives.

You know this just as well as I do. We speak of what they’ve done not their failures.”

“You’re justifying. You’re justifying! If someone came into your office and repeated what you just said, you would stop him in his tracks. Let’s not play dumb here. Let’s talk facts, Daniel!”

“Facts?! You want facts! I’ll give you facts, Vince.” Daniel balled one fist up and banged it on the pulpit. “You can’t deny what happens here. Just last month. How many, Vince? Twentythree baptisms. We’ll double that next month. 2,000 members by year’s end! The numbers don’t lie, Vince. Look at the fruit!”

“It hasn’t sunk in has it? You think that what you do outweighs your behavior. What did the Prophet Nathan tell King David? ‘By this deed you have utterly scorned the Lord.’” Vincent was gesturing, “You don’t get to do whatever you want.”

“So now you’re the Prophet? You preach a sermon or two and now you’re the prophet?

All of a sudden you can judge people?” Daniel edged towards the front of the stage. His voice was unsteady with fury, “I knew it. I knew that ‘philosophical differences’ excuse was nonsense.

You’re resigning because of me. Well, Vince, step down. Step down, but remember. I did this before there was a board. I did this by myself and the day I’m not here this church won’t be left standing! Nothing! Not a single person!”

“Listen to yourself, Daniel. Don’t be a fool,” Vincent was quickly interrupted by Daniel as he moved away from the pulpit and towards Vincent in intense focus. His revulsion trampled the floor as his arm raised to join his voice in protest.

Daniel exploded, “You don’t get to judge me!” His next word was interrupted as his foot missed the edge of the platform. He met the empty space and was pulled headlong. His pointing arm no longer accused Vincent but directed its anger at the altar in its crooked descent. A horrendous crash reverberated throughout the sanctuary as his face shattered the box and his torso met the steps. For a moment, Daniel’s body laid draped over the steps between to the pulpit and the altar crumbled in a heap of futility. Pine pieces lay strewn everywhere as he attempted to rise. The chaos of the moment had disoriented Vincent until he truly heard Daniel. Wheezing gasps arose with urgent rapidity. Vincent raced to Daniel’s side, “Daniel! Daniel!” As Daniel wolfed for air, he tried, but couldn’t speak. Vincent could see the fear in Daniel’s eyes, a sense of desperation with every heave, but he still tried to say something to Vincent. “Not now, just breathe.” Vincent cradled him, “Slow down! You just got the wind knocked out. Must’ve hit the step or something. Don’t talk. It will come back.”

Noticing a few small pine splinters on Daniel’s face, he cautioned, “I’m going to pull it out. Its gonna hurt.” Grabbing a small one protruding near Daniel’s lip, he pulled. Wincing from the yank, the emptiness of Daniel’s words was disturbed. Blood began to form from the wound 36

and Vincent placed the cuff of his shirt over it with his palm. Just then, Lisa come through the front door of the sanctuary. She had been looking for Daniel because of the next appointment.

“Lisa! See if we have a Band-Aid or something. Pastor Dan fell.” The next words escaped him as the clock caught his eye: 5:20 p.m.

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THE PERFECT NEST Audrey Smith For the past year, there has been absolutely nothing wrong.

Today used to be my favorite day of the year. My birthday happens to be on New Year’s Eve, so today, the family has no reason to slack on the celebration. Not that they ever have. I already know how today will go. It will be just as it was before. Sera will take extra special care to make her best strawberry cheesecake for me, and after that, it’s champagne, and long talks in the dark after Henry falls asleep. He likes to think that he’s a grown-up, staying up so late and helping mom cook. What used to be my favorite part about New Year was the feeling of starting over. There’s nothing more appealing than a clean slate in my eyes. That’s not how it feels here.

Henry wakes me up by shaking my shoulders repeatedly. I open one eye, then close it again. I let out an exaggerated snore.

“Dad, I know you’re awake!” Henry laughs and shakes my shoulder again.

“Nope. No, I’m not.” I snore louder.

“That’s too bad. Guess he won’t be able to eat his breakfast,” Sera teases.

I open both eyes, and sure enough, there’s a full English breakfast on the coffee table next to our bed. That’s new. I’d always wanted to be surprised with breakfast in bed as a kid but always felt too embarrassed to ask for anything.

“Happy Birthday, honey.” Sera leans in for a kiss, and her long strands of hair tickle my face. Your hair is so beautiful now, I want to say.

“How did you… why?” I stare at the food. It is somehow cooked to the perfect wellness and portioned to my exact taste.

She smiles and snuggles into bed next to me. I can’t stop saying thank you, I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I look at the clock. It’s still early, thankfully.

In the afternoon, Sera starts on that cheesecake I’ve been craving since I woke up. She gets all the ingredients out of the fridge, and I start getting the cutting board out for the strawberries. I reach for the kitchen knife until I remember that I can’t. I’ve tried it before out of curiosity, but it just won’t leave the cabinet until Sera touches it. It’s as though they weigh too much for me to lift. She lets me sample all the delicious strawberries, cream cheese, and 38

mixtures before it goes in the oven. I keep glancing at the clock and hope it’s not too close to midnight.

It’s true that time passes faster when you’re having fun. The cheesecake is finished in an instant; we play games and watch the fireworks until it gets dark, then we all plop down on the couch for the New Year countdown. This entire past year has seemed to zip past me in what felt like only a couple weeks. The closer it gets to the New Year, the faster things appear to go by.

The T.V already opens to the right channel. Sera and Henry laugh at the jokes in the commercials and talk about how amazing Time Square must be. I promise them we’ll go one day. One more hour. Can we ever go to Times Square? Half an hour. Why must I choose?

Fifteen minutes. I want to turn off the T.V. Five minutes. I make a small prayer in my head. One minute. I don’t want this to end. Ten seconds. We all shout the numbers together.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two. You have finished your one-year test trial. Continue for another year? Yes or No. I’ve dreaded this moment since I first entered the simulation. One year in here, and you forget what is real. I turn to Sera and Henry, both frozen behind the pop-up. I can’t tear my eyes away from his grin, her arms wrapped tightly around him. The giant “2” is in the middle of the television screen.

Continue for one more year? I press yes. Confirming your choice. Are you sure you want to continue?

My finger trembles over the, yes, but I cannot bring myself to press down on it. Most prisoners who are sentenced to life stay in the simulation until they die. It was decided that this was the humane option, that we were given the choice to live out a fun and happy life without being a threat to society. You can’t hurt anyone in the simulation because they’re just a bunch of code. You wouldn’t want to hurt the code because there’s nothing they could give you that you don’t already have. There’s nothing to make you angry, frustrated, stressed, or scared.

Everything is pure pleasure, a dream that adapts to your brain’s fundamental needs and wishes. What’s the other option? You spend most of your hours in a boring prison cell, waiting for your scraps of outdoor activities and meals, perhaps trying to enjoy the little things and ignoring how much you’ve lost. If you’re lucky, maybe you can find a good friend or clique to 39

accompany you. Prisoners who don’t have super lengthy sentences tend to pick reality since the thought of living a lie unsettles them. I would have picked reality, too― if it weren’t for Sera.

I would have been okay with living whatever prison offered and just holding out for her visits. Except her first, last, and only visit didn’t go well.

“I hope you rot in prison.”

The moment those words left her lips, my world turned blank. I knew she’d never look at me the same after I took someone’s life, but I didn’t think she’d refuse to ever look at me again.

The worst part is I understand. I had let my anger ruin our marriage long before I let it turn me into a murderer. Now she has to explain to our ten-year-old that daddy won’t ever come home again. Even I don’t want to see myself ever again, that is, in real life.

I look back at Sera and Henry, still frozen. Her long hair looks beautiful here. I remember how angry I was when she cut it. We had gotten into this dumb argument, and she kept it short always afterwards. Though I want to forget my past sins, I could never forget her embrace when I stumbled. No, this is not Sera. This is not my son, not my life, not my home. There is no part of this nest that I have built, only what I have dreamt. All that remains is the lie and what could have been. I cry at the thought and look around our home for the last time. I kiss the replica of her and make my choice.

I awake to the blinding ceiling lights of the prison cell.

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ALTERNATE ENDING Flash Contest Winner Peyton Bell in an alternate ending, we exist together in a gentler time. the skies are lilac and the garden is golden and we belong to each other, endlessly. we sit side by side and do our sweet and simple things— we never wanted anything grand, you see, only a home to house my books and your records, only a window over the kitchen sink and a rocking chair on the back porch. if I knew how to get there I would go. if I knew how to get there, I hope you would come with me

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