The Phoenix

The Phoenix Literary and Visual Arts Journal

Volume 61 // 2018

Staff Co-Editor-in-Chief // Kaitlin Abrahams Co-Editor-in-Chief // Larissa Graber Layout and Design Editor // Bethany Tuel Publicist // Savannah Olshove

Thank you to...

Everyone who submitted material Our faithful readers Our faculty advisor, Kevin Seidel The EMU Student Government Association The EMU Print Shop

“The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists.� ~ Charles Dickens

We hope you love the created works of literature and art within these pages as much as we have. We are pleased to present to you, for your enjoyment, the sixty-first version of The Phoenix.

Kaitlin Abrahams, Larissa Graber, Bethany Tuel, and Savannah Olshove

Contents Cover Northern Two-Lined Salamander // Rachel Holderman 1 Children // Caleb Schrock-Hurst Maine Beach // Kaitlin Abrahams 2 The Wall // Kat Lehman Commonplace // Daniel Bellerose 3-4 Shanghai // Dylan Buchanan 5 It is not fair, mija. // Maria Yoder 6 Deeply Rooted // Joshua Curtis 7-8 Permission of Anxiety // Joshua Calderon 9 Confesiรณn // Emilio Ramirez Fajardo Lost in the Lines // Robert Weaver 10 Confession // Translated by Jonathan Nielsen Crusty Lichen (Cushion Xanthoria) // Rachel Holderman 11 What the Wind Swept In // Hilary Moore 12 Rainbow Owl // Lara Weaver Rainbow Gorilla // Lara Weaver 13-14 My Tune // Carissa Luginbill 15 La Sagrada Familia at Noon // Gwen Mallow Wealth // William Ewart 16 Parisian Time // Kaitlin Abrahams The Lake // Daniel Bellerose 17 The Two Roads // Bethany Tuel Reflections // Andrea Cable 18 An Outdated Industry // Missy Muterspaugh Sebob II // Kat Lehman 19-20 False Lesson // Joshua Calderon 21 The Landing Place // Alyssa Moyer Barahona 22 After School // Caleb Schrock-Hurst 23 I am fond of the Night // Kaitlin Abrahams

24 Conception of Flight // Alyssa Moyer Barahona Up Close and Personal // Andrea Cable 25-26 Erupt // Missy Muterspaugh 27 Feathers Like Gold // Alyssa Moyer Barahona Dissection // Caleb Schrock-Hurst 28 Wings // Carissa Luginbill The Journey // Joshua Curtis 29-30 Japanese Beetle // Rachel Holderman 31 My Body of Water // Kaitlin Abrahams 32 Swinging on the Sunset // Nicole Litwiller 33-34 Falling Springs // Dylan Buchanan 35 Bitter Fruit // Elizabeth Nisly 36 Sebob // Kat Lehman 37 Overflow // Missy Muterspaugh 38 Sea Foam // Liesl Graber 39 Everyday Walk // William Ewart 40 Racists Like Me // Asahel Church Leaf Impression Mug // Rachel Holderman 41-42 Wilderness of Fate // Joshua Calderon 43 The Price of a Rib // Liesl Graber Broken // Bethany Tuel 44 Prayer Flags in Mussoorie, India // Lara Weaver 45 Waldorf: The Pasture Puppy // Alyssa Moyer Barahona Cow at Peace // Robert Weaver 46 Flag Man // Joseph Harder 47 Imbalance // Dylan Buchanan 48 Route 81 // Caleb Schrock-Hurst

Children Caleb Schrock-Hurst I am terrified of children especially the pudgy ones who waddle through life eating hot dogs, toast, and glue, neglecting their mother tongue in favor of Buzzfeed and Spongebob.

They are far from harmless: they are the future, and that is all the terror I will ever need.

Maine Beach // Kaitlin Abrahams

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The Wall // Kat Lehman

Commonplace Daniel Bellerose Rolling kings and temples Skinbone armies march towards West Virginia Once bearing leaves A lone soldier stands on a hill And salutes those who are growing Those who have grown This is commonplace Seeing the ends of Appalachia From my window It was once magnificence

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Shanghai// Dylan Buchanan 4

It is not fair, mija.

Maria Yoder

“What are you teaching your daughter!?” Disgust dripped from Mr. Talbot’s voice so heavily Andrea half expected to see it pooling around his Italian loafers onto the laminated school floor. The photograph in his meaty hand showed two teenagers drunkenly beaming at the camera, the girl wearing cat ears and a skimpy black leotard while the guy clutched a lifeguard’s innertube. Andrea watched a shadow of confusion cross Mamá’s face and wondered if her mother would defend her. Despite living in the States for five years, Mamá still struggled to form sentences in her non-native tongue. She swallowed visibly and pushed her slim shoulders back, eyes hardening into steel. Andrea had seen that look once before, the first time she and Mamá set foot in the United States.

The coyote’s eyes darted between mother and daughter.

“This is where I stop. The guy in this shop –” he gestured at the cement building in front of them – “He can drive you to Houston. I just need the rest of your payment.”

Andrea looked questioningly at her mother; she thought they had already paid the coyote everything they could afford. Mamá’s fists were clenched and she was breathing heavily. Andrea glanced back at the coyote, a wiry man not much older than Mamá but with a thousand wrinkles lining his shrewd face. His dark eyes bored into Andrea in a way that made her shiver despite the heat.

“Your daughter is beautiful,” he whispered. “I would prefer, I think...”

“No!” Mamá took a forceful step forward, slightly in front of Andrea, then eased into the swaying gait Andrea had long admired. “Remember what we agreed, Manuel, let’s do this now.” She turned towards Andrea but her eyes were focused somewhere on the ground between them; “Stay here mija, ya vengo.”

“Mamá, what…?” Her unanswered question hung in the air as she watched the coyote disappear into the shop with her mother, a numbness forming somewhere deep inside her gut and eating its way up to the top of her scalp.

An eternity later Andrea watched, as if from outside her own body, as their coyote sauntered out of the building. Mamá emerged next, her raven-colored hair matted with dirt and eye-catching gait marked with a slight limp. She beckoned and Andrea walked hesitantly forward.

“It is not fair, mija,” Mamá’s voice broke and she cleared her throat. When she spoke next her eyes met Andrea’s, hard as steel. “It is not fair, but our life will be better now.”

In the harsh lighting of the principal’s office Andrea struggled to control her shame. Out of habit she tugged up on the neckline of her shirt to hide breasts that were blatantly visible in the photograph. They were visible no matter what she wore, but Andrea cringed at how exposed they were in the leotard. Thinking of her mother’s sacrifices for the life they had in Houston made her even more regretful of that one night, the only night, she had snuck out to have fun.

“Please come Drea, you have to!” Monica begged. “The whole school is going to be there. Dominick will be there!”

Andrea blushed involuntarily; Dominick Talbot was one of the most handsome boys at York High School, and he had asked her specifically if she would go to the Halloween party that night. The laundromat she worked at closed at 10; she could still make it to the party if she hurried...

Sitting in Monica’s car after the party, Andrea felt something wet drip down the inside of her leg. She wiped it with her hand and held it up to the light.

“Is that…?” breathed Monica, who was crying more than Andrea.

“Blood, yeah,” said Andrea, then, “I tried to tell him it hurt.”

A familiar numbness deadened the pain she was feeling, a numbness which had started when Dominick pulled her into the side closet and grew when he grabbed her breasts, covered her mouth when she screamed for help, ripped a hole in her leotard...

The tension in the principal’s office was stretched taught as a bowstring, all eyes on the small Colombian woman sitting ramrod straight on the edge of her chair. Without turning her head, Mama addressed Andrea.

“It is not fair, mija. Don’t think that this is fair.”

Then she turned to Mr. Talbot and said slowly, deliberately, “The question we should ask here is not what I am teaching my daughter. What are you, Mr. Talbot, teaching your son?”

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Deeply Rooted // Joshua Curtis

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Permission of Anxiety // Joshua Calderon 8

Lost in the Lines // Robert Weaver

Confesión Emilio Ramirez Fajardo Mis pesares son silencios lanzados al viento Mis anhelos cual bote en ventisca vadeando alta mar Las heridas del pasado aun turgente siento ¡Bajo los escombros del presente me rehusó a estar!

Sonrisas taciturnas se escapan de mis labios Labios que en otrora solían trinar Las suplicas de tiempo en oídos sordos chocan La gracia se ha marchado, solo queda luchar Ansia incontrolable, infalible deseo Angustia indeleble que duelen al marchar Efímeros momentos jubilosos veo Solo en sus ojos me suelo reflejar Zozobra en la distancia, distancia más olvido Llanto mudo y agrio imposible de parar Confianza tambaleante en mi estirpe anido La suerte ya está echada, me debo al andar.

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Crusty Lichen (Cushion Xanthoria) // Rachel Holderman

Confession Translated by Jonathan Nielsen My sorrows, unseen, the wind steals away My yearnings a boat ravaged by the high sea Past wounds dull, cureless, tender Trapped under today’s ruin, I refuse to be Empty smiles my mouth renders Lips that once sang as nightingales My pleas make music to the drums of deaf ears Grace ended, struggle begun Uncontrollable craving, infallible desire Ubiquitous anguish, a pilgrim’s burden Ephemeral ecstasy fleeting Only in her eyes I see myself Unease in the distance, distance long forgotten Perpetual bitter and mute tears fall My trust wavers in who I am, what I’ve done, who I’ve been My stars have been aligned: in spite of them, I press on.

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What the Wind Swept In Hilary Moore

His eyes are a deep brown, the kind that hides where the pupil ends and the iris begins. That day though, they were barren tunnels, burrowed above his freckled cheeks.

“What?” I asked, my brow furrowed.

“I wish you were dead,” he repeated, nonchalant. His eyes neither blinked nor looked away in shame. Only his mouth moved, as if under someone else’s control.

When I picked him up at pre-school just moments earlier, everything was fine. Our eyes met, and we broke into smiles. He raced toward me. I knelt on one knee, lowering myself so we were face to face. I reveled in the glint in his eye, the auburn curl of his hair, dimple in his cheek, his jubilation at our reunion though the separation was brief. He stretched his arms around my neck, and we embraced.

Now my eyes flitted between the road and his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“We don’t talk like that, son. Don’t say it again,” I snipped. My jaw and shoulders stiffened. What’s wrong with him? I wondered.

We scooted along the narrow road lined with barbed wire fence, anchored with wooden fence posts. The dried grasses that gathered around the post bases, shifted with the wind. Cows spotted the hillside. We slowed, approaching the three-way stop.

“I wish you were dead,” he repeated.

I glanced back at his reflection as we sat motionless at the vacant intersection. He looked like he hadn’t said a word. Like there was nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn’t mad or sad. He stared back at my reflection. He stared through me, stating truth, as if he had just matter-of-factly told me that today was Thursday.

I looked both ways before accelerating, turning the steering wheel to the right, and continuing home.

“Well,” I pursed my lips,“then I guess you can go to your room when we get home. I don’t need to be treated like that.” I huffed, unable to hide my irritation. I turned up the radio.

We crept along, around the blind curve, over the hill, and past the “eggs for sale” sign that tossed in the wind, hanging from a neighbor’s battered mailbox. The gravel crunched beneath our tires as we turned left down our road.

His voice added a misplaced note to the song, and I looked back to catch his lips just complete a movement before becoming still.

“What?” I raised my voice over the music, then turned down the volume.

“I wish you were dead.” The words hung in the silence.

I clinched my teeth and turned my head away from the rearview mirror. I gripped the wheel, my forearms flexed.

“You know, that’s really too bad,” I sassed, aggravated at him and at myself for letting him get to me. “Because I’m your mother, and I love you more than anything on Earth.” My head bobbed, punctuating the syllables.

“And I’m going to continue to love you, even if you say nasty things and wish I were dead.”

I looked — sightlessly — at the gutted remnants of a deer hide in the unmaintained field across from our property as we passed. I waited a moment before glancing back at his reflection and continuing.

“Maybe I need to spank you before I send you to your room,” I threatened, raising my eyebrows. My eyes shot back to his reflection, daring him to persist.

His eyes were glassy with wetness. Tears collected on his bottom lids. His lips pulled tight into a silent frown, as if someone had forced the words from his innocent mouth leaving a bitter aftertaste. Then tears skidded down his cheeks. He was still silent.

The car slowed as we turned into our driveway.

“I wish you were dead.”

I stopped the car, opened my door, and got out. The wind whipped hair across my cheek, and I brushed it away with one hand as I opened the van’s sliding door with the other. I climbed into the back and unfastened him.

“Are you going to spank me now?”

“No. If you can’t treat me with respect, then you can walk yourself up to the house.”

He opened his mouth in a scream, tears washing down his face. I pressed his arms into the sides of his body and picked him up like a battering ram. I removed him from the van and planted him in the grass that lined our driveway. His shirt whipped around his bony arm like a flag, rippling around at flagpole.

“But I do Mommy,” he insisted. “I wish you were dead!” He sputtered between tears.

I got back in the car and drove up the hill to our house. He ran alongside as fast as his 4-year-old legs could carry him. His black maw agape in a silent scream, the sound either blocked by the car window or swept away by the wind. The branches of the naked maple trees that lined our driveway contorted against the wind’s bluster.

My heart softened as I watched his little body struggle to keep up, running parallel to the van. This wasn’t 11

like him. At times he makes comments about something being dead or killing bad guys in his pretend play. I correct him, reminding him that he doesn’t know what death means. He smiles and says, “Okay Mommy!” or “We were just playing,” then hugs me, or gives me an air kiss from across the room. He is sweetness.

I knelt on the concrete floor of the garage, careful to dodge poop from where the chickens had snuck in to avoid the weather. He ran into my arms, not to me, but away from something. I caught him, huffing and wet, his hair wind-tossed. He gripped my body.

“Are you okay? Why do you keep saying that?” I released him and looked into his face, searching.

“The trees told me to say it Mommy,” he explained, in the same exacerbated tone he’d use to tell on his brother.

I paused, confused, considering how to respond.

“What trees?” I asked. He was too upset. I couldn’t dismiss it as a joke. It had gone too far. I looked over his shoulder, beyond, to the dancing, naked, maples.

“Those trees Mommy,” he said, pointing. “They tell me to say mean things and to do bad things to Mommy.”

“Is this the first time they’ve talked to you?” I stammered, moving closer to him, noting his brow, the shift of his eyes, the stance of his body. He was serious.

“No Mommy,” he shook his head, knocking loose the words from his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, like when you cover your ears to block out a sound. “They talk all the time.” He grimaced, opening his eyes again and tilting his head to one side. “They talk so fast, I can hardly hear what they’re saying.” He looked to me gently now, himself again. He was confessing, hoping I’d believe him and forgive him.

Sometimes in the valley, a wind whips between the mountains like buildings in the city. It’s like an open refrigerator door on a sweltering summer day. Other times it comes in the dance between seasons, like a nervous whistle, breaking the silence. It beats strong against the windowpanes, like someone lost, wanting to get in. It entices the horses to kick up their hooves and race along the fence line. It pulls the dust from beneath baseboards and slams doors you forgot were left open.

Rainbow Owl // Lara Weaver

Rainbow Gorilla // Lara Weaver

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My Tune // Carissa Luginbill 14

La Sagrada Familia at Noon // Gwen Mallow

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Wealth // William Ewart

The Lake

Parisian Time // Kaitlin Abrahams

Daniel Bellerose I remember the lake Stone cold surface Red dawn riding on waves I was all in orange And you were all in blue And when the rain melted us together We were as one And nothing had changed

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The Two Roads Bethany Tuel Twice I stared down the roads, searching for something to aid my decision.

Searching for something worth chasing.

One was covered in bricks, restructured by expectations and potential.

Warmed by the sun, it tempted my cold feet.

The other was shrouded by stones, built to prevent catastrophic trials and terrible judgement.

Waiting for the sunset, it sought my approval.

Now, having travelled both, I can say for certain that stones and bricks are equally safe and painful.

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Reflections // Andrea Cable

An Outdated Industry // Missy Muterspaugh

Sebob II // Kat Lehman 18

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False Lesson // Joshua Calderon 20

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The Landing Place // Alyssa Moyer Barahona

After School Caleb Schrock-Hurst

I hit him.

I think I did it right too, just like dad taught me: I planted my feet and rotated my torso, and man, the crunch of my closed fingers on his jaw was sharp as toys left on the floor of my room. He stumbled backward into a crouch.

“Stay down, coward.” It sounded tough. The guys behind me cheered. Their breaths out were white in the November air.

He looked up at me. I could almost hear his stupid explanations, consonants a little too crisp and vowels a little too harsh, but his split lip remained closed. He just crouched there. He didn’t cry. I stepped back a bit.

Now what? Do I hit him again? I could hear my heart beating. My hand hurt. The guys behind me stopped yelling.

Did the teacher see? I snuck a look towards the school. A month ago she was out for two weeks when they killed her boyfriend. So young, everyone said, the same age as James was. We all just felt awful. When she got back we brought her food and said we were sorry. She probably wants me to hit him.

He said he was sorry too, but we all know he speaks German at home, him and his stupid family that dresses funny and his stupid dad with his weird beard.

My dad doesn’t have a beard. We dress normal.

Dad told me all about how it is: they won’t stop till they come here too. That’s why James went, to stop them right back. And the Japs out west, too. At least there aren’t any Japs here.

It was quiet. He stayed in a squat, rocking forward and backward a little bit. His shoes had farm dirt on them just like mine.

Somebody behind me told me to hit him again, but I didn’t. After another second the guys shoved his brother forward too. He was too little to hit, but he was crying and walked past me to stand by his brother. They have matching blond bowlcuts.

“Why do you get to still have a brother?” I shouted. It echoed off the trees and the back of the school. Brother. Brother. Brother.

My brother died because of them. James died because of them.

I started to run towards them. The guys started yelling again. He stood up and grabbed his brother’s hand and ran towards the path towards his farm, not quite sprinting, pulling his brother behind, looking back every three steps.

I let them go. The ground crunched under their black shoes.

“German lovers! Kraut Spewers! Nazis! Nazis!” We shouted at them as they ran west towards the winter sun hand in hand. “Get out of here, Germans! Go home! Hitler lovers!” The guys laughed and threw frozen dirt clods that landed hopelessly far from their targets.

He looked back one more time before he reached the trees. He wasn’t crying.

I was.

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I am fond of the Night Kaitlin Abrahams I am fond of the Night that wraps its smooth shadowarms silently around me and dimly drowns the wooded hills in pools of stillness.

I am afraid of the Day— the rays of Sun made to stab, sharply through the blue cloak of my nocturnal anonymity With lights, with blares, with glares, confusions, clamors, colors; Day is a mixed, muddled palette, a jumbled, jangled symphony-clanging discord, glaring chaos.

But soon the cool curtain of Dusk shall descend and husky winds will murmur “hush, hush, hush”— purring silkier than the fur of the grey cat who slumbers on window-sills.

I would be numb as night-wind, dumb as dim dusk-shades, if I could be, not trapped within this finite membrane, chained to this maimed human heart.

I fear the Sun will scorch my skin, branding my mortality, but soon the Night shall come— the clear, cool, clean, cloudless Night I love, and wrap its smooth, somnolent wings about me— the wings of silence.

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Conception of Flight // Alyssa Moyer Barahona

Up Close and Personal // Andrea Cable 24

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Erupt // Missy Muterspaugh 26

Feathers Like Gold // Alyssa Moyer Barahona

Dissection Caleb Schrock-Hurst When you wipe the dust away, off the flesh and blood assumptions, cut the fat down to the white, break the cartilage, the skin, when you peel the layers back, twitching muscles, stretching tendons; at the bottom of our hate lies the brittle bones of fear.

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Wings // Carissa Luginbill

The Journey // Joshua Curtis

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Japanese Beetle // Rachel Holderman 30

My Body of Water Kaitlin Abrahams

I remember the day I was baptized. Silvery waters of East Lake, just a mile or two from the rough cedar house where I was born. Silvery waters, cool as the morning, the early morning, and the far ducks rising, rising from the water, black silhouettes. Preparing my body for cold, for water. Bruises on my knees, memory of laughter from the day before — sliding on several meters of plastic covered in dish soap and water. Water wasn’t serious then; water was exhilaration, the run, the flight, the loss of gravity, the loss of leg control — a wild slide after a wild dash — suds and grass and dirt and bruises all over my legs. My uncle, who was sliding with me the day before at the reunion — is now playing his old guitar. Bruises where the polish wore off from strumming, “The Lord your God is with you; He is mighty to save…”

This is the song we always sing at our baptisms. This is the song of water. Silvery water in the morning.

Sacred water, yet filled with duck shit. Sacred water, just the same.

“He will take great joy in you; He will quiet you with his love…”

I wade out, my pastors waiting — Anita and Joel. The words spoken; the answer — these I don’t remember. But I do remember the cold, the loss of breath, the swirl of dirty water, the cold — but the warm sand after it.

Warm sand between my toes, clinging, and the warm, white towel, wrapped around me by my cousin, Andrea, my mentor. I hugged her, wet clinging to dry. More warm sand and the circle of prayer woven around me, hands on my shoulder, heads bowed, eyes closed, except when I peek to see who is blessing me, when I peek to see the silver water, dotted black with the bodies of distant ducks. ***

I remember the first day I touched the ocean. I was thirteen, a Kansan gone to Maine for vacation. I had wondered what it was about the ocean that made everyone so gaga for it. After all, it’s just water, right? I remember seeing flashes of blue water as we drove along Highway One, winding around the jagged edge of Maine’s lobster claws. I remember that it had become dark and rainy — the grey, ugly kind of rainy — by the time we reached our cottage. The website had boasted beach access, but really, this was just a stretch of gravel next to a quiet cove, now the dingy grey of dusk and rain combined, and yet…

I remember walking out, through gravel and mud, smelling salt and rotting seaweed. I remember hearing the cries of gulls and the slap of seal fins. I remember the water, the cold water, hitting my toes for the first time, mingling with the saline mud where clams burrow, grey mud swirling, grey raindrops falling — and I loved it. The Kansan, in Maine, loved it. ***

I remember the day my mother convinced me to go off the diving board. Elementary-aged Kaitlin, with her little rainbow polka-dot suit, loved everything about swim lessons — bobbing up and down, kicking, splashing, thrashing my arms, blowing some bubbles, floating on my back — even the smell of chlorine — but I lived in mortal fear of that diving board. Megan, my swim teacher, lived on a farm a long ways away from my house. I always knew we were getting close, because her father had two silver silos and his yard was immaculately mowed and unnaturally green (for Kansas in August, that is), but that was because he owned a small golf-course. However, I never saw anyone golfing there. No whizzing of small white balls, only the mooing of cattle as I laughed and splashed and told Megan, “I’ll just jump off the edge — let me jump off the edge, this time.”

It was the nerd rope. The most beautifully unhealthy thing in the world. A braided rope of Twizzler-like candy, covered in colorful nerds, and as long as my arm. Mom didn’t like to buy me candy, (I had only had one cavity in my life and I presume she wanted to keep it that way), but I was determined to have this nerd rope. And Mom was determined to have me surmount my fears and jump off the diving board, that horrifying high white structure, looming like a giant popsicle stick, jutting out above the fathomless mouth of the chemically blue deep-end — fearful waters I had only begun to learn to tread. So Mom and I made a deal. If I would jump off the diving board, she would let me eat the nerd rope. She bought it, just to tempt me. Or maybe she believed in me more than I did?

Though determined to avoid the diving board at all costs, I held the precious rope in my hands, still cocooned in its plastic wrap, all the way to Megan’s house — the long, long drive down dusty roads to the two silver silos.

At the very end of swim practice, I finally found my courage. Or was it just my overwhelming sweet tooth demanding its prize? Perhaps we’ll never know. Of course, I had to jump off the side many times to practice.

“It’s not that different,” Megan said. “Trust me.”

I took a deep breath, picturing the sublimely sweet and radiantly rainbow nerd rope in my head. I closed my eyes. The board wobbled beneath me. Wobbled in the wind. The wind was cold on my wet, half-naked body.

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“Jump!” said Megan.

I took a deep breath; pushed my weight down. I felt the board lurch — down — then up! — it shot my body into the air — then down, down, a surge of bubbles — I flailed, panicking, then — whoosh — I bobbed, gasping, up at the surface. No, that hadn’t been so bad. I smiled, swimming to the ladder, pausing to wipe the drops of my goggles when I got there.

“Where are you going?” asked Megan.

“I’m jumping off the board,” I said. “Again.” ***

I remember the first time, in my high school English class, that I came across the notion that every time a character goes underwater and comes back up, it’s baptism. I thought that was bullshit. But now, I’m wondering if it isn’t true.

Is water spiritual? Is it our return to something intrinsic to ourselves that land can’t give us? Most of our body is water, after all. Something like 60%. And I’d like to think my brain is mostly water — the way I float from thought to thought, from past to past, exploring the vast fluidity of memory.

I don’t want to be stapled in place — not in my mind, not in my life. I want to move, to ebb, to flow. To feel the present like the tide. Ever there, but ever changing. ***

I remember the first time I saw someone almost drown. It was last summer, at Camp Friedenswald, where I was working as a counselor. A Saturday — that blissful day of freedom for all the staff. We were bumming around in the lake, enjoying the innertubes we never got to use on any other day, enjoying the lack of screaming and splashing, enjoying the sun and the high probability of tans. I was so zoned out, floating under that blue, cloudless Michigan sky, that I didn’t see the son of one of the year-round staff run up to the ladder. I didn’t see him climb down it. I didn’t see him push himself off the ladder and into the clear lakewater. I didn’t see the fear in his eyes as the water rushed up to him, faster than he had expected, as the water pulled him in. But I heard my friend Tanner, the waterfront director, who had been chatting with me as we floated on our tubes in the shallow end, suddenly leap out of his inner tube and take two swift strokes in the direction of the sinking boy. Tanner — thank god!

— knew that the kid couldn’t swim, and he scooped him up and set him on the dock before his dad (who had realized what was happening and came running from the sandy shore) got there. The boy was crying, but perfectly okay. His dad picked him up and I, still bewildered, asked my panting friend what had happened.

It was perhaps the most miraculous thing that happened that summer, but my favorite memory of camp that year was another Saturday when the sun had gone down and the stars had come out — a night when my friends and I went out on the dock and started talking about the universe (what else do you talk about under stars?) and I laid down on the diving board until their voices blurred to nothingness. I laid on the diving board, dreaming, until I forgot which was the reflected sky and which was the real, wondering if there was really such a great difference between heaven and water, knowing both to be covered in stars, and wondering if I might somehow be clinging, chest up, to the flipped underside of a diving board, lying with water above me, and, on the other side of the board, the sky below.

Swinging on the Sunset // Nicole Litwiller

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Falling Springs // Dylan Buchanan34

Bitter Fruit Elizabeth Nisly My lips burn from the sun and the limes they hurt, but I can’t stop smiling because here I am in Guatemala and it is beautiful but it hurts to smile because I know beneath the surface of the yummy food and the kind people and the vibrant communities and the volcanoes and the dancing and the one-cheek kisses there are the bones of the massacred they’re quiet and so are those of us still alive treading softly, trying not to speak too much about how they were killed as if not to offend them genocide is the word we’re afraid to say ethnocide of entire indigenous communities perpetrated by a regime that my government supported

trained

supplied

Ronald Reagan shook hands with Rios Montt and thirty years later there are still mothers waiting for their sons to come home and my lips burn from the bitterness because democracy was here! democracy was here and we stole it I am a tourist of the horrors wrought by my own government and, God help me, it is so beautiful here beautiful

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but far too quiet

installed

Sebob // Kat Lehman

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Overflow // Missy Muterspaugh

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Sea Foam // Liesl Graber

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Everyday Walk // William Ewart

Racists Like Me Asahel Church

As a child I had gorgeous blond curls covering my head and was frequently compared to a cherub. Naturally, the bevy of lady senior citizens filling the last row of my father’s Presbyterian church adored me. Once I was a bit older, I became the go-to lawn boy.

There was Mrs. Hall, a diminutive firecracker of Scottish descent who preferred her lawn cut as low as the setting on the mower could go in exchange for a ten dollar bill and a cold can of root beer. And Mrs. Werner, who maintained a meticulous house, was much more specific: one and a half inches in spring and two inches once the summer got hot- with a second pass of the mower to give the lawn that checkered country club look. She was good for twenty. But Mrs. Taft was the most particular of all. She had a lawn service. Instead, I helped her maintain the many flower beds across her property, watering and weeding, and always being very careful to roll the hose up with a little twist, so as to prevent kinking.

I was at Mrs. Taft’s house one day, right before she was set to leave on a trip south. Her cleaning lady, Eunice, was also working. In addition to regular chores, Mrs. Taft had me pull her suitcase out from storage under the back porch and take it up to her bedroom for packing. “Just unzip it and leave it open in the middle of the floor for Eunice,” she instructed. Dutifully, I headed up the stairs. As I unzipped the suitcase I got to the last corner- the one where the zipper usually jams from being a bit pinched- and couldn’t get the zipper to budge. I pulled harder- and the zipper suddenly broke in my hand. Unsure of what to do, I threw the broken zipper into the bag and quickly went back downstairs.

A week or two passed quickly, without once reminding me of my deceit. But of course, as these things always seems to fall out, the next time I was at Mrs. Taft’s house, she asked me: “Do you remember the zipper being broken on my suitcase when you brought it upstairs for me last week?”

I paused, for just a moment, and then with my piercing blue eyes looked Mrs. Taft clear in the face. “No, I don’t remember it being broken, Mrs. Taft.” Shaking her head with genuine remorse, Mrs. Taft took three crisp ten-dollar bills out of her purse. What she said next is something I’ll never forget: “Would you believe that the housemaid denied breaking it right to my face? You just can’t trust these people. I guess I’ll have to let her go.”

Leaf Impression Mug // Rachel Holderman

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Wilderness of Fate // Joshua Calderon 42

The Price of a Rib Liesl Graber

God plucks a rib from Adam’s side while he sleeps, a small price to pay for a lifetime companion. Into that bone, God breathes life and woman emerges in the form of Eve. I like to imagine Adam’s jaw dropping when he first lays eyes on Eve, how his fingers fondle the place his rib was the night before, how he looks at her, then touches his non-rib, then looks at her. “This is now bone of my bones,” he says, as if to make sense of what he sees, “and flesh of my flesh. She shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.” Adam glances sideways at God, to make sure he got the phrasing good enough to pass down for generations. God nods. Millenia later, a scribe jots down some notes in the margins, just in case the readers need clarity: “For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother, and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” Like reverse mitosis, two distinguished blobs merge into one larger blob.

I wonder what Adam would say if Eve decided to take his rib and run. “Hey, come back! That’s mine — I mean ours!”

I wonder how much it would hurt to pull apart the two blobs after they already merged their flesh.

“Here, this chromosome is yours.”

“And that’s my pile of mitochondria. I stacked yours over there by the vacuoles.”

“Do you want the golgi bodies?”

“The whats? I didn’t even know we still had those. You can have them.”

“What about the nucleus? Should we split that?” “...”

The membrane, bit by bit, bowties apart, leaving the hardest decision for the lipids caught in the middle.

And the one shall be as two.

Broken // Bethany Tuel 43

Prayer Flags in Mussoorie, India // Lara Weaver 44

Waldorf: The Pasture Puppy // Alyssa Moyer Barahona

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Cow at Peace // Robert Weaver

Flag Man // Joseph Harder

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Route 81 Caleb Schrock-Hurst I saw a truck on fire, red cab ablaze, cars slowing to stare.

I saw a truck on fire.

In the black, the flames stood out like the one black family at Chick-fil-A in west Jersey.

I saw a truck on fire, destruction destroyed, a victory for trains.

I saw a truck on fire by the streams of water flowing for thirst, a sore demanding recognition, a pain that desires only to be felt.

I saw a truck on fire and no man, hands on head in disbelief, beside it.

I saw the world sucked into the window of the burning cab, the fabric pulled in till only black remained.

Where trees once stood, flames the only remnant of years searching for light.

Imbalance // Dylan Buchanan 48

Biographies Kaitlin Abrahams is a senior writing studies and English double major. She is from Newton, Kan. While she considers herself to be more of a writer than a photographer, she also enjoys snapping away while on vacation. “Parisian Time” was taken at the Mussée d’Orsay and “Maine Beach” was taken in Acadia National Park. Kaitlin’s love of nature helped inspire the poem “I am fond of the Night” as well as her short story, “My Body of Water,” which proves that even residents of the most landlocked state can still be amphibious at heart.

Alyssa Moyer Barahona is a senior BA to MA peacebuilding and development major from Lewisburg, Pa. During her time at EMU, she has found a home in Virginia, where, aside from her studies, she has started a farm with her family. She finds deep joy in spending time in nature, living slowly, and capturing her experience through photography. Her photos aim to give a glimpse of the hidden beauty of farm life and illustrate the intimate connections with nature that you can only find when you slow down.

Daniel Bellerose is a staff member at the Center for Sustainable Climate Solutions. He is from Eastlong Meadow, Mass.

Dylan Buchanan is a senior digital media and photography double major with a minor in journalism. He is from Harrisonburg, Va. His pieces in the Phoenix are from his senior show, “Time in Motion,” where he explores how the deceleration and acceleration of time can affect our perception of the changing environment around us.

Andrea Cable is a junior business administration major and digital communications minor. She is from Johnstown, Pa., and is obsessed with Goldendoodle puppies and coffee, and owns her own photography business.

Joshua Calderon is a senior history major. He is from Grottoes, Va. In recent years. Josh has found a passion for photography. The art that is presented is a representation of his childhood dealing with depression and poverty.

Using waterproof ink and water, he captured the power of random creation that comes from uninhibited action.

Asahel Church is a middle school educator studying restorative justice in education. He is from York, Pa. This story was first put into words as part of a storytelling exercise in class with EMU Professor Judy Mullet and class guest Chris Fitz. It explores the impact of one decision and a realization on the part of the narrator what racism, in its more pernicious forms, actually looks like.

Joshua Curtis is a junior art and education (PreK-12) major. He is from Williamsburg, Va. William Ewart is a junior digital media major. He is from Pulaski, N.Y. “Wealth” was shot in Washington, D.C. while exploring the city. He did not frame with a cinematic ratio but he edited with that aesthetic in mind.

Emilio R. Fajardo is a junior biology and Spanish language and studies double major. He is from Guantanamo, Cuba where he previously studied medicine and has been living in the United States for five years. He enjoys his daughter’s laugh and the pleasure of unravelling big challenges.

Liesl Graber is a senior writing studies and English double major from Harrisonburg, Va. She relishes the power of the pen to tell a story, through words or otherwise.

Joseph Harder is a sophomore music composition major from Bridgewater, Va. Other than being a student, he enjoys giving vague answers to questions.

Rachel Holderman is a senior photography and studio art double major. She is from Chambersburg, Pa. On her pieces, she states, “Nature has a way of drawing you in. There is so much intricate beauty hidden within the small parts of the natural world. Photography gives us a chance to capture that beauty in ways that our eyes are unable to do on their own.”

Kat Lehman is a senior pre-med biology major. She is from Dover, Ohio. “The Wall” was taken in Douglas, Ariz; on the left is Agua Prieta, Mexico. “Sebob” and “Sebob II” were taken in a tiny rural village in Altaverapaz, Guatemala.

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Nicole Litwiller is a junior liberal arts and peacebuilding double major from Sarasota, Fla. About her art, she states, “I have enjoyed creating visual art for many years. My high school and college art experiences have allowed me to grow as an artist. I have dabbled in various mediums, but I prefer acrylic painting. The goal with this commissioned piece was to show the peace and beauty a husband and wife experience together at Charles Mill Lake.”

Carissa Luginbill is an EMU alum, now working as a Lead Residence Director in Northlawn. She is from Bluffton, Ohio. On her two photographs, “My Tune,” and “Wings,” she states, “These two photographs were taken on the EMU Lithuania Cross-Cultural where the music never stops and the adventures are just beginning. Take me back.”

Gwen Mallow is a sophomore English education major. She is from Quicksburg, Va. On her photograph “Cathedral at Noon,” she states,“This photograph was taken when I went to Barcelona with a group. La Sagrada Familia was stunning. We had a tour guide that told everyone they had beautiful eyes. It was really hot that day, but the sun was giving off generous lighting to the architectural wonder.”

Hilary Moore is a pro bono attorney for Blue Ridge Legal Services and a first year Adjunct Professor of Criminology at EMU. She is from Rockford, Mich. She enjoys writing, spending time with her three young children, saving her belongings from being destroyed by her Labrador, and keeping bees.

Missy Muterspaugh is a junior photography and digital media major. She is from Bridgewater, Va. “Rebirth” is from a series in exploration using the effects of an infrared camera. “Luminescent” is inspired by the works of Andy Warhol.

Jonathan Nielsen is a first-year pre-physician assistant and Spanish language and studies double major. He is from Bakersfield, Calif. and is a lover of life, Jesus, and coffee.

Elizabeth Nisly is a junior writing studies major. She is from Bluffton, Ohio. Her poem “Bitter Fruit” is based off of the title of a Guatemalan book, which she highly recommends.

Caleb Schrock-Hurst is a senior English major. He is from Harrisonburg, Va. and enjoys reading, writing, and overcommitting to worthwhile activities.

Bethany Tuel is a senior writing studies major with minors in pre-law and journalism. She is from Frederick, Md. She enjoys writing and editing, photography, making sarcastic comments, playing with her dog, and exasperating her parents. “Hi, Mom and Dad!” Lara Weaver is a senior psychology major with a minor in neuroscience. About her artwork, she states, “Most of my current artwork is based on photographs from two different trips that I have taken around Asia. The painting ‘Prayer Flags in Mussoorie’ is based on a photograph from a trip I took to India after my cross cultural to Myanmar.

“Rainbow Owl” and “Rainbow Gorilla” are older paintings that I did when I was experimenting with using a variety of different colors. I like to paint a variety of different subjects and scenes with different watercolor and pen techniques. My favorite technique, which can been seen in ‘Prayer Flags in Mussoorie,’ is painting the scene in watercolor and then outlining the watercolor with ink. This makes me think of mosaics or stained glass and is a technique that not many use.”

Robert Weaver is a senior photography major from Baltimore, Md. When Robert graduates he hopes to get a job in D.C. and work there learning the craft of stage lighting. When Robert grows up, he hopes to have a 401k and health insurance.

Maria Yoder is a junior biology major and psychology minor. She is from Lancaster, Pa. She wrote this short story after hearing the poem “Blue Blanket” by Andrea Gibson at the Take Back the Night chapel. The last line stuck with her: “She’s not asking what you’re gonna tell your daughter, she’s asking what you’re gonna teach your son.”

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