The Phoenix 2014-15 #57

The Phoenix Literary and Visual Arts Journal

Volume 57 // 2015

The Phoenix // Literary and Visual Arts Journal

Eastern Mennonite University 2014-2015

Staff Co-Editors-in-Chief // Ty Ferrell and Naomi Scoville Literary Editor // Landon Heavener and Ben Mast Visual Editors // Karla Hovde and Carrissa Luginbill Cover Design // Robyn Cordle and Karla Hovde General Staff // Jemma Hedrick, Becca Jo Longenecker, Janet Spain, and Kate Weaver Faculty Advisor // Kevin Seidel

Thank you to‌ Everyone who submitted material Our faithful readers Our dedicated staff EMU’s Student Government Association EMU Print Shop

From the Editors At the beginning of this semester, the magnitude of producing the Phoenix was simply an abstract idea hanging in the ether. The tasks involved, though numerous, seemed like easily checked items on a list.

We were, undoubtedly, wrong. The path to glossy, printed pages is a long one, a journey that would have been impossible if not for our gracious, talented staff. For those who have navigated this journey with us, and to those whose submissions have made this year’s Phoenix possible, thank you.

While there have been challenges, there has also been success, and we walk away from this process with another year added to the Phoenix’s record – a record of telling stories, of celebrating our experiences and our lives. At their core, that is what art and literature have always been about: life. The experiences that shape us, the people we surround ourselves with, and the narratives that persist after we are gone.

Robert Henri once said, “The object isn’t to make art; it’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.” Our hope is that this year’s Phoenix will reflect Henri’s idea while also inspiring its readers to live in a creative, encouraging state.

And so we present to you the fifty-seventh edition of The Phoenix.

Thank you for sharing your stories with us.

Ty Ferrell and Naomi Scoville

Index Cover Blinding // Robyn Cordle 2 Cold Feet // Jasmine Miller 3 Ars Poetica // Becca Jo Longenecker 4 Introvertion // Luis Martinez 5 Liability // Jasmine Miller 6 The World Below- A Traffic Light // Jonathan Bush 7 Take Off // Allie Short Solitude // Lauren Eckenroad 8 Rhythm // Rachel Schrock The Ocean? // Luis Martinez 9 Generation Gap // Becca Jo Longenecker 10 Ignition #2 // Luis Martinez 11 White Clouds // Amanda Williams 12 Corinthian Glory // Rachel Richard 13 Crooked Woods // Emma King Magic Hour // Naomi Scoville 14 The Decadence of Divorce // Liesl Graber Landing // Malika Davis 15 Big Baby // Virginia Baisden 16 Building // Emma King 17 Double Mirror Tree // Emma King 19 23 // Ty Ferrell Night Life: Riga, Latvia // Carissa Luginbill 20 Sand Dog Dune // Philip Yoder

21 Sour Cherries // Abby Hershberger 22 City Spiral // Rachel Richard 23 Lie in the Sound // Ty Ferrell Riga, Latvia // Caleb Schlabach 24 War of Love // Allie Short Time-lapse Stack // Jonathan Bush 25 People’s Climate March NYC 9/21/14 // Jordan Leaman 26 If I Had a Daughter // Rachel Shrock 27 Walking on Colors // Virginia Baisden El Profeta // Luis Martinez 28 Flightless Wind // Malika Davis 29 Fauxhouse // Emma King Fear // Allie Short 30 Rest for the Soul // Rachel Richard 31 Summer Sundays // Hannah Chappell-Dick Frozen in Time // Lauren Eckenroad 32 German Barricade: KlaipÊda, Lithuania // Carissa Luginbill Civilization // MaKayla Baker 33 Jeremiah // Naomi Scoville Soundwaves Made Visible // Robert Weaver 34 Horses in Infrared // Jonathan Bush 35 Whispers in the Wind // Lauren Eckenroad

Cold Feet Jasmine Miller The winter my sister fell, my brother and I— We no longer played board games while lying at the tip top of the cool, Hard and faithful stairs. We no longer Played never-ending games of tag up and Down the humble, Light-hearted stairs. My brother and I— We played more solitary games under the covers or in closets In each of our rooms, which seemed Less adjacent to each other. And that winter, From my room, I drew a picture of the stairs.

Each rail true to the curve. Each step as steep As the first. All the way down to the bottom Where my sister still lies.

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Ars Poetica Becca Jo Longenecker step one: find a place from where to take and a place where to put what you took. step two: begin the picking, poking, peeling, sticking, and sewing together of your stolen collection.

Practice deliberate mutilation with no concern for waste. Remember not to clean the spills and that stealing is free. now onto step three: take a taste of each slobbering stitched-together brute. do not be afraid. words are made by bodies. take the risk of admitting what you love, enter into the war of step four: skepticism. cry doubt on what you feel, and become wary of your own ability to contrive meaning. step five: never mind four and listen. swallow. it matters how it feels going down. listen for the small sounds, and twist them. inject them with the poison of fixed promise so by

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step six you are kissing each darling, each piece of perfection: a hungry suckling back at the tit of heaven. now step seven: kill them. kill the ones you love. it is part of becoming unhindered. it is part of becoming step eight: a poet

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Introvertion // Luis Martinez

Liability Jasmine Miller I walked around looking for you yesterday. My feet hurt and I was already tired.

When you weren’t at work I worried and called your mom. Know what she said?

Said you’re my problem now and she was right but I never thought of you as a problem, not for me.

See, I’m getting this feeling... like you’re avoiding me now. Like you’re thinking there is something wrong with you.

You know there’s nothing really wrong with you, right?

When we’re together, I feel better – less tired and I forget about the dumb things my boss said that day; the kind of things keep me worried at night – and, I know sometimes I have you worried, but I’m grateful you’re concerned about me.

I’m not going anywhere, even if God himself said you were dripping with sin. Even if He said you and the devil were once friends, but the devil got tired of your foolishness. Even if I knew God was right...

On weekdays I’m your therapist, right?

On those dull Wednesdays when you’d be worried and you’d come home to lie on the couch – tired.

I’d begged you to tell me what’s wrong though you never told me.

Well, I’ve been thinking about how quiet it is with you and about how usually these things are never really said.

And last night I thought about the beginning. The things you said to me that kept me here. And how I followed this path right through the warning signs. Maybe those songs were about you.

And it was God telling me that He’s worried just like I am. But, I am not God. It’s me you’re dealing with, you see. And I’m tired.

Haven’t you noticed? Those dry and tired “Hello”s because I knew nothing would be said in return – you haven’t been good to me.

And this is getting old. Really old. And to think, you had me right where you wanted me, even to ignore people who were worried about us. And now, I’m taking the next step without you.

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The World Below- A Traffic Light // Jonathan Bush

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Take Off Allie Short When it’s silent, and peace is supposed to be present, you creep upon my wandering mind stalking between the crevices of my every thought.

But that’s where I like you best, underneath my roots and dead skin cells.

A place where I’m the pilot.

Solitude // Lauren Eckenroad

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Rhythm Rachel Shrock My hand, stiff in my pocket, is too ripe to explore your curves.

Mortified, I shove lust further into soft, twilled cotton.

Lost facets of my soul reside upon your wool coat, silent prayers against sweltering neck.

My hand, rubbed and raw by work, finds your thigh, reprieve from slipping.

Disconnected from lips, which purse and plea for pouncing you.

Let’s meet in the middle, famished.

Take me, and weave me through your ins and outs, your every edge.

The Ocean? // Luis Martinez

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Generation Gap Becca Jo Longenecker I am dumb with a dry tongue that cannot carve out the newfangledness of words, cannot put the sounds in their spots.

Ours is a paint by number language, a piano recital in the key of C. There is no black, only the white space in between enumerated shapes.

They paste themselves together—magnets that broke the rules.

The math was wrong.

They were equals,

not opposites.

I was painting you a mural.

Do you know how much you were mine?

My lips are fumbling to tell you, but look!

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Ignition #2 // Luis Martinez

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White Clouds & Hot Sand Amanda Williams All morning long the clouds smiled at me. Some faces with trails of long white beards swaying in the gentle breeze. Some faces young, crowned with flowing curly hair that seemed to spill everywhere. Others, like old men with twinkling eyes as the sun passed through them. They were so innocent, so pure, so free.

Life is a cloud. It comes in different shapes, textures, faces, but one thing it never fails to do is float on by and never be seen again. Life has a way of changing you. Have you ever seen a cloud? In one instance it winks and the next minute gnashes its white pearls at you.

I have been laying in a soft sea of beach grass for hours waiting for him.

“Let’s meet at the water and watch the sunset,” he wrote in a letter to me postmarked from Germany. “We can make love with the sound of the water hitting the sand. We can dance under the stars. We can be free.

Forget your mom,” he wrote, “Come with me, it’s your life after all isn’t it?”

I have been here for hours waiting for him. The smell of mud and pickles at low tide lingered in the air and the heat of the day was coming. Soon enough, the sand would be so hot that one step too long and it would burn me. I buried myself deeper into the coarse beach grass and stared up. I stared at the bright white clouds.

There is a difference between gratifying the desires of my flesh and falling in love. True love waits. But still, is it so wrong to feel good now, too?

“YOLO,” he shouted out of the window of my truck one cool and starry summer night a few years ago, when we were driving a hundred miles an hour down a back road that led to nowhere.

A cool breeze danced over my face and sent chills down my spine. I moved to expose the rest of my sweating body to the breeze and slipped off my shirt and shorts. I laid in the prickly beach grass, staring up at the puffy clouds, exposing my dark skin to the light breeze.

“Do you love me?” He asked, two years ago, his whole body trembling. This was the day that I thought I would never see him again. This was the day that man whom I had given my whole heart to left me. He left me. He went to war. I did not honestly believe that he would ever come back.

“You know how I feel,” I whispered into his ear as he held me locked in his arms underneath that holly tree.

All around me life was going in circles.

As I lay here on the beach grass that is now ripping my flesh, there are three things of which I am certain.

One, that he doesn’t need me, two, that I can’t have him, and three, that I could never do anything to deserve him. How can you love someone so much, yet be told you can’t have them as your own? Salty tears started to bubble out of the cisterns of my eyes.

It is true, I do love him.

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I waited and waited. I shifted again and my arm got scorched by the sand.

The beating of my heart slowed and my eyes became heavy. My young body rested on top of sharp nails and burning sulfur. I was sleeping where the prey of the wolves died and were devoured. I was ready to sacrifice my life for his.

Nudging me roughly, the wind woke me up. Opening my eyes I noticed that the white clouds had changed and were now shrewd gray soldiers. They filled the night and only the moon and its ring was visible. Well, at least we had a little light to dance in.

I managed to get home that night, alone, and only a few steps away from death. Thankfully I only got burned.

Of him, I never heard or saw again. But I know he lived on. His face was sculpted in the white clouds and his heartbeat resounded in the pulse of the ocean smacking the hot sand.

Corinthian Glory // Rachel Richard

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Crooked Woods // Emma King

Magic Hour Naomi Scoville we were a polaroid that summersun drunk smiles blurring into the fuzzy corners of the half-finished three-by-three mural. you said you loved me under cross-stitched stars and the tick of fireflies, tongue curled around the words like they were the first peach of summer.

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magic hour you called it, flocks of cicadas spinning phrases- the leaving soundbut you stayed, wheel spoke ankle hooked around mine. listen, you said, and we lay, quiet, against the lonely song of mimics.

The Decadence of Divorce Liesl Graber A million threads around us tied, around my middle around your side, holding us close together— never parting for forever.

Things come up as time dies, placing stress upon our ties.

Strings unravel and strings fray— little by little, day by day.

Change comes bursting, charging through our picture perfect Me and You. One string, two strings, ten strings gone— snip snip snap as time goes on.

Landing // Malika Davis

A million ties: down to three.

Our love is dying, can’t you see?

What once was strong falls apart— with breaking strings and breaking hearts.

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Big Baby Virginia Baisden Little big baby tall, skinny, bug eyed laughing to an unknown joke down at the lala land.

You, big baby I love the way you laugh giggling, loud and a little off Like a fairy or woodland creature. And I love your smile, and your hands and your slightly off balance feet and your dancing to the silence everyone watching, eyes in the dark, you only see the light.

And I love your eyes sparkling and the way your hair sticks straight up like it’s been electrocuted by a socket, like a taking off rocket You, big baby, I love everything about you.

I’m glad I’m so crazy, I’m glad I can understand your yelling and your laughing, and the “I don’t care” in you.

You, baby, when you smile, I lose my heart and love you just the same.

You’re an off beaten drum, my heart beat, and the rhythm I dance to…

Like a deaf child feeling vibration…

The vibrations that will tear down walls, cause earthquakes…

Mend this broken earth?

Listen to me. Will you, what do I know about love? But I like the word sort of, don’t you? It belongs to us.

Big baby, I love the way you laugh and the way you smile, and dance, and everything.

Like the id before the ego Like the comic with no hero…

Say, I think you are a miracle. You’re all right with me, you change me, you burn, you melt me, you refine me like a silversmith mending and changing and molding to make something new Do I want to be new?

If it means to be with you?

Yes You’re my heart in me, You are.

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Building // Emma King

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Double Mirror Tree // Emma King

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23 Ty Ferrell She learned the paths, the winding narrows of foreign streets. Seville nights crawling on, fractions of time, ex-pats in riverside bars, Spanish curving in mountainous patterns, sticking to her tongue, churning in her throat. Childhood dreams swirling in chupitos, the only word that didn’t feel like gravel on her lips. This is 23, swaying in the streets of a European city, hanging on the rails of Puente de la Barqueta, like a child tangled in jump ropes, flattened water waiting below, billboard lights blooming on the Guadalquivir. Laughter reaching out from her esophagus, English cutting through Spanish, shoulder blades and onyx curlicues and the drunken, glorious site of dawn.

Night Life: Riga, Latvia // Carissa Luginbill

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Sand Dog Dune Philip Yoder

Dedicated to Carol and Michael Snell-Feikema

Silent, heavy, restless sand Shadows looming, I am so small.

The closest I’ve ever been, the stars within reach Nothing is solid, not even the ground.

Desert mountains crashing like tsunamis the place where giants collide with the Heavens.

Are you scared or are you out of your mind?

Are you content to follow orders?

In the middle, no way out but through.

Quieres ver las estrellas ahora? the dune is steep but the vista is unforgettable.

So I said, “let’s go,” and we took off at a sprint pretty soon I was panting like a dog Back and forth switchback all the way I told myself, “Just one foot in front of the other.”

Then it was crawling, clambering, my heart was on fire!

Suddenly we crested and I collapsed.

On top of the world, clearer than ever before.

In the middle, no way out but through.

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Sour Cherries Abby Hershberger The day that the doctor gave them the news; Ev went home and sobbed into her pillow. Carlos took a long, long shower.

The next day, Ev cleaned the entire kitchen. All of it. Top to bottom. Carlos spent the day under the car.

There was nothing wrong with the car.

The day after that, Ev dug out her mom’s old cookbooks and began highlighting. Carlos replaced all the porch lights. The higher up on the ladder that he had to climb, the longer he stayed up there.

On the third day, at about noon, Ev and Carlos both ended up in the sunroom. They exchanged stiff smiles before staring out the back window.

“I’m making Chinese rice for dinner.” Ev’s voice sounded loud and flat. They realized then that they had barely exchanged any words since they had driven home on Wednesday, Carlos’ hands veiny and tight on the steering wheel. Now Ev had popped the silence, like a soap bubble meeting a fork. She watched Carlos nervously. He finally pulled his eyes from the shriveled brown yard outside and looked at his wife.

“That sounds great, Evelyn.”

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“The rice was delicious, Ev,” Carlos said, leaning back in his chair.

Ev smiled at the ground. “Good. What about the cherries?”

“Yeah, those were good too.”

“Not too sour?”

“Maybe a little.”

Ev’s smile disappeared. Her hands began to shake.

Carlos stood up quickly and walked over to his wife. “They were perfect, too. I’m sorry.” He draped an arm across her shoulder and nuzzled a stubbly chin into her nose. She pulled away from him and began clearing the table.

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“No, Carlos, I’m sorry. I’ll throw them out right away.” Ev sighed and braced herself on the table.

She ran a hand through her long hair, grabbing a chunk of it at her scalp and releasing it angrily. She took a few deep breaths. “This wasn’t how I pictured it. We were going to have a family –” Her voice broke. She pressed a few fingers to her mouth.

City Spiral // Rachel Richard

Carlos crossed the kitchen and hugged her around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Ev.” He paused, burying his lips into her ear. Suddenly he pulled away. “I think it was the batch. Where’d you get them, the farmer’s market? Cherries must be out of season.”

He sat back down in his chair at the head of the table. He smiled at his wife and, holding her gaze, dipped his fingers into the bowl of cherries. He popped one of the slimy red blobs in his mouth. Ev couldn’t help but laugh when she saw his lips pucker and his eyes squint.

“Bad one,” she said.

Carlos bit into another, then pushed out the chair across from him with his slipper. “Sit down, Ev. Help me eat these cherries.”

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Lie in the Sound Ty Ferrell My world twists too fast, North stars gracing misty plains, our story in ruins, falling across still cosmos.

You wrap your body in a scabbard of hollow fantasy, a plot of orchids full of thorns. I sit by you, surviving in dusty phonographs and torn books.

Was it worth all this pain?

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Riga, Latvia // Caleb Schlabach

War of Love Allie Short I enjoyed those months when the sun warmed the days and you warmed my heart, ignited all of my senses.

I spent most of my time waiting in a pool of bliss, blind to anything peripheral.

I thought it would be for the better.

Then I met the blue jay, the fervent hue of my heart; how it sits heavy upon my sleeve.

But not a drop does gravity pull from my soft eyes, although it is hard at times, and trying to breath steadily is a war.

Oh, how I fear that the white flag has already been thrust by you, my opponent. What a traitor you are.

Is treasure or toil to be lost?

Time-lapse Stack // Jonathan Bush

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People’s Climate March NYC 9/21/14 // Jordan Leaman

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If I Had a Daughter Rachel Schrock

If I had a daughter I would cradle her shell in my tenderness, soul ignited Ballpoint pen in hand I would scroll an atrous atlas along her curves and angles.

If I had a daughter.

She would become inked and splattered with wishes and kisses—a canvas of moments, a patina of potential smeared across her tender skin.

I would hand off my paintbrush as if a baton, while throaty words would instruct “color outside lines,” If I had a daughter.

Heart steadied, my eyes her ardent audience, searching her shoulders for slump and her mouth for burden, I’d ask the right questions and divulge my not knowing answers.

Craving her warmth beside my breast, against my hollowness, She’d offset my poise with her breath of chaotic, luscious youth.

Soul ignited.

Time bends across eternity My mother taught me that, and so much beyond it.

A mirror to my gifts, I learned in abundance…

To love wildly Use words as tools Hands are for helping tie my shoes loop de loop ratio of chocolate chips how to say I need you how to say I’m sorry Scrapes on knees would surely be Tears would brim on honest lashes Smiles would greet as invitations And I would remember my mother Bursting and bold and beautiful, If I had a daughter. soul ignited.

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Walking on Colors Virginia Baisden

El Profeta // Luis Martinez

Red stop signs telling life, when to embark.

Vintage 50’s cherry nails gracing the hands that hold onto the man’s, Who’s wearing a complimenting bow tie.

Neon arrow signs on the corner, bright and stating their age illuminating timeless memories of dates they have led before.

Brick red walls of antique architectures that hold this place in one piece, the same walls with chips and holes in them, timbering calk.

Lipstick stained ruby lips, a corona in a wreath around those pearly white teeth, that special “the one” smile.

An old rusty enamel Coke sign hangs quietly, Cigarette butts glow like the reflection of her crisp blood lipstick in his eyes when his gaze crosses their path.

A tiny little old lady walks by.

She’s clothed in a plain black dress, and her husband has a simple ensemble.

But the shoes.

Those bright red heels, retro, a token from her past.

They see each other.

Those two women, one with the red gracing her lips, her hands, the things to come, the other showing the older reflection of the same color on her feet.

The same feet that have led her far.

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Flightless Wind // Malika Davis

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Fauxhouse // Emma King

Fear Allie Short Everything that was, wasn’t and the only noise was silence and the darkest shade of black walked into the room and sat beside me.

The only thing in sight was nothing and though I was unharmed and unbothered, the dark uncreased its lips and blew a fiery gust of wind

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that came rolling in through my nostrils, down my throat, and into my chest where the wind got stuck.

So in search of an escape, it rocked back and forth in my chest until the crooked rod came down from the sky and for a moment, I could see.

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Rest for the Soul // Rachel Richard

Summer Sundays Hannah Chappell-Dick “do you belong to a church?� he asked as we drove along the highway I looked at those blue eyes focused on the heat radiating off the pavement ahead & wondered if I could tell him that my church belongs to me but instead I just said yes. does he know my body is a temple?

Frozen in Time // Lauren Eckenroad

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German Barricade: KlaipĂŠda, Lithuania // Carissa Luginbill

Civilization MaKayla Baker History is indecorous.

So is

Winter and summer.

And the affixed hand on a charade of fate Is the same one with the BenjaminsWe are bawdy cats

Like pinching skeletons

Like cozy insincerity Arousing the arch in our backs in clips.

Speech was oppressive

But what is it prophesy, A judgment,

A candid Thursday parked with Freedom Riders?

They were the effusion,

A dysfunctional tact to

To be contrary, civil, Convincing, A mark, Material.

Potential is the sprout

Of ostensible hopes.

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Jeremiah Naomi Scoville my brother loves in pencil smudges lines with oil stained thumbs ash flecked post-its of relativity he measures time in lead spins yarns of spray paint legend says we’re strangers dog-eared photographs hiss secrets in black and white and inky black more permanent than real once upon a time hands clasped hands mismatched calluses and fingernail dirt love they called it. brother I said. my brother casts lots in graphite prophesizes in bleach and black lights paints the words he never says

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Soundwaves Made Visible // Robert Weaver

Biographies MaKayla Baker once thought her poetry was for herself. Now, she knows that poetry does not just belong to her, it belongs to everyone.

Virginia Baisden is a psychology major interested in art and business minors. She loves time with her boyfriend, family and relaxing with the friends who know her best. A date in a truck bed under the stars or a picnic is her cup of tea. She has written since a very young age and has always found poetry to be a part of her life.

Jonathan Bush is a junior from Pottstown, Pennsylvania and plays soccer for EMU. Hannah Chappel-Dick has a really embarrassing account on allpoetry.com from 2006 featuring poetry with titles like “Music Man Rap,” “Pennies Have Rights Too,” and “Ode to a Yummy Cookie.” DM for an identifying username... or nah.

Robyn Cordle is an old soul trapped in a weird, young body. Life enthusiast, history nerd, philosopher, and religion major. Believer in dreaming big, loving yourself, and eating all the chocolate you want.

Malika Davis is a senior studying photography, digital media, and communications with a minor in journalism. Her love for photography initially began because of her fascination of nature through a lens.

She hopes to pursue something in this field in her near future.

Lauren Eckenroad thrives on capturing moments in time, whether they be a tear on someone’s cheek or sunlight peeking through the trees. Photography allows her to speak in ways her voice does not. With a single image, she can convey emotion and power; she can touch the world and make a difference.

Liesl Graber is a first year from Dayton, Virginia. She loves books, fruit, and tea.

Abby Hershberger is a junior history major. She likes books, old buildings, and stir-fry.

Emma King - Emma King is a senior digital media and communications major who has yet to decide what she is doing with her life. She loves cats and wants nothing more than to crush the patriarchy.

Horses in Infrared // Jonathan Bush

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Jordan Leaman is a computer science major and member of the EMU cross country and track and field teams.

Becca Jo Longenecker is a senior from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She loves art, math, poetry, and tea.

Carissa Luginbill is a junior studying social work with minors in psychology and art. She has always loved art and is glad she could study photography on her cross cultural to Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.

Luis Gerardo Martinez Z. was born on December 16, 1961 in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. He is a senior student in the Masters of Divinity program at the Eastern Mennonite Seminary and will graduate in 2015.

Jasmine Miller is a first year elementary education major and writes poetry in her free time.

Rachel Richard is a senior from Talmage, Pennsylvania.

Caleb Schlabach is a junior from Millersburg, Ohio. He loves Ohio State University and Lithuania.

Rachel Schrock believes that, “To write is to acknowledge the messy facets of our living. At the risk of sounding wildly existential: I breathe words. Poetry is my way of remembering who I am (inhale), and then visibly coming back to that center time and time again (exhale).”

Allie Short grew up in Fredericksburg, VA where she discovered a love for writing. She is a sophomore with a major in communications and a minor in writing studies. She hopes one day to have a career writing and to be able to share it with the world.

Robert Weaver is a business administration major and photography minor. He enjoys drinking tea laden with milk and honey. He finds his joy in life by doing what he loves and finding his passions.

Amanda Williams was born and raised on the Indian River in Millsboro, Delaware. She enjoys fishing, crabbing, and water sports. Her faith is also very important, which is one reason why she chose EMU. She is currently studying biology and secondary education and plays on the women’s soccer team.

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Whispers in the Wind // Lauren Eckenroad

Phillip Yoder comes from cows, chickens, and whoopee pies. The most important thing to know is that everyday he tries to walk with Jesus, and would encourage you to try walking with Him, too. 4th year senior, 2015 grad.

Colophon The Phoenix, Volume 57, was produced by the staff at Eastern Mennonite University (EMU) and was printed by EMU’s Print Shop in Harrisonburg, VA. The cover and interior layout were designed by Karla Hovde. The books contain 39 pages and all body copy was set in 11pt Helvetica Neue Regular. Titles were set in 40pt Dream Orphans Regular. Author names were set in 18pt Helvetica Neue Ultralight.

The Phoenix was produced using Adobe InDesign.

Want Your Work in the Next Phoenix?

Please send all submissions to phoenix@emu.edu. Include your preferred print name and attach all works with respective, clearly specified titles. Although we accept untitled submissions, we strongly suggest titling your work for clarity. Submissions are limited to eight per person and may consist of writing and art. If you are interested in becoming a staff member, simply attend a meeting or email us for more information.

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