Totem 2018 - Gannon University

COVER ART “Dearest” Katie Galgozy

2018 Totem is Gannon University’s annual student-produced literaryart magazine containing poetry, short stories, prose, artwork, and photography submitted by the students, faculty, and staff of Gannon University. Totem strives to highlight the creative talents of those in our university community by sampling a diverse range of artistic media and perspectives.

All work is judged anonymously and on the merit of the individual work, and the work of the Gannon students is given first priority throughout the process. Totem is published in early spring of each year and is distributed free of charge throughout the Gannon campus.

Submissions can be delivered to the English Department or the Totem office, both located in the A.J. Palumbo Academic Center, or emailed to totem@gannon.edu by the end of the fall semester.

No part of this magazine may be reproduced without written permission of the artists and writers whose works appear.

Gannon University 109 University Square Erie, Pennsylvania 16541-0001 814.871.5886 www.gannon.edu

Totem 2018

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Totem 2018

EDITOR’S NOTE This year, I am honored to serve as editor of Totem, Gannon’s student-produced literary/ art magazine. I have worked closely with Totem advisor Berwyn Moore to produce a book worthy of its award-winning history. Every year since 1996, Totem has won a First Place award in the American Scholastic Press Association’s national competition, and many of these years it has earned a First Place with Special Merit Award as well as awards for outstanding design, cover, binding, and division pages. In addition, in 2012 and 2013, Totem won the Associated Writing Program’s National Directors Prize for Design.

These are big shoes to fill, but I am confident that this year’s Totem equals the high standards of its prestigious history, and I have many people to thank for this.

I am grateful to my staff who responded to every request for assistance. While they were not involved with the intricacies of organizing and designing the book, their support was invaluable.

In particular, technology editors Ally Owens and Kaylee Luchansky worked hard to re-design the Totem web page (my.gannon.edu/campuslife/ studentprodmedia/totem/Pages/default.aspx), and everyone on staff helped with marketing and proofreading.

I’m grateful to Andy Lapiska, Creative Strategist in Marketing, for transforming a creative concept into a tangible book, which is itself a work of art. A huge thank you to Dr. Fleming, Dean of the College of Humanities and Social Sciences, for her financial support. And I’m also grateful to Berwyn for her commitment and hard work on this magazine. This entire project would not be possible without her and her many years of dedication to advising each issue.

Mostly, I extend my gratitude to all the Gannon students and faculty who submitted their stories, poems, plays, songs, essays, photographs, sketches, and paintings to us for consideration. We received far more work than we were able to publish, but we believe the works printed in these pages represent the inspired and gifted voices of the entire Gannon community. To everyone who submitted, please know that your work was considered as fairly and objectively as possible.

Authors’ and artists’ names were removed during the judging process, so each work was assessed on its individual merit.

As you read and reflect on these pages, I hope you are inspired to do what binds us all in one humanity: Create and make your own art.

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Totem 2018

Julia Fulton

Totem 2018

CREDITS EDITOR Julia Fulton Junior, English

STAFF / PROOFREADERS Augusta Deacon Junior, English

ADVISOR Berwyn Moore Professor, English

Katy Galgozy Sophomore, Biology

GRAPHIC DESIGNER Andrew Lapiska University Marketing and Communications TECHNOLOGY EDITORS Kaylee Luchansky Sophomore, Freshwater and Marine Biology Ally Owens Sophomore, Pre-med Biology SKETCH ARTIST Roman Denisyuk Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies POETRY / PROSE JUDGES Berwyn Moore Professor, English

Molly Ramich Sophomore, Social Work Ryan Hamilton Sophomore, Economics and Finance Ryan Young Freshman, Biology / Pre-med Yasmin Mamani Junior, Biology COVER ARTIST Katy Galgozy Sophomore, Biology ART REVIEWERS Staff members: Augusta Deacon, Kaylee Luchansky, Alley Owens, Yasmin Mamani, Molly Ramich, Ryan Young

Julie Ropelewski Project Coordinator and Associate Trainer, Center for Excellence in Teaching

Faculty: Matt Darling, Carol Hayes, Phil Hayes, Douglas King, Berwyn Moore, Laura Rutland, Jennie Vaughn

Catherine Wahlenmayer Sophomore, Math / Philosophy

Support Staff: Heather Gilmartin

THE JUDGING PROCESS Great care was taken to select the written and artistic works that are published in Totem. All work was judged anonymously on its literary and artistic merit. The judging panel for the written work consisted of an undergraduate student, a graduate M.A. in English, and a faculty member, who were not permitted to submit their work to Totem. The authors’ names were removed and each piece was assigned a log number. After reading and re-reading the submissions, the judges met and discussed each submission one by one to choose those that best represent the university. For the art, a mix of students and faculty members scored their choices of work, which also had the names of the artists removed.

Totem is grateful to every artist and writer who submitted their work this year. The submission pool is open to students in all majors, to faculty across the disciplines, and to alumni.

Totem 2018

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Totem 2018

POETRY 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15 15 16 17 18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

AMBISINISTROUS Berwyn Moore THE TRANQUIL GIRL Petra Shearer GUIDANCE ALONG THE WAY William Driver TERRIFIED Sara Borro THE GOLD HOOP Elizabeth Merski CONCRETE JUNGLE Evan Szableswki A LOT, A LITTLE TOO LATE Julia Fulton DREAM GIRL Elizabeth Rodriguez SOMETIMES I SWEAR YOU’RE OLDER Kelsey Ghering ANHELAR (LONGING) Elizabeth Merski HE SEES Julia Fulton HEMOPHILIA Sara Borro THE SHATTERING Alex Stauff SWAYING SWINGS Alex Stauff INTOXICATION Kate Robb A SERIES OF TRIFLES Julia McGregor TO THOSE I’VE MET AND NEVER KNEW IT Alexa Rogers THE CHILD IN CHURCH Leigh Tischler ROMANTIC POETRY Sara Borro TREE OF LIFE Emily Larimer LESSON ON ENDINGS William Driver THE THIRST Elizabeth Merski DEAD MAN WALKING Emily Paige Chabalie SERPENT MOUND Carol Hayes

SONG LYRICS

FIXED Teddy Rankin Audio File: https://my.gannon.edu/campuslife/studentprodmedia/totem/Pages/default.aspx 19 YOU WON’T GO DOWN ALONE Nathan Bly

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Totem 2018

Totem 2018

ART 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

OWL Kassianne Tofani BEACH HOUSE Melissa Daltner HOLLY FOR THE HEARTH Ryan Hamilton BEVERLY HILLS FAÇADE Nicole Anderson MEN AND TREES Santosh Bhusal FROM HAITI WITH LOVE Roman Denisyik BLUE UMBRELLA Mikayla Kiser AVOCADO Natalia Mazzitelli LA LUNA Sara Borro DEER IN THE FOREST Perry Hilburn LANTERNS Morgan Pelinsky THE DOE Melissa Daltner DEAREST Katie Galgozy SUN VOYAGER Evan Defalco SUMMER SHADES Nicole Anderson MOSCOW HEART Natayla Toennies TREE LOVE Margaret Grady KOI Gabriella Goodwill BLISS Nicole Anderson PATIENCE IS A WEAPON Monica Aruri CURTAINS Melissa Daltner LAVENDER LAMENTATION Ryan Hamilton NEW BEGINNING Morgan Pelinsky THE EXAMINED LIFE Katie Galgozy AUSCHWITZ CONCENTRATION CAMP Samantha Parrish

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Totem 2018

PROSE FICTION 54 57 58 60 62 66 68 70 75

SEONBI SPIRIT William Driver KALEIDOSCOPE Nicole Borro TO HAVE A MOMENT IN THE SUN Emily Paige Chabalie BROKEN Petra Shearer LA BELLA RAFAELLA Alex Stauff PALAPALA Kale Dante TATTOOED YELLOW Sabrina Yassem HOMELESS, NOT HELPLESS Rachel McKernan JASPER’S WEEK Julia Fulton

CREATIVE NONFICTION

78 CASE STUDY: THE SEXES AND THEIR RESPECTIVE BRAIN FUNCTION TO DAILY OUTPUT (1931) Alecia DiMarzio 80 LETTING GO Desiraee Payne 82 10.59 Taylor Roth 84 NEVER ALONE Evan DeFalco

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Totem 2018

POETRY Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Berwyn Moore

AMBISINISTROUS (a sonnet) What should have been a romantic ruse, a seductive scheme, the simple shearing of your harmless hair, has us both confused, your neck nicked and bleeding, me fearing infection, your wrath, or worse—our passion sapped by the danger of my clumsy love.

You gasp, then grin, though your face is ashen as I rush to dab, to press the gauze, to prove my slip, just that, a slip—not sinister.

If love must leave its mark, then red is fine.

Let it bloom and blaze, let it glow and glister.

My blunder—pure intent—to us a sign of things to come: at every slip of tongue or knife, resist the urge to come undone.

Originally published in Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry, vol. X, no. 2, 2015, p. 73. Reprinted with permission of the author.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Petra Shearer

THE TRANQUIL GIRL Inspired by the painting, Ophelia, by Dana Laskowski The rigid body of young Ophelia Lies on the muddy floor, home Of bottom feeders, algae, and wrecked ships.

Beautiful in death as in life, Flowers surround the pallid woman And decorate her cascading pillow of hair.

Her hands clutch her cold chest And the silent heart that once beat For the murdered king’s misunderstood son.

Her eyes are open, yet the gaze unfocused Like that of a daydreaming school child.

One might think she sees no more.

Through the cloudy, murky water She sees us and tells us a story With her expressionless face and still corpse.

Her despairs in life no longer plague her.

Now, she rests in her unassuming aqueous casket.

Peaceful, calm, unaware, and quiet.

She will never see the destruction Of her lover, brother, and country.

Poor Ophelia, indeed.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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William Driver

GUIDANCE ALONG THE WAY (a villanelle) How can I follow the Eternal Way? I wish to know mighty Heaven’s decree.

If I know the path, I will never stray.

What must I do, whatever must I say?

If you’re listening, sages, hear my plea, How can I follow the Eternal Way? From now till the end, I will every day Treat others as I would have them treat me.

If I know the path, I will never stray.

I will guard myself against disarray, So that every danger I may foresee.

I can now follow the Eternal Way. All suffering I will seek to allay, If someone lives in fear, I am not free.

From this holy path, I will never stray.

I have heard the sages, I must obey.

What is this big change in me? Can’t you see?

I have now learned the Eternal Way, I know the path and I shall never stray.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Sara Borro

TERRIFIED I am often scared of this beating piece of life that resides inside my chest.

I am scared of the way it seems to have a mind all of its own, syncing up to anything that gets close enough to it.

It reaches out with starving arms, and pulls in anything that reaches back.

It lies to me, turning humans in to heroes, and giving masks to monsters.

It is a parasite that feeds on the flesh of pseudo lovers, and is a master of creating superficial satisfaction.

It invites the demons of my dreams to come crawl between my sheets and reminds me to inhale every shallow word they speak.

It is strange to be afraid of a part of who you are, but if your heart were trying to make a home out of a horror show, tell me you wouldn’t be a little terrified, too.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Elizabeth Merski

THE GOLD HOOP so quickly it all passes by; a blur:

we shared a moment, and it lives on in the universe: perfect, untainted, unadulterated.

rain, hail, snow rush the windshield down the highway of time and memory, blurred and streaming.

yet the past lives on in our memories, tainted by our muddled associations and our living, mutated by our momentary loves and fleeting biases, our hatreds follies and regrets.

it ebbs and flows. people come, go.

I used to care if someone did not return my goodbyes if I never received a return hello after long absence; if their hearts did not rejoice with mine upon reunion.

but I choose to see the gold hoop, floating through the ether of the cosmos. it’s okay if you do not take my hand today; our hands were joined, once.

but now I have lived a while and I understand better the tide which the moon pushes and pulls— how could I know if it is thick or thin their blood flows?

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Evan Szableswki

CONCRETE JUNGLE Erie, Pennsylvania

for K.T. Long, windswept roads take me away, Past the city, into the fire That races through my veins, And around my heart’s mind.

She’s mine. But she’s wild, Untamed like nature’s vines, Sprawling endlessly across miles Of a passion that tangles into mine.

Through this mess, I see the brink Of light, enlightening my suburban outlook On a past & present route that drives My concrete dreams along a green, fruitful future.

This concrete jungle is a passion, A winding road that reminds me To look beyond my roots. To unfasten The skyline that clouds me.

She’s mine. She’s wild.

So, I drive, and I drive, Past the city and into her arms.

I kiss her. She tastes like home.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Julia Fulton

A LOT, A LITTLE TOO LATE Tattered flannel, Campbell plaid, his favorite.

He wore it in the fall a lot.

A country boy, born and raised.

Building things was one of his hobbies.

All summer he bounced from construction site to construction site.

He worked outside a lot.

The brown boots were worn-in, the tread almost worn flat.

Evidence of his hard day’s work.

The job site was brutal and he stood a lot.

The dingy khaki pants were a little too tight, suctioning to his legs, slender and some might say too slim considering he always stood.

The left pocket had two Skoal rings.

He kept the tobacco companies in business, dipping a lot.

The jacked-up black truck cruised down Main Street with its larger than life wheels.

He parked outside along the street, stepped out proudly, holding his chest high in the air.

But he was only brought back down to earth with a little stumble.

At that moment he almost considered it was time to go home.

But, he liked to drive around a lot.

He stopped into the pizza shop at 12:43 a.m.

It was a little place, a hole-in-the-wall, off the beaten path all the locals and college kids knew and loved.

He wandered in after he saw the four blonde girls.

His beer goggles were on when he spotted them, as they were most nights.

He flirted a lot.

The girls laughed hard as he told many stories, and they all laughed together until they cried.

He was charming to all the girls around.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Despite the liquor on his breath, something cheap and something to get the job done, the girls continued to laugh; they liked him a lot.

From the little pizza shop on Main Street where he said goodbye with his whisky breath he stumbled to the small Main Street bar.

Neon ads of the wonders inside covered the windows of the grimy hangout, with sticky floors and booming music.

He didn’t care, though, liked to drink a lot.

The bartender with the long black hair served him his drinks.

She always worked when he came in; she couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse.

Tonight she said enough at 2 a.m.

He didn’t want to leave but he did.

She had to say that to him a lot.

Back down Main and to the truck he staggered.

One of his beers was still in the cup holder.

It was still cold with the chill of winter.

He liked to keep one there a lot.

He climbed into the jacked-up black truck, getting behind the wheel.

He was confused and couldn’t find his keys; they dangled from his fingers the whole time.

This happened a lot.

He drove right off Main and East out Route 6.

He couldn’t remember which house was his.

He got lost from the bottle a lot.

He didn’t see it coming.

The curve was sharp.

He missed it by a lot.

And all that’s left is for his mother to say is that She misses him a lot.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Elizabeth Rodriguez

DREAM GIRL They call me dream girl But I am no dream Just a nightmare In a pretty dress With hair in curls Dragging behind My endless hallways, mind I am no one’s dream No one’s end game Just a player in the middle A piece in a larger puzzle One page in a book I am Not the dream But the midnight call When you can’t sleep Sex when you need it Body like a back road Only traveled When all other roads Are busy Or blocked No

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I am not the dream Dream girl I am merely a body In a sea of other dreams And sunsets And lonely music Just a nightmare In the day time You will only wish for me When the other names Feel like sandpaper on your tongue And you think that you are empty But you are whole And you only think you want me You will realize you don’t And I will not be your dream girl Just a girl Who you will call When you don’t feel like dreaming at night.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

Kelsey Ghering

SOMETIMES I SWEAR YOU’RE OLDER First Place, 2017 Gannon University Poetry Contest We counted the freckles on each other’s arms, shopping for blue sheets and towels because that’s your favorite color.

Sometimes I swear you’re older, the way you water confidence in your terra cotta pot, saying things will work out between us, holding your watering cup like an oil can (as if you’re an expert engineer in the stubborn gears that turn inside us) without faltering or missing a drop.

The next four years I’ll spend driving along a cliff without a guardrail, scared out of my mind. If only you could clone a branch from your tree and I could plant it in my heart.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Elizabeth Merski

ANHELAR (LONGING) Anhelo llevar las estrellas en la mano que moran en el cielo expansivo Estoy abajo se extiende para siempre, por siempre.

I long to hold the stars in my hand that dwell in the expansive sky I am below it extends forever, for always.

Lloro por los amantes que no se reunirán por un momento más Llevan los suspendidos deseos de una vida pasada en sus pechos para siempre, por siempre.

I weep for the lovers that will reunite for not a moment more They bear unfulfilled desires of a life, long past in their chests forever, for always.

Anhelo por las almas Son los astros en el cielo inmenso No las he conocido No las conoceré pero me miran: para siempre, por siempre.

I long for the souls They are the stars in the sky’s immensity I have not met them I never will but they see me: forever, for always.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Julia Fulton

HE SEES He sits above all, waving. Not wavering. The 13 bars and 50 stars see it all. The Times-News has gone to sleep much like everything else around, save McDonald’s of course. That’s the American Dream. Factories up and down 12th are asleep too, but unlike the Times-News they’re in for an all-day all-night hibernation never to wake. Despite the snow and despite the cold he still sits on his perch above B Berman Bedding Co. He doesn’t care about the mattresses inside though. Laments are made for better days, maybe even the good ol’ days. But alas, those days are gone and he thinks of his brothers.

All the others around town. What do they see? Is it the rally cry “Don’t Give up the Ship?” Or maybe it’s a scream. Poverty and despair, the ship long set sail. But to where?

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Sara Borro

HEMOPHILIA I am bleeding words for you again.

They are pouring out of me, unexpected, uncontrollable, like pipes that have burst in a house that is too old for living in.

Your eyes have once again engulfed every atom of my being, and the scent of your flesh has crawled back into my sheets.

I have relapsed to my home on the surface of your skin, and your arms are still the place that I want to spend my days.

No amount of language that I squeeze into some sentences could ever really tell you the multitude you are to me, but I am bleeding words for you again, and I hope to God you’re not still afraid of blood.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Alex Stauff

THE SHATTERING And I know this won’t last forever that all we have is a china plate teetering on the arm of a harried waitress curls sticking to her damp cheeks (I cover my ears) because I know the fall and the shattering are imminent.

Alex Stauff

SWAYING SWINGS Second Place, 2017 Gannon University Poetry Contest I’m afraid my bones will be lonely without me the fire of my blood will be extinguished and they will be cold there will be empty corridors abandoned rooms playgrounds with swings swaying gently in the breeze, vacant.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Kate Robb

INTOXICATION She timidly placed her entire self in his palms, yet he hastily dropped her, instead reaching for a cheap pale ale.

Many days she waited like an expensive cabernet corked and forgotten, patient for the time when he would pour a tall glass and offer gratification for patience.

But in those most lonely times thoughts fermented and she grew doubtful if she was even capable of providing a greater buzz than his alcohol.

Transforming herself into what he so openly craved, pressure growing and the glass around her splintering, dust and glass crashing to the floor.

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Free at last, but wasted, like a bottle of 62 Dalmore scotch slowly seeping into the ground.

A site of tragedy or triumph?

It did not matter because someone new arrived and he unexpectedly swept up the pieces, the mix of brokenness or opulence, collecting what was left, that which was once so capable of providing material inebriation.

And although he might have caught a buzz from traces of the golden liquid, that thing that had become all of her, some may argue that, for once, someone was high off of more than just the liquor.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

Julia McGregor

A SERIES OF TRIFLES 1.

When my mother asked me what I wrote about, I told her my life.

She called me selfish.

I called it art.

2.

When my dad is angry, he shows his teeth, the only remnants left of the family that raised him, the wolves that pretended to be human, pretended to be good.

There is a reason why wolves are portrayed as bad guys in all of the fairy tales.

It is because they are.

If only someone had come sooner for the little boy who cried wolf.

3.

My father is a contractor.

It means that he builds things, but sometimes he leaves things unfinished, like our home.

4.

We are not afraid of the dark.

We are afraid of what might be hiding inside of the dark.

Which is to say that we are not afraid of falling in love, but we are afraid of loving blindly.

5.

I spend all of my time staring down alleyways, waiting for ghosts to appear.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Alexa Rogers

TO THOSE I’VE MET AND NEVER KNEW IT My name is not something I lead with, since no one ever asks.

And that is how I have gone unknown.

My name doesn’t matter. I’m just a girl.

That’s what it comes down to.

Just a girl in the wind.

I am here and there, a free spirit roaming.

My unknown name only hurts once it’s been so long that no one knows who I am or where I’ve been.

I am always there, but no one notices.

Names are the marker of an identity, yet my identity is not my name.

My face stays the same but without a name, no one seems to know it.

Forgotten and lost, I fall away without a name to anchor me in your minds.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Nathan Bly

YOU WON’T GO DOWN ALONE (song lyrics) You won’t go down on your own You won’t go down on your own No, you won’t, go down on your own You won’t go down on your own You won’t

In this time where all our lies Are weeping from the mire We cling to the trees But the marsh rises higher.

Our cries echo into the night Where stars and comets hold life In our hearts and above the trees We shall trust the grand design.

Let the river wash away All the pain of yesterday Down the stream of endless dreams Brother, we will see another day But here we go: The boat is overflowing and There’s nowhere to go Hold your hope Above the water where we’ll float On home.

O brother we’re not going to go down alone.

You won’t go down on your own You won’t go down on your own No, you won’t, go down on your own You won’t go down on your own You won’t

For those that plea and fight Let it flow like a metronome And trust darkness’ endless light Our spirits weep for leaving, tearing at the walls of flesh When we set it free into the night We will hop from star and comet Free from the loads of life We won’t go down on our own We won’t go down on our own No, we won’t, go down alone We won’t go down on our own We won’t.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Leigh Tischler

THE CHILD IN CHURCH Third Place, 2017 Gannon University Poetry Contest let me ask you: what did you notice during mass?

I could be honest, no doubt.

It was cold and slushy, my feet were kinda soggy. “the child” I said, “eyes too big for her head, stretching open, open and trying to suck up the whole world, but taking in nothing that I was— no pastor, no stiff seat, no complex hate for it all.

So open.

Touching her mother’s lips just to feel them, not to get attention, just because they were something worth acknowledging.

Not that she knew what ‘acknowledgment’ or ‘lips’ or ‘worth’ meant.

She didn’t know anything the way I know it.

Which didn’t make her wrong.

Not even a little.

One little finger on her mother’s lips, on her own, back and forth.

Soaking in the newness of really feeling.”

I continued thusly.

Don’t answer, but couldn’t it be that she is god?

Does she need to be?

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Sara Borro

ROMANTIC POETRY Do not fall in love with a poet.

But they will love you back.

They will tell you that your eyes remind them of the way the sky looks when the sun is setting, and that your skin is where they want to make their home.

They will kiss you with the intensity of the ocean tides, and you will become addicted to the way your name sounds as it is falling out of their mouth.

They will make you feel like you’ve never felt anything before compared to the butterflies they have let escape inside of your chest.

They will set your life on fire with the passion they have for you.

You will want to bathe inside their soul, and they will let you.

But do not fall in love with a poet.

They will make you cry just so they can write about how the tears streaming down your hot and blushing cheek look like the perfect glistening of the first snowfall in December.

They will pick at your brain until they feel they have explored every dark and dusty corner of who you are.

Because no matter how many times they tell you they love you more than all the stars shining brightly in the night sky, their first and truest love is and will always be the words they are turning you in to.

They will rip you apart and spread all of your beautiful and messy pieces wide and open across a page for everyone to see.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Emily Larimer

TREE OF LIFE “When it is scarred,” you began, and I thought of myself as I was wounded in my body, mind, spirit.

“The tree never heals,” you said as we stood in the forest, sunlight filtering down through the leaves.

I could hear the river rushing by, flowing, gurgling.

I was aware of everything, all around me, but it all seemed so surreal.

It was like a dream, except in waking.

I had to distance myself from the cold, hard facts— that I was so damaged, so hurt, so abused, used, misused, mistreated, cast away.

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I was that tree.

I was broken.

I was scarred, but I had to keep on living.

“But,” came that vital word, the word that can hold life or death.

From your lips came words of redemption, the mantra I took to my heart, so I could heal: “As the tree grows, the scar gets smaller.”

Totem 2018 | POETRY

William Driver

LESSON ON ENDINGS You seek to know “what can one mere death do?”

My friend, let me tell you in simple terms.

I saw a young man murdered on a bridge, killed for a few measly coins from his purse.

What harm could his death have possibly done?

A young wife’s husband was stolen from her, her love and livelihood dead as ever.

Motherhood is forever closed to her, a family of her own, a mere dream.

One death makes a poor wife grieve forever.

On that day the ruler lost a subject, The loss of any good man is dreadful.

One less man to work the life-giving land, Surely one more man has gone hungry since.

One man killed but the whole realm made worse off.

Countless friends thus lost a friend of their own, Deprived of his valued companionship.

Conversations were left to long silence, their only duty left was to mourn him.

Still living friends no longer speak his name.

In the incident, parents lost a child.

A whole life’s work destroyed for a few coins.

One less child to comfort them in old age, one faithful son that never will give sons.

An entire family must mourn one death.

All people have these five relationships, the roles and duties that they must fulfill.

Such is the way any society works.

So then what great harm can one death do?

One seemingly small death severs them all.

What’s more, a young brother lost a brother.

A first friend, ally, and lifelong teacher, the elder brother no longer lives.

No longer enjoying favor and defense, The younger brother will mourn forever.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

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Elizabeth Merski

THE THIRST sometimes you long for the cup. you take it and you drink and you relish each melancholy drop. within each sip, every memory of the ones your heart loved and needed to forget ferments, (eyes full) their breath echoing in the wells— bouncing hallowed and medieval, warm and ghostly off the far-flung ceilings of your cathedral mind, dulling sense of crude dust and finitude, heightening perception of forever pain and forever cherish…

every snapshot of sepia memory and phantom ember glows, mahogany cologne and cinder smoke that transcends the haze of moment, because you feel so alive, and so miserable, so hidden in nuance of light and shadow, of blanket texture, ocean mist sunset ray brick muddy blue, rusty tune…lifesong’s whistling melody weaving golden gray in and out of soul, cleaving and consoling with its ivory and ebony-keyed touch.

sometimes, you covet every last stinging drop.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

Emily Paige Chabalie

DEAD MAN WALKING The man had finally fallen.

He lay still on the smoky, gray altar Of the sidewalk, to which He owed his debts.

It had held him up for so many days, Months, Through the years he tried to apologize for the divorce He put her through, For his absence as a father, For his lack of affection when it mattered most.

The pain struck his left shoulder and he grasped it, Surprised by the ferocity.

His breath quickened, chest tightening, The stress catching up with him after so long.

His head struck the sidewalk As he fell Down, down…

Not unlike his relationship with his eldest child, A downward spiral tightening as it went.

His blood pooled As his payment for never being there.

He would now leave his mark forever As a stain on the sidewalk, Just outside his daughter’s apartment.

Totem 2018 | POETRY

25

Carol Hayes

SERPENT MOUND I went back to

Serpent

Mound.

It’s in

Ohio,

Hardened

hills of grass –

three feet tall – snake across

the acres – one

quarter mile –

winding through

the green along

Brush Creek.

When I first

was there

I don’t recall

if I was at the

head or tail

when Philip’s

arm brushed mine, and poof! the lectures of

the high school

teachers and the

guides went black.

All I heard were fuzzy pops and sparkle-bells.

Late, I learn that arguments

rage on: Builders of the mounds

were early, early Allegheny, working

long before blind Homer told his tales.

Or were they of Adena tribes, focusing

on mounds as Aristotle shared his many

views? I could have been a voice

in this debate – an expert

archeologist, a top prof

researching at Yale,

producer of a film on

tribal burials, mortuary

buildings with their

dead and tools and

bracelets burned then

layered over. Baskets

full of dirt (“selected earth”) piled up and

then another mortuary

built on top, and

then another, then…

I did not listen.

Then I did

not learn.

I am a

tourist

now.

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Totem 2018 | POETRY

ART Totem 2018 | ART

27

Kassianne Tofani

OWL

28

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Melissa Daltner

BEACH HOUSE

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29

Ryan Hamilton

HOLLY FOR THE HEARTH

30

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Nicole Anderson

BEVERLY HILLS FAÇADE

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31

Santosh Bhusal

MEN AND TREES

32

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Roman Denisyik

FROM HAITI WITH LOVE

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33

Mikayla Kiser

BLUE UMBRELLA

34

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Natalia Mazzitelli

AVOCADO

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35

Sara Borro

LA LUNA

36

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Perry Hilburn

DEER IN THE FOREST

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37

Morgan Pelinsky

LANTERNS

38

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Melissa Daltner

THE DOE

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39

Katie Galgozy

DEAREST

40

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Evan Defalco

SUN VOYAGER

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41

Nicole Anderson

SUMMER SHADES

42

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Natayla Toennies

MOSCOW HEART

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43

Margaret Grady

TREE LOVE

44

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Gabriella Goodwill

KOI

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45

Nicole Anderson

BLISS

46

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Monica Aruri

PATIENCE IS A WEAPON

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47

Melissa Daltner

CURTAINS

48

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Ryan Hamilton

LAVENDER LAMENTATION

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49

Morgan Pelinsky

NEW BEGINNING

50

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Katie Galgozy

THE EXAMINED LIFE

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51

Samantha Parrish

AUSCHWITZ CONCENTRATION CAMP

52

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PROSE Totem 2018 | PROSE

53

William Driver

SEONBI SPIRIT Written as historical fiction set in the Joseon era of Korean history, where prospective officials were required to pass a series of examinations based on traditional Confucian morality and political acumen known as the Gwageo. These examinations were legally open to most everyone, although the majority of the candidates were the wealthy Yangban nobility.

I am looking out the door of my host’s home, in the direction of the capital. The cup in my hand is comfortingly warm, despite its lethal contents.

I try to appreciate the sunset, a beautiful red sun framed perfectly by the doorframe; it calls me to remembrance. I think of my youth: the examinations, and Geum Shin-am.

Geum Shin-am was the son of an official, one of the third-senior rank, he often reminded others in those days. I was less than unimpressed by his boasting. He boasted of his father’s greatness, rather than his own, although he himself was quite proud of his father’s rank and association with the Hungu faction. The fact of the matter is that Geum Shinam held no official rank. He had an honest, pleasing face, and when he spoke, no matter what he spoke, one wanted to hang onto every word he said. Such a man was dangerous, for if he spoke lies, he may be believed, and in his twenty-three years, he often was.

He and I came both came from Gyeongsang, and his father governed a large county in the province.

We met in the examination hall in the first round.

I tested for the classics licentiate, while he tested for the literary licentiate. Given his wealth, he had many tutors, he was an excellent poet, practically guaranteed to pass the examinations, and he did.

I recall the only words he spoke to me on that occasion. “The Miscellaneous Examinations are being held next week; my father is overseeing them, perhaps I’ll see you there if I attend with Father.”

I brushed the dirt off my only robe before I replied simply, “I intend to sit for the classics examination today.”

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I understood that it was unusual for someone of my lower-class to sit for the examinations, but during that examination, I was motivated by a regrettable desire to earn Shin-am’s approval rather than by my love of learning. Regardless of my motivations, I earned my license in the Classics. During the results ceremony, Shin-am’s face was equal parts shocked and disgusted as my name was called among the successful candidates. For Shin-am, the news that he and I were each one of the thirty from our province that could proceed to the capital examinations was even worse. I can imagine his confusion: how could an upstart peasant from an unnamed village even compete? I was quite a sight in those days, a single black and white robe, still covered in the dust it accumulated from the road. I had walked to the provincial capital for this, all by myself, and there I was, standing victorious among the scions of Yangban families.

The worst was yet to come for Shin-am, however.

Perhaps he had assumed that I would quit while I was ahead, take my little red certificate, govern the small village I had come from, and go no further.

Perhaps I should have, but I was twenty-one, and determined to bring justice to the Kingdom. I took my little red certificate and began walking in the direction of the capital. Although news travelled quickly, and I could count on the kindness of other provincials who were enamored with the idea of one of their own doing so well, I would spend most of my journey alone. Unfortunately, I had let Shinam get to me; those few words of dismissal made him an enemy. I kept replaying those few, smug words, over and over, that honey voice with those acid words. No longer would I have been satisfied with his approval, I didn’t want to belong with him, I wanted to beat him.

In Hanseong, the commoners had begun to refer to me as “Barefoot Scholar,” and I was greeted with approval. I was allowed to stay with a wealthier peasant family; the only cost I had to pay was to teach the children to read. I began to feel warmly

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about the capital city. Perhaps I did belong. That feeling evaporated when the time came for the examinations. The examination hall was filled

by Shin-am, and two-hundred and thirty-eight candidates exactly like him. I was treated as a curiosity by some, and shunned by the others. My most salient memory of this second examination is the fawning ways of elder politicians. Before the examinations began, officials wandered in to mingle with the up-and coming talent, and praise their favorite candidates. Shin-am was a particular favorite; he accumulated an entourage of local officials, the most odious example of which was Jang Seokbo. Jang Seokbo was a prominent Hungu official in the Justice Ministry, an ally of Shin-am’s father, and one rank below him. Seokbo’s flattery knew no bounds: “When you achieve Jangwon status, I will immediately petition the King himself to appoint you to the Justice Ministry! Your poetry is simply sublime, and your mastery of the classics is unusual for one of your age; I suppose it’s the excellent influence of your father. How is he doing?

I bet he’s doing well out in the provinces...” At this display, I turned away in disgust and recall no further.

For the second-level examination, I was stationed near Shin-am, much to my disgust. The first section, the Classics section, was where I absolutely had to shine. I could understand the Classics, and compose passable poetry, but certainly nothing of Shin-am’s caliber. Like most of the wealthy students, Shinam knew the words of the Classics, could analyze the language, but could not truly understand their meaning. Sarim scholars were the ones in charge of the examinations at that time, and I had faith that they understood. The Classics are dead if their influence does not benefit the people. My faith was rewarded; the graders looked past my poetry and potential political naivete and saw a scholar with a sincere desire to learn and do good as the Masters intended. Out of the number selected for this examination, two-hundred and forty, only thirty-three could be selected to sit for the final examination, in the presence of the King. Shin-am

and I were two of them; we would be colleagues at the minimum. I had proven that I was worthy, but that was not enough.

I remember the King very clearly— he had a regal air about him, the kind of man that one knows he owed loyalty to, an honorable man that listened to his advisors. Truly a sage-king that any scholar would dream of serving. The final examination was conducted under his watchful eye, and he would be the one to rank the candidates in the final order.

The format was the same as the second, Classics, Literature, Politics. The King had promoted the Sarim scholars, so I had great hope that he too understood the Classics. It was quite an intimidating proposition, sitting before the King, the man who quite literally would make or break an official career.

I was weighed down by my background: Candidates were required to list the name and position of their four great-grandfathers on the exam, and I would be the first of my family to hold any rank at all. I was buoyed by the hope that the King, motivated by a true desire to care for his people and promote righteous government in the Kingdom, would not be taken in by the flowery words of poetry. He was not.

I recall the final moments of the examinations, when the King’s judgments would become public.

The Jangwon, the highest scoring candidate, would receive a position of the sixth-junior rank, second and third positions would be given seventh-junior rank, and the others would have to wait. The parade of advisors and grandees marched from the King’s quarters, and into the throne room. In the Chief Minister’s hand was the scroll containing the results. Everyone was fixated on that scroll, even as the King himself marched into the throne room, and took his seat. That scroll was the king of the moment. Mercifully, the Chief Minister did not force us to wait long: “The Jangwon is: Baek Injik, the Bangan is Geum Shin-am…” I do not recall who followed. I was so singularly focused on those words: I had beaten Shin-am! A simple peasant, who

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55

walked barefoot to the capital, had succeeded where a Yangban could not.

The red sun sinks into darkness, and the cup in my hand has grown cold. I am shaken from my reverie by the soldiers at my sides. Perhaps Shin-am was thinking correctly a few years ago, perhaps I should have been satisfied after that first examination. Like the Sarim, I had risen too high too fast. I had been the Jangwon then, I had received my appointment.

Perhaps I should have been satisfied there, even.

Instead, I made waves. I made enemies, regardless of my background. As long as Sarim had been in power, I had been fine, but that could only last so

56

long. The entrenched Hungus would eventually return, and they did, with a vengeance. Jo-Gwang Jo and all of my superiors were purged, and I was swept up with them. Many officials of my rank that had been swept up in the purge were able to gain their positions back with confessions and apologies, but I was guilty of no crime. I petitioned the king to restore Sarim, and I had faith that he would see reason as he did ten years ago.

My faith was not rewarded. At twenty-one, I was the Jangwon. Now at thirty-one, I am to die. I pause and silently thank the King for sending poison instead of hanging. I take the drink.

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Nicole Borro

KALEIDOSCOPE I once met a boy who was green. He swallowed me up in shades fluorescent and bright, yet when everyone walked away he turned dark and forest deep. For the audience he was lime and light, splashes of mint thrown in for fun. But then, all alone, emerald and jade filled his eyes as his voice got louder and louder. The darkest shade of olive was finally enough to turn me away. I washed green from my hair for weeks, scrubbed the shades from my skin and watched him wash down the drain.

And then there was blue. Lovely little blue, I thought he was soft like the sky. He felt aquamarine even as he turned a midnight shadow, dark as a storm out at sea. He lied and lied as turquoise dripped from his lips, mixing with mine until I felt as if I was drowning in paint. The navy circles under his eyes were the same shade as the bruises that littered my skin. I wish I could say I ran away but instead, I waited. It wasn’t long before the indigo boy ran himself and camouflaged into the dusk of night.

Then a breath of fresh air full of citrus and light, a bright orange boy hit me full speed. I fell to the ground and he was there to pick me up, his tangerine fingertips leaving streaks on my skin. And then he told me secrets, as hot as embers and as dark as earth clay. His honey-colored eyes brimmed with tears and stained his soul. So fast he changed, right before my eyes. From beautiful, sunset orange, to something as dark and foul as rust. It got stuck in his hair and stained his skin, the once marigold boy now only a memory.

And this time red clouded my eyes, his magenta heart beating loud in my ears. Blood dripped down his forehead, scarlet against pale white skin. And yet his lips were fuchsia pink. They spilled beautiful candy words, the color of raspberries and roses. But darker things spilled too, brick and burgundy truths fell heavy to the ground. Loud as dynamite and as hot as fire, they tore through his veins and left pale blush burns on my skin. Yet I still remember him as a bubblegum boy, only haunted by the flames of the past.

But yellow stained me the most. With sunshine in his hair and lemonade on his lips, he touched me and I felt golden too. He told me beautiful buttercup lies and warmed my skin with canary colored love. Playing with my mind to ease his boredom, his words twisted around me like sunflower stems. Dragging me under his sunlight waves, he convinced me to spill my soul as he held onto secrets of his own. He thought painting himself yellow would hide the muddiness inside, but his coating finally cracked and let his darkness shine through.

A kaleidoscope of love, I felt transparent without them. A shard of blue here, a glimmer of red there.

Their colors stained my soul and painted my heart.

What a grotesque rainbow I had become. What color was I, before their shades seeped into my skin?

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57

Emily Paige Chabalie

TO HAVE A MOMENT IN THE SUN Based on Ray Bradbury’s story, “All Summer in a Day” As I left the classroom to get my keys to the outside, I felt the excitement bubble up inside me. I was 27 when I came to this world, this new planet that they promised would be paradise. I had always been interested in space. As a young girl growing up in Washington DC, I heard a lot about the Search for Viable Planets; it was a topic of conversation in every class, from history to English to home economics. As we got our education from middle school through college, we discussed what it would be like to live elsewhere. We didn’t talk about moving outside of DC, no; we raved about moving away from Earth. So, when the opportunity came my junior year of college to leave Earth for a different planet, I jumped at the chance. It was a new era, a new age, and I was a part of it. I had no idea there would be no sun. It might have changed my mind.

There was no sun when I arrived here ten years ago.

Now at age 37, I can say that I’ve seen the sun a total of once. While I remember it from Earth, it’s amazing how things move slowly out of focus, like with the death of a family member. When they first pass, you can almost conjure them up in front of you, hear their voice, feel their touch. As time goes on, it becomes a whisper of a memory, and that’s when you realize that they’re gone. The sun coming out every seven years was like a tease. The family member isn’t completely dead; they’re a dead-beat dad that you wait on and get disappointed with over again and again, until he finally shows up for your birthday, or you get a letter from him. It’s a torturous process, waiting to feel the warmth on your skin.

I heard them in the hallway. They didn’t know I was so close to the classroom, but I heard.

“Let’s put her in the closet before Teacher comes back!”

That was William. He always caused trouble, and always had it out for Margot.

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Ten years ago, scientists had colonized this planet, this lush forest with its abundance of wildlife, and most importantly, water. Everyone knew we couldn’t sustain human life without water; that’s what had made Earth so habitable. This place wasn’t like the rainforest, like they’d said to get us here. It was the color of Brie; it had the look of an old, washed out photograph that you might find in your grandparents’ basement. I came here in search of a new beginning; there was nothing left for me on Earth. No family; my parents had died while I was in college. And no friends; I moved away from my hometown at 24. On top of that, no one needed teachers anymore; everything was electronic or robotic. Everything was digitized. My college degree meant nothing. But here, we started from scratch.

Built a civilization from the ground up. We had the technology that made life easier, sure, but they needed teachers here. They needed people like me to tell stories of how life used to be, how we lived on Earth, so that the students could go out into this new world and come up with ways to make our colony better. I thought about the sun. We were to see it today. Today was the day that the scientists predicted, the first time in seven years, that we would see it.

It would appear for two hours, and then the rain would begin again. It was the only time we could go outside as the storms would stop briefly. Two hours can seem like a long time when you’re teaching a class, but in the span of seven years without the sun? It was only a moment.

“Shhh! She’s coming!”

I walked into the room and smiled. “All right, are we ready? It should only be a moment.”

“Yes, yes!” they all screamed, a cacophony not unlike a parrot’s. They wouldn’t even know what a parrot was if I hadn’t told them. I was valuable.

Once you signed on to be in the new colony on Venus, you were stuck. The children could make the decision once they grew older, but the adults? We

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couldn’t leave. Our job was to bring our knowledge to the new colony and to help it prosper. We were no longer confined by the pollution-ridden planet called Earth. We had Venus. The children were born here, and because of that, they had only seen the Sun once before, at 3 years old. None of them could accurately remember. But Margot, like me, had come to Venus from Earth. She had been four years old when her family brought her here. She remembered what it was like to live on a planet where it didn’t rain every day for seven years, and we didn’t live underground. She talked about the sun as often as she could; any time she had to share with the class, she spoke about its warmth, its vibrant color, its constant presence. I could understand why the children hated her; she had knowledge that they didn’t. She was, in a way, superior.

For a split second, I caught myself thinking about saving her. Bringing her out of the closet, reprimanding William and the other students for doing such a terrible thing. But I didn’t do that. If I had, I might have missed the small window of time I had to go outside. I was not going to miss this opportunity, this event. I missed the warmth on my skin, and I wasn’t going to let a little conflict in the way of that. She had seen the sun more recently than I had. She could wait.

As I unlocked the door to the tunnels, the children chattered excitedly. I led them to the door, and they screamed. The sun was here, and it was glorious.

The yellow orb that had once been omnipresent during the day in my previous life on Earth was once again in its rightful place above us. Instead of gray, it was a gentle blue, with a beautiful gold shining through the dissipating clouds. It toasted my skin. It even burned a bit, but I loved it. As I looked down from the sky for a moment, I saw Lucas fall. A panic came over me as I ran to his aid. But I forgot, we didn’t need to do that here.

The gravity on Earth was much stronger than Venus, every fall had a consequence of something being broken. A memory flashes in my mind — I

am sitting on a chair in my backyard, watching my friends swim in our pool. Mary Lynn falls while she’s running to dive into the pool, just as my mother approaches the pool deck. She drops the tray full of my favorite snack to help Mary Lynn.

My mother is by her side as I stand up and, pushing down the irritation that she dropped the tray, rush to her aid next to my mother. She was always trying to sway me toward the right action to take. Mary Lynn had broken her leg from falling.

Lucas was unscathed. This planet was good for something. We continued to enjoy the sun; I remembered my time on Earth and the children enjoyed their first real, memorable experience with the ultimate source of energy for all plants and animals on Earth. They didn’t understand that as we had sustainable greenhouses underground, but I knew. I told myself that once I had felt the heat, I would go back inside and fetch Margot. As I readied myself to go back to the tunnel, Annmarie wailed.

Her lip quivered as she held out her hand. A single raindrop sat still in her palm. It was over.

The children rushed to the door of the tunnels as it started to pour. Lighting struck ten miles away, then five, then one. We all watched as the storm got closer and fell upon us before we made our way back to the classroom. It had only been twenty minutes. This couldn’t be right, it had to come back.

Deep down I knew it wouldn’t, and the devastation I felt was unlike anything I had ever known. I knew I had to address the elephant in the room.

“Where’s Margot?”

The students looked sheepishly at each other as I glared at all of them. William pointed to the supply closet. I walked up to the door and peered inside.

Margot stepped out, and I think, for a second, I pitied her. She would no longer be superior, no longer be the last one to have seen the sun.

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59

Petra Shearer

BROKEN The damp sidewalk looks brown under my black rain boots, like a wet-paper-towel-from-a-publicrestroom type of brown. Each new drop of rain oozes and spreads like ink on paper, desperately expanding to meet another rain drop’s blot. It’s April and Easter is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. I chuckle to myself at the thought of that corny joke.

I can just see Anna rolling her eyes and looking at me in disgust if I had used that one on her. Still, I know it would have made her smirk the minute I looked away. Even though she wouldn’t admit it, she secretly loved my jokes. I miss her. I miss her smile.

I stop and look at my reflection in the window of an old antique shop. The young man looking back at me looks put together. An ordinary college student underneath a dark trench coat. He’s tall, lanky, unassuming, 19 years old. My slicked back chestnut hair matches my deep brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses. “You look good, son,” Dad barked at me from the recliner before I left home. Mom had whispered, “Oh, Peter, so handsome.” The last time I wore my hair like this was for a presentation I gave in speech class last year.

The topic was “things we were afraid of.” After my rant on the terrifying nature of spiders, I took my seat and the teacher, Mrs. Harrison, called Anna’s name to go next. Annalise Anderson, my best friend in the entire world. We met in kindergarten. I was swinging alone on the swing set when she asked if she could join me. I remember her laughing at me because I kept asking what her name was over and over again. Since then, we have been inseparable.

As we grew older, I knew that I felt much more for her than just normal best friend feelings. When I tried to tell her in 7th grade, she laughed at me, not knowing how serious I truly was. Ever since then, I kept my feelings to myself, painfully watching the days tick by when she wasn’t mine.

As she walked to the front of the classroom, every single pair of eyes was riveted to the iconic swish of her long blonde hair echoed by her swaying hips.

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She always dressed nice, like every single mundane school day was worth living. That day, it was a tight sweater and skirt ensemble that would make any guy melt. Without a breath, she turned around and said, “I’m afraid of death.”

The mood in the room immediately changed and everyone exchanged concerned looks around me.

Her tone was calm as she went on. “It’s not the pain I’m afraid of, or even leaving my family and loved ones behind. I’m scared of what comes next. An afterlife, if you will. If there even is one. What will happen to us after we leave this life? Does my soul travel to some kind of heaven? Some of you might say I’ll reincarnate into an animal. Or maybe I’ll be born again as another person and every time I get déjà vu it’s because the memories from my first life are flooding back to me. But who can say? What if my soul gets trapped in this world, a ghost that can’t leave. A spirit, a breeze, a feeling that haunts others while I am haunted by a past I can’t reclaim or change. That, my friends, is something to be afraid of.”

The classroom went silent. Even Mrs. Harrison didn’t know what to say. As Anna finished and walked back to her seat, our eyes met. They were blue-green, like the algae-filled water well known to those who have ever had the pleasure of boating on Lake Erie. I go there for a weekend every summer to visit my grandparents. I thought about all of the dead fish scattered on the beaches of Presque Isle, each lifeless creature acting as a gravestone in nature’s cemetery. And the smell…

The sound of the school bell had brought me out of my daydream. As students were packing up, Anna approached my desk.

“Well, what did you think?” she leaned into me, her V-neck getting deeper and deeper.

I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to say. Like always, I choked up.

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“It was…really great. Deep.”

“Thanks, kid,” she said. “By the way, you should wear your hair like that more often.”

Without another word, she had smirked and left.

I think about this day a lot and what was going through her mind. I regret not asking her. Too bad she won’t be able to notice that I took her advice.

Last time I saw Anna, we were both home from school for spring break. It was late, almost midnight, when I dropped her off at her house after seeing Get Out at the movie theater. She hesitated while we were still parked in the driveway.

Or worse, what if she didn’t say she loved me back?

I couldn’t do it. Not like this. I had dreamt of this moment for so long but I couldn’t find the right words to say. I looked out the window as if the words would somehow be out there, hiding in the bushes. The silence between us kept growing until finally she spoke.

“Okay. I get it. I was just wondering.” Her tone sounded like something I had never heard from her before. I knew she was disappointed in me. I was the one person she could always rely on. Until now.

She didn’t look at me as she opened the car door.

“Anna, wait—”

“Hey, Peter, if I asked you something, would you be honest with me?” she asked from the passenger seat of my car.

But I was too late, she had already slammed the door shut and left me alone with the words I should have said.

“Sure.”

It was an accident. She went to a party the night after our fight and never made it home. They were all too drunk to drive but she thought she was sober enough. She was always so confident, so sure of herself. This time, she was wrong. The police said that Anna was going almost 90 mph before the crash. The car flipped three times, throwing her perfect body through the windshield and into a field on the side of the road. Anna barely survived. I still can’t wrap my head around it. My best friend is lying unconscious in that prison of a hospital on the brink of life and death. I can’t help but feel it’s because of what I didn’t do or say and now there is nothing I can do to help. Her soul is trapped in this world, her worst fear realized. If she doesn’t wake up today, her parents will have to consider the unthinkable.

“Do you love me?”

“Well, obviously I do or else I wouldn’t be driving twenty minutes out of my way to take your sorry—” “Peter, I’m being serious,” she whined, playfully hitting my arm. “Do you?”

“What do you mean?” I couldn’t read her face.

She didn’t look serious, but she’s known to be unpredictable.

“You know what I mean,” she said, her eyes mirroring her trademark grin.

“I…uhh…yes, but as friends. I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. You’re basically like my sister.”

“But you don’t love me, love me?”

I froze. This must be a joke, I thought. I didn’t know whether I should pour my heart out to her or keep it locked inside its cage, barred behind selfdoubt and fear. What if she laughed at me again?

I look up at the clouds. Why do they weep today?

For me? For her? Maybe if I keep standing here on this lonely street I’ll become heavy with the weight of the rain on my shoulders. I could become a rock so strong and dense I could break this world that separates me from her. I look at myself again. This time, I see her reflection next to mine. She grabs

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my hand and smirks the way she always does. “Let me go, Peter. I can’t leave until you let me go,” she whispers.

With a yell, I slam my fist into the window with everything I have. Glass shards dance around me like the sound of a wind chime. I look down at my wounded, bloody hand, but I don’t feel any pain. I am numb. The shop is dark, quiet. I’ve created a hole in the barrier, a passage for her to be free. A passage for her to find me.

“Anna! Annalise!” I shout into the void. Good thing it’s raining. No one will notice the tears that just can’t seem to stop running down my face.

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I can’t go to that hospital. I can’t look into that casket of a hospital bed at the girl I met in kindergarten, the girl who gave me goosebumps on a hot summer day, the girl I fell in love with.

Thunder rumbles loudly around me, scolding me for being gone this long. My phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Peter, she’s awake.”

I take off in a sprint, splashing the dirty street water with my black rain boots.

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Alex Stauff

LA BELLA RAFAELLA The moment I saw Rafaella outside the bar that night, a jolt of electricity shot through me.

Someone, probably Kate, had done her makeup.

Sparkly shadow accented her hazel eyes, mascara lengthened her lashes, and sheer gloss coated her perfect lips. The feminine touches did nothing to hide her high forehead, prominent nose, and strong jaw; instead, her masculine features stood out in sharp relief. The contrast was captivating.

I smoothed my hair as I stared at her, mouth agape, in the fading light outside The Frog & British Library. I was flushed and breathless from joining a friend on a last-minute trip to l’Opéra de Paris, while Raf was painfully cool and collected, as usual.

I thought about how she had looked earlier in the day, racing up the thousand steps of Sacre-Coeur.

She had been wearing a soccer jersey and cargo shorts, with beat-up Converse on her feet. Her close-cropped curls, rebelling against the confines of her snapback, had been the only evidence of the workout. It’d been sweltering, close to 90 degrees, but the tiny French flag painted on her cheek had still been crisp and bright, neither smeared by sweat nor faded by the sun. Stubborn and sure, just like her.

I snapped out of my daydream and realized I’d been staring. I averted my eyes, but not before I caught her blushing. Her tanned skin made it nearly imperceptible, but I definitely saw the bloom spread across her cheeks. Blood rushed to my own face in response, and I bit back a grin of pleasure.

There had been fleeting moments between us throughout the past three weeks of our trip across France. Splashing each other in the Mediterranean Sea, sharing a pair of earbuds on the métro, giggling at the same jokes in famous art museums.

I had been asking myself for days, Was that something? Did she feel that, too?

The last match of Euro was beginning in less than an hour and the streets buzzed with excitement,

mirroring the electricity that flowed through my own veins. I snuck one more peek at Raf before our group was swept inside the bar to begin the night. *** Holding hands had been a necessity; the bar was so crowded that we would have lost each other without being linked. That’s what I told myself, at least. I had felt sparks earlier, sure, but I wasn’t about to get my hopes up. She had laced her fingers through mine purely for ease of navigation.

We were just two friends heading back from the bathroom, though my hammering heart suggested otherwise.

After an uphill battle to move through the crowd, we finally made it back to our group. Kate welcomed us by cheerfully extending a water bottle.

Raf accepted it and drank deeply. I wondered what she tasted like. I was much too shy for a direct investigation, so I settled on reclaiming the bottle and wrapping my mouth around the same spot.

The sting of Absolut burned my tongue; I was more used to books than booze!

Raf smirked as I made a face. She’d already done four or five shots at the hotel, but she could hold her alcohol. She was my height, but more solid, more muscular. Curvier, too. I was dying to slip my arm around her hip, but I didn’t want to break our connection. Our fingers were still locked together, no longer serving any remotely practical purpose.

“You’re drinking me dry, guys!”

Kate snatched the bottle back, good-naturedly. She wasn’t mad; she already had a good buzz going. Her smile surfaced easily, and grew wider as she glanced down at my hand in Raf’s.

The last match of the Euro Cup started, and we were all bathed in the glow of the TV screens. The raucous cries of the crowd rang in my ears. “Allez les bleus!”

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Minutes passed, first slowly and then quickly. Time undulated. Raf and I stayed glued to each other as France and Portugal battled it out on the screen.

“No. It’s going into overtime. Still 0-0.”

At one point, she shifted her weight and drew me in front of her, pulling me into her arms. Her hands lightly brushed my hips. Her chin was on my shoulder and then her mouth was on my neck, my cheek, my neck.

“Do you wanna go outside and get some air?”

“You’re gorgeous,” she whispered in my ear. I laughed and leaned back against her. The spicy smell of her shampoo made me dizzy.

A panicked thought suddenly surfaced, and I struggled to verbalize it. “I feel like … I’m going to be embarrassed … tomorrow,” I finally managed to say, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully.

Raf pushed me away and spun me around to face her.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said, smiling warmly. “And I promise to look you in the eyes at breakfast.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not sure … if … I can.”

“I’ll help you. Come on.”

She extricated her fingers from mine and took my elbow instead.

My friends’ faces floated by. I vaguely registered the alarm in their eyes.

“Is she okay?” Erin asked, a million miles away.

I was typically the responsible one, the knowledgeable one. The other girls were used to asking me for advice on pronouncing menu items and conjugating tricky verbs. “Lexi, comment dit-on …?” ran on a constant loop in our circle.

Currently, however, I was having trouble stringing together a sentence in my first language, let alone my second. No wonder they were a little concerned.

She pulled me back in and gently rubbed her nose “She’s fine,” Raf said evenly. “Just really hot. She against mine. We were so close to kissing, but needs a break from all the people.” neither of us took the plunge. I remember thinking, Once outside, I felt strangely naked without the it’s okay. There will be other cities, other seasons. crush of bodies around me. I didn’t realize how hot We have all the time in the world to fall in love.

I had been until the sweat began cooling on my I also wanted to maintain a little tact, because we skin. were in public, not to mention surrounded by six I wobbled. of our classmates. Our French teacher was a couple feet away, too. He was pretty tipsy by then, but still.

Ick. After an intoxicating eternity, her voice yanked me out of my daze.

“Lex. Lexi.”

“Hmm?” I responded, my eyes half closed. “Is it over?”

Raf steered me against the brick wall and we slid to the ground together. She tucked a damp strand of hair back into my braid and stared at me.

Suddenly I was embarrassed under her gaze.

“I’m … confused,” I eventually mumbled. Liar, my inner voice chided. You think she’s incredible. And what about Sarah? And Ange? And your cute lab partner in biology? Were you confused about all of them, too?

I was swaying a little, and she steadied me.

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“It’s okay. There’s no pressure,” Raf said quickly. “I don’t want to rush you, especially not right now.”

I nodded. It took a lot of effort, and mid-nod my head ended up on her shoulder.

“We can go back in,” she offered.

“No,” I said, drawing my eyebrows down in concentration. “I want … to stay here … with you.”

Forever.

“Okay.”

She kissed the top of my head and I felt her smile into my hair.

I drifted in and out, and the world passed above us in a blur of blue, white, and red.

I thought about her goofy Franglais, her crinkled brow as she read the métro maps, her scrunched nose when she tried new foods. I closed my eyes and remembered the way her broad shoulders had looked in a strappy black swimsuit, and how her face had softened when she stooped to scratch a stray dog behind the ears.

Suddenly the entire bar was pouring onto the sidewalk.

“All done?” I asked, looking up at Raf. “Huh, I guess so.”

She must have read my mind, because she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” Again.

Raf stood up easily, then pulled me to my feet. I watched the muscles rippling in her forearms.

Strength radiated from her. I made a silent vow to keep myself together in the future; I wanted to look out for her and protect her, the way she – I suddenly realized – had been doing for me the entire trip.

When I first stood up, my vision was filled with stars. I blinked, and they flew away. She was left behind.

We waited to the left of the door as people continued pouring out. Finally, we spotted Kate, followed by the rest of the group. She was wrapped in a giant French flag and drenched in sweat. It was almost midnight, and we had spent the entire day trekking around Paris, but she was still bursting with energy.

“Let’s go,” Raf instructed, gently but firmly tugging on my hand.

We tumbled into our group and the two of us found our place near the back. I don’t really remember the walk to the hotel, but I know it was under the stars with her palm pressed against mine. That night, I dreamt about the lights of the Eiffel Tower, the peaks of the French alps, and the warmth of her smile.

She surveyed the crowd, which was still incredibly noisy, but also noticeably deflated.

“Looks like France lost. I wonder what the score was.”

I wasn’t thinking about the score. I was thinking about making a last-minute room switch and falling asleep next to her back at the hotel.

The hotel that we had to walk back to. I wasn’t good at directions sober!

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Kale Dante

PALAPALA Southwest Cameroon It was 6 a.m. on that bright Sunday morning. Mola had gotten up earlier than usual, and this was a big day for him. It was like no other Sunday; he had waited for this day all week with much anticipation since the argument with Gordy. As young boys, they had argued over his last palapala fight in the Soppo arena the previous Sunday. Gordy had chided him for his victory against the fighter from Buea town. He told him that was child’s play and he, Mola, was no match for him. It then had been settled that Gordy would fight for any village of his choice and he would fight for Soppo, where he belonged, on the next palapala day which was the next Sunday to come.

Every day he passed the palapala field to and from school. Mola eyed the arena which he had helped to build with other young men of the village and his heart skipped with fear of his fight to come.

The palapala field was rectangle in shape; at the upper end of the field was a make-shift stand built with four heavy tree trunks and roofed with palm fronds to shed the jury and the dignitaries from the scorching heat of the sun typical of the dry season. On the opposite end was another stand, different in that it was built higher, as the tree trunks were longer; with a deck, it looked like a one-story building. Here the drums and drummers sat overlooking the arena.

Mola quickly prayed that God would take control of the day’s activities with protection for him and all, since there was no church service today for him.

Even though he had been brought up Christian, the church didn’t hold much ground anymore in their household. He wondered what had happened to their church-going rituals as little children. He couldn’t remember when last his father went to church, but his mother did go when she was not on duty as a nurse, or when she wasn’t going to the market or at home cooking that special Sunday meal. Sunday was special to Mola as this was the

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day mum cooked the most delicious and plentiful meal of the week. It meant that they could eat her delicacy without fear of not getting enough, contrary to the week days when she cooked a sweet meal but not enough for a second round.

He got out of his bed and went to the makeshift barn where his father’s sheep were kept. He untied them one after the other and led them to the nearby bushes in the compound where the sun had not dried the grass and tied them there for their grazing. He was extra cautious with the two rams who had become wild recently and would rush into anyone with their horns. His father had blamed him for mistreating the rams and as a result they had become aggressive. He couldn’t make sense out of this and today of all days was not a day to entertain such thoughts in his head. All he could think and see was the fight to come later and nothing more. He gathered his dirty clothes into a bucket and stepped out to find his neighbor Papi whom they had agreed the previous night to go together to the village stream.

At the stream, they washed their clothes and spread them on the nearby rocks and grasses to dry. Then they disappeared into the bush to pick fruits in the nearby farms. This act was forbidden by the farmers, but since it was Sunday and no one went to farm on Sunday, they were fearless in their small adventure of gathering fruits that were not theirs.

Here and there, there were little totems in red cloths tied on the fruit trees to frighten young boys and older trespassers. It never worked for them as they had convinced themselves, as young boys did, that nothing was going to harm them. After a couple of hours, they returned to the stream and devoured their spoils with the rest of the boys who had come to wash their clothes or just talk.

When all was said and all had been eaten, they packed their clothes into their buckets and left for home. Papi had teased Mola about his fight and that Gordy was going to annihilate him without

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any stress. Mola was calm and confident and told his friend to wait and see. To Mola, Papi was only jealous that he could fight and win a lot of these wrestling duels even against him who had never won a single duel.

Four hours later, the arena was packed with spectators from far and wide; the competing villages and their wrestlers had taken their positions and were waiting for the referee to call the fighters from all villages into the arena to pick their opponents.

While every other fighter was moving around and sizing whom to challenge, Mola had already eyed Gordy who was in a high spirit, so confident that he was walking on his toes with his hands suspended in the same way body builders moved.

Mola moved up to Gordy and challenged him by a show of the hand, and he accepted by slapping his palm, then both of them marched to the jury to register their duel. There was a loud outcry especially from the women, who thought that this was an unfair match, as Gordy was like a young sumo wrestler and Mola was a slender and bony kid. The coaches of the two villages were called by the jury and they concerted that it was okay for the fight to go on. They knew that even though size was a factor in wrestling, here, especially in palapala, what counted was the technique of the wrestlers.

After three fights from the younger boys, it was their fight. The referee called them to the ring of sawdust in the center. As was the tradition, they were accompanied by one senior wrestler who was allowed to remain close to the ring and shout out directions. Both in their short pants and loin cloths tied around their waist, they stood face to face.

Their fingernails were checked to make sure they weren’t too long to scratch. They greeted each other, and the referee signaled to the drummers to play the drums, and he blew his whistle for the fight to start. Mola danced and shook his waist with the rhythms of the drummers and the songs like a dog shaking its tail in excitement, while the crowd shouted with amusement at his dance steps.

Gordy eyed him like a hungry lion ready to pounce on a smaller prey. This dancing was all a technique to distract the other fighter, and before Gordy could understand what was happening, Mola had grabbed his left leg and was trying to lift him up, but Gordy quickly found his balance and freed his leg. The crowd was ecstatic and Mola danced more as if to fuel their excitement. They both locked hands and pulled each other sideways trying to get the other on the ground. Suddenly Mola saw an opportunity; he grabbed Gordy on his neck with his right hand while his left hand held onto Gordy’s left hand and pushed his head so hard that Gordy swayed to his left side and exposed his right leg which Mola grabbed and pulled towards him so hard that Gordy landed on his back.

There was a total explosion of excitement as the women and girls from Mola’s village ran into the arena shouting and dancing as the drummers played harder— for this was one of their own. Mola was carried high on the shoulder of one of the senior wrestlers from their village and displayed around the arena. Gordy was raised up and escorted out of the arena with encouragement that he had tried.

Mola had gained his stripes that day; he had defeated a boy who was bigger and heavier than he in just the first of the three supposed rounds of a palapala fight. He didn’t care about the other fights that day; his mind was on the respect his peers would accord him forever and the girls who would flock around him in the village. He was a champion like his brother and the other young men in the village. He held this victory for a long time until his last fight many years later with Ndenge the leopard.

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Sabrina Yassem

TATTOOED YELLOW I remember screaming. Him effortlessly picking me up and putting the chains around my wrists. He rubs my head, like somehow it makes this all okay. He whispers that this is my fault. That if I would have stopped being a sneaky bitch I would be free right now. Free. I spit in his face. How am I free? He grabs my arms and shakes me, eventually throwing me down. He pulls down his pants and shoves his pride down my throat. I choke. I must be his good little sun. I cannot bite and claw anymore. I have no energy left. My soul is almost gone. I am almost gone.

I feel like a ghost. I feel as though the color has drained from my body. I lie lifeless on the floor. At times, I can see my own body, lying limp, motionless. Then it happens, I am called to the peaceful place again. I sit up and sweat pours off my brow onto my torn yellow shirt. I live for the moments my soul leaves my body. Those few incandescent seconds where I am free. Free from the misery of this cesspool. I long for these moments. They’ve been happening so frequently since he started visiting me down here.

The day he brought me down to this dark hole is the day I lost all my will to live. Before this I was from, what I can assume, upstairs. In a little room with a mattress and a bucket. He brought me food and other things. Now I am down here. I am locked away from the world. I am grateful for the two tiny windows down here. The light they provide is the only solace from the excessive dark that surrounds me. The musty smell of wet brick travels up my nose every time I breathe in and out. It has become familiar. The sense of familiarity is what sickens me.

I know I must leave soon. I cannot escape physically, but mentally I am unchained.

Whenever I feel his breath on my cheeks, my soul leaves my body to seek refuge somewhere else. With every kiss, I can feel my hands cringe under the restraints. When he groans from the satisfaction he takes from me, I escape through the memory that I am decorating the family Christmas tree again. I

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use the memory to allow my soul time to heal. To allow me to heal. I close my eyes so tightly, trying to close off everything that is happening around me.

It happens, and I am transported to my living room.

The bright bulbs, the carols in the background, the sound of my family laughing at my brother imitating Santa Clause. The warm comforting smell of hot cocoa bubbling in the microwave. I think of all of this as he forces himself into my body. I beg him to let me die, but somehow that would be too easy for him. He wants me to survive; it gives him an ecstasy that no other woman could ever give him… only me and that is what makes me wish that death was an option.

I lie on the wet floor after he leaves. It is stained with my blood again. He didn’t seem to notice this time. I guess he was too busy. I curl under my ripped yellow shirt, surrounded by bright yellow tatters. The light shines through the dull windows.

The rays wrap around me as if they are trying to protect me from this horror. They engulf me in this dark damp room, they wrap around me like a warm, cozy sweater.

For a second it is like home. I leave again. I have to leave. My body is tired and drained. I cannot bear to function anymore. It hurts to live. I leave this place behind as my mind wanders rapidly from the dark damp basement to the library. The smell of the books is intoxicating. The atmosphere is welcoming. It’s like nothing I have ever felt in my life. I feel at home with the pages of every book I pick up. I run my fingers over the ridges tracing every imperfection, memorizing every detail. I breathe in and out like it is the last time I will ever consume the sweet warm musty air again. I quickly snap back into reality. It’s a shame I can’t leave forever.

The cruel realization that I am the equivalent to an animal haunts me. If only there was something in the room to use as a weapon. If only I wasn’t chained up like a dog. If only. I think I have been

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here for two weeks. Maybe less, maybe even more, I can’t remember. I can barely remember the day I arrived here. I think I was sitting on my favorite bench in the park near my house. The smell of wet earth swirled up my nostrils, and I giggled a little at the sensation. I can vaguely remember people talking on their phones as they walked by and the faint buzzing of bees as they hopped from flower to flower.

After that, I remember nothing. Not even how I got here. I should remember at least something.

A strange man talking to me or waking up in a moving car. But there is nothing. Just my cloudy, empty mind. I just woke up lying in my own urine, clothed in an old yellow shirt that had a tear on the sleeve of my left shoulder. I remember it so fondly.

That first night was terrifying. No matter how hard I screamed I knew deep down no one heard.

Correction, he heard.

After spending the night alone, which I am grateful for, he finally came into the room. At first, I thought he was there to rescue me, that he heard my cries for help. I wished he would be my knight in shining armor, so to speak. My naive childhood fantasies quickly turned to ash as I saw him. The taste still lingers in my mouth, the smoky, dark, dry sensation that fills my mouth every time I think of that day. His face came into focus and I could see there was a smile on it.

He never spoke, not even a word, but every time he smiled I knew what he was thinking. That night he forced my innocence from me and he smiled as he did it. I remember the exact smell of his body, half body odor and half cologne. I remember the way he breathed heavier as he entered my body.

The way his weight crushed my small frame. I can recall crying during and after his visit. I must have cried for hours. He broke me that day, in ways that I never could imagine another human being would be capable of. That’s the first time I ever left my body and never wanted to return.

I start to wonder if I am ever going to escape. If I will survive. I’ve never been one of those girls who was overly sensitive and I’ve never been overly strong. I go through life, being. Just surviving from day to day, never doing anything remarkable or special… just being. He takes a part of me every time he comes into the room. Every look he gives me rips open my soul leaking the very essence of my life. I do not think I am strong enough to survive this.

My body convulses as the door opens again. I know I am not strong enough to survive this. He walks towards me and whispers the nickname he has given me, “Little Sun.” The words rolling off his lips are what I need to escape for the last time. I can feel my heart beat slow down. The blood in my body turns to sludge. My mind opens.

I gravitate to the only place I refused to go until now. My only solace in life. I thought about it in the beginning, but I decided to save it until I lost all hope. I saved it because I know God wanted me to try to survive. But God isn’t here anymore, and he hasn’t endured what I have. I know God will understand.

I appear beneath a tree. The instant comfort I take from it is refreshing. I feel safe. I sit under the tree and the breeze touches my face as to reassure me.

It caresses my cheek, letting me know everything will be all right now, that I am free from this suffering. It lets me know I am free to go. It tells me it is all right, and I have suffered enough. The tree knows this is the last time it will see me sitting there, breathing in the sunlight and watching the leaves dance around it. The leaves perform a new rendition, moving back and forth, and they know I will never sit and eagerly watch them again. I sit watching the field of wild flowers bend and break against the wind. The sun hits my face and in that moment, I know what it means to be tattooed yellow. I walk toward the rays of light and I feel at peace. I know I am home.

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Rachel McKernan

HOMELESS, NOT HELPLESS Rain fell like teardrops upon the crusted pavement.

My umbrella pulled against my petite hands as the wind violently attempted to steal one of my only possessions. The underpass came quickly, and the rain abruptly stopped to yield to the never-ending sound of sickness that mixes with the smell of urine wafting up to tickle the tip of your nose. I shuffled over to join the huddled mass reeking of cabbage, booze, and failure. Shooing the alley cat away with the droplets from my umbrella, I hungrily took the last dry spot unoccupied by my fellow needy peers. As my heeled shoe kissed an unexpected rock, I tumbled and in the blink of an eye I was on the ground, fresh blood dripping from a gash on my forehead. “How did I get here?” I mumbled to low hanging stars. How did I get there? Like many, homelessness was not my choice, it was my only option. With five years between me and that moment, I see that homelessness was not my fault, and today I take a moment to analyze my past to understand why I needed to sink to that low before I could rise again.

full American dream. Each Christmas I would be given one stocking, with an orange and a small surprise toy for the holidays. One year I sat down beside my mom on our snowy front porch, my eyes watering as the wind hit my face and asked, “Mummy, why don’t we have a Christmas tree like my friends? Why don’t we have lots of presents like my friend Mary?” and she turned to look at the mini reflection of herself, our sharp green eyes meeting each other in the cold December air, and said, “We are saving up so you can have the best present in the whole world when you’re older. One that never stops giving and can never be taken from you.” And I believed her. I believed that every time I saw my mom tuck twenty dollars into that little nook in our wall that one day, I would receive this grand present that would never end. And at age 19, when my parents held hands and told me the small sum they had saved for me, I was grateful for my roots, for the hard work they had put in to help me achieve greatness. There was no way for me to know what was to happen next.

For a long time, I did not live on the streets. No, I was an innocent youth, full of hope for the future and longing for new beginnings. I had dreams, you know. Dreams to conquer the journalism industry, dreams to start something big one day. In my house, college was not just a path, it was the only path.

My young sweet curly red-headed mom with her full-freckled cheeks worked tirelessly at a local gas station to pay the rent for our little two-bedroom apartment. My rambunctious father, with his black hair astray and glasses always slightly crooked, came home with fingers encased in dirt and a smile made from soot from his work with the fire department. They both worked diligently, yet each night my mom would make a home-cooked meal and my dad would sit me on his knee and tell me about the adventures and obstacles he conquered that day. Their hard work taught me how to be resilient and how to fight for what I wanted.

Walking home. That was the mode of transportation more than half of my class took when they left school. It was my final week of high school, the home stretch. I was holding the bat of knowledge and was ready to hit the ball of my future out of the park. Already having been accepted as a journalism major at the local college, I knew my journey was about to begin. The day was bright, and the flowers smiled up at me. I was two blocks away from home when the firetruck rushed by. The lights were on, the firemen were scrambling, and my hand shot up to wave as it whooshed by. It rushed down my block, and I laughed as I thought it was my Dad and his cronies showing off in our small neighborhood. I didn’t hurry down my street; instead I plucked some wild dandelions for my mom so she could have a pretty centerpiece for that night’s supper. It’s when I smelled the smoke, that was when my body took control. Feet on pavement, flowers falling from hands, blood in ears, eyes seeing red. The roof shooting flames, my tabby cat

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racing out the side door, a wall caving in where my living room was. The screams of my family I couldn’t help and that the firemen were desperately trying to save. I ran and did not see, I cried but did not hear, and as my throat choked down the sobs, a single dollar landed at my feet before being engulfed in flames.

Funerals are nothing like what I’ve seen in the movies. Pretty pale ladies dressed in black, weeping on some strong gentleman’s shoulder in a large white cathedral as a loved one recites a beautifully written eulogy before a handsome mahogany coffin engulfed by flowers. In reality, it’s more like a kneeling daughter sobbing in front of two small jars in a dingy wooden church while work buddies and pitying neighbors float in and out to watch the drama unfold. A priest knelt beside me and told me that the church needed to be cleared, and I needed to take my parents with me as no one had bought a place to put them. My parents had wanted to be buried, this much I knew, but the choice of cremation had been made for them. That day, someone different left the church than who had entered. As I staggered out into the bright day, one parent in each hand, the ghost of my former self stood at the doorway and waved goodbye.

New year, new me… that’s the saying right?

Nineteen meant I was no longer a child, at least not to the government and the foster care system.

My parents’ remains were taken by some long lost relative and suddenly all I had left were the dreams they had for me. Those precious dreams, that forever giving Christmas gift… I still wanted that, even if my parents only helped me achieve it emotionally and not financially. I took over my mother’s job at the gas station, moved into an even smaller place than my last home, and won a few scholarships to help me pay for the first semester of college. At work, I smiled every time someone mistook me for my mom, but at my home every mirror was covered with towels so that I didn’t have to see her staring back at me.

I matured in a matter of a few months, made a life for myself out of my meager wages and when I entered my dorm room at university I thought I was just beginning to unwrap that perfect gift.

I threw a blanket over the single cracked mirror hanging from the door of my new dorm, placed my little bag of belongings on my bed, and met my roommate, soon-to-be best friend Eliza. A fashionista with stylishly short locks that magically untangled themselves, Eliza’s Louis Vuitton luggage and weekly manicure were her parents’ attempt at hiding the more tomboyish girl I got to know. A mouth like a trucker and an attitude to match, she and I clicked like a bullet in a gun. We were ready to rule campus together as I focused on journalism and she breezed through business. In the evening, Eliza and I would snuggle under a blanket and gossip about what happened that day until the sun awoke to our incessant giggling.

In the cold November air, her small hand would grab mine, so we could share our finger warmth. If someone made an unwanted pass at me, she was the one to grab me by the arm and tell them to bug someone else. If I talked about a boy crush too long, Eliza would sweep my hair to the side and tell me how a woman doesn’t need a man and that’s not why I came to college. She was what I had always imagined having a sibling would be like; supportive to a tee and a constant, kind, cheerleader for my academics. That semester had enough great memories to last a lifetime, from stealing a large tub of ice-cream from the cafeteria to having a snow ball fight inside our dorm; we were unstoppable, inseparable, and lovable sisters.

And that’s when the clock struck twelve, when my silver slipper fell off, shall we say. Christmas break had just begun, and I entered my dorm room giddy from finishing my last final, when Eliza jumped out from behind the door and hopped on my back. A hundred something pounds heavier, I stumbled to the floor as she poked a finger gun in my back, snorting about how easy it would be to mug me. I

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laughed and rolled over, asking her to not shoot, I was just a poor college kid. That’s when Eliza noticed I had scraped my chin on the rugged carpet and leaned in to brush off the blood. Something changed right then, something unspoken passed between us and I didn’t quite understand what it was until it was too late. In a matter of seconds Eliza’s lips were on mine and my hands were on her chest pushing her away. Her dark brown eyes shone brighter than I had ever seen them until she met my wide-eyed gaze. Quick as lightning her eyes changed, becoming cold and confused. I scrambled away, head knocking against the bedframe and hand flying up to cover my mouth. Eliza stood up shakily, mumbled something about a mistake and reading it wrong, before grabbing at the door handle and running out of the room. I remember breathing, closing my eyes and flexing my fingers trying to forget what just happened. But you can’t forget a thing like that, can you? Brown eyes fixated on you as they turn from hopeful, to confused, and finally conveying fear and regret and shame. No, I can’t forget that.

I left my dorm to clear my head, trying to understand what just happened. When I came back, I was ready to talk to Eliza, tell her that although I didn’t feel that way, there is nothing wrong in her feelings and that our friendship is still as strong as ever. I thought we could laugh it off, and joke about her finding the perfect man for me and me finding the perfect woman for her. I knew, deep down, that nothing could break my friendship with my new sister, and that nothing would ever change that. I marched back in that room, sure that I would find Eliza sitting arms akimbo on her bed, only to see that she wasn’t. In fact, none of Eliza was there. Her whole side of the room, nothing but the mattress and furniture. As I turned around to look for some clue, a note perhaps, something caught my eye. Eliza had taken my blanket, the one covering the mirror, and my frightened confused mom looked back.

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Spiraling, the act of going down. That’s what happened to me after my friendship with Eliza ended. In an instant, the one support I had left was gone. She requested a room change; I requested to talk. She avoided me on campus; I ran after her anytime I could. Eliza began to date guys like wild, and she started rumors about my character.

She told people I was a nobody, that I cheated on tests, and that I was a back-stabbing drunk freak. I cracked, that’s what happened to me. I don’t blame Eliza, I knew that behind it all she was just afraid and wasn’t ready to accept herself yet. I told her many times I’d fall on the blade for her and that’s what I did. Except, in the process, I changed myself.

I started to believe what people said. It’s hard to go against the flow when you’re the only drop going the other way. Within a month, I started to cheat on tests, I began to visit too many parties, and I let myself do the easy thing; I let what others said about me become the truth. I hated who I was then, but I couldn’t stop. My scholarship was revoked after I swore at a police officer while drunk and the dean expelled me when they found out I had written all the test answers on the soles of my shoes. Expelled, I sauntered back to my dorm, cradling a bottle in my arms, hiding behind my act of rebellion to mask my fear. I packed my stuff and took one more swig of vodka before throwing the bottle at my now hazy mother’s reflection and breaking it into a million pieces.

And that, that’s how I reached my low.

Homelessness is not an option, it is the only choice for so many people. I tried so hard to live up to my parents’ dreams and my own, but everywhere I turned I was being knocked down. Once on the lowest rung, I didn’t know how to climb higher.

I couldn’t get a job without a residence, and I couldn’t get a residence without a job. I, and all the others around, were stuck in this cycle of homelessness that we couldn’t escape. Right after being kicked out, I went back to work at the gas station until I was fired for being more absent than present. I couldn’t face the world anymore

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and it was so much easier to sleep and forget than to wake and remember. I felt so ashamed, so lost, so unloved. Those three feelings were the only qualifications you needed to earn a spot under the local underpass…well that, and the ability to prove that you had been dealt a bad hand in life.

Living on the streets teaches you not only how to be smart, but also how to be kind, caring, and forgiving. Those are the emotions I traded up for, and that’s how I kicked my bad habits. On that rainy day five years ago, I finally saw how out of control I was. Lying below the underpass, mascara running down my face as I yanked off my too high heels, I saw someone I didn’t recognize staring at me from inside a puddle. A skeleton-sized red head in too short of a dress with freckles that covered sunken cheeks. I had a surge of compassion for that girl, I felt love for this being who had fallen on hard times, and like me, looked hungry for a way out. In that moment, I saw myself, not as an image of my mother, but the image that my mother would never have wanted me to be. I asked the stars how did I get there, and for the first time, I wished my mother was the reflection staring back at me.

There was a thriving duck population back at the park where I grew up. Throwing one piece of bread could send these birds into a frenzy, ready to turn on each other as they bit and clawed to get the most bread. That is what a homeless shelter is like.

They throw opportunities out to these desperate people who claw and scrap to get them. There was never enough to go around, people would leave still starving for their chance to escape poverty. For four years, I visited shelter after shelter, searching for any piece of bread I could get. But none were thrown my way, and I wasn’t big enough to bully others to give me theirs. And here’s the ironic part, my big break literally came from a piece of bread.

I was at the soup kitchen one day, grabbing something small to feed my ever-shrinking stomach before heading back out to claw my way to an

opportunity, when a beautifully pedicured, small hand offered me a loaf. I knew that hand, I had held that hand four years ago. My breathing stopped, the noise of the room was drowned by the sound of my heart as I looked up to meet the kind dark brown eyes of my forever best friend. “Eliza.”

That’s all I said before I drew my former roommate into a hug. When I drew back, I launched into the speech I had prepared so many years ago, watching Eliza’s eyes dart between my untidy hair, chipped nails, and unkempt appearance. When I finished, Eliza stood still before engulfing me in a huge embrace and crying on my shoulder. She spoke about all that had happened, how ashamed she was of how our friendship ended and how lost she felt on campus. As she talked, a slender blonde volunteer with a crease upon her forehead walked up to us, and put her hand on Eliza’s shoulder.

Eliza pulled away from me and looped her arms around her girlfriend as she explained that I was the friend she had lost, the friend she thought she would never find. I then launched into the details of my situation and how I had ended up in such a condition. Looking down, a single tear trailing down my cheek, I told them how the piece of bread Eliza was still clutching would be my only meal that day. That’s when a perfectly manicured hand touched my cheek, brushed away my tear, and offered her open palm for me to take.

With the help of Eliza, I was finally able to get my feet on the first wrung of the ladder out of poverty. She kept me stable as I found a job at a merchandise store, as I took out my first credit card, as I reapplied for college. Working full time and going to school at night might be hard, but not as hard as being homeless. After a year returning to the work force, I now spend most of my time running a non-profit to provide opportunities for the homeless. The homeless are some of the most dedicated, hardworking people in our communities yet companies refuse to see past their rags when seeking new employees. With my non-profit, I actively search for job opportunities within the

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abilities of those who are seeking my help and provide them with business clothing, so their outer appearance fits their inner drive. Homelessness should not be a quality to define someone by, but a phase of life that some people fall into. It’s a character builder, one in which you enter weak but come out so much stronger.

Today, I woke up feeling blessed to be rising from a warm bed and walking into a clean bathroom with a feeling of gratitude rising inside me. I turned to my reflection, relieved to see the figure of my mom staring back at me with my fierce, activist green eyes peeking out behind red curls. This morning I felt compassion and purpose flow through my fingers as I replied to emails regarding my non-profit. By this afternoon, I was slipping on a pink maid-ofhonor dress as I prepared to stand beside Eliza as she exchanged vows and married her wife. Now, I stand outside the reception, looking up at the stars like I did five years ago, thinking how did I get here? Thinking how fortunate I have been to have a life most would consider tragic. Knowing that without hitting that low, without going through what I have, I would not be the strong advocate I am today.

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Julia Fulton

JASPER’S WEEK Historical fiction of a week in the life of Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniels (1849 –1911), a businessman, distiller, and notorious womanizer, but most famous for creating of Tennessee’s first official whiskey, Old No. 7.

Monday: I came back from the cavern around noon. I had to test the water and make sure it was up to distilling quality, no iron. I’ve been doing this so long I can taste when there’s too much iron in the water. It really makes for bad barrels of whiskey.

When I got back home she had already let herself in. “Witch!” I thought. I didn’t think I left the door open.

She picked a peach off the tree in the side yard and was sitting at the table eating it. I caught myself staring at the peach in envy. Her lips already touched the peach and I had not yet. I wanted to be that peach.

“Jack,” she said. “What are you staring at?”

I looked into her deep blue eyes, pushed back her blonde curls like any southern gentleman would do, took the peach out of her hand, set it down on the table and kissed her. Her beautiful lips still tasted like the peach.

Tuesday:

to the field across from the stream. There are always nice flowers there, especially her favorite, the deep, royal purple coneflowers. The field always had so many, so I pulled a few out and put them on the table.

But, much to my dismay she never showed.

Honestly, I’m not that bothered. I had a few drinks, put out the fire in the stove, and went to bed.

Wednesday: Dawn was just breaking across the sky, probably around a quarter ‘til 6 when I got up to light a small fire in the stove and put a match to the oil lamp. I put the kettle on for some coffee and there was a light tap on the door.

I looked out and saw her there, brown long hair tied back in a neat little bun with a silky black ribbon, all pulled up under her bonnet. She came in and looked towards the kettle on the stove.

Rummaging through the icebox she found the eggs and smoked sausage. I sat at the table reading yesterday’s paper from Nashville while she cooked the sausage and eggs. If a woman wants to cook, don’t protest, I say.

We sat at the old kitchen table and ate breakfast and chatted.

“How’s the distillery going?” she asked.

I slept in late today. The only thing that woke me up was the booming thunderheads, around 9 o’clock this morning. I got nervous about humidity so I went down to the warehouse to take care of some business and check on the barrels. They say that each barrel tastes different because of it. But I test so much of it at this point I can’t tell.

She cleaned up the dishes and I headed down to the mash room in the distillery. She left her hat on the table and followed me into my room.

Last week I got a letter from her sent down from Nashville. She went to see her parents in Brentwood, but she said should be back by today.

Even though I’m the boss I had to make it in today.

My workers like to slap me on the back, grinning, and say, “I like to see you made it today, Mr. Daniels.” That makes me feel good about myself, especially with my height issue.

After the storm cleared out a bit I wandered down

Today I didn’t make it to work.

Thursday:

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Today I made sure to put some important papers in the safe I keep at my house. I keep it in my house because I’m the only one who knows the code, provided I can remember.

I like to go to the bank even if I really don’t need to.

That bank teller with the brown eyes, she’s really something, definitely pleasing to the gaze. I invited her over for dinner again, like every Thursday.

Over dinner she asked, “Jasper, why do you like to be called Jack?” And to that my only response was a kiss on the forehead.

and put some coffee on. My toe still hurt but I’d live. I still couldn’t get the safe open, though.

The flower shop in town was open on the weekend, one of the only stores that was, so I decided to walk into town around 9 to see what they had for the day. The lady that worked there was very nice and I chatted to her for a while before deciding to go to lunch at the inn on the corner. I really wanted a drink but Moore County is dry, ya see.

A true gentleman never gives away his secrets.

On the way up to the inn I tripped a little bit on a loose brick in the sidewalk. I couldn’t help but think about my toe again before going about my business.

Friday:

Sunday:

I couldn’t remember the safe code so I kicked it. Probably not my smartest move, but I never claimed to be very smart. My toe is probably broken but nothing is really done about them, so I’ll probably live.

My green-eyed princess rode up on her horse midafternoon, dress flowing out to the side. It was such a beautiful sight.

At 7:30 a.m., I put on my nicest jacket and walked about a mile to the little church on a surprisingly chilly morning, only about ten minutes away. I thought about Mom and Dad while I was there.

I hoped I was making them proud. But then I thought about my blackening toe again. Tomorrow I’d have the doctor look at it, I suppose. No doctor was around in town yesterday.

We had a picnic supper out in the side yard, underneath my favorite peach tree. The afternoon turned quickly into evening as we watched the sun set and the stars come out, staying out until late in the night.

After the service I left the small Baptist church hoping to get some time on this nice Sunday to myself, but she came after me pretty quick. This older, dark-haired woman with frail limbs asked me why I was limping.

She fell asleep in the yard, and I eventually did too, but I couldn’t help thinking about my toe and how it began to turn colors a bit.

Maybe I’d get it checked out tomorrow, if I had time.

Saturday: I woke up around 4 a.m. still in the side yard, but she had gotten up sometime in the night and had since left. I went inside to throw a log into the stove

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“Ma’am,” I said. “I’ve been having some problems with my toe for the past few days. I think I might have an infection.”

She came home with me to look at it.

“Well, oh my,” she exclaimed. “I am by no means a medical expert but I believe you have gangrene. You need to see a doctor right away.”

I shook my head in disbelief and poured myself a full glass of whiskey. I didn’t offer her any as

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she cooked potatoes and country ham up for us.

Drinking and cooking go together as well as snow and a hot day.

She got up after a bit and came over to kiss me as she was leaving. I certainly couldn’t say no to such a nice lady, and I also couldn’t say no to what would be my last kiss before the gangrene took me later that night.

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Alecia DiMarzio

CASE STUDY: THE SEXES AND THEIR RESPECTIVE BRAIN FUNCTION TO DAILY OUTPUT (1931) The following study was completed by me, Dr. Thomas Anders, general doctor and brain surgeon/ researcher. I am a known Aryan race supporter and advocate. I complete these studies for the betterment of the world. The male and female brain have long been a mystery and the differences between them are of high importance in regards to the advancement of the human race. This study contains pure facts about the brain and also explains why each sex acts and reacts in the nature that society as a whole is accustomed to experiencing.

The Human Brain 1. Frontal Lobe Function: intellect, abstract reasoning, problem solving, judgment, sequencing, planning, concentration; controls: emotional response, expressive language, word associations, and memory for habits and motor activities 2. Parietal Lobe Function: visual attention, touch perception, goal directed voluntary movements, manipulation of objects; integration of different senses that allows for understanding a single concept 3. Occipital Lobe Function: hearing ability, memory acquisition, some visual perceptions, visual memory; categorization of objects, intellect; sense of identity, behavior and emotions including fear; long term memory 4. Temporal Lobe Function: primary visual reception area 5. Brain Stem Function: breathing, heart rate, swallowing, reflexes to seeing and hearing, startle response; controls sweating, blood pressure, digestion, 78

temperature; affects level of alertness, ability to sleep and sense of balance 6. Cerebellum Function: regulation and coordination of movement, posture, balance; some memory for reflex motor acts The Anatomy and Functions of the Human Male and Female Brain Female Brain Female brains are made up of three main parts: the frontal lobe, the parietal lobe, and the cerebellum.

The frontal lobe is in charge of emotional responses and intellect. The intellectual section of the brain is quite small in comparison to its located region and so the emotional response section makes up the rest of the area. This results in the female mood swings, happy crying, sad crying, crying for no reason, and just crying period. The emotional response section also elicits fear from the female and this leads them to be easily upset. The emotional response section develops first and that is the reason for the smaller intellectual section, therefore explaining why females lack the smarts to get along for themselves in the world and depend on men for help. The parietal lobe is in charge of touch perception. Touch perception is a main area of this section and takes in the response to holding hands, kisses, and the occasional reprimanding smack from her male counterpart. This is the section where the female learns to appreciate touch and learn behaviors to avoid others. The last section of the female brain is the cerebellum. The cerebellum is in charge of coordination. The female brain uses this section to enable the female to be a dancer and to help entertain males. Even though the female brain is the inferior of the brains, it does make a difference in the world. Without the female brain there would be a shortage of dancers, fewer

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stay-at-home moms, more laundry for the male to complete, and there would be no food on the table for the males when they arrive home after work.

Male Brain Male brains, which are the superior of the two, also have three main parts: the occipital lobe, the temporal lobe, and the brain stem. The occipital lobe is in charge of intellect and processing fear.

The intellectual section, unlike the female brain, is the largest in this section of the male brain. This enables men to learn much more than the female brain and to get high paying jobs that would otherwise be taken by females and disrupt the order in the human world. The section for processing and assessing fear is quite small compared to the female brain. This makes up only ten percent of this section of the brain. Due to the fear processing section being so small, the male is able to be unafraid and easily protect the easily upset and scared female. The temporal lobe of the male brain is in charge of visual reception. This section enables the male brain to see and appreciate the female anatomy and easily assess which females are attractive enough with which to mate. This is one of the largest sections in the entire male brain due to its strong importance to everyday functioning.

The last section of the male brain is the brain stem.

The brain stem is in charge of reflexes and alertness.

This section of the male brain enables the male to be able to react very swiftly to protect the female counterpart and to protect the male self. This also goes along with the alertness section which helps the male to view and understand the surroundings and sense danger before it is too late, again to save the helpless female. Without the male brain, there would be only emotion in the world and not the stability and employment that are brought to the home and world with the male brain.

Conclusion The result of this study is the proof that the brains of men and women are significantly different and further explains why they are not equal. The brain is an unchangeable part of the human anatomy and the science that I have conducted in this research has confirmed the fact that the sexes are different, can only do certain things, and that we cannot let the social aspects of society attempt to seep into the brains of the people. If this happens, the world will fall into catastrophe and I cannot predict the extreme consequences that will follow.

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Desiraee Payne

LETTING GO It was the coldest and rainiest day of the season.

I remember seeing my breath roll off my tongue when I opened my mouth just the slightest bit. I sat on our old wooden rocking chair clutching my long blue plaid rain coat waiting for the vet to show. Inside the house, I knew there was a sweet, old, brown mutt with sloopy eyes lying on the cold tile floor feeling nothing but eternal agony. The large amounts of tears that streamed down my face that night felt like icicles in the winter when the cold wind blew. The only thing I could see with blurry vision were the old, crumply, dead leaves swaying in the wind as if they were dancing to a melody. Finally, after what felt like hours, the vet showed. Through the rain I could see two large lights coming up the gravel drive. The squeaky noise of the brakes made me cringe. To my left I could hear the front door of the house open slowly.

I looked over and saw my aunt peek her head out not wanting to come out because of the rain. She hadn’t noticed me out here until now.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” she asked softly. Even I could tell she was crying just by the sound of her voice.

“I was waiting on the vet,” I explained.

She raised her right hand that was resting on the door frame and pointed in front of her. She wasn’t pointing to anything specific but pointing to what was the obvious, the weather.

“Don’t you see this weather?” she asked. “You can’t afford to get sick, get your butt back inside” She held open the door for me and I walked inside trying to avoid eye contact. As soon as I walked into the house, that damn ol’ mutt was still lying in the same place he was for three days straight. My eyes started watering again and I couldn’t help but feel guilty for not being able to help him. Yet, what could I do? I was only 13 years old.

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While my aunt and the vet were outside talking in the cold rainy night, I sat on the second floor of wooden stairs that overlooked the foyer where our dog was lying miserably. The stairs were incased in metal railings that had old style imprints on them. I held on to one with both of my hands and put my face up to the railing and felt the coldness along my cheek. I looked down at that old mutt and thought about all the happy memories he had given me while he was young and still alive in spirit.

There were so many! He was the biggest teddy bear ever. He would howl at the smallest squirrel he saw and goddamn that howl would shake every window in the house. The whole family would be eating dinner at the dining room table and then out of nowhere Scooby’s howl would rattle the windows.

All seven of us kids would run to the windows, forks still in hand, and laugh so much our tummies would start to hurt.

Or even the times when the whole family would go on long walks around our 25 acres and Scooby would bark up almost every tree in hopes to find some live food. My aunt would yell for him to get his ass back over here and leave those poor critters alone. Every time his name got called he would walk back with his tail just a wagging, his head drooped so low he looked like he had a 25-pound weight on his head and his ears flopping every which direction. He would do this whether he was going to get yelled at or if someone just called his name for food.

The vet came walking in and the harsh wind slammed the door behind him. He was wearing a white coat and he had a blue stethoscope around his neck. All the sudden I heard another door slam.

It was the main door to the garage that was on the other side of our front door. My two cousins, Tony and Aj, walked in soaked and hair dripping of water. They both took off their Carhart jackets and swung them over the bench that was right by the door. By the way their clothes looked, I already

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knew what they had just finished doing. Their jeans, once blue, now looked a coffee brown that had mud smears all down the front. Their hands that once looked clean and white now looked stained brown.

My younger cousin that was on the first set of wooden stairs looked up at me with this longing face and started crying. I knew her sorrow, but right then I felt as if I needed to be the stronger one so that my younger siblings knew that it was all right.

“Are we ready?” the vet asked. He looked up to my aunt, who was standing above him, and mouthed something to her that I couldn’t quite make out.

We got to the grave and circled it. We helped put the fresh-dug dirt back in the hole and put big rocks over that dirt. My aunt asked if we wanted to pray and we all agreed so she said a prayer out loud. My brother Eric, who was seven at the time, came over and hugged me while we both tried not to cry. I rubbed his head and told him it’ll all be all right in a soft whisper. I felt the rain hit my face harder and harder as we all finished praying. After about ten minutes of standing in the bitter cold we started walking home, knowing our beloved dog was already there.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she said. “They should be able to see this and realize that this is just a part of life.”

The vet looked around the room at all of us watching him while he pulled the needle out of its case on the ground beside him. He then pulled out the liquidated drug that would soon go through Scooby’s blood stream and stop his heart. It was in a matter of seconds that the vet had already stuck that needle into what felt like a part of our family.

Scooby was there since I was a young child and I thought he was supposed to be there my entire life. It was then that I couldn’t help the tears from falling. It felt like all the sudden the air got cold and everything got dark.

Before I knew it the vet had already left and we were walking into the dark, cold woods looking for the grave my cousins had dug. My siblings and I were walking next to my aunt and they couldn’t stop crying. My aunt had told them to stop being so selfish and that he was in a better, happier place now and we shouldn’t want him back on this miserable earth. She was right, why would we want him back just so he could suffer more when he was in a much, much better place now. Still, it hurt.

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Taylor Roth

10.59 That first hour and a half of my Saturday afternoon shift as a cashier at my local Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, just a few turns off the highway, were hectic. The shift started with a bus of fiftythree older, local theater enthusiasts on their way to a production of Oklahoma, who under tipped and spent way too much money on Butter Rum Lifesavers and out of season clearance clothing.

The remaining time of my shift was slow—not quite agonizingly slow but close enough.

Retail is one of those jobs that fluctuates between two extremes. Some shifts are running-like-achicken-with-its-head-cut-off hectic, when you dash from customer to customer, problem to problem, sale to sale with little rest; when sweat drips down your back, and the crush of people in a too small space is so intense that every other word out of your mouth is “Excuse me, just need to get around you, sorry” and you take more than one shopping bag or elbow to the gut.

Other times, the shift is—to use the cliché—slower than molasses on a cold January afternoon. When no new customers are seen for hours, when you run out of tasks to do, and you start making messes just for the sake of cleaning them up. When no one judges you for leaning on the counter, or staring into space, or for the multitude of clandestine phone views.

There are also, occasionally, those blessed steady slow periods, where people trickle in, but there is not a rush. Those times are almost the best. This shift was one of those, busy but not busy, steady, but not too steady; the bus crowd slowly trickled out of the dining room, some of them shopping around in the store, and a handful of other customers would wander in. Easy going.

A woman asked me to split her check, though why she didn’t ask the server to do so is beyond me.

They almost never do if the server forgets to ask, as if they don’t want to seem like they are imposing on the people whose job it is to serve them, and 82

who can split the check with much more ease than I can, having never served a day in my life. Sure, ask for dozens of extra napkins, extra sides, or seven refills, but the moment the check hits the table and needs dividing up, suddenly that makes you a hassle.

But, I split the check nevertheless, and rang out the first woman with a practiced ease that only comes from years of handling a cash register. The phrases and the motions are repetitive. Ask about the quality of the meal as I scan the check; ring in any store items if they have any (she doesn’t); rattle off the total; accept the cash; put it in the register; pull out the change from left to right, twenties, tens, fives, and ones and the same for the coinage, and end with “Have a nice day,” no matter the time. If they pay with a card, make sure they swipe—”No sir, you need to swipe, the chip reader is not active.

Yes, I know it should be, they haven’t updated the software yet”—enter the tip or not, hand them the receipt.

The second check from the split was next in line.

It belonged to an older woman with a sparkly turquoise bird shirt. The box of leftovers in her hand smelled like all the Cracker Barrel leftovers do, meaty and starchy with a hint of maple sweetness.

“That’ll be 10.59,” I told her, as I crinkled up the receipt and threw it in the trash. The woman was frantically digging through her too small purse. “I can’t get it out,” she said.” She met my eyes and chuckled. “I have too much stuff in here.”

I mhmm-ed in agreement, and left her to her digging, her dinner check already entered into my register, so all I could do was wait for her. I didn’t want to awkwardly stare at her as she dug through her purse, hunting for her choice method of payment. Why people never have it ready to go as they wait in line to pay is beyond me. It is not as if the need of funds is a surprise. But without fail, sixty percent of the customers I ring out never

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have their money ready, and have to go digging in pockets, purses, or searching for wives who wandered off with their wallet.

“Ah,” she grunted, and wiggled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and set it on the counter. “Got it loose.”

I reached for the bill, but she picked it back up and it disappeared between her pudgy fingers. “I have the change.”

“Alrighty,” I mumbled. After nearly six minutes of digging, a line had started to form.

“Oh, of course!” She dived back into the bag, and handed me three more quarters, and I quickly counted every single quarter— all 43 of them, just to make sure—throwing the little rows into a heap in my palm, before throwing them all into the register. I had previously opened a new roll of quarters to make change for the customer before her, and now the little quarter section was positively overflowing. There were quarters mixed in with the dimes. Absolute chaos. I suppressed a shudder.

I handed her the sixteen cents in change and her receipt, and slammed the cash drawer shut. It rattled painfully.

I waved for the other cashier to come up and help me, when a loud jangling THUNK drew my “Have a great night,” I bit out, and she went on her attention back to the woman. She had set a grimy sandwich bag, packed to the zipper with silver coins, way. on the counter. The ten-dollar bill was long gone, The next guest approached the counter. Another swallowed back up into the crushing abyss of her older woman, with a big jeweled broach pinned to too tiny purse. her sweater. I quickly rang in her check and rattled off her total—$11.01.

She started to count them, in groups of four, placing them on the counter in haphazard bunches.

She counted them slowly, “One, two, three, four, five, —oh wait that one only has three quarters.”

What did I do to deserve this, I thought, and slowly started to arrange the bunches into nice neat rows, like little coin soldiers neatly in formation. Ten little bunches, in two rows of five.

She was digging around in her purse. “Checks are made out to Cracker Barrel, right?”

And that is how I died. True story.

“Ten dollars,” she crowed, proud of herself and practically vibrating with delight. “I wanted to lighten the load.”

“And fifty-nine cents,” I muttered through gritted teeth and forced smile, as my years of deeply ingrained necessity to be pleasant and accommodating to customers kept me from snapping.

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Evan DeFalco

NEVER ALONE I am not sure how I arrived here. All of the faces around me look familiar, but I cannot recognize any of them. All I know is that I have spent way too much money today at this carnival. As I stand in line for the merry-go-round with cotton candy in hand, the only thoughts I have are “why am I here? And why am I by myself” I start to hear this low thud in the distance and everyone else notices it too. The noise starts to get louder and becomes more regular and rhythmic. The carnival-goers begin to migrate toward the sound as if it is calling them. I follow them but not of my own power. It feels as though I am being pulled in to the sound.

The sound appears to be coming from one of the carnival tents. As I walk closer, the thuds become louder and I feel rain trickling down my arms. I look up toward the sky expecting to see storm clouds, but it is a pure blue sky with no clouds in sight. The faces of those around me look blank, as if they are in a trance. I wonder if I look like that too. I am almost at the entrance of the carnival tent and the noise is so loud that it is shaking my body.

I am at the threshold of the tent trying to resist the pull of the noise on my weakening body. The entranced people at my back bump into me which forces me to go inside the carnival tent.

Upon entrance to the tent, I am surprised to see that the inside is more like a pit with seating on risers. I look for the source of the sound, and there it is down in the pit. The sound is being emitted from a shadowy, dark, tall, humanoid figure. My body is not shaking anymore; it is spasming uncontrollably. The dark figure looks toward me and proceeds to wave which makes the noise so unbearable that I fall to the floor almost seizing.

As I lie here, no one is helping me. They are just stepping over me and clearing a path for the figure.

It then begins to walk toward me and my vision begins to blur severely. I feel like I am about to lose consciousness when the figure is right in front of me. It reaches out with its long arm and puts its hand on my shoulder.

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The instant that I am touched by the dark figure, I wake up from that awful dream. My bed is drenched in sweat and I hear a dripping noise coming from my bathroom. The sink is dripping and it appears as though that sound worked its way into my dream. I do not recognize any of the people in my dream, but I wasn’t alone. I lean over the sink, turn it off, rub my eyes, and look in the mirror. Looking back is a man tired and exhausted, for this is not the first occurrence of the dark figure constricting my dreams and daily life.

This all started just a few weeks ago but I can’t even begin to describe how long it feels like it has been. No matter where I am, whether that be class, the shower, or in the car, it is always there. No one else can see this figure, or at least no one says anything about it. It’s not like I could ask anyone without sounding insane. Who knows? Maybe I am a little mad. This thing is always in my line of sight, typically in my peripheral. If I try to turn toward a wall and not give it enough space to stand, then everything starts to become dark and I begin to lose consciousness. All of my dreams at night have this figure in them in some way. Some dreams are worse than others. I am not able to study or concentrate in class and my grades are plummeting. Speaking of class, I have an exam that I didn’t study for that is in less than an hour.

I used to love listening to music and finding new music was always so exciting. I have not even turned on my speaker in three weeks now. When I play or hear music, it is heavily distorted and has actually made me vomit profusely. The water of the shower is hitting me and I stand there glaring at the figure thinking about how much I miss listening to my favorite bands. I turn away from the figure, and without delay the room begins to blacken. On the verge of passing out, I turn back to see it still in the same place it was when I originally turned. The figure does not necessarily have a face, but I feel as though it is smiling at me like it enjoys my suffering.

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In the weeks that I have been plagued by this being, it has not spoken a word or given me any type of message of why it is here or what its intentions are. As of now, the only intention I see is that the figure wants to continue to torture me. I try to talk to it in my room sometimes, but there is never a response. Sometimes I catch myself trying to talk to it in public. I am walking into that exam now and one of my friends commented on my tired appearance. The issue isn’t that I don’t sleep, it’s that my being, awake or asleep, is surrounded by the enveloping presence of this being.

Some of these words on this exam look familiar to me. There is no way I am going to pass. I skip all of the questions on the first page and I am starting to sweat. I would have been able to study for this if it wasn’t for this mysterious figure that breaks my concentration all the time. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I am just going to look down at my exam and block out the figure. Bad idea. The room is getting dark and I can’t see straight. I can do this.

I can make it through. It isn’t getting any better, only worse. I look up to see where the figure is to find it only inches from my face. Then everything goes black.

I wake up to find the classroom is nearly empty. My professor is sitting on the floor next to me trying to give me a nougat snack and some water. She explains what happened and is allowing me to take the exam in two days, like the extra time will help. I gather up my pencils and sweaty hoodie, and leave the dim classroom to travel back to my room. I am in a daze during the three-block walk, almost falling into people and walking into traffic in my sleepdeprived state. The time it takes me to arrive at my room could have simply been a few minutes or maybe an hour, I am not really sure. Either way, the time is 4:38 p.m. and I need rest. As my eyes close, I see the figure across the room waving at me. The figure is so aggravating.

I fall out of a blackened sky into a whirlpool of red

liquid. Trying to swim is no use and I am quickly dragged into the center of the swirling abyss. As I reach up toward the unforgiving sky and take my last breath, I spring up out of bed drenched in sweat. It feels like I was asleep for quite some time, but my phone reads 4:44 p.m. The figure is still in the same spot across the room, and it waves again.

I need a shower and I need to wash my sopping sheets.

The water is beating down on my head while the figure is just staring at me. I feel as though it is mocking me somehow by having such a power over my life. The more I think about it, the more anger and frustration fill my body. I slam the curtain against the wall and walk out of the shower without turning off the water. I begin to shout, “What do you want from me!” No response is given. Typical.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I yell this time.

I hear a voice, but it is not from the figure. “Evan, are you all right?” I am terrified to know someone has heard me and the voice comes from my room, meaning it can only be one person. My friend Casey works for Residence Life and has access to almost all of the campus living spaces. He often has to assess maintenance requests and take care of other issues. Sometimes he will stop by my room on his way back from class and we hangout. It is Wednesday, which is a typical day for him to stop by if I wasn’t studying somewhere on campus. All of my days of the week seem to run together now.

I respond after I collect myself, “Casey! Yeah, I am all right. I’ll be out in a minute. I just need to get dressed.” While I am getting dressed in the bathroom I am trying to think of a believable lie so I don’t seem crazy.

As I walk out of the bathroom, Casey immediately asks me, “Who were you talking to in there?” I begin to tell him that I was practicing lines for a part in a play I am auditioning for. I am telling this elaborate lie, and then he cuts me off, his voice cracking. “You know I can see it too.” I freeze for a

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moment, but then act like I don’t know what he is talking about. Casey then points to the corner the figure is in and says in the most serious voice I have ever heard from him, “The dark figure. I can see it too.”

I just stare at Casey and don’t know what to say. He is sitting on my couch drinking a bottle of water acting very calm about the entire situation. I am finally able to form words and ask, “How can you see it? Why are you so calm?”

Casey replies, “I have been dealing with this for the last three years. I have learned how to live my life with the figure always in the background.”

At this point I am pacing around the room trying to formulate the many questions I want to ask him.

I ask, “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this? We are close friends.”

“For the same reason you didn’t tell any of your friends,” says Casey.

I look down and say, “Because I didn’t want anyone to think I was insane.” I let out a large sigh as I sit on the couch next to Casey.

Casey says, “The only power it has over you is the power that you allow it to have.”

I reply, “I don’t have patience for riddles or proverbs, Casey. What do you mean?”

Casey explains, “Listen, the more you think about it, the more it bothers you. Right? But it is not as easy as don’t think about it because that is hard to do. Whenever you feel it taking over, try to control your breathing first and then begin to imagine the figure fading away.”

I chuckle in a dismissively way, but Casey’s face does not change. “Oh? You are serious?” I say.

Casey responds sternly, “Very.”

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Casey stands up and begins to walk toward the door out of my room. I stop him, “You can’t leave!

I have more questions!”

Casey says solemnly, “Use what I have told you and try to get some sleep for once. We can meet up tomorrow to talk more.” He leaves the room. The door shuts and I am alone with the figure once again.

At least now I know someone else who can see the figure and knows how to deal with it. I feel as though the information Casey gave me won’t do much good, but I guess I will find out.

I decide to test it out by lying down on my bed and turning toward the wall. The walls around me are becoming darker. I try and steady my breathing, but I feel my heart racing and it is becoming harder to breathe regularly. The darkness around me stays steady for some time as I am imagining the figure fading away. This is the longest I have been able to stay conscious while turned away from the figure.

I fight it for a while, but eventually the darkness closes in and I lose consciousness.

The sound of snoring wakes me up, my snoring. I was actually sound asleep! Even more remarkably, I didn’t have a nightmare. I guess Casey is right. The time reads 6:19 a.m. I text Casey asking when he wants to meet. I am eager to learn what else I can do to rid myself of the figure. He, to my surprise, texts me back almost immediately. We are meeting at 11 in his room at our fraternity house. For now, I am going to try and go back to sleep.

I don’t have as much luck this time. Hours pass as I lie in bed unable to enter a state of comfort. The time is 10:14; I should probably shower. I wipe the dust off of my speaker that I haven’t used in weeks and try to listen to music, but it still sounds distorted. I am showering and turn away from the figure expecting the room to become black, but it only dims. The very idea that I am no longer powerless against the figure is taking away some of

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the power it has over me. This is the first shower I have been able to enjoy in almost a month. I take advantage of this opportunity and revel in a long, hot shower.

It is time to meet up with Casey, so I depart from my room. I am a Resident Assistant and one of my residents comments to me that I “don’t look tired for once.” Apparently, I have not been very covert with this overbearing stress and pain.

I meet Casey in his room on the third floor of the house. “How did it go?” he asks. “Honestly, I didn’t think any of that would work, but it did. I was actually able to sleep and not have nightmares.”

I continue,“How did you know the figure was following me?”

Casey says, “About a month ago, the figure disappeared from my life and I was incredibly relieved. I felt as though I had finally beaten it after three years, but I was immediately hit with another burden. Who is it attached to now? I began to look for it following people. I could still see the figure at times, but it was usually when everyone was on their way to class. It was difficult to pick out who it was attached to. I haven’t seen you much recently because of your course load this semester. However, I saw you the other day on your way back from class, and I knew it was with you without even seeing the figure. You looked miserable, sleep-deprived, and just not yourself.”

“So what else can you tell me to help me dispel the figure like you did?” I ask.

“Much of the battle is a mindset. You have to believe that there will be a time that you will be without the figure. Challenging the figure makes you feel like you have more power against it which dwindles the influence it has over you and your life. Denying it your attention is important. Try to stay focused on a task with the figure slightly on your mind, but it is not the main point. You have to remember it is always there, but it cannot do anything unless

you allow it to do so. Resist whatever it tries to do to you and focus on calming your body and mind.

Even though the figure may be gone from you, that doesn’t mean it will be gone from your mind. I think that is all the advice I have for you,” he says.

I reply, “The figure plays off of the loss of hope and uses that to try and control the lives of others. Not anymore.” I start to leave the room when Casey asks where I am going. “I have an exam tomorrow I need to study for, and now I think I will actually be able to study. Thanks, Casey.”

I am feeling really great about the whole situation now. I walk to a study space and lay out all of my notes. I glance over to see the figure across the room and I smirk at it like an opponent I know I am going to annihilate. I am looking down at my notes and trying to resist the darkening of the room. The room becomes dim, but returns to the regular brightness. The figure has changed spots to a corner further away from me. I study for a few hours, grab some food, and talk with some friends all while actively resisting anything the figure is trying to do. I am almost done studying now when I hear music playing off of someone’s laptop.

Almost immediately, I realize that it is not distorted and begin to smile, knowing the power the figure has is finally fading. I feel tears of joy well up in my eyes. I finish up studying and head back to my room for the night.

The figure is still following me, but it appears more translucent than before. Also, it is farther away from me than normal when I am in public. On my way up the stairs of my building, some of my residents tell me I am much more cheerful than usual. I just smile and laugh. The time is only 9:45 p.m., but I want to be well rested for my exam tomorrow. I am also curious to see how my sleeping goes tonight. I lie down facing the figure. As my eyes are starting to shut, I wave to it. I sleep straight through the night and even recall a dream of a carnival with some friends this time.

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I wake up facing the same way I went to sleep, but what I am seeing is different than what I saw when I went to bed. The figure is gone, it is nowhere in my room. I blast music while I am showering to celebrate. On my way to the exam, I say hello to each person I walk by. I can’t help it, I am just too happy right now. My professor is ready for me to take the exam, and she also says how I look much better than just two days ago. I aced that exam for sure.

I have Casey to thank for helping me through this.

I can’t imagine having to go through that for so long like he did. Casey had to figure it out all of that by himself, but I was able to overcome it so quickly because of his guidance. I leave that exam feeling great and very joyful. However, I think about something Casey said, “Even though the figure may be gone from you, that doesn’t mean it will be gone from your mind.” I now understood what that means. I see a girl across the street that looks like a mere shell of her former self. The figure has latched onto someone else.

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES NICOLE ANDERSON Junior, Early Childhood Education PreK-4 and Special Education PreK-8

SARA BORRO Senior, Secondary English

“Bliss” This photo was the closest thing I could get to capturing the perfect, natural beauty of Lake Erie.

“Summer Shades” I wanted to show a summer view through sunglasses, while contrasting it with the vibrant colors that would be seen without sunglasses.

“Beverly Hills Façade” Although it may look like this photo was taken in Beverly Hills, California, this photo was actually taken at Universal Studios in Florida. I liked the idea of taking this photo at an angle where people would not be able to tell that this was not the real Beverly Hills. These photos were taken on an iPhone 6 and edited using VSCO. MONICA ARURI Master of Science, Electrical Engineering / Physics “Patience is a Weapon” This oil painting comes from the idea that negative energy has the power to make a person a failure; however, with wisdom and patience, that person can overcome the negativity.

NATHAN BLY Freshman, English “You Won’t Go Down Alone” My friends have always stood by me. They taught me that friendship and trust are very important virtues.

SANTOSH BHUSAL Sophomore, Accounting “Men and Trees” The inspiration for this double-exposure photograph is my love and passion for photography; it was taken at Presque Isle when I visited there with other new international students.

NICOLE BORRO Sophomore, English “Kaleidoscope”

“La Luna” My parents have been photographers for as long as I can remember; my dad even taught me how to develop my own black and white photos when I was younger. Last year I saw a video of someone zooming in on the moon with a Nikon camera and asked him if it was real. He said “Yeah, that’s real. I have a lens that will do that.” We set up a tripod in the driveway and started experimenting. This photo was taken on a Nikon D5300 using a 300mm f2.8 lens with a 2X teleconverter. It was shot with an exposure time of 1/125 sec., ISO-100, f/5.6, and with a 35mm equivalent focal length of 1600mm.

PAIGE CHABALIE Junior, Psychology “Dead Man Walking” My inspiration came from the idea of how you would capture a drive-by shooting, but the poem turned into so much more.

“To Have a Moment in the Sun” This story was inspired by Ray Bradbury’s story, “All Summer in a Day.” I wanted to put my own spin on it and give it a different perspective. Both pieces developed from assignments in the fall creative writing class with Berwyn.

MELISSA DALTNER Sophomore, Nursing “Beach House” “Curtains” “The Doe” I edit all of my digital photos in Lightroom and Photoshop. For most of my photos I find inspiration with lighting and looking at ordinary objects in a different way.

Everything is beautiful if you just look hard enough.

KALE DANTE Master of Arts, Public Administration “Palapala” “Palapala” is the word for a traditional form of wrestling and comes from the Mokwe language of the Bakweri people in Southwest Cameroon.

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EVAN DEFALCO Senior, Biology/Pre-Med “Sun Voyager” I was on a trip to Iceland and could not stop taking pictures. This is an area that is typically photographed by tourists and I wanted to have one of my own so I could show others the beauty of Iceland. Much of this picture has to do with overall composition and contrast between the sky and the Sun Voyager.

“Never Alone” I came up with this idea during a mediation while at RA training. The overall idea of the story is to try and accurately create a sense of anxiety, which can be difficult to cope with. The dark figure is the physical manifestation of anxiety.

JULIA FULTON Junior, English “Jasper’s Week” When I was a kid, we lived the next town over from Lynchburg, Tennessee, which is where Jack Daniels whiskey is made, and we always took people who came to visit us on the tour. This story is based on information from that tour, including Jack Daniels allegedly having had seven girlfriends all nicknamed different days of the week.

ROMAN DENISYUK Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies “From Haiti with Love” This a graphite drawing of a missionary in Haiti who worked with children. She is taking a selfie with the kids and they are loving it.

ALECIA L. DIMARZIO Senior, Political Science and Legal Studies “Case Study” My inspiration for my creative nonfiction was essentially a very long rant. The gender stereotypes described in this piece are still prevalent today. I decided to take this fictional case study back in time to prove that even though times have changed, not all gender and human rights issues have. I hope that this very satirical piece strikes a chord in people and evokes more thought and action on these issues.

WILLIAM DRIVER Junior, Political Science “Guidance Along the Way” I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of reading as a conversation between author and reader, and so I began to imagine a student reading the Classics, engaging in a dialogue with the Confucian sages.

“Lesson on Endings” The Confucian framework of relationships, known as the “Five Classes of Relationship,” consists of Parent to Child, Husband to Wife, Friend to Friend, Ruler to Subject, and Elder Brother to Younger Brother. In this poem, I explore how any given individual may fit into all five of these, and how harmful disrupting them is.

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“Seonbi Spirit” My most dearly held role models are figures from Korean history such as Jeong Dojeon and Jo Gwang-jo, figures who were so irrevocably committed to benefiting the people that they were willing to die for their convictions.

To have such deeply held love for goodness and learning is certainly worth emulating.

“He Sees” I found a quiet space to study on the fifth floor of Knight Tower. The window gave me a cool view of the city facing away from the lake, and my attention was drawn to the flag above the B Berman Bedding Co. building on Sassafras. It’s not particularly large in any way but it just seemed to be above most of the buildings in the area. I gave a voice to the personified flag.

“A Lot, a Little too Late” I overheard a late-night conversation at a hole-in-the-wall place in Edinboro. I didn’t know the guy talking but he was telling some girls about a DUI he got, and I imagined a story that would be told if the cop had not pulled him over. The poem adds a line to each stanza until the middle, then it starts dropping lines again until the end.

KATIE GALGOZY Sophomore, Biology “The Examined Life” This is an acrylic painting inspired by a doodle I drew during my Intro to Philosophy class last semester.

Sometimes the task of reflecting on one’s life can seem intimidating; however, it can also transcend or carry us to new heights.

“Dearest” (cover art) This is an acrylic painting inspired by humanity’s endless fight for love.

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GABRIELLA GOODWILL Freshman, Biology

MIKAYLA KISER Freshman, Nursing

“Koi” I have a love for nature, especially aquatic life, and find koi fish beautiful because of their bright colors and graceful swimming. This piece is colored pencil. To get my desired effect, I used a lot of layering and blending and a black background for simplicity.

“Blue Umbrella” My photograph explores color contrasts and the rule of thirds. The day was a perfect cloudy/rainy day for taking pictures. This shot was taken on the steps of the Erie Art Museum.

EMILY LARIMER Sophomore, Criminal Justice

MARGARET GRADY Freshman, Occupational Therapy “Tree Love” I spotted this tree carving while on a hike. Its unique design and truthful message led me to photograph it.

RYAN HAMILTON Sophomore, Economics and Finance “Holly for the Hearth” This carving was from a basswood plate with a dark wood stain, cut with an Exact-O knife. My inspiration was the warmth of a fireplace on a brisk winter day. I spent a lot of time planning and executing a clean design that incorporated holly leaves throughout the face.

“Lavender Lamentation” This is a watercolor painting, using fine small brushes. My inspiration came from my Honors Environmental Issues course with Dr. Ropski, in which I made a presentation on the dangers facing honeybees.

CAROL HAYES Instructor, English “Serpent Mound” Serpent Mound grew from two back-to-back conversations — one about might-have-beens and the other about outside-the-classroom learning. Once I realized that I wanted to form a poem around recognizing opportunities, I knew I had a chance to literally shape my thoughts. I began at the head of the serpent.

PERRY HILBURN Instructor, Mechanical Engineering “Deer in the Forest” This is a watercolor, based on my appreciation of nature.

“Tree of Life” This poem is based on a true story, at a time when I was deeply hurt by what someone had said and done. I went on a retreat where we took a prayer walk, and our group leader stopped and gave a talk about life and how we heal and grow when bad things happen. He had no idea what I was going through, but what he said helped me to move past the situation and know that I was not defined by it.

This is dedicated to Waylon Duncan.

NATALIA MAZZITELLI Freshman, Public Health/Pre-Med “Avocado” I used colored pencils and pastels for this sill life of fruits and vegetables we bought at a local market. The foods represent the traditional culture of Puerto Rico.

JULIA MCGREGOR Junior, Biology/ Pre-Med “A Series of Trifles” This poem is a series of moments and remembrances from my childhood. Even now, I am impacted by the trifles that came about when I was young.

RACHEL MCKERNAN Freshman, Physician Assistant “Homeless, Not Helpless” My inspiration came from volunteering in Pittsburgh and serving the homeless. For many, homelessness is the unfortunate result of an unplanned life event or of a series of events that could befall anyone. The main character in this story is unnamed to highlight that a homeless person can be anyone fighting a daily battle to rise above circumstances beyond their control.

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ELIZABETH MERSKI Junior, Theology

DESIRAEE PAYNE Freshman, Undecided Health Science

“Anhelar” Inspiration for this poem came as I was lying on the pavement in the darkness, willing my soul up into the sky to join the stars. A common consolation prize for unrequited lovers in Greek mythology is to be set eternally in the stars. On a night when one feels utterly unrequited, being set into a constellation with a faraway gone soulmate doesn’t seem so bad. And yet, my body remained on the pavement.

“The Gold Hoop” Rare moments of perfect art and pure heart held in common do not vanish, but live on in the universe, according to my acting instructor, Nick Gabriel, freshman year. I think this also applies to life. Having loved and lost many relationships and connections in a life of constant motion, I think it’s important to keep this perspective. Just because it isn’t “now” doesn’t mean it never happened.

“The Thirst” Nostalgia runs so deep in the blood, in our heart and soul; memories and places and people and things seem to burn themselves into our skin, our retinas, our being. This poem comes out of that place of yearning—yearning for home, for warmth and comfort, for familiar faces, for old feelings, for that insatiable longing that is nostalgia.

BERWYN MOORE Professor, English “Ambisinistrous” I am honored to be this year’s guest poet at the annual writing awards celebration, and I’m delighted with my first publication in Totem.

MORGAN PELINSKY Sophomore, Undeclared “Lanterns” This was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, like a million little stars burning in the sky.

“New Beginning” This photo was like taking a step into something new, the city ahead and the future bright.

TEDDY RANKIN Sophomore, English Secondary Education “Fixed” (audio file: https://my.gannon.edu/campuslife/ studentprodmedia/totem/Pages/default.aspx) “Fixed” is comprised of three verses that are separated by the chorus. The verses are short vignettes that comment on economic inequality, the relationship between money and happiness, and the myth of the American dream.

The chorus references philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s famous quote about the abyss and leads to the conclusion that the system is rigged. My biggest songwriting influences are Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Conor Oberst, Taylor Goldsmith, and my Dad, Glenn Rankin.

KATE ROBB Junior, History

SAMANTHA A. PARRISH Senior, Criminal Justice “Auschwitz Concentration Camp” My inspiration for this photograph, and the many others I took there, was to remind myself of the intense and eye-opening experience of being in the most famous concentration camp of World War II. Prisoners walked this pathway every day not knowing what was ahead of them; this photograph is a view of what prisoners saw walking down the barbed wired path. The symmetrical perspective in the photograph makes the pathway the main focus, allowing the viewer’s eyes to follow the path the prisoners took.

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“Letting Go” My inspiration came from my dog. Yes, my dog. I loved him so very much and when he passed I felt the need to write down my emotions with sufficient detail to show everyone my love for him.

“Intoxication” As the poet Atticus once wrote, “I hope to arrive at my death late, in love, and a little drunk.”

ELIZABETH RODRIGUEZ Senior, English Secondary Education “Dream Girl” Every break-up is different and messy and complicated in its own right. “Dream Girl” was written for the girls who keep getting calls late at night from boys who left months before. The poem is really about the loneliness that always seems to creep back around after the break up has officially settled and she wonders if she made the right choice.

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ALEXA ROGERS Sophomore, English

EVAN M. SZABLEWSKI Senior, Nursing

“To Those I’ve Met and Never Knew It” This poem is about my tendency to omit my name when I meet new people. I pick up on names fairly quickly. I really noticed this last year, when I realized I knew almost everyone else’s name, but they didn’t know mine. No one had even noticed it until I pointed it out.

TAYLOR ROTH Second Year, Master of English “10.59” I wrote this creative nonfiction after a shift at work when I was actually paid in all quarters. Working in retail for over six years has provided me with a wealth of inspiration for both fiction and nonfiction pieces. I find using humor is the best way to write about mundane experiences.

PETRA SHEARER Freshman, English Pre-Law “Tranquil Girl” This ekphrastic poem is based on a painting called Ophelia, which I saw at the Erie Art Museum when I visited last fall with my creative writing class. The poem is also in honor of one of my favorite characters in theater. Ophelia continues to make me contemplate the dichotomy that is death.

“Broken” This story started out as an answer to a prompt in my creative writing class. I was able to develop a simple rainy day into an intense and emotional plot. As an overly sensitive person who has been trained my whole life to contain my feelings, my goal was to articulate the power of emotions when they become strong enough to overwhelm someone.

ALEX STAUFF Sophomore, Physician Assistant

“Concrete Jungle” This poem is about a girl who inspires me to explore.

I have always felt stuck, or rooted, in my hometown, Erie, Pennsylvania. I love this town, but I long for more.

The love she and I share has helped me envision the abstract world beyond the city, as her dreams of traveling, exploring, and adventuring match my own.

NATALYA TOENNIES Sophomore, Nursing and Finance “The Heart of Moscow” My background is Russian, and I’ve been told I should have at least one painting about Russia. I found pictures from photo albums and combined the images of fireworks, Red Square, and lights into a painting. I used a small canvas and acrylic paint.

KASSIANNE TOFANI Freshman, Biomedical Engineering “Owl” I created this piece as a present for my older brother, who has always inspired me. I chose a snowy owl because of its natural beauty and mystery, which are enhanced by the stark black background of the drawing. I used Prismacol Pencils on black charcoal paper.

SABRINA D. YASSEM Junior, English “Tattooed Yellow” I was moved to write this story because of all the lost narratives of women and men who have suffered immensely at the hands of an assailant, whether physically, mentally, or emotionally. This piece gives voice and narrative to the men and women who have suffered through similar experiences.

“La Bella Rafaella” This story is loosely based on an actual trip I took to France after my senior year of high school. I reimagined some of the details but tried to capture the giddiness and hopefulness that I felt.

“The Shattering” and “Swaying Swings” Two of those 2 a.m. poems when an image is stuck in my head and rattles about until I write it down and flesh it out.

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Totem 2018

COLOPHON Totem 2018 was designed by Julia Fulton, Editor, and Andrew Lapiska, Creative and Brand Strategist in Gannon University’s Marketing and Communication department.

The cover art, “Dearest,” is a watercolor painting by Katie Galgozy.

This year’s Totem contains acrylic painting, digital illustration, digital photography, graphite drawing, pencil drawing, watercolor, and woodcarving.

Artworks were reproduced in CMYK builds.

Headline text is set in Avenir Next Condensed and body text throughout is set in Garamond.

The covers are printed on 100# Accent Opaque Smooth Cover, artwork pages are printed on 100# Endurance Silk text, and text pages are printed on 80# Accent Opaque Smooth Text.

The layout for Totem was created with Adobe InDesign CC 2018; photographs and artwork were prepared for publication with Adobe Photoshop CC 2018.

This journal was printed and bound by the Gannon University Press with the assistance of the Totem staff. The die cut on the cover was produced by McCarty Printing, Inc. in Erie, Pennsylvania.

Funding is provided by Gannon University. Totem is distributed free of charge.

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Totem 2018 | PROSE