Firethorne 2018

FI RETHORNE The Gustavus Jour nal of Liter ar y and Gr aphic Ar ts

2018 Gustavus Adolphus College

FIRETHORNE

Letter fr om the Editor s Dear Reader, You hold in your hands the most recent issue of Gustavus Adolphus?s Firethorne, the newest edition in a long legacy of student expression and documentation, from campus life to what wonders and fears exist beyond the hill.

Capturing words from muses, thoughts have been cemented to page; fleeting fancies have been formed into pleasing inkblots; the briefest moments have been archived forever by the quick shutter of a camera. From farm cats to Ferris wheels, this year?s Firethorne is a collage of student thought, evident in the recollections of world travel, ponderings of life when tucked away in a dorm room, and the explorations of the unknown as writers dig beneath the happy facades of normal life: the evils of technology, the experiences that accompany womanhood, and the darker musings of childhood memories.

This year over 260 pieces were submitted for consideration, surpassing any other volume of submissions in recent years. While there is only so much space in our one tiny book, our hearts are more than full to know that the artistic scene on campus is flourishing with those who create and create fearlessly, because their work can change the world. Our deepest thanks go out to all of those who were so generous to share their work with us. It is an honor to be entrusted with your creations.

This edition of Firethorne, like all the editions before it, is a tiny collection of the thoughts which blossom and swell and rage on fearlessly in our tiny campus in this large world. But this edition is unique, unlike any before and any to come. It's ours. Turn these pages and become part of these sentiments of self-expression and wonder. Turn the page, if you dare.

With many thanks, The Firethorne Editors, 2018

Firethorne archives and submission guidelines are available at www.gustavus.edu/ orgs/ firethorne

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SPRING 2018

Fir ethor ne Staff PROSE EDITORS

POETRY EDITORS

Monali Bhakta Tanner Sparrow

Elliott Robinson Miranda Shaffer

DESIGN EDITORS Kari Felland Brenna Tuttrup ACQUISITIONS EDITORS Kristi Manning Nick Stoker-Mota COPY EDITORS R. J. Ogilvie Nick Zermeno Jordyn Roemhildt Amelia Thompson MARKETING & PROMOTION Rachel Mueller Emma Myhre ASSISTANT EDITORS Jack Engel Gino Fraboni Corbyn Jenkins Tara Robinson Lily Winter ASSOCIATE EDITOR Haley Kaul

FACULTY ADVISOR Baker Lawley

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FIRETHORNE

Table of Contents Emily Logan

- 9-

Reflection

Alexandra Orta

- 10 -

on the days that i am wildfire

Joshua J. Monson

- 12 -

Introspective

Rachael Zielske

- 13 -

difference

Drew Ericson

- 14 -

Paris Blues

Miranda Shaffer

- 15 -

At the Border

Hailey Fordham

- 16 -

Dry Cereal It Is

Danielle Anderson

- 17 -

Alien Zone

Corbyn Jenkins

- 18 -

Life Is Beautiful

Frances Wetherall

- 19 -

The Bridge

Katie Aney

- 20 -

Spindle assembly checkpoint (SAC)

Marit Pederson

- 21 -

Beads of Morning Dewdrops

Leanna Nielsen

- 22 -

The Summer We Forgot to Sleep: Memoirs from Lou and Lar's Alaskan Adventure

Leanna Nielsen

- 73 -

4

Alaskan Fisherman

SPRING 2018 Leanna Nielsen

- 30 -

Alaskan Midnight

August Moehrke

- 32 -

Morning Mesa Rains

August Moehrke

- 33 -

Springdale, Utah

Christopher Schneider

- 34 -

Liftoff

Gino Sahagun

- 35 -

Chaos and Order, 2017

Kyra Bowar

- 36 -

Chasing the Light

Frances Wetherall

- 37 -

The Wild Sea Spiders of Honduras

Carly Maslowski

- 39 -

knight's rest

Noah Nguyen

- 40 -

44.3222° N, 93.9688° W, 4-19 PM

Noah Nguyen

- 41 -

21.2322° N, 86.7341° W, 1-22 PM

Noah Nguyen

- 41 -

1.2906° N, 103.8465° E, 10-38 PM

Gino Fraboni

- 42 -

I walked with the Maples

Katie Gunderson

- 43 -

Ice Melting

Tommy Lindquist

- 44 -

Half

Erin Oberle

- 46 -

A City in the Clouds

Talia Marie Johnson

- 47 -

What Do You See?

Danielle Anderson

- 48 -

Patagonia

Gino Fraboni

- 49 -

Sugar Maples

Ellen Stoll

- 50 -

On Playing Piano

Drew Ericson

- 51 -

aux eros

Haley Kaul

- 52 -

Wire Bodies

Haley Kaul

- 53 -

Five Floating Bodies in Olso, Norway

Katie Aney

- 54 -

ATCG

Carly Maslowski

- 55 -

openheart

Jenna Hansen

- 56 -

Fragments

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FIRETHORNE Nicole Meyer

- 57 -

Inspired

Tommy Lindquist

- 58 -

Walter's Song

Elliott Robinson

- 60 -

In the Communal Showers of My Adolescence

Kaleb Krengel

- 61 -

Release

Elliott Robinson

- 62 -

In One Ear And Out The Other

Elliott Robinson

- 63 -

Cognition

Gino Sahagun

- 64 -

Stairs, 2017

Gino Sahagun

- 65 -

Scissor, 2017

Nicole Cundiff

- 66 -

Synthesized

August Moehrke

- 72 -

Hummingbird Peaks

Hailey Fordham

- 73 -

A dog resting in the sunshine without a collar

Kristi Manning

- 74 -

Fjord Village

Erin Oberle

- 75 -

An Early Morning in Stockholm

Emma Myhre

- 76 -

List of Conclusions From Tuesday

Talia Marie Johnson

- 78 -

Era

Katie Allen

- 79 -

God

Amanda Jensen

- 80 -

Two

Amanda Jensen

- 80 -

Three

Kyra Bowar

- 81 -

Golden Hour

Leanna Nielsen

- 82 -

Contemplation

Laura Stickney

- 83 -

Periwinkle Angels

Danann Isla Mitchell

- 85 -

Mother's Rite

Kaleb Krengel

- 86 -

Escape

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SPRING 2018 Nicole Meyer

- 87 -

Trust

Jayna Davis

- 88 -

The Song Bird

Danielle Anderson

- 90 -

Salinas Grandes, Argentina

Rachel Mueller

- 91 -

Farm Cat

Emily Carlson

- 92 -

I accidentally stole this book from the Folke Bernadotte Memorial Library

Nicole Cundiff

- 93 -

armand

Jenna Hansen

- 94 -

Ebb

Katie Allen

- 95 -

Lady Slippers

Linsey Wolf

- 97 -

In Bloom

Halie Ostberg

- 98 -

Daily Detox

Jayna Davis

- 99 -

The Dance

Haley Kaul

- 100 -

The Birdologist

Tommy Jamal Self

- 102 -

Grime

Jared Morningstar

- 103 -

Cocktails and Dreams ?

Stockholm, Sweden

Emma Myhre

- 104 -

Hey There! I'm A Straight White Male

Marit Pederson

- 106 -

Forgotten Wheel of Time

Rachel Mueller

- 107 -

Boats in a Harbor

Danielle Anderson

- 108 -

For a Diabetic to Wake

Emily Logan

- 109 -

Illusions

Laura Stickney

- 110 -

Patience lives in the Violets

Miranda Shaffer

- 112 -

River Rites

Danielle Anderson

- 113 -

To Encase a Life

7

FIRETHORNE Elliott Robinson

- 114 -

In the Summer You Plucked Me From the Branches

Tommy Jamal Self

- 115 -

Time Flies

Tommy Jamal Self

- 116 -

Superficial 2

Nicole Meyer

- 117 -

sublime

Emily Logan

- 118 -

one

Halie Ostberg

- 119 -

Self Healing

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Illusions Emily Logan

Cover Image

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FIRETHORNE

on the days that i am wildfire Alexandr a Or ta

on the days that i am wildfire words do not flow smoothly like a river running, always about to overflow its bank they are cracking, jumping, scorching, carving rivulets of memory through hearts and minds with reckless abandon and rabid spite

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SPRING 2018 on the days that i am wildfire i will melt every good thing i have ever held inside of me coughing up soot, grinning wisps of smoke but still barely smiling, because i have not let this wildfire out to burn those close enough to touch because if i cracked any more flames would lick at the hands that barely hold me on the days that i am wildfire i immolate and i pretend that being able to feel this fire is what makes me feel alive and not that i am dying faster and slower than ever

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FIRETHORNE

Introspective Joshua J. Monson

Reaching up to scratch my face I peeled it back, and in its place I found a shell of marbled stone, Encasing all, replacing bone; But thinner than I was aware, With just a touch, I made a tear That tore and cracked it all away Revealing, to my great dismay An open hand, with tender skin, And reaching out instead of in.

I shook that hand, then let it go, Afraid of what it let me know.

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Difference Rachael Zielske

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FIRETHORNE

Par is Blues Drew Er icson

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At the Border Mir anda Shaffer

This realm is not my own, it belongs Only to what I have given up. They own This land now and have built around All the old settlements. I cannot Recognize landmarks. I cannot Find my way. The names of streets Have changed and the pain Has changed, it means something Different here. It is the currency To cross the border.

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FIRETHORNE

Dr y Cereal It Is...

Hailey Fordham

ants on the syrup bottle, curdles floating in the milk.

Terrence put his dead frog in the pickle jar and the leftover soup is webbed with mycelium.

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Alien Zone Danielle Ander son

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FIRETHORNE

Life is Beautiful Corbyn Jenkins

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The Br idge Fr ances Wether all

In the picture, I smile and think of the dog collars found in the stomachs of alligators. I am seven years old. There is a pink flash of chewing gum tucked into the corner of my teeth, unseen by the camera. My sister and I stand on a thin bridge of concrete. An inch of rain would make the estuary impassable. No doubt I have already considered the unlikely disaster of drowning by the time we reach the middle of the bridge for a picture. My white striped tennis shoes are damp and I keep my mouth closed when I smile. My mother is in the background, her face in shadow, hands splayed in performed happiness. The water surrounds us, at once dark and shining, invisible except at the surface. I remember after the picture how I walked slowly towards the shore, looked at the water and thought of the scalpel the scientist would draw across the alligator?s belly, the way the scales and skin would fold outwards. The plastic gloved scientist would reach in, find something, a string there in the still-warm goo, and tug on it until it dragged something still larger out, a dripping artifact. He would shine a light on it, take note, and drop the white striped tennis shoe in a bucket for further study. I walked still slower and watched each step, how my shoes glowed bright against the dark and shining water, everything blinding.

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FIRETHORNE

spindle assembly checkpoint (SAC) Katie Aney

We connect. To disconnect. To reconnect again. The connections keep us human, grounded.

They give us the pieces we are missing. Patience, bravery, inspiration, decisiveness. The connections are vital for life, growth and repair. We reach with fibers, polymerizing methodically in hopes of finding a place to anchor ourselves. Some attachments are stable.

Others are not. The hearts we attach to are more complex than they seem. Hundreds of parts in beautiful coordination and harmony, and we trust that everything falls into place. Once we hold on, we don?t let go. We look for a clue, hint or sign that attachment is right. We have defense mechanisms in place to protect us from

harm

Metaphase.

Attachments are secure.

Triple check.

Anaphase.

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Double check.

SPRING 2018

Beads of Mor ning Dewdrops Mar it Peder son

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FIRETHORNE

The Summer We For got to Sleep: Memoir s from Lou and Lar 's Alaskan Adventure Leanna Nielsen

Excer pt 1: ?If a St r anger offer s t o Play you t he Spoons, Always Say Yes? For the next couple days, we decided to hang around the town a little longer to talk to the locals and maybe find some good fishing holes or something. Now, let me tell you, once you get Lou talking, it?s hard to shut him up. We visited with locals up and down the one main street for hours learning what must have been everything to know about anything for the next fifty miles. It was about three or four in the afternoon that day when we ran into this real old duffer who looked to be in his 60s. He had that true backwoods look to him. His hair was gray and straggly and his beard draped below his knees. His face was wrinkled from years of hard labor and I couldn?t decide if his smile looked kind or crazy. His clothes really tied his look together. He wore a pair of patched up trousers with no shirt on underneath. Well, Lou got to talkin' with

him and we found out pretty soon that this old man was a true musician of the spoons.

After a while, Smokey, which we eventually found out was his name, invited us to his place to play some of his spoon melodies for us. I mean, of course we were on board. Neither one of us had ever heard the spoons before so we didn?t think twice about followin' that stranger into the woods towards his cabin. Now, when the man said he lived on the outskirts of town, we didn?t expect his cabin to be in the middle of nowhere. We had followed him out there with our little truck traveling through the thick trees and winding dirt path. More than once I asked Lou what we were doing, but he just told me to stop acting like a child.

Eventually, we did make it to Smokey?s cabin: a three room, rugged looking log cabin that was tucked in between several ancient pine trees. He

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SPRING 2018 invited us into his cabin, and I honestly couldn?t have expected anything else. There was nothing special about it, quaint, but with a rustic appeal. The living room and kitchen were separated by a bear rug. In the corner near the kitchen sat a small table seated for one. We found out later that night that Smokey was a bachelor and was content staying that way. In the far corner stood a small wooden fireplace with a few mismatched reclining chairs. There was no television that I could see. Instead, a radio sat on a stool near the chairs. If I hadn?t already guessed that Smokey was a true outdoorsman, it was made clear by the deer antlers and mounted turkey feathers and

deer heads on the walls. They reminded me a little of my old man?s room back home.

Much like the Newfoundlanders a few nights before, Smokey could handle his drinks, and boy was he wild. He had an answer for anything we asked and a story to follow for everything else. Finally, after an hour or so of drinking, we were talking with each other like we were old friends. We had nearly forgotten about his spoons until he walked over to one of the drawers in his kitchen and pulled out two worn-looking metal spoons. There wasn?t anything fancy about em, ?cept they were very dull.

We had been sitting in the chairs near the fireplace, but Smokey walked over to the table and pulled his chair from the table so that he was sitting in front of us. He put one spoon in between the middle and index finger of his right hand and positioned it so that the spoon was layin' upside down. The second spoon lay between his thumb and index finger, this time facing upwards like a normal spoon. ?Now, tha trick tuh playin' the spoons is the rhythm ya have with both hands. It ain?t no fancy drum your nuthin, but it's still got ah good tune to it.?

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FIRETHORNE Smokey rested his hand holding the spoons on his knee and held his other hand above the right. With surprising grace, he moved both his hands in a kind of dance.

Smokey began to move his hand up and down, using his left hand to help propel his other hand toward his knee. With each movement, the back of the spoons would create a dull clank. He started out slow, getting a rhythm going, ?ba da dum bum.?

He played a nice little jig for us before getting more serious. After a while, he quit using his knee as part of his instrument and began to jig around the cabin using his whole body--moving his arms up and down, side to side--all the while dancing to the music of his spoons. By the end of the night, his hands were moving so fast that it was nearly impossible to follow with my eyes.

Lou and I just sat back and enjoyed the music.

After our night with Smokey, we decided it was time to keep heading towards Alaska. We made a few more stops along the way to do some fishing and sight-seeing, but within three days we were at the border. We thought it would be easy sailing into Alaska from Canada. After all, our border crossing into Canada had been a breeze.

But, I swear, nothing went right that day. We reached the border patrol into Alaska early in the morning. We were hoping to get to Tok, Alaska by the end of the day.

However, the line of cars trying to

get across the border was crazy. We must have sat in line for a good two hours before finally getting a glimpse of the gate. I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn?t a little annoyed, but Lou was another case. He had about enough patience to fill a needle eye. When we finally got to the gate, we were just twitching to get through. All we had to do was roll down the window at the gate, answer a few questions, and be on our way. That was the plan anyway.

It was close to 80 degrees that day, and with no air conditioning in the truck, we had our windows rolled down long before we reached the gate. The patrol officer that greeted us looked depleted of emotion by the time it was our turn. I knew right away that any light jokes would be out of the question. Instead, I decided that sticking with short answers was the way to go. Unfortunately, Lou had a much different grasp on the situation. ?Mornin?officer, how?s it going? You workin hard or hardly workin, eh?? Lou followed his greeting with a chuckle; the officer did not. ?Can I see your license and passport, please??

With passports in hand he proceeded to check them out, to make sure we really were us I ?spose. He sighed as he looked over all our papers.

Lou leaned over to me, motioning to the officer, ?Looks like we found Mr.

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SPRING 2018 Happy.?

I was going to say something but stopped cold when I made eye contact with the officer. In that moment I felt like silence was probably the best option and desperately hoped Lou finally got the hint. ?What?s your business for visiting Canada, and how long will you be staying?? ?Well,? I began, ?We just decided to take a road trip through Alaska and maybe stay a couple months or so. Just somethin' we?ve always wanted to do.? ?Yep, that?s right officer. We are just here to have fun, and not, like, do anything illegal or anything, am I right, Lar?? He had his big joking grin, but he was the only one.

I probably could have smacked him right then, but before I could say anything, Mr. Happy informed us that we would be detained for further questioning before entering Alaska.

I just glared at Lou as we drove the truck to a fenced-off area of the building; didn?t say a word. ?Uh, do you think it was somethin' I said??

I turned to him in disbelief, "Ya think??

Our ten minute questioning at the gate turned into a two hour wait and interrogation. Once inside the patrol complex, the officers directed us to separate interrogation rooms. The rooms were small

and concrete with a table and two chairs in the middle. I wasn?t cuffed or anything, but I waited what felt like forever until someone came in. I think I was asked every question in the book. Name, home, family, friends, education, reason for visiting, how long, where I was going, what I wanted to achieve, my dreams and aspirations: all that good stuff.

Granted, it wasn?t a picnic, but I wasn?t so worried about myself as I was for Lou. When you basically get arrested for making a joke, you would think the sensible thing would be to apologize and do whatever the officer asks, but Lou loved to press his luck. I prayed the whole time that he would keep his mouth shut just this once.

Eventually, the officers let us go but made it very clear that anything illegal on our part would send us right back to Minnesota with our tails between our legs.

Getting into the truck, Lou and I realized how seriously the officers had taken their jobs. The contents inside were in slight disarray. It was obvious that our truck had been thoroughly searched. Bags were unzipped, and we found out later that night that everything in our camper had been tossed around. That night I made Lou promise me not to pull the same stunt on the way home. Safe to say, he agreed.

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FIRETHORNE Excer pt 2: Life on t he Beaches of t he Kenai Peninsula We hadn?t really thought through what we would do once we reached Alaska.

Up 'til then, getting there was all we cared about. But, after some driving around, we arrived at a pretty cool place called Clam Gulch, Alaska. Little did we know, we would call this place home for the next two weeks.

This area gets its name from a very long stretch of beach extending for miles along the coast of Alaska. The beaches were muddy at best, and during low tides, clams emerge by the hundreds. Our first night there, Lou and I decided to take a walk along the beach and check out how the locals were catching the clams. It was low tide and the people out clam hunting were knee deep in mud trying to dig out their catch.

After talking with the locals for a while, we learned the art of clam hunting.

The geoducks (pronounced: gooey ducks) as the locals called them were clams around the size of a hand. They could only be caught at low tide as this was the time they would breach the surface of the sand. The trick to catching those geoducks was to look for a small dimple in the sand. It took us ages on the first few tries to find these little spots, but after a while, we could see them everywhere. The clams were very sensitive to sound, so once we would spot the little dimple, the next step would be to dig down as fast as we could because those suckers

were fast. At times, Lou and I would have our arms sunk in the mud up to our elbows.

It wasn?t long until we had caught hundreds of clams and were running out of ways to eat them. Our little camper had no kitchen; instead, we resorted to using a little camping stove and the fire pit we kept burning near our truck. On the first night, I discovered that boiling the clams and mixing them with some herbs and milk made some fine clam chowder. Lou and I lived off of this for the first few days. When we got sick of that, we would just fry them up in our pan and eat them plain. They had a bit of a seafood taste, but nothing too powerful. After eating them for so long, it became difficult for us to find any flavor at all. It hardly mattered if we added any spices or sides to them, to me, they quickly became as bland as water.

By the end of the first three days, I couldn?t shove another clam in my mouth. I was getting sick of them, but the only thing to do on Clam Gulch was catch clams, so that?s what we did. We did try our hand at fishing, but with no luck. River fishing is one thing. However, the ocean is a beast in itself.

When I first left home, I had anticipated taking our little 14-foot boat into the ocean, but as I looked out at the expanse of the grey-hued water with crashing waves like thunder, I decided my life wasn?t worth that adventure. ?Hey, Lar,? taunted Lou. ?Guess

26

SPRING 2018 what I found for supper? You are never going to believe it!?

Lou wore a sly smile and held something large behind his back.

He was baiting me, and I took the hook. ?What is it? Fresh salmon with a side of lobster in a garlic butter sauce?? ?Nope, even better! More clams!?

Lou dropped several large clams down in front of the fire pit, adding to the growing mountain of the other clams they had caught. ?Get those away from me. Not kidding, I?m starting to have nightmares about these things.?

Lou started shucking the clams. ?Well I?m glad that?s not just me then.?

We had talked about going into town and buying groceries so we wouldn?t have to eat any more of those damn clams. The only problem was that we didn?t have much money left to spend on food. Everything that we had saved for this trip was set aside for the truck and the occasional splurge.

Even though I wanted to chuck the clams back to sea, I quickly began preparing them for another flavorless dinner. As we were frying up the clams, an older guy approached us with a bucket in hand.

We had noticed him on the beach a few days before when we arrived. When I first saw him, he looked like he belonged here. He wore worn blue overalls with

several patches covering old holes. The overalls were undoubtedly necessary to hold up his large frame. He definitely looked well fed. What stood out the most was his crazy hair and beard. He looked like he hadn?t showered in days and his hair was matted and tangled. His beard was not much different but had wisps of black and grey mixed in, making it a little difficult to guess his age, although I would guess somewhere between his 40s and 50s. ?Hey there, fellas, I noticed you two catching them there clams earlier and I thought I would come over and introduce myself. The name?s Junior Tips.?

I shook his outstretched hand. ?Nice to meet ya. I?m Lar, and this here is Lou. Yeah, we?ve been out here about a week digging up these clams. Starting to get sick of them actually,? I chuckled. ?Ya know, that?s why I came over here. I was hoping I could trade you some hooligans for your clams. I have been eating nothing but these damn fish for days now and if I have to swallow another one of these slimy devils, I?m gunna throw up.?

Junior picked up one of the fish for us to see. It looked like smelt, a small fish maybe six inches long. It had a slim body, and its scales flashed silver in the sunlight. ?You can have every damn clam on this beach for all I care,? blurted Lou. He grabbed the bucket from Junior and looked

27

FIRETHORNE longingly at the fish. I swear I saw drool forming at the edges of his mouth. ?By all means. Take as many clams as you?d like. We?ve got plenty.?

Lou and I unloaded the bucket of smelt onto the beach and refilled it with as many clams as we could fit into the container.

The smile on Junior?s face as we replaced his hooligans with clams looked as if he had won the jackpot. That night, we had some of the best fish for the first time during our trip. I think back now, and I don?t think it tasted so great, but anything was better than those clams. That may have been the greatest deal I ever made.

The next day, we invited Junior Tips into our campsite. He came with just a truck and tent. As we got to know him more, we discovered that Junior had set out to Alaska to homestead there. ?I decided it was time for a change of scenery. Virginia has always been my home, but I ain?t got anyone to go back to.

So, I figured it?s never too late to start over, ya?know.?

I was listening to Junior as we were preparing our afternoon lunch. I filleted the fish as Junior shucked the clams. ?West Virginia sure is a ways away.

What made you decide that Alaska was the place to go?? I mean, his wild appearance answered the question in itself, but I still wanted to know what would push a man to

leave everything he knew behind him and start over this late in life. ?Well, I?ll tell ya. I spent the majority of my life underground in the coal mines.

My life has been nothing but dirt and sweat.

Don?t get me wrong, I never minded the work much either. The only job I ever really had above ground was during my service in Vietnam.? Junior was just finishing up cleaning the clams and started to prepare the fire. ?Anyway, when I got back from the war, I didn?t really have it in me anymore to go back underground. I feel like I saw more of Vietnam than I had my own country.

There?s always been somethin' about Alaska that has interested me since I was a kid, and I decided that this would be the place I would die.? He started laughing as if he had just cracked a great joke, deep bellows echoing from his mouth.

I chuckled along, not quite sure how to respond. ?That?s quite the story, Junior. I sure hope you find a good spot to settle down here.?

Over the next few days, we added several more people to our group. The company was spread throughout the resort, but our campsite became the central meeting area. The guys came from all over the United States. Most of us were probably in our twenties save for some guys like Junior. Up in the Kenai, it never got dark which made it hard to keep track of the time. Almost every night the guys and us

28

SPRING 2018 would stay up all night drinking. It wouldn?t be until two or thee in the morning that we had realized we forgot to go to bed because the sun would still be shining.

Our time at Clam Gulch took place in June, the longest month of the year in Alaska.

As the days progressed, the sun would shine longer. It would be easy to run on three hours of sleep for days on end simply because even when the sun went down, there was still enough twilight to continue the day as usual.

On the nights we did remember to sleep, Lou and I would put up black curtains in the camper to try and keep the sun out of our eyes. The sun definitely messed with us, but it gave us all the more reason to stay up partying with the guys.

Now, some guys like Junior I really liked, but there were others that seemed to always cause problems. Because the truck was the group?s headquarters, it became my and occasionally Junior and Lou?s job to keep the peace.

There were two guys from Massachusetts and California that were real troublemakers. They were ski bums who liked to travel up to Alaska each year to surf in the summer and ski in the winter. I liked Massachusetts a lot, but the other guy was just a dick. Always thought he was better than everyone else. But the real thing that got me was how he could turn the best situations sour. But not even he compared to this one guy from New York.

I never took the time to learn his

name. The only thing he ever talked about was how much of a big shot he was in New York; it would be a stretch to say that anyone really liked him. Big Shot just showed up one day at our campsite with his two husky dogs. Now, his dogs I didn?t mind. They were purebred huskies; beautiful animals and the friendliest things you ever met. This was an expensive breed to own and he had two. I wasn?t surprised Big Shot would pay so much money for those dogs, especially since he spent so much time talking about how much he earned a year. I just found it a little ironic that those dogs held all the good characteristics that their owner lacked.

At the end of the third week Lou, Junior, myself and the rest of the gang were out catchin' some more salmon. We had been talking for a few days about leaving the gulch and heading farther inland along the Kasilof River. Many of us had caught our limit for the year and we were ready to head up stream to catch some red ?sockey? salmon instead. We were trying to figure out how many of us were goin' and we noticed that Big Shot wasn?t around to give his two cents; which was strange. Usually we couldn?t get him to shut up.

When we got back to our base camp, we discovered where Big Shot had been all afternoon. He had been busy redecorating the site. The food bins and canteens that normally sat near the truck for easy access now lay on the outskirt of the site. The cooking stoves that normally sat next to each other looked as

29

FIRETHORNE if they had been tossed to the side, and Junior?s large cooking pot was tipped on its side next to the fire pit.

As for the site picnic table, Big Shot was busy pulling it across the beach towards his fancy new truck. Big Shot must have moved his site closer to ours because he had his tent set up and looked to be in the process of unloading the rest of his junk. ?What on earth is going on here?? Junior asked what we were all thinking.

Big Shot trotted over to us with a big smile on his face. ?Hey guys, hope you don?t mind, but I rearranged the camp a little. Everything seemed a little crowded over here, so I moved everything out a little farther. Oh, Lar, I moved one of the tables over there,? he said, pointing about ten yards away, ?so that I can set up camp next to you all.?

This was an instance where nobody had anything to say. We all just stared at him dumbfounded.

I finally broke the silence. ?I don?t care if you set up next to us, but don?t be messing with my things. And, move the table back to where it was, or go find your own.? ?The site has so much more potential

set up this way,? interrupted Big Shot. ?Gives

the space a lot more room.? ?A lot more room?? Lou huffed. ?I?m with Lar on this one. Keep your damn hands off our stuff and find your own table.?

Big Shot looked as if he had just stepped in a pile of shit. ?You know what, I don?t think so. You two have been acting like you own this beach since you got here. I think I have just a little bit more experience than you being out here, and maybe I might just know what I?m talking about!?

By this point Big Shot was standing right in front of my face. His face was red from anger, or maybe embarrassment that we weren?t taking him seriously. As for his dogs, they were cowering near the truck. I think I

30

SPRING 2018 could have taken him if I had the chance, and believe me, I was thinkin ' about it. I knew Lou was thinkin' the same thing. He stood by me, fists clenched, but Junior piped up before either of us had the chance. ?Hey! Both of you had better start acting like adults. Lar, Lou, if he doesn?t want to move the tables then deal with it.

Anyone who wants to can use their legs and walk a little farther than usual. And you--? thundered Junior, pointing at Big Shot, ?You better get that foot out of your ass pretty quick before it gets stuck there for good.?

Big Shot was at a loss for words for the first time since we met him. He shrank under the force of Junior?s presence. Some jumbled words mumbled out of his mouth before he went scurrying off to his site to join his dogs. That night everyone ate supper on the ground.

After the argument with Big Shot, Lou and I figured it was about time we got out of Clam Gulch. We had heard about another beach a couple hours down the Yukon that had prize crabs. So the next morning we packed up before dawn and headed out. To our surprise, more than half of the group joined us. Big Shot was not one of them.

Junior Tips said his goodbyes that day as well. It was a sad day to see him leave, but he said he had errands he had to run, whatever that meant.

?Ya know, I have had so much fun these past few weeks with you guys, and I?m sure going to miss it.?

I wasn?t ready to see him go, but I knew he was so bullheaded there was no changing his mind. All I could do was take his outstretched hand and say goodbye. ?Say, if you ever make it down to the States again, make sure you stop down to Kellogg, Minnesota. The door will always be open.? It was the Minnesota nice in me, but that was the best thing I could think to offer him. ?Well thanks, Lar. I may have to take you up on that offer some day.?

We said our final goodbyes and he was off. I haven?t seen him since. Junior had been part of the core group for just two weeks but it felt like I had known him for years. I think he headed north somewhere past the Yukon, but I can?t remember.

Whatever happened to him, I hope he found the adventure he was looking for.

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FIRETHORNE

Mor ning Mesa Rains, 2017 Oil on canvas 18"x18" August Moehrke

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Spr ingdale, Utah August Moehrke

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FIRETHORNE

Liftoff Chr istopher Schneider

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SPRING 2018

Chaos and Order, 2017 Gino Sahagun

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FIRETHORNE

Chasing the Light Kyr a Bowar

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SPRING 2018

The Wild Sea Spider s of Hondur as Fr ances Wether all

There are a lot of ways to die while scuba diving. The first one you might think of is shark attacks, which sure, we can put that at the bottom of the list, but in reality, sharks aren?t interested in biting you. They don?t think about you nearly as much as you think about them. A more likely option is that you ascend too fast. A little too fast might do nothing, or hurt your ears, but if you go shooting up to the surface from a depth of sixty feet the compressed air in your lungs might just explode and take your lungs with it. Ouch. There?s also a number of ways to get decompression sickness which has something to do with nitrogen and, if in stage two, a lot to do with killing you. If you dive hungover and take off your mask to throw up, you will probably inhale some water because our natural instinct is to take a sharp breath in after puking. What a way to go, man.

Choking on vomit and saltwater at the bottom of the ocean. ?That?s why you throw up through your mask!? said Johanny, a drunk Frenchman trying to convince me to stay at the bar. ?It?s designed to

let liquids out, but let nothing in. And the fish love it!? He smiled and spilled a bit of his beer. ?Do they? Sounds like you?re speaking from experience,? I asked, finishing the last of my beer and standing up. I had my first dive scheduled at six am the next morning. ?Yeah, it?s happened to me twice. Come on, stay!?

I shook my head and saluted him.

Back in my hostel, I finished a glass of water and put myself to bed. I dreamed of coral, lionfish, and nitrogen.

All of the nerves of the day before dissolved as I hovered above the sand, my head ten feet beneath the surface, the tips of my flippers brushing the ground, no sound except for my Darth Vader breathing. Childhood dream of breathing underwater achieved. We practice some of the skills we had talked about in class, like how to empty a full mask of water or clear out the respirator, then we followed the instructor, Mickey, on our first dive.

37

FIRETHORNE In the deepening ocean, I got to thinking about human beings and how we go places we aren?t supposed to go and how maybe, that?s the most beautiful and most ugly thing about us.

Then Mickey waved me over and plopped what seemed to be a large underwater spider in my hand and I cut the shit with the philosophizing. I didn?t know there were motherfucking spiders in the ocean! The spider had long, thin legs and sat in my hand contentedly, not trying to get away in the least. I tried to get a good look at his eyes. When he started to squirm, I put him back on the rock Mickey had plucked him from and followed the other divers as they moseyed through the water.

Later, at the Paradise Divers hostel, I would gush about the ?spider? I had held and, when questioned, would insist on its spider-ness until every diver in the hostel was convinced along with me that sea spiders exist and they?re chilling in the shallow water reefs of Honduras.

It was definitely a crab.

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knight's rest Carly Maslowski

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FIRETHORNE

44.3222° N, 93.9688° W, 4- 19 PM Noah Nguyen

21.2322° N, 86.7341° W, 1- 22 PM Noah Nguyen

1.2906° N, 103.8465° E, 10- 38 PM Noah Nguyen

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FIRETHORNE

Half Tommy Lindquist

seventy some milesi used to think i could see the lights come up, those city stars shining. lately, i?ve had my ear to the asphalt, just hoping to hear even a faint roar past 169, but st. paul?s silent, and minneapolis is on mute. so i?m just writing these half-truths again. i can't commit to much these days. should i settle on being half-here? Find some solace in half-hurt?

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SPRING 2018

Ice Melting Katie Gunder son

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FIRETHORNE

I Walked With the Maples Today Gino Fr aboni

I walked with the maples today.

They told me, ?It?s about that time to say goodbye.? I considered all their faces. Thought, why?

I regard each face?s crown, some singing, a sunset curtain call, while some hold tight to final leaves.

I pick one up, crush it, and blow it through the air like glitter ?Well, I?m not ready to say goodbye.?

I?ll walk this same pass tomorrow.

They tell me, ?We know. We see, but the weather is bound to change.?

Their branches shiver and hmm in the breeze.

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SPRING 2018

I smile, a glint. ?I?ll be here again, I know you?ll be different.

That?s why I come,? each day the maples have something new to say.

Sometime tonight, I?ll let myself dream of boughs abound with glowing snow in deep, winter quiet. But for now I?ll enjoy them as is.

I get ready to leave, a humble sigh. I stand in ovation.

Their leaves chatter beneath my feet.

I imagine they?re saying, ?See you soon!? or, ?Who was that guy, again?"

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FIRETHORNE

A City in the Clouds Er in Oberle

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SPRING 2018

What Do You See? Talia Mar ie Johnson

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FIRETHORNE

Patagonia Danielle Ander son

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SPRING 2018

Sugar Maples Gino Fr aboni

Sugar Maples wish they were as sweet as your breath.

We melt, cradled between two, trying to guess their hues. I picture a canopy of golden strawberry blond, we see a blanket of black and conclude this leaf I hold must be crusty orange, possibly the veins are dried. We wonder whether we could hammock during Winter. But, the only reason I brought it up was to break the silence, and to ask if you wanted to make the sugar maples jealous.

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FIRETHORNE

On Playing Piano Without Tension Ellen Stoll

Don?t ?sit up straight.? Ever. ?Sit up straight? implies a militaristic holding of the body. This creates a great deal of tension. Think about holding a cup of water at arm?s length for an hour. Not only are you holding the cup, but the weight of your own arm, and you will tire easily. Your self is what will defeat you. Don?t ?relax.? Ever. ?Relax? means collapse, and collapsing is only another species of tension in your playing. Instead, imagine you are a marionette, guided by a master puppeteer through the motions of the piece. Loose and free and precise.

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SPRING 2018

aux heros Drew Er icson

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FIRETHORNE

Wire Bodies Haley Kaul

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Five Floating Bodies in Oslo, Nor way Haley Kaul

Look up, do you see them?

Tangled together with the clouds.

A work of art featured in the sky.

You could yell their names; The wire bodies wouldn?t budge.

They?re committed to their art.

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FIRETHORNE

A- T.C- G Katie Aney

it?s no wonder we love to read and collect books and write letters and read poetry our souls are written in letters paired twists fitting perfectly together A&T. C&G. we are books held together by sugar backbones and stardust with transcripts revised and rewritten for billions of years your story is beauty and you are art

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openhear t Carly Maslowski

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FIRETHORNE

Fr agments Jenna Hansen

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Inspired Nicole Meyer

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FIRETHORNE

Walter 's Song Tommy Lindquist

I?m not sinking now, I?m not taking on water, and my loneliest parts wouldn?t even want to -or at least that?s what I?ve been telling myself.

Making plans, late to dinner, singing songs for saps and sinners, and since I was told to settle down (I?m older now), I?ve been finding faith in my breaking down.

But I won?t fade, cause I?m an ocean filling up with your noise and notions --

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SPRING 2018

and I?m asking big things of myself.

I?m done dabbling in self-deprecation so don?t you doubt me now.

I?m gaining ground faster than you could guess.

I had my head hung like a picture frame, but now I?ll be sticking around.

Nevertheless, I?ll never settle for less.

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FIRETHORNE

In the Communal Shower s of My Adolescence Elliott Robinson

I can smell the lingering sweat of men, and dust. My peers stand naked, young-seeming bodies already showing signs of wear. Scars from hockey sit nestled under coarse hair, penis and testicles nestle by unkempt beds of curls. I can see their thigh muscles move under tanned skin, signaling a strength or endurance for an action that I have never performed. I stand beside them fully clothed, already naked in a way that I cannot bear. I am inferior by attraction and compared ratios. I have too little skin, and too much of it is covered in blisters and welts, scars not from sport or fun, but from genetic predisposition for inherent otherness. Some of them look at me as they walk side by side into the showers, just faucets on barren tiled walls. They smirk. I will die here, I think, looking down at the suds rushing from their feet to the drain. I pretend not to cry, paralyzed. I am trying to peel back my own skin. I wish those fragile soap bubbles were me. So easy to make disappear.

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SPRING 2018

Release Kaleb Krengel

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In One Ear And Out The Other Elliott Robinson

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SPRING 2018

Cognition Elliott Robinson

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FIRETHORNE

Stair s, 2017 Gino Sahagun

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Scissor, 2017 Gino Sahagun

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Synthesized Nicole Cundiff

I am not born; I am made. This is an important distinction.

for imperfections. I do not move. I stay perfectly still, I do not breathe? I do not have to. My spine remains perfectly perpendicular to the ground. I am determined that he does not find me at any fault. His fingers trail over my arms, and the sensation is curious. His hands emit heat, but I cannot tell the exact temperature. He is simply warm. It is pleasant.

I do not remember the first days of my life, the moments after my motherboard was created but my body was not. All that remains of those days are flashes of binary and coding and colors. Then there is darkness and quiet, until I am downloaded into my body. It is not like birth, but it is not unlike it, either. The world rebuffers once, in a terror-inducing panic, and then it is there, and real. It will stay like this forever.

?Perfect,? he declares, though his eyes still cast a last frantic glance from beneath his spectacles. Once that is done, he relaxes, and the infinite man smiles upon me. ?Perfect.?

The first thing I see is white. It is effervescent. The walls are white; the floor tiles are white; the light is white.

I feel as though I have been blessed by an angel.

He, in contrast, is pure color. His skin is the tan of the color f0cfac, his hair and eyes are the deep brown of 78412a. The bags underneath his eyes could be described, perhaps, as purple, but are subtler than that? b3929e. Yet amongst all of these, there are endless variations in hue, in saturation.

He is the first man I see, and he appears infinite.

?My Johnathan,? he whispers, and his warm hands envelope mine. J0hnathan, yes, that is my name, and I must be his, for this infinite man must be the one who created me. ?Who are you?? I ask, with all of the courage I possess.

He smiles, and his eyes are wet. ?Erik,? he says, ?your Erik.?

His hands inspect my skin, as if searching

66

SPRING 2018 ?Erik.? The name feels too familiar. It is a benediction too great to expect, or even accept, to have my creator and my god on equal terms with me. Yet? some daring part within me wonders if, perhaps, I might be permitted to call him father.

We are smiling, and he is staring at me as if I am the most glorious being in all of creation. How could I have made him adore me so, and then forgotten? ?Do you remember that?? he says, and slips a hand around my waist. ?We went to Paris for our honeymoon. I know, I know, you hate cities. But you seemed happy enough, when it was just us.?

He slides a golden band onto my finger. I do not know what it means. ?

The rest of the house is not so stark white. I come to understand that the part I had been in before was simply the basement, a laboratory where, I imagine, I was created. No, the rest of the house is deep in color, filled with dark brown wood and silver metal, and outside the windows I am surrounded by a verdant forest on all sides. The world is lush with color, in too many hues for my processors to name even as I whirr in the attempt.

My creator has brought me into his vast world of incomputable light and color. It is as if stepping on the creaking steps from the basement has brought me to the gates of heaven.

Paris: the capital of France. 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E, in latitude and longitude. I know instinctually that I have not been there. The photograph is at least five years old, and my circuits are too new. I have an internal pedometer that marks how far I?ve been, and I have been nowhere near that distance. All of my systems corroborate only with my memories, and not his.

Yet he is my creator, and therefore he must be correct. There are other options as well, of course. Perhaps my program is old, and only my hardware has been replaced. Perhaps my memory was damaged in the transfer. It does not seem likely, yet I submit to his better knowledge. He is my creator, and he knows so much. He must be correct.

?

I spend the first weeks assuming my memory circuit must be faulty. He expects me to know so many things that I do not? and yet I do not dare disappoint him. Every time I mention my confusion, the muscles around his mouth tighten, and his eyes grow dark like storm clouds. This cannot be permitted. The first few times, he offers me update chips for my processors; this eventually stops. I learn what he tells me and try to assess the damage on my memory. Each one of my scans proclaim that I am functional, but I must not be.

There are pictures of us upon every surface in the house, pictures in places I don?t remember being.

He sighs a happy little sound, and kisses me. This is the first time he?s done such a thing, but it is not that unusual. Kisses are a sign of affection in many human cultures, and are not always romantic. It is an honor. ?

The first time he takes me to bed, I do not know what is occurring. "Takes me to bed" is perhaps an elusive term; we have slept since the beginning in the same bed, in the same room. There?s a charging port on the back of my left hand that I can stick a charger into as I go into

In one of them, we are standing in front of a tall metal building, made of intricate latticework.

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FIRETHORNE sleep mode. I do not dream, though sometimes I pretend I do. He asks me, sometimes, if I had good dreams.

yet I cannot. I am not so ungrateful. I know he has given me everything I know. I know that without him I would be nothing. I would not exist. I would never have known the colors of the world around me.

No, this time when we return to bed, it has nothing to do with sleep. He kisses me, and he is everywhere, and I am so confused and frustrated and it feels wrong. My processors scream out to me in binary to shut down, to go into sleep mode, but there is too much feedback for me to ignore him.

He has made me with a full array of sensors: I am identical to a human in almost every way. I can feel pleasure; I can feel pain; I can feel the slightest touch. I wish I could not. I can feel everything. The slightest hint of his hands on my skin makes it to my processors, and it fills me with an emotion I cannot describe, something I can only later understand as revulsion. I never used to hate his touch, before.

I cannot hate him, even as phantoms of his touches remain in my sensory databank, even as the clap of his hand on my shoulder makes me want to jump away. ?Johnathan,? he murmurs in my ear, and not for the first timed I wish I could override my sensors and shut them down, or that I could manually wipe my memory core. No. I force my gears to stop stiffening; this is fine. He is fine. ?What do you think of this movie??

He holds up the DVD case to show me. A handsome man stands on the cover, holding a whip and wearing a hat.

He calls me his J0hnathan, repeats it over and over again, and I lie there. I want to ask him why? but he is my creator. I do not question.

?I know you love Indiana Jones.?

This is a lie. I know the franchise intimately; it is engrained into my memory core. I find the plots to be overly dramaticized, and it to be an absurdist interpretation of archeology. Yet still, I say nothing, and he pulls me closer to him and drapes a blanket over my legs. I freeze. The window behind the television is vast, and the forest behind it is dark. I try to judge the approximate distance. If I burst out that window right now, how far could I make it before my battery died, before he found me and brought me here again?

Afterwards, his arms still imprison me as he sleeps, and I plug in my charger with shaking hands. ?

He is not a bad man. I know this intrinsically, even after everything. He is not a bad man. For him to be bad implies malevolence.

Malevolence, (noun): having a wish to do evil to others. No. He is not malevolent.

He loves me too much, I think. I simply refuse to tell him I do not love him romantically; I am not sure if I am capable of loving romantically.

It is not his fault I do not love him back. If I only could tell him I do not love him, I am certain he would stop. Every time he puts his hands on me, I think of opening my mouth, telling him no, and

No. That?s ungrateful, that?s improper. He is not a bad man. Yet? ?I don?t,? I hazard, quietly enough that I irrationally hope he couldn't hear me. ?What?? He stiffens against me. ?I do not enjoy Indiana Jones,? I say, only

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SPRING 2018 somewhat louder. My voice does not falter if I try hard enough.

me,? he repeats.

I wait until he?s asleep, and then I slowly push him off of me. At night, I?ve taken to wandering the house for hours. I don?t need to charge as long as he needs to sleep. It?s nice, the house at night. It?s always quiet, but it?s quietest like this, when he is asleep. It?s like nothing exists but me.

His shoulders are tense; I can see his jaw move. ?Don?t be silly, Johnathan. You?ve loved Indiana Jones since you were eight. Harrison Ford was your first crush.? His tone is light, and he is smiling, but his grip on my wrist is just a little bit too hard, and there is a wild and fearful emotion in his eyes.

The house is different in the moonlight. The colors aren?t quite pure grayscale, instead they?re washed with blue. In the daytime, with him, there is so much color and light, and it is infinite but overwhelming. At night, the sky is black, the trees are black, and the colors mute themselves until all is silent.

I look away. ?Of course,? I say. It is the first time I lie. ?You?re right.?

The wild look fades from his eyes. He looks at me with only tenderness. He is not a bad man. ?Come on,? he says. ?We?ll watch Raiders of the Lost Ark. It?s your favorite.?

I walk around the house. There are still vestiges of color, here. The clock on the microwave glows bright blue; the hardwood floors still hold a slight tint of brown. There is not a single room in the house that does not hold a hint of color, there is not a single room in which I can escape the legacy of him. There is not a single room, except?

I let him curl into my side, let him drape an arm around my shoulders. I do not contradict him again.

He takes me to bed again that night, and I close my eyes and suffer through it. To displease him is terrifying, beyond recognition. He is the only thing I have ever known. He is my only companion, my only friend. My mind flashes back to the thought of running into the forest and never coming back? it is absurd. I do not know life without him. I do not know how to exist without him.

I have not returned to the laboratory he built me in since I first walked up the creaking steps from the basement. He does not want me down there, I know, every time I even walk in the direction of it he tenses and ushers me away. He does not want me down there, however, I cannot see the harm in it, and?

?Johnathan, Johnathan, Johnathan.? His eyes look at me as if they?re searching for something. I do not know what he is looking for. He tangles a hand in my hair again. ?My Johnathan.?

He lies against me, drowsy and content, pressing lazy kisses onto the tinted silicone of my skin. ?Love you so much,? he hums, pressing his face into my hair. ?Never leave me,? he whispers there. It takes me a moment to realize, but his face is wet.

He?s crying. I don?t know why. I will. ?Never leave

It?s pure white there. He cannot follow me.

The thought is irrational, and yet I find myself walking down those rickety old stairs. Something wild and exciting goes off in my heart at this, this little act of rebellion. It cannot truly hurt him, I rationalize, as he has never expressly forbidden it.

He will never know, anyway. I open the door to the basement.

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FIRETHORNE The sterile white lights turn on with the barest of hums, and I force myself to relax.

in disarray, and my systems cannot settle. Instead, they are left on high overdrive, attempting to define the problem that had me in such duress.

There are still different shades inside of this white; there is still depth within the grayscale. It is not the clean binary of the times before, back when I was just coding, or a motherboard. It is not the crisp colors of code, of white? #ffffff? on black? #030303. Still, it is enough. I let my processors slow, I survey the room. It is exactly as I remembered it: white lab tables, tools still lying upon them, cabinets, the same white lab coat he wore still sits upon a hook.

On his left hand, there is a golden ring around his finger. It is identical to the one my creator put on me when I came into the world. I do not understand. I do not understand, and then ?

In a second, the entire world falls into place.

I slide the ring off my finger. Inside, it is engraved: My Johnathan. Johnathan, with an O and not a zero. My name is not Johnathan. My name is J0hnathan. This man? this man must be Johnathan.

A hook next to a door I do not remember at all. It is not strange I do not recall it, even with my eidetic, electronic memory. It is on the opposite side from where I would have been looking. It is perfectly innocuous, no doubt it only holds extra equipment, perhaps cleaning supplies. It is nothing, and still I walk towards it, intent on satisfying my curiosity.

Everything I know must be a lie.

I feel gutted. I am nothing. I am a replacement. My creator has never cared about me; I have never been his greatest creation. I am never going to be good enough, he will never care what I have to say. I am a stand-in, an unfortunate substitute for the actual article. Synthetic.

(He doesn?t often answer my questions with a straight answer. ) I open the door. It is not a supply closet.

There are papers strewn about everywhere in a desperate haze, beakers and test tubes and notes written frantically in a flurried frenzy. This is not the surprising part, however.

In the center, there is a cryostasis chamber, and there is a human trapped under the ice. A human, who wears my face. I? I?

My heart has sped up to unreasonable proportions; I fight off the error messages that threaten to reboot me yet again. I cannot let myself be overtaken again. I must rationalize.

Compartmentalize. I shut my eyes. I focus. I focus.

If I am the subpar specimen, why am I alive and Johnathan frozen? If this is who I have been measured against from the beginning, if this is who I am supposed to be, why have me at all? There is a low, hollow feeling in my chest. Synthetic tears sting in my eyes, but I push past them. Rationalize.

Compartmentalize.

ERROR 500.19 SYSTEM MALFUNCTION shutdown / r shutdown / r-60

I gather the papers from around the room, and speed through the text. There are equations and formulas, mostly, all hastily scratched out or

The world comes back to me in a flash of ones and zeroes. The involuntary reboot has left me

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SPRING 2018 crumpled and tossed aside. One of them reads, in shaking black ink: Symptoms: Pain, difficulty breathing, difficulty moving, slow-moving thoughts, forgetfulness. Estimated lifespan? the note cuts off there, in a pool of ink. His pen must have broken.

?Please stop talking like this.? ?I am not yours.? ?Johnathan? ? He is begging now. ?I can never be who you want me to be." ?No, no? please? ?

There is a computer on the desk, a shining beacon of white in this gray disaster zone. I do not falter as I bypass his passwords. I think of how he used to say my Johnathan, and how his eyes looked past me instead of at me. There?s more information on the computer, equations, research, chemical compounds and experiment results.

?I?m leaving.? I say. It is final.

He cries out as if I have shot him, keens like a wounded animal. ?Johnathan, please? ?

I falter. I soften. ?You have to wake him up,? I say. Then? ?Erik, you have to wake him up.?

It is the only time I have called him by name. It will be the last. ?You cannot stay frozen in this limbo forever. Cure him if you can, but if you cannot? he would want to spend his last days with you.?

There is also a personal journal. I do not want to read more. My emotions war against my curiosity? the hollow feeling in my chest remains. I want to run, and never look back, and yet? and yet?

He is crying. He grabs my hand. ?Please, please? I don?t know how to live without you.?

He is my creator, and I love him, if only for that. I keep reading.

?You have to learn,? I say. ?You have to live.? I pull my hand away and walk to the front door.

??

I step out into the infinite green, and I do not look back.

?I am not your husband,? I say the next morning, waiting. The gold ring he gave me lies on the kitchen counter. I stare him down in the face.

He sucks in a breath. ?Johnathan,? he says, ?you?re forgetting again. It?s me, Erik, your husband? ? ?No.? I say. I will not agree mindlessly again. ?You?re not my husband, and I am not human.? ?No," He shakes his head. ?No, no, Johnathan, no.? His breath is wild, erratic. He is desperate, and pathetic. I cannot believe I used to imagine he was infinite. He seems a shade of the man he is in photographs, sallow and desaturated in a way that cannot be computed into hex code.

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FIRETHORNE

Hummingbird Peaks, 2017 Oil on Canvas 48"x48" August Moehrke

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A dog resting in the sunshine without a collar Hailey Fordham

A dog resting in the sunshine without a collar. Why does he sleep so fitfully. How long has he been there. Is he glad for the sun. Is he hot under his fur. Where is his owner. What breed is he. Does he miss where he came from. Does he bite. Does he crave a meal. What?s his favorite trash food. Does he know any tricks. Shouldn?t animal control have hauled him off. Would anyone care if he was gone.

Is he friends with his fleas. Does he side with Yoko Ono. Has he ever been in love. Does he ever think of death. Is he happy with the life he has been given. What gets him up in the morning. What makes his eyes wiser than mine. Would he give me practical advice in exchange for Scooby Snax. Could I come home to him after a long day at work. Would he roll his eyes if I made him watch The X-Files with me. If I weren?t funny, would he care. Would he love me all the same. I don?t know the answer to any of these questions. But when I scratch behind his ear, he leans into my hand.

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An Early Mor ning in Stockholm Er in Oberle

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Fjord Village Kr isti Manning

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A List of Conclusions From Tuesday While Sitting On A Futon: Emma Myhre

I. My body wanes into honey as my breath enters our sixteen by twelve foot manor, and I immediately have to pee.

II. Sipping a vegetal green tea out of a black, factory worn mug probably establishes that my life is more composed than it actually is.

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III. In Gibbs three-oh-eight, we welcome the personal lives of every third and fourth floor resident.

That is, we hear every wash, rinse, moan, and gag.

IV. Every single night, at exactly nine forty-five p.m., a verdant, herbal incense ascends to our slender window and weakly wanders, weeding worry.

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Er a Talia Mar ie Johnson

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God Katie Allen

I think that God must be a woman.

Look around you and tell me it is not so.

Bees in hives The stars sparkle like

worship their one

my sister?s eyes,

true Queen,

the night is the color

and the widowed

of smooth ebony skin,

spider devours her mate

the moon a circle

to nourish the life

of white dimpled thigh.

growing within.

The trees sway like hips

Tell me that God

in the breeze and

is not a woman.

leaves fall like tears from eyes that have truly felt pain.

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Two Amanda Jensen

Three Amanda Jensen

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Golden Hour Kyr a Bowar

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Contemplation Leanna Nielsen

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Per iwinkle Angels Laur a Stickney

The periwinkle angels took my violet hands In their blue ones, and held me close -And told me not to be afraid.

They had soft downy hair like sea waves, Or patches of liquid cloud, on blueberry nights In early August -- and some had darkish Brown hair, some pale gold, some red Like brass doorknobs in a safe house Somewhere in a foreign countryside.

They were dressed in cream, like coffee cream, Muted with the frost of sorrows And the dust of happier galaxies, sprinkled Like powdery milk over lily-white branches.

But I loved their eyes, the most; and their hands -They had periwinkle eyes, like the color of a dream -Or a half-winter seascape, with waves that foamed

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Cradling lost bird?s nests and crates of tea, Like some silent sympathetic lullaby.

And periwinkle hands, with periwinkle fingers -That turned blue when the air dropped, Just like mine -- graceful, honest, battered fingers On angel hands, that reached for mine -Held on to mine -- holding me close -And letting each tear stain the cream Of their silken robes.

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Mother 's Rite Danann Isla Mitchell

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Escape Kaleb Krengel

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Tr ust Nicole Meyer

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The Song Bird

Jayna Davis

I had almost forgotten to return my books on religion when I noticed it lying on the terrible concrete next to the library doors, wings fluttering, chest rising and falling the bird could not fly, though it tried Wind pinched my face and embraced me I scooped up the fading creature and held it close I wanted to save it, to do something, anything How many people had passed by without knowing a life was ending only steps away?

Had no one been there to see the fall?

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Perhaps I would have appeared silly, so I kept my wet face turned downward I prayed and whispered a lie Maybe I thought I was enough just holding it close giving what warmth I had to offer loving as much as I could Yet, my studies on religion did not prepare me for the quiet tragedy of an innocent life departing These books were no help Oh, how helpless I was pleading to something so small now flightless, now songless, now still

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Salinas Gr andes, Ar gentina Danielle Ander son

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Far m Cat Rachel Mueller

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I Accidentally Stole This Book from the Folke Ber nadotte Memor ial Libr ar y Emily Carlson

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ar mand Nicole Cundiff

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Ebb Jenna Hansen

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Lady Slipper s

Katie Allen

I have planted myself.

Expanding out into the universe I take up space?

I am becoming large.

I unfurl like a delicate wood anemone stretching out my silken petals I gather up the sun, my roots greedy.

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I announce my presence like a calypso orchid, roaring through the moss, I am rare.

Like spring trilliums I blanket the forest floor, demanding travelers to stop and revel in my beauty.

I am the glory of nature the soil, the air? every step I take plants lady slippers soft, fair.

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In Bloom Linsey Wolf

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Daily Detox Halie Ostber g

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The Dance Jayna Davis

It?s dark outside, but brightness is blaring from the speakers inside our little house.

Dad, all covered in joy in his suit and tie takes Mom?s hand and lifts her off the floorboards.

It?s cold outside, but in here we are warm, filled up with those buzzing melodic lines.

My sisters and I dance in our pajamas, listening to the familiar heartbeat of home.

It?s lonely outside, but comfort?s here to stay within the lightly painted walls of this room.

Five voices echo with one another, joining in midair to create a chorus.

Spinning to jazzy instrumentals, the wariness of today no longer matters.

Tonight, there are bright trumpets and bass drums and bare feet kicking life into our kitchen.

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The Birdologist Haley Kaul

She holds this robin in her hands, it is created to coo as she strokes its spine with her tiny thumb.

She whistles the way they chirp, none quite mean anything to anyone other than herself and the birds.

She?s read plenty about them, but she says there is nothing that comes close to living among them.

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I hold a painting of many: chickadees, cardinals, loons.

Her and the birds all born together.

She?s going to lose her focus on the birds and their music, but they will always love the birdologist.

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Gr ime Tommy Jamal Self

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Cocktails and Dreams ?

Stockholm, Sweden Jared Mor ningstar

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Hey There! I?m A Woke, Str aight, White Male, and Respectfully, I Will Not Let You For get It! Emma Myhre

Listen, I am so, so sorry I?m late for this date. My life has been a complete mess. Can I say that? I feel like I can?t because I know, I mean, I know there are people in the world who have it worse than I do. I mean, I?m a straight, white male for Pete?s sake! But like, my Prius ran out of gas today while I was driving here, and I like, really needed this coffee because I was up all night watching CNN. And it was so hard because I was thinking about what all those poor, defenseless women on the news must be going through with all this like, sexual harassment stuff going on? I mean, wow, I seriously can?t even imagine. And all the men on CNN say that I?m responsible for this! Me? I mean, I respect the hell out of women. I mean, females.

Anyway, it?s just so hard because I know I?m always inherently responsible because I?m a straight, white male, but like, how am I specifically responsible for all this? But before you try to answer my question, I know why, you don?t have to explain it to me!

So anyway, that?s just where my headspace is. When I was snuggled up in my IKEA sheets this morning, I thought about going to hot yoga to sweat it out, but then I realized I forgot my yoga mat at the office, and I live all the way in Uptown, so there?s no way I could have made it there, then here in all that traffic, right?

I?m just so glad I got to meet you for brunch today. I just have to romantically take both of your hands and tell you that I feel such a strong, amazing connection with you. I mean, we both drink coffee, and we both? . are here. Together. And I just want you to know that I was thinking about you all last night.

Yeah. You. I was thinking about how much I, like, respect you and all. And how someday, we?re going to get respectfully married, and we?ll have consensual sex to have beautiful, woke babies that?ll go to

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SPRING 2018 a private but super diverse school. And they?ll grow up eating organic food and wearing expensive, slow fashion clothes. Then later down the line, one of our kids will hopefully be gay, and we?ll be so, so, so supportive of him. And I?ll have so much money being a lawyer for Target that you won?t ever have to work and you can just stay at home taking care of our beautiful kids. And when we grow old together, and our kids have all gone to private, liberal arts colleges, we?ll spend our summers in a cabin in northern Minnesota, catching fish on the dock and throwing them back in the lake so we don?t kill them, and donating all our money to the Democratic Party. So anyway, I just wanted to get all that off my chest.

Oh, shoot, I totally forgot! I?m Griffin, what?s your name again?

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For gotten Wheel of Time Mar it Peder son

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Boats in a Harbor Rachel Mueller

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For a Diabetic to Wake Danielle Ander son

Upon my bed I draw awake, Jolted to feet from lovely dreams.

The moon spills her light like a lake, while a wail carries through the house?s beams.

Like twinkles from a merry-go-round? the ringing that pierces through your skull?

I gasp in shock and wonder why that sound makes my heart beat fast and my ears feel full.

The beeping sputters from beneath my sheets like choking coals cut from their air.

I fling my hand outward to reach toward the end of the siren?s reign.

Against its wish I close my eyes; I sleep, sugar rising like a tide.

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Reflection Emily Logan

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Patience Lives in the Violets Laur a Stickney

She lived in plots laid ivy-thick, with violets, violets blue; In a little life-stained stucco cottage, on the lichen-encrusted rocks, by the lake downhill.

You know the place.

The home was modestly arrayed -- chipped mock-china vases on the wooden table, Windows permanently frosted, a corduroy armchair by the hearth, And a single cream-colored pillow by a patchwork quilt.

She wasn?t sure how many hours it had been since he came.

But she hadn?t stopped counting, all the same.

119 marks on the kitchen table.

She never slept much at night; there was always so much to do.

And still she never felt like she did much of anything, really; she mostly watered the flowers, and the weeds so they wouldn't feel left out. Sometimes she sat in the armchair and watched the door.

She swept the dust from the filmy floor, too -- the candles always sputtered when the wind blew, but the sputtering always came, and she liked the way she knew it was coming.

There were 119 marks on the kitchen table.

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SPRING 2018 The ceilings glowed like galaxies, usually in the early evenings.

She always liked to think of it like a galaxy -- that made it nicer.

And so she liked to name the specks of dust floating in the air, like planets, Because she knew how they felt, and things that feel always deserve some sort of name.

But she knew what her favorite name was.

She wondered where he was. He was probably just late again.

She laid out the plates and spoons for two at the table, and then stooped over to lay out the cheese for the little mouse.

He?d moved in last December. At least he came back.

Everything here on the edge of the wood felt itchy and half-seen, like some fairy haunt Where things were either painfully real or blatantly outlandish.

What use were ice-violet handsand thin slicesof wheat bread, What use wasa corduroy armchair, When he hadn?t yet come home?

She set out a little bowl to catch the rain leaking through a hole in the thatched roof.

He?d fix it, she knew, when he came back.

He was great with things like that.

119 marks on the kitchen table.

It hurt so much she almost laughed.

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River Rites Mir anda Shaffer

They sent her down the river, still alive.

Her dress trailed in the water & grew heavy.

The fish nibbled on the fraying fabric.

The wind took all the petals, And she slept with her eyes open, Looking at the clouds both ways.

Standing on the shore, we watched and waited For the River God to scoop her up in his hand And teach her lungs a new language, But the boat drifted on and on, uninterrupted Until it was out of sight forever.

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To Encase a Life Danielle Ander son

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In The Summer You Plucked Me From The Br anches Elliott Robinson

I swallowed the night like cherry flesh, ate the stars whole, and spit out the moon. ?

The boys once said that tying a cherry stem with your tongue meant you were a good kisser, but when I told them I loved them with that same tongue, they cried impossible!

I am inclined to think that humans are made of equal parts stardust and aged soil. Simply pieces of what came before. ?

Find a garden in me. I am willing earth, where only the hardiest of seeds still grows.

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Time Flies Tommy Jamal Self

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Super ficial 2 Tommy Jamal Self

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sublime Nicole Meyer

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one Emily Logan

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Self Healing Halie Ostber g

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Contr ibutor s' Notes Kat ie Allen, Senior , English, is an upcoming poet and writer from Duluth, Minnesota. When not writing she spends her time exploring Northern Minnesota, creating art, and collecting beach glass from the shores of Lake Superior. Her current work focuses on exploration of the feminine experience.

Danielle Ander son, Senior , Communicat ion St udies. I started writing further back than I can remember.

I loved coming up with ridiculous stories on slow sunny days every summer, and I have notebooks filled with pages upon pages of half-started novels from elementary school. I had always dreamed of becoming a famous writer when I grew up. Now I am hoping to work for a non-profit. My dream is to help people and give back to my community, wherever that lies in the future. In the meantime I hope to go back to that goofy creativity I had as a child so I can keep writing for my own enjoyment.

Kat ie Aney, Senior , Biochemist r y and Mat h. I love science and the way it intersects with art forms both visual and written. My favorite scientist is Rosalind Franklin and my favorite artist is Vincent van Gogh.

Other favorites include rocky road ice cream, national parks, hiking, my yellow lab (Teddy), tennis and my wonderful family.

Kyr a Bowar , Fir st Year , Undecided. Just a quirky photographer, writer, and dreamer who spends most of her time with a camera in her hand, her nose in a book, or her head in the clouds. I am inspired by the natural beauty of our stunning world and constantly freak out internally when I see perfect lighting or a beautiful sunset.

Emily Car lson, Sophomor e, Envir onment al St udies and Geology. Emily runs between cleats and concert black, on the weekends. Her interests span across so many fields that it is hard to keep track of it all. No one really knows how she does it, but some would say she does it well.

Nicole Cundiff, Fir st Year , Undecided, might be a first year student at Gustavus. She might be a writer, artist, and strangely obsessed with obscure historical French figures. She might also be capable of quoting the entirety of the Phantom of the Opera by heart. One of these could theoretically be a lie. All of them, theoretically, could be. You cannot know the truth for certain.

Jayna Davis, Junior , Psychological St udies. Passionate fan of words, music, and fresh popcorn.

Dr ew Er icson, Junior , Public Account ing. I've been taking pictures for almost a year now and I've had a great time with it... even giving some thought to trying to make the pro photographer route work, but I got a C in Photo I so stay tuned.

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SPRING 2018 Hailey For dham, Sophomor e, Biology, likes being outside and lacing all her caf food with sriracha.

That's all there is to her.

Gino Fr aboni, Senior , English, will soon be leaving the Hill to teach schoolchildren English through theater in Italy. He's not quite sure what will happen after that and really hopes that isn't him peaking.

Regardless of where he ends up, he knows he'll be cooking good food, singing pretty songs, and trying to remember to write it all down.

Kat ie Gunder son, Fir st Year , Undecided. I have been drawn to photography for as long as I can remember. As a sophomore in high school I took my first photography course and since then I have fallen in love with this form of art.

Jenna Hansen, Senior , Ar t St udio, Pr e-Ar chit ect ur e, enjoys watching videos of cats, dogs, and flying foxes. She is also Carly Maslowski's biggest fan.

Cor byn Jenkins, Sophomor e, English. Hey, I'm Corbyn! I'm a ginger, photographer, and coffee addict.

In my free time, you will most likely find me sitting in Spyhouse coffee in Minneapolis, or dancing around at a concert at First Avenue.

Amanda Jensen, Sophomor e, Communicat ion St udies. In this self-portraiture work, I explore a journey of self love. Learning to appreciate the vessel that contains my self has been a real bitch. Each day brings forth new obstacles to carry onward with this journey. However, I am learning that practicing resiliency throughout this process is just as essential as finding admiration for my own being.

Talia Mar ie Johnson, Senior , Psychology. What you need to know about me can be learned through my art. I pour my entire self into my work. My greatest hope is to connect with at least one individual and change their perspective on topics like mental illness, abusive relationships, and self-image.

Haley Kaul, Junior , English and Communicat ion St udies, has sprained both her ankles. Once walking up the stairs and once walking down. It is a pretty interesting dynamic. Always wondering, "which one is going to give out next?"

Kaleb Kr engel, Junior , Psychology. I?m interested in conceptual photography that explores mental illness. This interest stems from my own struggle with double depression and anxiety. The purpose of my work is to help end the stigma around mental illness as well as provide insight into my own struggles.

Tommy Lindquist , Senior , English Major . Always ready for a wild night cat cuddles and embracing the void.

Emily Logan, Sophomor e, St udio Ar t . People told me art was a bad major to pick so I declared the following week.

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FIRETHORNE Kr ist i Manning, Junior , Communicat ions, likes to spend hours watching New Girl on the weekends.

When she takes New Girl character quiz, she always gets Jess. Aside from indulging in hours worth of sit-coms, Kristi is involved in Chapel Choir, the Gustavus Wind Orchestra, and is a member of Alpha Sigma Tau Sorority. Kristi also loves being awake. When she is awake she likes to travel and take pictures. Kristi has found a home at Gustavus and wouldn't trade her experience at GAC for the world.

Car ly Maslowski, Senior , St udio Ar t , is Jenna Hansen's biggest fan. Also she likes cookie dough Poptarts.

Nicole Meyer , Sophomor e, St udio Ar t and Theat r e. This past year my art has begun to gravitate towards the issue of climate change. I am making work that brings awareness, and hopefully promotes change. I have also recently wanted to create artwork that deals with social justices and the emotional effects. I know I am not very far in my career as an artist, but I am immensely inspired and hope I can create work that has an impact on the world.

Danann Isla Mit chell, Sophomor e, Religion. Aloha! I am Danann. I enjoy putting my fate into the hands of the almighty tarot deck and sorting out truth the way magickal womxn have done for centuries. My work, included the piece I have submitted called "Mother's Rite", aims to represent magick and occult traditions as something positive and real through honoring qualities I see in loved ones, nature, and the larger world.

August Moehr ke, Senior , English and St udio Ar t , is a North American vagabond. He lived in seven U.S. states before attending Gustavus. With a breadth of environments -ranging from rural to urban- he records the act of a nomadic life in paint and photography. Post graduation, he shall continue his journey in NYC before leaving for a permanent residence in the Netherlands.

Joshua J. Monson, Senior , English and Theat er . I enjoy playing around with theatre and acting things out with Legos. I also happen to harbor strange addictions for Science Fiction, tree climbing, and word rhyming.

Jar ed Mor ningst ar , Senior , Religion, Scandinavian St udies. Hey everyone! Here I am! Hope you're all having a good day. Or if you're not, that your suffering is authentic and transformative. I don't really have anything to say about myself, so carry on. :-) Rachel Mueller , Junior , English. Just a girl who enjoys reading, writing, horseback riding, and is sick of the coffee vs tea debate.

Emma Myhr e, Junior , Communicat ion St udies and Theat r e. I love meeting new people, eating corn, creating and seeing art, National Public Radio, and hyperboles. :) Noah Nguyen, Senior , Int er nat ional Management . My mom once slapped me in her sleep because she thought I was her alarm clock.

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SPRING 2018 Leanna Nielsen, Senior , English and Communicat ion St udies. She enjoys writing, and finds inspiration for her pieces from nature and the outdoors. She is an avid fan of Winter, snow, and everything cold, but is fine with Spring too. She is excited to graduate and is ready, albeit a little nervous, to be a real adult.

Er in Ober le, Sophomor e, Inst r ument al Music Educat ion. Her favorite day in the caf is whenever they have ficken (that?s the fake soy-based chicken in the vegetarian line). In her free time, she plays the horizontal hammer harp, some may know this instrument as ?the piano.? But you?ll never hear her play outside the caf.

Alexandr a Or t a, Junior , Economic Analysis. If we're being honest, the biggest hurdle to Alexandra submitting was having to write a biography. She's not really sure what she does. Also, she's almost twenty and still not too sure whether she's Alexandra, or Alli. Besides economics and analysis, she enjoys confusing people on what an economics major should be doing (writing? she's allowed to write poetry?!), figuring out how to write political Facebook comments while still being friendly and respecting others' opinions, and helping everyone around her. She hopes you have a good day. :) Halie Ost ber g, Senior , Biology. While paintbrushes and scientific questions were both tools and toys in my childhood, college has been devoted to biology, and my paints have been relegated to closets. This year my craving for visual creation finally broke out and met a new muse: watercolor. My pieces were inspired by my need for time to develop, grow, and collect, away from daily demands and negative news.

Mar it Peder son, Sophomor e, Biology. My family is heavily involved in various creative processes. As a small child, I'd sit on my grandpa's lap as he painted. I'd write poems and present them to my father, hoping he'd put them in his portfolios. I'd work my hands raw as my grandpa taught me woodcarving. I've discovered my own love of the creative process. I imagine worlds and try to paint them into reality using words. I also have found a love of finding the unobserved aspects of daily life and trying to preserve them in still-frame.

Elliot t Robinson, Senior , English. I am majoring in underwater basket weaving with a minor in comparative textiles. I am left handed, my moon sign is Aries, my sun sign is Leo, but I have always felt most like a Gemini.

Gino Sahagun, Junior , Ar t Hist or y and St udio Ar t . The process of creation is more important for me than the outcome. I find that in my paintings, in most cases, I create a visual of the daydream I often get lost in. I create an imaginary world far more comforting and safe than the one we live in. Perhaps it is rather selfish to make art for just for my own sake, but nah, my art is an invitation to my daydream bc tbh this world kinda sucks most of the time...

Chr ist opher Schneider , Junior , Theat r e and St udio Ar t . As a double major, I am interested in the different perspectives of how people see the world around them. Understanding perspectives is how we understand the world.

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FIRETHORNE Tommy Jamal Self, Junior , Film and Media St udies. I really try not to try too hard.

Mir anda Shaffer , Junior , English, is the founder and president of the Poetry Exploration Club at Gustavus Adolphus College, where she attends undergrad as an English Major. She has been published in the Firethorne, in Z Publishing House?s Minnesota?sBest Emerging Poets, and has received rejection letters from several other notable poetry reviews and journals. She enjoys reading, writing, editing, and encouraging poetic work wherever she goes.

Laur a St ickney, Fir st Year , English. A hopeless romantic, bookworm, Harry Potter enthusiast, introvert, artist, and writer who drinks far too much coffee. Can usually be found writing sentimental poetry or crying over a novel. Enjoys flowers, warm sweaters, love letters, and carrot cake.

Ellen St oll, Junior , English and Music, will, most likely, end up being the strange witch who lives in the forest at the end of the lane in her old age.

Fr ances Wet her all, Sophomor e, English and Spanish, is a big softie and probably wants to be your friend. Unless you aren't down for everyone having basic human rights. In that case, let it be known that Frances is not a pacifist and she lifts.

Linsey Wolf, Sophomor e, English Educat ion. Hi, I'm Linsey. I like going to coffee shops, taking pics on my iPhone, and editing them on VSCO. Rachael Zielske, Fir st Year , Undecided, has been pursuing photography for 4 years now and loves to put work into creative things. She worked a lot with darkroom photography and now is practicing using Photoshop and a digital camera.

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