Totem 2019 - Gannon University

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TOTEM 2019 • PROSE

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

2019 Totem is Gannon University’s annual student-produced literary-art 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

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TOTEM 2019

Editor’s Note The 2019 edition has been a long time coming and a bittersweet end for me. I’ve been involved with Totem in some form or fashion all four of my years at Gannon, starting with helping to roll the spiral notebook style binding my freshman year. I became the marketing editor my sophomore year, making posters and promotional materials before becoming editor last year. Time goes so fast and it’s hard to believe I’m graduating in May. This is our first edition of Totem without Berwyn as the adviser, which included a learning curve for not only myself, but Carol our new adviser and Alexa the associate editor. I was a little nervous when we started out in the fall but having been editor last year, it was helpful to already have knowledge and experience of the process it takes to go from just an idea to a tangible product. The design starts as one idea in September and it evolves as the school year progresses to take on a life of its own and giving us a final product in April.

I am so blessed and excited to present what fills the pages of this magazine. We have so many talented members in our Gannon community. Each year, in one vessel, Totem displays creative works gathered from all branches of our Gannon family. I am especially proud of the hard work put in to this issue and truly think of it to be one of the best ones yet.

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Julia Fulton

TOTEM 2019

TOTEM 2019

Credits EDITOR

STAFF / PROOFREADERS

Julia Fulton Senior, English

Sabrina Yassem Senior, English

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Ryan Hamilton Junior, Economics and Finance

Alexa Rogers Junior, English

COVER ARTIST

ADVISOR

Matt Fassnacht Senior, Digital Media Communication

Carol Hayes Professor, English

ART REVIEWERS

GRAPHIC DESIGNER Andrew Lapiska University Marketing and Communications

POETRY / PROSE JUDGES Carol Hayes Professor, English Julie Ropelewski Project Coordinator and Associate Trainer, Center for Excellence in Teaching and Learning

Emily Cummings Matt Darling Augusta Deacon Erin Guydish Buchholz Aaron Kerr Douglas King Sabine Preuss-Miller Jennie Vaughn John Vohlidka Sabrina Yassem

Catherine Wahlenmayer Junior, Math / Philosophy

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.

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TOTEM 2019

Poetry 2

Dogs Denise Duhamel

3 Uncle Todd Nicholas Frisina 4

Seasons Chelsea Grey

With Every Gull That Gaily Flies Alex Stauff 5

2:55 Nicole Borro

6 But You Wouldn’t Know Julia Fulton 7 Prayer of Awakening David Slusarick 8 Poem as a Field of Action Berwyn Moore 9 a trans plays on words Renee Laufer 10

Thunder Vera Ampadu

11 I burned a lot of fuel to get out of the house. Spencer Myers 12

Beautiful Lies Kaitlin Doverspike

13 Garden of Hope Julia Eads 14

Meeting Mia Beth Reynolds

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Do-Over Nicole Anderson

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Freefall Madalyn Westfall

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Tangible Nicole Borro

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Dahlia Daydream Alex Stauff

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I-81 N⁄S Bethany Lewis

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As Hemingway Intended Julia Fulton

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A Night Like These Alexa Rogers

POETRY

20 An Anthem James Slater

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DENISE DUHAMEL

Dogs

Everyone who leaves me immediately gets a dog.

Everyone I’ve ever left does the same.

I’m not just talking boyfriends and husbands, but also plutonic roommates. Before I’m abandoned, everyone says a version of No biggie. Dogs are only trouble anyway. And, besides, who’s going to feed them when I’m traveling?

New friends, not yet tired of me, walk by the pound, so many pink noses at the glass, and say something like, They’re cute, but I’d rather have you! Even my younger sister got a mutt the day after I moved to college, as though she and my parents had been plotting all along.

Maybe, because of my allergies, I’ve been compensating all these years — fetching bones and slobbering and panting, waiting for a pat on the head.

Maybe I’ve been too loyal, too simple in my affection.

Maybe I’ve rolled over too many times, waiting for a big hand to scratch my belly. I used to think everyone was downplaying their adoration of dogs to make me feel better.

Now I realize I was the dog.

“Dogs” from Denise Duhamel’s book of poetry, Scald. University of Pittsburgh Press 2017.

Used with permission of the author.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

NICHOLAS FRISINA

Uncle Todd “Isn’t it odd,” said my uncle Todd, “that my only fears are shedding tears alone without my friends when a Veggie Tales episode ends.”

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CHELSEA GREY

Seasons The seasons change, yet they are all considered beautiful.

Everyone waits for the change, but some people despise certain change.

People are like the seasons, they are constantly changing.

Some people despise it while others embrace every new turn.

When people change, we do not always see the beauty.

Like the rain in Spring, sometimes you feel like you are drowning in problems.

In Summer, things can feel hot and unbearable.

In Fall, things start to come apart.

In Winter, people can become cold and distant.

There is beauty in every season, just like there is beauty in every person.

The flowers blooming in Spring need that rain water, though, just like people need problems to grow.

The summer heat allows for people to be free and have fun.

Fall gets rid of the old so the new can come.

Winter has snowflakes, and just like people, they are all unique.

The seasons have ups and downs, just like life.

Sometimes, instead of looking for the bad, people need to look for the beauty.

ALEX STAUFF

With Every Gull That Gaily Flies With every gull that gaily flies Crow’s feet deepen by her eyes With every breath of salty air Silver strands form in her hair With every wave that kisses sand Her ring grows looser on her hand With every dip into the sea Time pulls her away from me

Alex Stauff’s poem, “The Shattering,” won first place in the 2018 Gannon University Undergraduate Poetry Contest and was published in last year’s Totem.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

NICOLE BORRO

2:55

It’s 2:55 and I’m surrounded by souls.

They’re all full to the brim and spilling out onto the floor.

Stale cigarettes stain my lips as you finally reach for my hand, and the music in the basement still quietly blares.

We pass by the blank faces, all painted with love.

Their fake smiles crack as they bare their teeth in goodbye.

The night air hits my face, and sends a shiver down my spine.

I watch as the starlight ignites your hair.

Half-moons collide behind your eyes as you press the bottle to your lips for what must be the hundredth time.

“Do you ever think there must be more?”

I whisper into your skin and hopefully into your soul.

You turn to me and your eyes are a question.

My heart aches as I can tell you have no idea what I mean.

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JULIA FULTON

But You Wouldn’t Know When I was four, I taught myself to ride a bike. Then my dad bent up the training wheels.

In that moment I thought of my dad as Superman until I rode off and never looked back.

On my sixth birthday I was in the car with my grandparents. I was asleep but they played “Happy Birthday” as loud as they could through the car stereo. I resented it that stifling July day. Today it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of my aging grandparents.

I used to have a southern accent. But my parents ridiculed me when I was seven until I practiced enough and taught myself to talk without it. Now it only slips out when I yell in traffic or have had a drink or two.

When I was eleven, I played in the town Little League. I was the only girl playing baseball with all the boys. Some of the local boys hated it. They threw rocks at me. If you look closely enough, You’ll see a scar behind my ear from where a jagged piece of gravel hit the side of my head, creating a small, yet gashing wound.

Eighth grade was my first year in Catholic School. During church the second week of school the teacher hit me in the back of the head, claiming I had a bee buzzing in my hair. She was using me as an example to the other kids on how not to be chatty in church.

In high school I was almost kidnapped twice. Once outside the liquor store on Southland.

I wasn’t going there. I was walking by there with my sister, headed to the chocolate store on the same block. The men started our way and my sister (She would have let it happen.) let me run and run and run until my heart gave out. Another time a man tried to get me to get in his car. Yet again I just ran until I couldn’t run any more and my legs felt like half-set Jell-O. Sophomore year of college I decided I wanted to transfer to a big state school back home.

Something changed my mind, but I still keep my acceptance letter close at hand in case I change my mind again.

The same year, my long-time best friend decided she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. I was attempting to give her shelter from her low-life, no good, drug dealer boyfriend. She wouldn’t listen and a year and a half later he called me, looking for her.

Yet I still know nothing except I lost my long-time, forever best friend over a boy who ended up meaning nothing.

But you wouldn’t know that

because you only liked me drunk.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

DAVID SLUSARICK

Prayer of Awakening Awaken my feet, Let me walk in Your ways.

Awaken my legs, Let me stand in Your truth.

Awaken my heart, Help it beat in Your time.

Awaken my arms, Let me reach and embrace.

Awaken my hands, Let me unclench my fists.

Awaken my eyes, Let me see all Your gifts.

Awaken my ears, Let me hear Your soft voice.

Awaken my mind, Let it be one with Yours.

Amen.

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BERWYN MOORE

Poem as a Field of Action We seek profusion, the Mass—heterogeneous—illassorted—quiet breathless— grasping at all kinds of things—as if—like Audubon shooting some little bird, really only to look at it the better.

—William Carlos Williams, “The Poem as a Field of Action”

I had not been thinking of death when they stung – three wasps hiding in the folds of my shirt, quiet as plaid until the last button, buttoned. Who’s to say this isn’t true? What’s missing is the witness, the flash of corroboration, the fragments of wing and stinger settling on the indifferent oak grain. I had been thinking of Voltaire, how he fainted at the first sniff of a rose, of tongue prints, how each is unique, yet there I sat, stunned, uncertain of anything except twelve rising welts, twelve – the number of stings it took to unbutton one noisy shirt, fling it off. And then I thought of Saint Agnes, muzzled and dragged to the fire at twelve, her accusers stymied by the hair growing to shroud her nakedness as she gave her body up, smiling, to her Lord. And who’s to say this isn’t true? Here’s where we corroborate: we all muddle tales, hobble rickety bridges of time and space, grasp and tear the scrim of doubt. We seek profusion, little birds, impertinent facts, safe shirts, hands busy with clay or bread, and we blunder upon miracles of hair and love, honeysuckle, a flutter of eyelashes on a wrist— and how’s this—all of us saints—our abundant arms reaching toward bodies, surrendered and buoyant, bodies rising.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

RENEE LAUFER

a trans plays on words My last trans action will be a transaction to transmute this trans mute into a trans scribe who will transcribe and translate this trans slate written in trans script into a transcript.

My trans mission is a transmission built from transistors by my trans sisters for transnational trans nationals explaining transcendence; These trans sentenced to death by the transparent trans’ parents.

My transition is trans intuition and ambition to cause an ignition to unlock my trans edition but it’s your trans munition you’re testing my trans attrition.

I even submitted to the court my trans petition.

My transgression is trans aggression.

Try to transfuse my trans views and ascribe a transposition to my trans position you just transport my trans sport.

I give transit to my trans spit after I transmit these trans mits.

My trans spire is where I transpire. as I transform into my trans form I transfigure into a trans figure and transfix with my trans fix.

I can’t help but transvalue; let me show you my trans value.

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VERA AMPADU

Thunder Although the thunder goes and comes as it may, it is always forceful when it comes our way.

Boom pa, boom pa, boom pa.

What is that?

That is my heartbeat.

Oh my gosh, we need to rush you to the emergency room!

You may say, but no I am okay. Trust me! That’s just the sound of an African heart.

Beating like deep thunder that strikes you dead silent.

Awake, Sitting on your bed wondering if it is the end of the world.

Thunder powerful, so eloquent, curvy and yet long.

In the dark sky it shines like the moon Appraised with the stars whispering ancestral secrets about our people, How we got here.

Oh! I have fallen into the same trap of all who think Africa is a country.

I am from the rooted Gold Coast, an Akan.

You may call it Ghana like they do, but I call it Mi krom (meaning my country in Twi).

Have you pondered about the other countries, though?

Each its own, selfish in its culture.

Nonetheless intertwined like a wood basket so tightly packed in togetherness.

Each in sync like a clay pot mastered by the creator.

Unusually fierce but belittled because we keep to ourselves.

One day they will speak about us, then you will feel the thunder that I speak of today.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

SPENCER MYERS

I burned a lot of fuel to get out of the house.

Low waters cold and fertile flow bracing stones on stone until bursting divisions bring about lush foundations for moss undertow to swirl upwards with tepid currents’ collisions.

Your quick yell rips down the valley in echoes as rash aquaphobia insists that the foot which kicks frailly grips fluid more than a hand holding mist, but the illusion is broken when you touch bottom, when we smile and you lift your skinny body down to a flat surface while I stare through a lukewarm puddle at frogs in the midst of lazy love.

After sitting on each other for hours, they separate to drag

out a long chain of excessive fertilized eggs.

An evolving statistically stacked process now hidden in humans to our progress, to our separation.

I’m not anxious.

I was riveted.

For youth, the source of disquieted fixation.

The energy of worry.

The chubby kid from the grade below me edges up into my vision and voyeuristically plants himself forming an audience too flustered to meet eyes. When you were done dipping your feet we left and had awkward teenage sex in my car in the parking lot of a playground, every so often checking to see if someone was watching.

First place prize in the 2018 Gannon University Graduate Poetry Contest.

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KAITLIN DOVERSPIKE

Beautiful Lies Flowers are beautiful and fragile.

Meant to mend, stealing forgiveness with their decaying petals.

Meant to express love, only to wilt away with every passing day.

Meant to provide beauty, creating a lovely picture of an artificial reality.

They are beautiful lies, bitter sweet, like the last “I love you” before it’s gone.

A lovely “I’m sorry” for anyone naive enough to believe it.

Their beauty lasts mere days, disappearing by the hour, a fading moment of time.

Their petals break away in ways that cannot be forced back together.

Crushed. Crumbled. Wilted. Dead.

The end creeps in slowly, first with the slight upturning of petals and a half-hearted excuse.

Followed by the loss of color and hope in a fading circumstance.

Falling petals, for every tear.

Followed by the ugly dark husk of every stolen smile and lingering moment.

Until it’s all over. Until it’s nothing.

Until it’s gone.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

JULIA EADS

Garden of Hope Every day that I still breathe I plant another seed.

Some days I take to my seedlings with a weed whacker.

Hundreds of dreams gone in a minute.

But I plant a new one every day.

And some days I plant more than one.

I scatter them everywhere, Raining down like confetti on New Year’s Eve. On other days I put on my practical garden gloves And sift through my sprouts, Thinning them out With my worried wrinkles and racing mind.

But the best days are when I just go and sit, And I can hardly remember what it looked like before.

Before these leaves and stems, Buds and vines and blooms appeared.

Their imperceptible, gradual, overwhelming growth.

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BETH REYNOLDS

Meeting Mia Shoulder-length red ringlets bounce up to my booth.

Green eyes gaze at me shyly, a shade of jade I’ve already memorized.

Snapshots of smiles stolen by a camera, saved so that I can know her, even when I didn’t.

Photos of afternoons at the park and holidays at home perch on Mommy’s desk.

I search them for clues, for signs that I can make you smile too.

The oversized booth swallows her whole as she slides across the cushion, chubby, child-sized fingers working their way across the edge.

The cold table a wide, wooden barrier between us, candy-coated thumbprints tracing the trail on the countertop.

A chattering crowd buzzes around us, pastries and paninis are delivered to lunch meetings and first impressions are made.

Business suits and skirts surround us, but she’s in a bold, blue t-shirt, boasting the yellow equal sign that stands for her Mommy’s right to love me.

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She smells of grapefruit and lollipops, the kind you get from the doctor at a check-up.

Sticky remnants of cherry flavor still slathered on the tiny mouth that smiles hesitantly at me.

I beam back, smoothing my slick, sweaty palms over my jeans.

It’s the same smile from the photos, three years of memories I long to learn.

“We match!”

The first words she ever utters to me puncture the silence and point happily at the ceramic bowl of spiral noodles piled with cheese that’s melted, just like my nerves finally do.

I hold up my fork.

“Cheers, Little Red.” Our two utensils clink together.

The same sound they make three years later, every night at the dining room table.

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NICOLE ANDERSON

Do-Over

Asking for a do-over is the best option when you make a mistake.

Do not try to convince me that Mistakes shape you into the person you are.

Overcoming an obstacle is not a worthwhile journey.

Do not try to tell me that Asking for a do-over is the easy way out.

I believe that Learning from your imperfections is the key to success Is a lie Perfection is the answer A mistake cannot be a good thing.

Do not try to make me believe that Facing adversity makes me stronger.

I think that Feeling regretful Is more important than A lesson learned from a mistake Some people say that Learning from mistakes is a good thing.

That is simply wrong.

A do-over is something That everyone needs Now read from bottom to top.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

MADALYN WESTFALL

Freefall

What do you want to do in life?

I don’t know What are you doing with your life?

I don’t know What’s in your cup?

I don’t know Who’s that next to you?

I don’t know I’m just in freefall waiting Waiting for my crash I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know It’s all I can say but the questions never stop I’m in freefall No one hears me No one sees me Instead of slowing down I speed up.

On the outside I’m calm, cool.

Cool girls don’t freefall They don’t even feel.

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NICOLE BORRO

Tangible I hate writing about real things, about real people, about real love.

There’s too much pressure to shape it just right, color it the perfect shade, pick exactly the right words.

I want them to feel it.

But the words only make sense in my head.

Distorted the second I touch the paper, like I’m scribbling on a funhouse mirror when I want to be carving on your hearts instead.

I want you to feel it.

Is it light blue? Is it indigo?

Is it purple or maroon?

I don’t know their color, but my bloodshot eyes are burning bright red.

I need you to feel it.

What words do I choose?

Have I sculpted them just right?

Does anyone understand what I’m saying?

Do you feel it?

I need you to feel it.

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I need someone to feel it.

TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

ALEX STAUFF

Dahlia Daydream Walking home I passed a sad house with a sparse yard And oh, the daydreams stirred What we could do with this house, honey!

Dig in flower beds to flank the door Fill ‘em with deep purple petunias and white geraniums Spread love with the mulch Fragrant cocoa shell, brown like your eyes Line the stones with celosia Alternating yellow and pink Their cone tops like cheerful traffic conductors Add rose bushes, too, ringed with bricks Red for passion, white for friendship, yellow for joy And dahlias, darling, dahlias!

If we should have a daughter Perhaps we’ll call her Dahlia We could water her with the garden hose And tuck her in with warm earth Yes, a daughter Dahlia and a son Dill You always liked To Kill A Mockingbird, didn’t you?

No seed springs from us, sugar But we could transplant them, carefully Cupping their roots in our hands They both could bloom here We would make sure they bloom here.

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JAMES SLATER

An Anthem Standing at attention, these heroes shine bright, but maybe that’s just because of all the spotlight.

In this day and age of media and justice every officer is a pig waiting to get sued.

And every young black man’s family, his face on the news, like Trayvon and Eric and Michael and Tamir.

Or Freddie, or Alton and Philandro, the evidence is quite clear.

The jig is up, the writing’s on the wall.

Our society is crumbling, but who can we call?

Who can we call if we can’t trust the force?

The issues never resolve, this vicious circle we live in is running its course.

These men and women valiantly serve with complete disregard.

And yet sometimes finding faith in them is so damn hard.

It hurts my soul to see my black brothers shot.

But it stings just as bad when society casts lots -casts lots just to see who the next victim is.

Their budget, their pride, their very core is attacked until the ones in charge of our lives are given the sack.

So in solidarity with Kap, I will not stand for an anthem that cannot see that love is at the root of our tantrum.

For I have seen it up close and so very near as I’ve been fighting our own legal system for almost a year And in that time, I’ve felt the pain of the Eries and Flints while I’ve seen our inept systems gain a dangerously MAGA tint.

One that when seen firsthand has an alluring hue, until you slowly realize that they’re making it great for them and not you.

So in the end, yes, I will proudly bang my chest and cry that Black Lives DO Matter as my heart falls in tatters and silently sighs.

And I promise I will not try to ever vainly save face because as I’ve come to learn, Blue Lives ain’t a race.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

BETHANY LEWIS

I-81 N/S

I’m heading north on I-81, radio scanned to a country station, singing along with Dierks Bentley. The first time I saw a New Jersey car, back on 70, I punched the air and said, “Hey, buddy.” I grin whenever I see one. I like thinking that I’m going where they’re going.

A few miles back I stopped at a rest stop that was prettier than I expected; picnic tables and trees overlooking a cornfield.

I sat for ten minutes or so. I’m not in a hurry; he doesn’t get off work until 5.

The hard part of the drive is ahead. I’m getting off 78 earlier than suggested, avoiding the Garden State Parkway in favor of surface streets that should be friendlier. I chant the street names under my breath, tracing the route in my head: a high-tech treasure map.

This is the longest I’ve ever driven at one time, the longest I’ve ever driven alone.

364 miles is nothing when your boyfriend is at the end of it.

I’m heading south on I-81, radio back on that country station, but I’m not singing today. I haven’t seen too many New Jersey cars since I got off 78. I look away fast when I see one, because tears in my eyes make it hard to drive. They’re coming from where I’m coming from, but I bet they get to go back a lot sooner.

I missed the rest stop. It probably wasn’t as pretty this side of the road anyway.

I’ve been keeping my speed at 70 at least, passing cars I catch up to so I don’t have to slow down. I’m only in a hurry to be done with this drive.

The hard part of the drive is behind me.

Avoiding the Parkway, I hit a dead-end and turned back to start over. When I reached the street his apartment is on, I ducked back into his driveway to check the map.

It felt like a sign.

It’s only the second time I’ve driven this far, driven this far alone. 364 miles is crushing when your boyfriend is at the beginning of it.

TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

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JULIA FULTON

As Hemingway Intended Like all the best writers, I write when I’m drunk.

I write when I’m drunk on happiness from seeing my best friend after months apart.

The steam rises, slowly and gracefully from my coffee, as I wrap my fingers around the warm bone-china in a fingery embrace, from that restaurant on Main.

You know the one, The One, a grungy, hole-in-the-wall and no one looks twice.

Yet, I smile and I love it as the coffee gets cold but the friendship stays warm.

I write when I’m drunk on nostalgia.

I’m reminiscing on my senior prom night when that long, starlight shimmering dress hit the pavement.

Not mine, no.

The one next to me, belonging to my friend.

Quick! Change!

We gotta get to the field party.

It’s the memories that make the miles seem more like inches.

I write when I’m drunk on love or, at least what I thought love was.

The popsicles in the car while driving down the dusty backroad, sweltering with the summer heat.

The hurry-up-get-home-before-your-parents-do, before-the-popsicles-melt, so we can ---There’s a look in your eyes and when I see it I can’t help but smile.

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TOTEM 2019 • POETRY

And of course I write when I’m drunk on sadness.

The tears fall in a torrential summer storm.

The thunder booms from my voice and I scream.

It’s more like a pitter-patter of rain on the window.

My voice cracks.

The butterfly bubbles from within, The wings ripple and the flood gates open, Yet she flies again after the storm.

Most of all I write when I’m drunk from the drink.

Something stiff, something stout, yet something sweet.

The words flow, a beautiful conglomeration, just as Hemingway intended.

Whiskey to the lips brings fire to the mind, ice to the lips and fury to the pen.

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ALEXA ROGERS

A Night Like These As far as I’m concerned, there are only two types of nights.

Those crystalline nights where the air heats and cools just right.

And the nights made of wind and storm.

I feel the most alive in these nights Covered in a blanket of black but warmed by the illuminations seen in the stars or reflected off the damp.

The wind can rock me to sleep if it’s a night for sleeping.

Or it will be the night where I watch the sun rise.

Tell me not of any other night, those are just nights, undeserving of the time spent on them.

But these nights, they have magic in them.

Electricity in the air and warmth in my belly.

Sing me a song of a night like these.

Second place prize in the 2018 Gannon University Undergraduate Poetry Contest.

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2 Red Sunflower Nicole Anderson 3

Adventure Awaits Katherine Kiss

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Sunlight Nikole Saur

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Life in the Fast Lane Julia Fulton

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Feeling Blue? Ryan Hamilton

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Abstract Alexis Grau

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Drip Drip Morgan Nyman

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New York Lily Bargabus

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Apples and Oranges Kassi Tofani

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Bury Me In Time Hannah Cedzo

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Coffee Shop Ballet Maggie Rutkowski

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State Street at Night Matt Fassnacht

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Golden Tears Alexis Grau

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Midnight Kassi Tofani

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Colorful Maggie Rutkowski

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Wonder Nicole Anderson

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The Eye Morgan Pelinsky

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Happiest Flower Nadya Makay

20 To the Moon and Back Gabrielle Goodwill Pirate Ship Lily Bargabus

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Spirit Angela Hoch

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Presque 8 Matt Fassnacht

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23. If a Path Reveals Itself, Follow it Rachel Cowan

ART

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2019 TOTEM 2019 • ART

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NICOLE ANDERSON

Red Sunflower

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KATHERINE KISS

Adventure Awaits

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NIKOLE SAUR

Sunlight

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JULIA FULTON

Life in the Fast Lane

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RYAN HAMILTON

Feeling Blue?

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ALEXIS GRAU

Abstract

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MORGAN NYMAN

Drip Drip

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LILY BARGABUS

New York

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KASSI TOFANI

Apples and Oranges

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HANNAH CEDZO

Bury Me In Time

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MAGGIE RUTKOWSKI

Coffee Shop Ballet

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MATT FASSNACHT

State Street at Night

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ALEXIS GRAU

Golden Tears

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KASSI TOFANI

Midnight

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MAGGIE RUTKOWSKI

Colorful

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NICOLE ANDERSON

Wonder

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MORGAN PELINSKY

The Eye

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NADYA MAKAY

Happiest Flower

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GABRIELLE GOODWILL

To the Moon and Back

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LILY BARGABUS

Pirate Ship

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ANGELA HOCH

Spirit

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MATT FASSNACHT

Presque 8

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RACHEL COWAN

If a Path Reveals Itself, Follow it

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PROSE

PROSE

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2019

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Prose 2

Shadows Alexa Rogers

5 The Elementalist Joshua Taylor 8 I Saw Her, I Lost Her Paige Sherbine 10 Borneo Jordan Seroka 12 A Bratz Limo, Unfortunately Deceased Julia Fulton 14 Point of Departure Malorie Patterson 18 The Girl Who Fell From the Sky Nicole Borro Truth Rachel McKernan

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The Untold Story of Amelia Earhart Sabrina Yassem

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Contributors’ Notes

PROSE

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2019 TOTEM 2019 • PROSE

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ALEXA ROGERS

Shadows His thickly lashed eyes fluttered open as he shot stock straight in his bed. Branches tapped against the window. The wind blew another angry gust. His small fingers gripped the blankets tighter. A storm was definitely blowing in and a shiver crawled its way down the little boy’s back and goosebumps rose.

The only words to describe the darkness outside were sinister and malicious. But the boy, only four and a half—actually four and seven months if you were to ask him—years old, could not grasp those words. Instead, he put it into much simpler terms. It was dark. It was scary. And it was full of monsters.

Now, the dark he could handle: in small doses with his bedroom door left open, and the hallway nightlight left on, and a teddy bear left within reach. Scary he could take, if he just closed his eyes and pretended his mother was right there holding his hand. And if that didn’t work—which did sometimes happen, but only rarely—he could start crying for Mommy and she would come stumbling in, pulling him into her strong, warm arms.

But monsters, that was where the issue was.

For as long as he could remember—which wasn’t really long at all—he had been told all about the monster that lived under his bed. But it didn’t take him long to realize that was all made up, only stories. Monsters didn’t live under the bed.

That was ridiculous. Monsters did exist though, and they lived outside. In the dark. Especially when it was scary out.

The monsters that did exist were not to be trifled with. They feasted on people and didn’t care how big you were. Some theories that the boy was familiar with stated monsters preferred the young, and others the old. But whichever theory you followed—not that the boy had 2

picked a theory to follow quite yet—you didn’t want to face a monster long enough to find out his food preferences.

He had only ever met one person who had faced a monster and lived to tell the tale. That was Jimmy Corks who lived down the street. He was six years old and four months exactly. Now, the boy didn’t like Jimmy Corks very much and found him to be one big, stinky liar, but he didn’t lie about monsters.

The tale of Jimmy Corks went as such: when Jimmy Corks had faced the monster, it was in his very own house, right in the upstairs hallway.

The monster was as tall as his dad, Mr. Corks, and stood right outside his 11-year-old sister’s room. He was deep purple and all scales and fur, a combination equally strange and horrifying.

His teeth were bigger than the boy’s hands and his eyes were slits of pure darkness. They had a nasty staredown for a few seconds before Jimmy Corks screamed and ran back to his room, slamming the big wooden door behind him. He woke up the next morning with his back pressed flat against the door. If he hadn’t made it back to his room in time he was sure the monster would’ve eaten him just like candy.

Now the knocking at the window had become nearly incessant, demanding to get in no matter the cost. A shadow shifted slightly detaching itself from the gnarled branches, readying to aid in the assault on the window, moving in swirls, tapping harder than the branch.

That was all the poor boy could handle. He rose to his feet, knees shaking. His breathing was uneven no matter how much he tried to steady it.

He would get close for a moment and then a wild breath would sneak its way out, threatening to bring with it a chill, a sob, or a scream.

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His bare feet padded across the cool, smooth wood floor. His tiny fingers coiled around the brass handle. The door creaked as he opened it the rest of the way. It always creaked when it opened, but now it was even more pronounced, like a neon sign directing the monsters to him.

The hall he faced was a dark abyss, without even a slant of moonlight piercing through, the nightlight burning out hours earlier. The boy took tentative steps, weighing each like the floor might cave in. Bolstering his confidence—puffing out his chest in a dramatic show like he had seen on TV once—his steps quickened and soon he was running down the hall throwing all attempts at silence away.

The hall felt impossibly long as he strove to reach the other end. There, his parents’ door stood sanctuary against the monsters.

The more steps he took, the harder they became.

It was such a short distance to cover in the light.

The amount of times he had covered it in his life, it only took seconds. But now he could barely make the steps. Something, some force, some monster was keeping him back.

The steps became impossible when he was only a foot from his parents’ door. It was like he was wearing lead shoes, an anchor strapped to his chest. His breathing became forced and tears peaked in his eyes.

Never had he felt such pure fear.

Unable to move and losing the will to try, he collapsed to his knees. Sobs climbed up his throat and echoed down the hall. He lay convulsing on the floor.

It was barely a minute before the light turned on in his parents’ room, a yellow glow emitting from the crack under the door. His parents burst

out and his mother gathered him into her arms.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Her blue eyes locked with his.

The boy shook his head, but the monster’s spell had broken, and he could move once more. He remained on the floor, wrapped in his mother’s arms. She kept him warm and safe, and kept the monsters at bay.

His father paused only a moment to look at his young son but continued on to see the room the boy had fled. A quick inspection showed it was exactly how it should have been. Nothing was wrong, nothing the slightest bit out of place.

The shadows were too big for that time of night, but that would stay unnoticed. It was such a small thing, so easily changed. Only a child knowledgeable on the ways of monsters would notice.

“Hush, Sweetie,” the mother whispered as she stroked his sweat-dampened hair. “Nothing’s wrong. All is well.” Her voice was lyrical and comforting. She dragged a finger under each of his eyes to wipe away the tears.

A few more soothing words and all seemed calm.

Eventually she stood, the boy still encased in her arms. “It’s okay, Sweetie.” She led him down the hall, back to his bed. She laid the boy down and placed the covers over him, tucking him in tightly. She perched gently on the side of the bed, stroking his hair. “You need to get some sleep, Sweetie. There’s no monster, Daddy and I are right down the hall. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

He blinked his tired eyes as he realized she was planning to leave again. Almost inaudible words escaped his lips in a quiet plead, “No, Mommy, you can’t leave me.”

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She placed a kiss on his forehead, and stood to leave the room. “We’ll see you in the morning,” his mother said, her husband’s arm draped over her shoulders as she closed the door, forgetting to leave it open a crack.

The boy could not close his eyes. If he did, he knew something bad would happen. His core was shaking, his teeth chattering. His room hadn’t been this cold earlier.

His careful gaze swept over the room, marking all his familiar possessions. There was his favorite bear, standing guard in the corner. There were the colorful blocks, fallen in the ruins of a castle built the day before. There were the red, plastic monkeys, scattered far from their barrel.

Everything was where it should be. But still, it did not feel right.

Another careful look and he figured out what was wrong: Shadows never reached quite that size. Tall and thick. It was never this dark, even when there was no moon and no light. The world—his world—had been covered over in black ink.

away three months ago. But in what the boy had told him, he was probably going to get hurt.

The dark blanket was so heavy, forcing each shallow breath he took out of him. He tried to squirm, but the weight remained. For a second, it felt like the pressure was lightening—only slightly though. His eyes started to close; he was scared but he was so tired. It became a battle to stay awake. He knew it was important to stay awake, but his eyelids wouldn’t listen.

It was late, and he was tired. No reasonable four years and seven-month-old was awake at this time. Maybe it would be alright if he slept, only for a little while. His eyes drooped, and he couldn’t fight it anymore.

The dark heavy blanket won over him and covered him so completely in sleep. His breathing slowed, stopping. Morning snuck up on the world so totally and the day went on without him.

He let out a shaky breath. How had he missed the Shadows? He felt a heavy blanket cover him completely. In all the theories he had gathered, he’d only heard about a heavy blanket feeling once, and the boy who told him that had moved

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JOSHUA TAYLOR

The Elementalist The wind was howling. Every gust carried with it what seemed to be a thousand flakes of snow, creating the white fog that made seeing anything in the icy storm nearly impossible.

Winter’s wrath came bursting through the door as its owner entered seeking relief from that chilling duress. On her person, she wore a black hooded mantle, accompanied with a coat of matching color and a red scarf peeking out from under the hood. A brown leather bag rested at her hip, with its strap reaching across her body. In her hand, a broomstick with a lantern dangling from it. Once she was within the safety of her house’s walls, she slammed the door closed with her whole body, as if the storm would force it open like a madman in a crazed pursuit of his next victim.

“These storms are getting worse every year,” she thought to herself. She let out a sigh of relief as she leaned her broom against the wall and lowered the hood of her mantle, revealing her platinum-silver hair, which, when freed from underneath the mantle, came down to her armpits. It was a little messy from the journey home, but it still maintained its wavy form. Her eyes, now more visible, were both hazel, which rested against her fair complexion.

Noviia was an aspiring magician who had just started her education in advanced magical arts.

Ever since she was young, she always had a gift for spellcasting. On this night, she had just returned home from a particularly grueling exam, yet it was a question from some time ago that occupied her thoughts.

“Home” for Noviia wasn’t anything spectacular.

It was but one room with a bed, a desk, a bookshelf, a table, and some gadgets she acquired over the years. Most of the furniture

was barely visible under the mountains of books that dominated the room. On the wall, there was a drawing in chalk of a magic sigil, where Noviia had made a brisk walk to the right after closing the door. She did not even bother to take off her travelling gear.

The sigil was something every magic user was familiar with since they began: The Sigil of the Elements. It was one circle with numerous lines connecting within and script along the outside rim. Most prominent were the six circles which formed a ring within the sigil, each with the sign of a different element.

Noviia stared at the drawing and felt for her pendant, which hung underneath her coat.

The pendant was modeled after the same as the one in front of her. As her gaze remained transfixed on the chalk that covered her wall, one question lingered in Noviia’s mind, “Which element will you devote yourself to?”

It was a question that plagued her mind much longer than the month in which the sigil had taken residence in her room. Most students of magic already know the element they will devote themselves to at a very young age. They usually favor one form of magic as a child.

A magician’s hair and eye color change in correspondence to the element of magic they wield. When they have a preference, the choice is often visible in how their eyes and hair are stained from dominant use. This was never the case for Noviia. She loved all elements of magic, and her hair and eyes always returned to their normal state. She had no dominant element.

After about half an hour, Noviia broke from her trance and realized that she was still in her wet travelling clothes and that her

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lantern, still on her broom, was growing dim.

The thoughts of the elements lingered as she tended to what needed to be done.

“Six elements,” she thought to herself. “A magician devotes their entire being to one, and only then can truly grasp its meaning, and in turn will gain mastery over it...”

First, she had to re-light her lantern. She removed it from its makeshift post and opened the lid. With a snap of her fingers, a small flame burned from her index finger, which she used to bring new life to the dying flame. Once it was burning bright again, it was easy to see her flame-red hair matched perfectly with her eyes.

“Fire. Warm, bright, passionate...”

She took the newly lit lantern and placed it on some books, which were in disarray on her desk. With the new-found light, Noviia noticed that all the snow which had come in with her had melted, leaving what seemed to be an unmoving river from her front door to the spot where she stood. She walked to the door, where the trail had begun and held her left hand over the puddles as if she was indicating a child’s height to a stranger. As she concentrated, the water rose from the floor into a growing orb beneath her hand. She followed beside the path of liquid ice, her hair and eyes where now a deep blue.

“Water. Cool, calm, composed...”

The orb of water was guided to a bucket next to her desk, where it then took up residence. Noviia then removed her soaking wet travelling attire and threw them into one of the devices she had acquired on her travels into nearby cities. It didn’t work as well as it

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did in its prime, like the shifty man selling it claimed it did, so Noviia had come up with a method to make use of it. First, she put in her clothes, and then adjusted the knobs. Then, she threw in a small amount of a special mixture and closed the contraption’s door.

She stepped back, clasped her right hand, and then extended its index finger and thumb. She took aim at the machine’s “tail” and purple electricity arced from her finger to the copper exposed under rubber, and the machine flared to life. The violet that replaced blue was now fading back into white.

“Lightning. Impulsive, energetic, unpredictable...”

The machine would run for a while, so Noviia had some time to spare. She began to put down the anarchy that consumed her living space by placing books and trinkets in their proper location, until she found some clay that caught her attention. With her hands, she manipulated it to a variety of shapes without making contact. She formed it into a human like figure and began to make it move like a puppeteer does with his marionettes. All the while, her hair-and-eye combo became a dull orange.

“Earth. Sturdy, unmoving, strong...”

The machine soon ceased its commotion.

Noviia, abandoning the clay, which sat motionless without its master, went over and removed her now clean jacket and company, now soaked from a good wash. She took them over to a line which hung indoors due to the weather and draped each article over. She stretched her arms to either side and a gentle breeze began to blow. Mint became the color that dominated her head.

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“Wind. Peaceful, gentle, relaxing...”

As her travelling garments wavered in the weak gusts, Noviia noticed a tear in her coat.

She lowered her arms and grabbed her coat to examine the damage. It was a small tear in the sleeve, nothing to buy a new coat over. She was on a budget as was, and with the given weather she did not want to go back out for a needle and thread. She had another idea. She felt the damaged fabric and closed her eyes.

Small vines reached across the gap and began to mend the tear as Noviia’s hair and eyes became an earthy green.

“Nature. Flexible, diverse, restorative...”

Noviia went to her bed and let herself fall face down on the warm mattress. How could she pick just one element? She loved all of them. They were a part of her daily life. She thought of each element over and over again.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her puppet, no longer to keep its balance, toppled and shattered. Noviia sprang up and went over to see the damage. Half of the corpse was in fragments on the floor; the rest sank to the bottom of the water bucket. Noviia went to grab the remains out of the bucket, when she noticed something.

The clay was soft. The water it had fallen in had caused it to change. It was different. No longer was the clay an object of pure earth, but earth and water. As she felt it, she got an idea. In her right hand, she channeled the power of earth, and in her left, water. Her hair shown the color corresponding to each element on each side, as did her eyes. Soon, the clay and water mixture began to move at her will, hardening, softening, and looking like jelly as it was held in the air. She looked at the fragments on the ground and wondered how the wind would take to it. She looked at the lantern, the machine, and her jacket and her curiosity grew. She experimented with the elements for the remainder of the night, exploring possibilities she never knew existed.

The next morning, the storm had lifted, and a gentle breeze accompanied the light from the sun, reflected in the snow. Like any traditional magic user, she flew out on her broom, but unlike them, the tips of her hair flowing in the wind were stained the colors of a rainbow.

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PAIGE SHERBINE

I Saw Her, I Lost Her Growing up, I was practically always with my grandmother. She would watch me while my parents were working, or I’d be staying at her house for weeks at a time. As I got older, the week-long stays became less frequent; however, I always made sure I would call her on the phone and we would talk for hours. She was my first best friend and my most valued family member.

I was her “Pooh” and her favorite grandchild. I never really knew where she got the nickname Pooh from or how it even started, but I don’t remember a day that she didn’t use it. She told everyone about her grandkids, but she always talked about me more than my cousins. I think a lot of it had to do with my being the baby of the family and the fact I made sure to take time out of my day to tell her about my day.

In one second, my life changed. It was at the end of my junior year when my mom called me.

I knew it couldn’t have been anything good. I picked up the phone and my stomach dropped.

My grandmother, the woman that had been my best friend since I was born, had a heart attack.

It was completely random because she never had heart problems before. In fact, she was in the best physical and mental condition she had been in for the last few years. I wanted to leave school and drive to Pittsburgh that moment, but my mom told me not to because as far as the doctors knew, she was stable.

A few days later, I was finally able to go see her.

My dad and I got in my beat up 2002 Volkswagen Passat and drove to UPMC Presbyterian Hospital.

I remember walking into the hospital and smelling the stagnant air. Everything felt sterile and there were various beepings coming out of every room. I met my mom in the waiting room, and she attempted to prepare me for what I was about to witness. She told me Mama was hooked up to three or four different machines and that she had a ventilator down her throat. She was 8

slowly improving, though. I followed my mom as we passed all the different rooms down the endless hallway. You could hear people laughing and crying while other rooms were dead silent.

We finally made it to my grandmother’s room and I saw her for the first time. Her eyes were open, but my mom told me she wasn’t fully aware of anything that was happening around her. In that moment, I saw a completely different person in front of me, I almost didn’t recognize her. Her snow-white hair had been completely messed up by the nurses. I knew her having her hair messed up was one of her biggest pet peeves. If she could’ve seen herself, I know she would’ve said “These people made me look homeless! I need to fix this mop on my head.”

Her arms were bruised from nurses trying to put an IV in. You know that look people have when they’re in noticeable pain -- when a person clenches their jaw, shuts their eyes as tight as they can, and they just lay very still because if they move they know it’ll just hurt more? She had that look. You could see her body shaking more than it typically did. She couldn’t stop moving her hands and her entire body would twitch at times.

As I approached her bedside, I took ahold of her hand. I leaned down to her and smiled and said quietly, “Hi Mama.” She didn’t move a muscle. My mom told me “You know her hearing is bad. You need to speak up.” So, I leaned in closer and said in a louder tone, “Hey Mama.”

Immediately, her eyes lit up like a little kid’s on Christmas morning. Her whole body jolted awake and she smiled at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen her make. In that second, I think she forgot about the pain she was in.

When I saw her smile like that, I forgot where we were and what had happened in the past few days. It was as if it was just a normal visit.

Trying to fight the ventilator, she mouthed the

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words “Hey, Pooh” like she always did when she would see me. My mom was astonished when she saw Mama smile. She stood up and told me, “She hasn’t smiled or even tried to talk since she got here. I shouldn’t be surprised her mood changed when she saw you.”

I sat with her for a few hours. I told her about anything and everything I could think of. I told her about my dog she called Long Legs because she could never remember his real name and because the dog was pretty disproportional. I recounted all the memories I had with her, all the dozens of cookies she helped me bake, her letting me steer the car on back roads when I was five, and so many other moments. You can’t make those kinds of memories with anyone else except your best friend.

I know no one ever wants to remember their loved one in a hospital bed, but for me, this is a memory I think about all the time. No, it wasn’t one of the happiest moments I’ve had with her, but it is one of my most treasured. She gave me her last smile. I know now not to take people for granted and to cherish every moment that you have with someone; because once someone is gone that’s all you have, the memories. They keep replaying in your mind every time you think about them. Those memories are what get you through missing them like crazy and, later, what make you smile when their name comes up.

I could only stay for a short time because I had to go to work. I kissed her forehead and told her she needed to get better and to not pick on the nurses. She looked up with tired eyes and I knew she didn’t want me to go. Seeing her look at me like that tore a piece of my heart out of my chest. I didn’t want to go, and I tried to stall it as much as I could. I had to leave her. I squeezed her hand and walked out the door. As I walked down, I realized that might have been the last time I would see her. I pulled myself together, got in my car, and went home.

A few days later, she passed away. I understand death is a part of life, and it really is inevitable; however, all I could think of at that moment was how much of my life she wasn’t going to be a part of. She won’t be at my last volleyball game, my graduation, or anything from that point on.

She’s going to miss everything. A part of me died with her that day.

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JORDAN SEROKA

Borneo

He dreamt of the jungles of Borneo again.

In the early morning quiet, he told her what he had seen, the sun spotted dry leaves of the forest floor still before his eyes.

“You’ve never been there.”

“What does that matter?”

“I’m just asking for help.”

“I know. But the stories I’ve heard from travelers— it doesn’t matter. It was just a dream.”

“It’s better to not think about these things.” She never once looked up at him.

“I know. I don’t. It was just a dream.”

He went through the motions, moving through the day like every day before it, but he felt his eyes falling on the windows before him through which people and cars didn’t flash by, but instead opened on fluttering green foliage and sparrows pin-wheeling through the sky.

When he found time, he would speak to her brokenly. She demanded love; she always had, and if he could simply move on to someone new who asked nothing but look at him with wide, naïve eyes, he wouldn’t even miss her touch.

They had found each other through simple elimination of all other partners, and now she had a baby in her arms and he wondered how long he would have to stay.

“In the stagnant film of those humid, tropical nights, fog would roll in between the tress.

You can feel it. Breathe it in. It’s alive.

Even the birds grow silent as fog sweeps in. They know all their songs and bright colors mean nothing in that blanket of silence.”

He snapped the branches in their yard as she spoke. Their crack echoed like gunshots.

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“You need to spend more time with the baby.

She’s growing afraid of you. Like you’re a stranger, not her father.”

He threw the twigs to the ground and never once looked up at her. “Can’t you see? None of this is real! If I’m not there, you’ll both be fine!

Nothing is life and death.”

“Would you rather have it be? Have us fighting for our lives in the jungle? Constantly being on the verge of starvation? I don’t understand your obsession with the wild! We’re lucky to be living in the civilized world. Stop acting like it’s your burden.”

He let her leave. He could not convince her. She would never understand. He barely could.

“And sometime in that cool mist, the sky would warm to gold through the gray. That’s when you could first see the dark giants. They would hold your valley in their palms, and you could feel their gaze down on you, even as their color changed to green. The primeval eyes of a million birds and insects and animals staring into you from their hills. Unblinking.”

He slept as much as he could. It was all he could do, all he wanted. There, birds of every color flashed around him, and his hands pulled ripe fruit down from leaves bigger than his palms. In the waking world, the food was cardboard and the trees plastic and he isolated himself from her, from everyone.

“I am there now,” the traveler had said. He had only stayed a week, a healing gash on his nose and ribs still showing. “with my family, on the banks of my river.

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“But only in my mind. They’re gone. And the trees cut down.” His dark, watery eyes reflected the shadows of evening falling over the yard. “I’m lucky to have my life. But there are no more jungles of Borneo. Not like I remember. Those are never coming back.”

Of course, it was all fixable.

They measured out the antidepressants and sprinkled them over the food and, for good measure, separated him from the female to introduce him to a new group of orangutans in a different enclosure. If, for a moment, his dark eyes had seemed sad, and deeply human, it was only fleeting.

The concrete walls painted a lively green, they all decided it did, unmistakably, remind one of the jungles of Borneo.

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JULIA FULTON

A Bratz Limo, Unfortunately Deceased Almost every year I had my birthday somewhere in Pennsylvania, even long after we moved away to Tennessee and eventually Kentucky. It just somehow always happened that way, being that my birthday was in the dead middle of the summer, July 15th. Again, I have a strong theory that my parents were trying to get rid of me and Becky, no matter how much mom says it’s untrue and dad really doesn’t say much. The only birthdays I haven’t had in Pennsylvania so far were my 11th, 17th, and 18th and I sadly remember nothing about those days. All the best, most exciting birthdays happen for me in Pennsylvania. It’s just a fact I can’t explain, and my 7th birthday definitely didn’t disappoint in this regard.

Since I first saw it in all its black, shiny glory, probably in an ad on T.V. that made it way cooler than it really was I was in love and absolute had to have it. It was a Bratz limo. No, not just a Bratz limo, THE Bratz limo.

Leading up to my birthday I started eyeing all my presents in the corner of my grandparents’ house that started to accumulate throughout the week. There were several different angular boxes, but too small to be the limo. By the end of the week I began to give up hope I’d get what I wanted and probably thought of the song by the Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” or at least that’s how I’d like to think it happened. As a seven-year-old kid, I probably didn’t know that song, or maybe I did. My parents have always been into the classics.

The morning of my birthday finally arrived. To me, my birthday always trumped Christmas.

I am the youngest in my family so for once the attention -- all of it -- was focused on me. Usually I didn’t care about the number

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of presents I got, or even the types. It was all about the attention. This particular year was different for sure. Even as a kid I was never a morning person, but the morning of my birthday I shot up out of bed at a ripe 7:00 AM, ran down the stairs at my grandparent’s house, and slid around the corner into the kitchen.

My grandmother ran a tight ship and had an especially clean house, so even without socks I slid around the corner, probably coming close to eating some linoleum flooring.

My grandparents, sister, and I all had breakfast, after which the waiting game began. All my aunts, uncles, various family members, and even a family friend and her son Shaun would begin to trickle in and the pile of gifts grew and grew.

However, my parents wouldn’t show. They were back in Tennessee having their yearly summer honeymoon or something like that.

Somehow, I must have lost sight of the pile of gifts when Becky, Shaun, and I went outside to play with a soccer ball for a bit while the adults chatted among themselves. When we were called back inside for cake and presents I ran past Becky and Shaun because it was my day, damn it, and I NEEDED to know whether or not my dreams had come true. The table was piled up with the presents and I knew it was there. The larger, yet still angular, box sat on the table wrapped in the daily comic page and it was without question hidden under that paper. I had to contain my excitement and just be cool.

“Open all the other presents first. Amp yourself up for the big prize. That’s what your birthday is all about,” I thought to myself as I tore through all the Barbie, Powerpuff Girl, and other various character wrapping papers in a mental fog focused on the large, angular box.

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After disregarding everything else, I just opened my clenched fists as my palms began to get sweaty and the air surrounding me became heavier than one of those large sumo wrestlers, looming over my head. Time for the moment of truth. I looked around to all the faces looking at me and couldn’t help but nervously smile because everyone else was smiling. My luck the box would be empty or worse, full of underwear or savings bonds, you know, the things all eight-year-olds love. I held my breath and finally tore into the paper to see exactly what I wanted in the box. So much shock came over me I probably almost shit my pants because I finally got something I specifically asked for without protest from my parents. I guess they were alright, even if they were summer ghost parents.

“At approx. 431am today the Brats dolls along with their friends were enjoying the limo. Too much fun and the limo slipped off the boxes and flipped to the floor ending their midnight joy ride. The limousine will need a serious case of super glue. The computer room is now back open for regular business after all carnage was removed. (lol)” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the text.

My mom probably hated the damn thing and tried to make it look like an accident. But in that moment I remembered how as a child there was nothing in the world I wanted more than that toy limo.

I continued to play with the limo and all 30 of my Bratz dolls until my mom had to remind me of my age and that middle schools girls should start being more interested in makeup and various other girl things I couldn’t give two shits about, let alone one.

Years passed and the limo moved with us from house to house. Almost 11 years later when I was a freshman in college I got this text message from my mother:

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13

MALORIE PATTERSON

Point of Departure The menu board Olivia was scrutinizing was an old slate chalkboard courtesy of Emerson Elementary School. When the city decided to redistrict, the old Emerson building was the first to close. Despite its structural soundness, the city had decided students should be educated in a more modern building. Mugs had gotten several chalkboards and had bought most of the library’s wooden tables and chairs.

“Olivia!” Helen’s chirpy voice pulled Olivia out of her head, “I’m almost done with your peppermint mocha, and there’s a fresh batch of chocolate chip muffins that’ll be out of the oven in about a minute.” The woman behind the counter smiled at Olivia.

“Helen! That’s why you guys are the best: quality customer service. All I have to do is walk in and my order is ready. Amazing.”

Helen snarked back, “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” The smile still on her face tempered the bite in her tone, “But really, while I’d like to take credit, your usual was ordered and paid for by him.”

Olivia glanced over her shoulder and saw a man sitting in the back corner of the shop. His head was propped up on his right hand, his gaze focused on a book. In his left hand was a dark red mug. A hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t someone she knew. At least, not well. She was pretty sure she had seen him around Mugs before, that they had even exchanged hellos at least once. If pressed, Olivia wouldn’t have been able to say for sure how many times she had seen him; he wasn’t really someone she had noticed.

She turned her attention back to the front counter just as Helen came out from the kitchen in the back. In her hands was a tray of muffins.

Helen placed one on a ceramic plate. The muffin 14

was so hot, Olivia could see the sugar crystals on top melting just a little. She grasped her heavy, green ceramic mug in her right hand and balanced the muffin and plate in her left as she threaded her way through the maze of tables and chairs. At eight in the morning, Mugs was surprisingly relaxed. A few older men were seated in the front corner of the shop, reading their newspapers and griping about the state of affairs in the nation. Most of the regular morning crowd breezed in, placed their usual orders, and then trudged off to work, to-go cups nestled in cardboard sleeves. When she got to the back corner, she set her mug and plate on the empty table next to the mystery man’s table, folded her arms over her chest, and tapped her foot impatiently on the floor.

He held up his index finger, finished what he was reading, then dog-eared the page and closed the book.

Olivia, whose librarian mother would have crucified her for such behavior, asked, “Do you often abuse books?”

“S’not abuse.” He smiled up at her. “You probably think breaking the spine and spilling coffee on pages is abuse too, don’t you?”

She just nodded her head.

“Those things mean you really like a book.” His finger tapped the cover of the book he had just put down. “I have this theory. Would you like to hear it?”

Olivia opened her hands in a “why not” gesture.

He leaned back in his seat before saying, “No one would argue that a book is capable of making an impression on the reader. They can inspire, terrify, educate, entertain, persuade. I dog-ear the pages I want to come back to. I spill coffee

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on pages that capture my attention so much, it’s beyond my abilities to get the mug to my mouth.

I break the spines of books that I want to have open as wide as possible, so I can’t possibly miss one thing.”

After this impassioned speech, he grinned at her, cocky, as if to say, “See? I’m not such a bad guy.”

Not sure what to do with all that, Olivia looked at the book he had been reading.

“The Princess Bride? Interesting.”

“Fencing, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, and miracles. What more could a person want in a book?”

Intrigued, she shifted her plate and mug to his table and then shrugged off her messenger bag and set it on the floor. “Inconceivable!” she quipped as she wriggled out of her coat. “I’m actually aware of the story. It’s one of my favorites.” Once her coat had been draped over the back of her chair, she perched on the edge of it. “Although, I’ll be honest, I prefer the movie to the book. Generally, my rule of thumb is to skip the movie and read the book. For Princess Bride, though, there’s just something about that movie.” She folded her hands and set them on the table. “So, I don’t generally accept drinks from strangers.”

“I can remedy that.” He extended his hand. “My name is Ben, but most people call me Ben.” She could smell Old Spice when her hand grasped his. He had a strong grip, not hand crushing, but sure. Dry, cool, and callused, his palm seemed to swallow hers. Ben held her hand for only a few seconds before letting go. Olivia wrapped her just-released hand around the handle of her mug. “Clearly you already know my name… and my drinking habits. Thanks for this.”

She tipped her mug toward him before taking a sip.

“I’ve been watching you,” he admitted.

Stalker! She sat back in her chair. “Obviously.”

There was a slight edge to her voice.

“Is that a problem?” His pose mimicked hers: he sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

Before she answered, she looked at him carefully.

He had a thin face, not quite round, but not really an oval either. His blue eyes were framed by round glasses that reminded her of Harry Potter. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled. He was wearing a chunky-knit sweater, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. The navy blue brought out the golden tones of his hair.

She didn’t think he was much older than she was; if she had to guess, she would have said he couldn’t have been older than 25. People were always complimenting her on her youthful appearance.

“I haven’t decided yet.” She tossed her head and felt her long, chestnut ponytail graze her back and then feigned nonchalance, “I suppose the fate of our relationship will rest on your responses to the following questions.”

He rested his hands on his knees. “Relationship.

Sounds serious.”

“Hush,” she commanded. She considered him a moment before asking, “if you were accepted to Hogwarts, what house would you be in?”

He paused for a few seconds. She assumed he was carefully considering his answer. He was trying to remember what movie Hogwarts came from.

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15

It must have come to him, because he confidently said, “Raven-puff.”

Raven-puff? She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What? Not acceptable?”

She shook her head, “You have to pick one.”

He propped his elbows on the table, his mug grasped in both hands.

“Here’s my problem. I can’t pick one. I like the underlying philosophies of both houses.”

Is he for real? The ‘underlying philosophies?

I could push him… “I suppose I’ll accept that.

Personally, I’d want to be in Gryffindor, but I’d probably end up being in Hufflepuff, which wouldn’t be that bad except no one in the books seems to like the loyal Hufflepuff.”

He smiled at her diatribe, then said, “My turn.

What do you do when you leave Mugs?”

Before she answered, she took another sip of her mocha. “You know what this tastes like?

Christmas. This is Christmas-in-a-cup. Normally, I have really strict rules about Christmas. I don’t listen to the music, watch the movies, or decorate till the day after Thanksgiving. Then, once December 26th rolls around, Christmas is over till the next year. But when I found out I could get a peppermint mocha year-round, I had to make an exception, they’re, like, my all-time favorite drink.”

“Christmas-in-a-cup, I like that. So. Tell me about your job.”

“Who says I have a job?” She smiled coyly at him as she placed her mug back on the table.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He drank from his mug as he waited for her to collect her thoughts.

16

“Hmmm.” She laced her fingers together, then said, “I’m studying to become a museum curator.

Originally, I was just a history major, but the second semester of my freshman year, we had to do ten hours of service for a freshman seminar. I wanted my service to be related to my major, and the instructor, I think her name was Mrs. Phillips, suggested I get in touch with a museum.” As she talked, her hands never stayed in one place longer than a second. They flitted around the space in front of her like small birds.

“I loved it. There’s so much more to building an exhibit than people would think. It’s like being in advertising, English, engineering, and history at the same time. Plus, I get to work with kids sometimes, which is fun.”

She shrugged her shoulders when she finished, a little embarrassed, but Ben’s gaze had never left her face as she talked. At first, she was worried that maybe his attention had been snagged by the slight gap between her front teeth. It was the one thing about her face that she didn’t like. But she noticed that his gaze didn’t settle on her gap, that he took in her heart earrings (Valentine’s Day was in a week), her red-polka dot scarf, and her hazel eyes. She loved her eyes, sometimes they looked green and other times they looked brown. He didn’t seem to be bored by what she had to say. His head nodded at the appropriate times and she felt a little thrill when he smiled at something she said. She tore off a chunk of her muffin and chewed it thoughtfully, relishing the still melty chocolate as it mixed with the vanilla cake.

------------------------------------------------------“So. Thanks for the coffee. I guess I’ll see you around.” She tried to keep her tone breezy, but it fell flat at the end and she sounded a little sad.

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“Count on it. Or...” he held out an old Nokia track phone.

He wants my number! “I haven’t seen one of these in years. I think my first phone was a Nokia,” she said as she punched her name and number into the stiff numerical pad.

“I like older things, they were built to last. I type all my stuff on a Corona Typewriter I found in my grandmother’s attic.”

“You’re my new favorite person,” she blurted out.

“I always wanted one of those old rotary phones.

Not the one with the normal looking phone… but the one that looks like a long handle with a curved mouthpiece on one end. You know, like the one in 101 Dalmatians.” He nodded before she asked, “What do you write?”

“Olivia? It was my pleasure.” He stood up from his chair and gave a little bow. She liked that her head came up to his shoulders, and she imagined wrapping her arms around him.

She sashayed away from the table, ponytail swishing, acutely aware that Ben’s gaze was on her retreating backside. She didn’t even make it to the door before her phone chimed, Just making sure the number works : ) She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and instead typed back, Aren’t there rules about guys texting girls they just met? His response popped up ten seconds later. Rules were made to be broken.

“A little of this and a little of that. I’ll let you read it sometime.”

She squeezed the wooden chair-back and rocked back on her heels. “I’d like that.” She handed him his phone. “This has been nice. I don’t think I’ve talked to someone not directly-related to me like this in a very long time.”

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17

NICOLE BORRO

The Girl Who Fell From the Sky This is dumb. This is so, so dumb. This is so utterly, completely, beyond dumb. I’m walking along, arm stuck out in front of me, thumb pointing straight up in the air, a clear invitation for some psychopath to come murder me.

Although I’m dirty, sweaty, slightly sunburnt, and my hair needs to be washed, I’m thanking the universe for the setting sun, finally cooling down the strip of road that I’ve decided to test my fate on. But as much as I’m enjoying the cool breeze that’s now blowing past, I’m nervous what might happen if I don’t get picked up soon.

Should I keep walking through the night? Or maybe I should try to make it to a truck stop and stay there? Wait...how do truck stops even work?

Is it like a little motel or do the drivers sleep in their trucks? Can you even stay at a truck stop without a truck? How am I 17 and I have no idea how truck stops work?

I feel like that’s something I should have looked into before I decided on leaving. Although I thought my money would last me a little longer, get me further on buses and I wouldn’t have to resort to some stranger picking me up, at least having some idea of how this type of stuff works would have been smart. Idiot. I think about Googling “How do truck stops work” and instinctively go to grab my cell phone out of my pocket, only — that’s right: no phone. Too risky.

Way too risky. Sure, I could have turned off those location services and what not but honestly, I’m not totally convinced that’s the only way a phone can be used to track someone. And there’s no way I’m about to be found just because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how truck stops work.

Maybe I could just walk a little bit off the road and sleep in the grass? Well, dirt I guess. Yeah, it’s definitely way more dirt than grass. It could be like camping. Kinda. Camping, only without a tent. Or a sleeping bag. Or really anything else you need to go camping with. Shit. Yeah, no.

18

Nope. No. I can’t sleep on the side of a highway. I can’t sleep on the side of a fucking highway.

Another car passes without so much as slowing and I quickly pull my hand against myself, again ashamed, embarrassed and yet, slightly relieved.

Adjusting my backpack, I keep walking. Surely no one in the history of hitchhiking has done as poor of a job as I am right now. I pretend I can’t decide if I actually am just somehow innately terrible at hitchhiking or if I’m sabotaging my chances. Although I know it’s the latter, it makes me feel better to think that I’m not scared right now and am just unable to help how awful I am at hitchhiking. People usually don’t like to think they’re bad at things, but I guess it’s easier to think that if it lets me pretend I’m being brave.

But if I’m being honest, every time I see a car approaching, my stomach gets that terrible dropping feeling you get when you finally reach the peak at the top of a roller coaster and start racing all the way down. I keep pulling my arm back too fast, or sticking it out too late, or sometimes not even at all.

I look down at the three bruises on my legs and the scattering of them on my arms and take a deep breath. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Three days later and they’re dark blue and purple against my tan skin. I once saw an art exhibit comparing bruises to sunsets. Bruised knuckles, banged-up knees, a black eye. All next to breathtaking pictures of the sky. Blues and purples and pinks all swirling around, mixing with each other, dark clouds contrasting against their rich colors. Whenever I get the bruises I like to think of them this way, like they’re there on my skin because I’m part of the sky and not because of how I actually get them. I haven’t thought about it much in the past three days, there’s not much sense in it as I’m not there anymore. But now I need to, I need to force

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myself to remember exactly why I’m walking along a random road, waiting for some stranger/ epic weirdo/murderer to come pick me up, and then maybe I can stop being so terrified and just stick my freaking arm out already.

I hear the now familiar sound of a car approaching behind me. Here we go. I turn around and stick out my arm, praying the car slows and at the same time praying it speeds past. I know I need a ride, that I desperately need a ride. I have no idea where I am, other than it’s somewhere in Nevada. I haven’t eaten in hours and I’m about three sips away from being out of water. I know that I need a ride to somewhere and that I can’t expect to walk along this random road forever, but the idea of willingly getting into a car with a stranger makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. Come on, come on. I don’t know if I’m hoping for the car to stop or drive past more, just that I need one or the other to happen right now before I have an anxiety attack or something. It feels like it’s been a freaking eternity since I was thrusting my thumb up in the air. Like really, I swear I can feel time slow down. And just like the time, the car slows too.

I hold my breath as the car slowly rolls past me and pulls over onto the shoulder of the road about twenty feet in front of me. Shit. I force myself to start walking and make my way over to the car. Breathe. Breathe. You’re going to be fine. Oh my god, I’m such an idiot. Breathe. I reach the door and duck my head down before grabbing for the handle. Inside, a man sits.

Brown hair, kind of shaggy. His grey eyes peer at me behind thick rimmed glasses. He looks about 30 or so and I decide he is either a nice family man with two kids and a wife at home or definitely, definitely a serial killer. Too late now. I mean, even if I don’t get in the car with

him, if he wants to kidnap or murder me there’s not much stopping him. I’m out in the middle of nowhere with no phone and no one else around.

My hand still hasn’t reached the handle when he rolls the window down.

“Hi.” he says. “Where’re you headed?” Good voice.

Kind of calming and cheery. I think he could be a therapist or something like that. He looks like he could be a therapist.

“Um,” Where the hell am I going? “Anywhere, really.”

“Anywhere? Well alright, I’m on my way to Winnemucca. That work for you?”

Winnemucca. I wonder how big that is and if I’ll easily be able to find a bench or bus station or something to sleep in. Maybe Winnemucca will be a place I want to stay, get a job or something, find somewhere other than benches and bus stations for sleep. “Sure.” I say, and finally reach for the handle.

His car smells like vanilla air freshener and stale fast food. I’m taking this as a good sign, as I wouldn’t have pegged him as a fast food kind of person. That probably means he’s been driving for a while. I don’t think people who are trying to kidnap young girls drive around for extended periods of time without doing it. Hopefully.

“I’m Emmett,” he says.

“Layla.” I reply quickly. I’d already thought this part through, probably spending more than half of my bus rides thinking of what my new name should be.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Layla. Now what’re you doing walking along the side of the road?”

Emmett asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

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19

I pause and wait for a second. Maybe I should just not answer. You know, be one of those silent, mysterious hitchhikers like you see in movies and stuff. No, that would just make everything even more awkward. “I’m uh, traveling.” I say.

Good enough.

“Traveling huh?” The laugh in his voice is clear.

“Yeah, traveling.”

“But with no destination. Hm.” Emmett doesn’t buy it, obviously. But it wasn’t for him to believe, it was just so we could both pretend he wasn’t picking up a runaway.

“Yeah, I’m going for more of a ‘wherever the wind takes me’ kinda thing.” He chuckles at this and I’m pretty sure he’s not planning on killing me.

We’re silent for a few minutes, the radio acting as the only buffer for the silence.

“Is that why you’re...traveling?” Emmett asks a few minutes later, glancing over at my arms. Shit. I untie the flannel around my waist and drape it over my shoulders, covering my arms and all the colors of the sky. This time, I don’t answer.

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RACHEL MCKERNAN

Truth

The bars, symmetrical and equidistant, were cold to the touch and unforgiving to Hubert’s insistent pushing and pulling. Much like the present state of the world, Hubert could do little to change his current state of being. His lean, lanky figure draped in the orange garb so customary in such an establishment created the illusion of a pale tall ghoul awaiting his final battle. Running his bony fingers over his itching bald scalp, Hubert ceased yanking on the bars to pick at the bloody scab that had formed since his encounter with Truth Seekers the day before. A door beeped down the hall and quick footsteps echoed upon the moist crumbling corridor walls while inmates scrambled to hide their faces. Hubert followed suit and cast his gaze upon his flimsy sneakers which kissed the bottom of the bars before him. Suddenly, a pair of spit-shined dress shoes entered his sight as a figure dressed in the feared blue of the Truth Seekers rapped on his cell with the tip of a baton that Hubert’s head knew well: the clunking of keys in the lock ending the kiss between sneaker and bars.

“Are you ready to speak the truth and nothing but the truth in order to clear your name in front of the Truth Seeker Judges?”

“Yeesss” Hubert stammered while averting his gaze. But alas, the baton came swiftly down upon his head, for once again, his eyes conveyed the truth that his whole utter being was trying to deny. Groveling on the floor, Hubert gazed at the ceiling of his cell to read the only moral the world followed.

ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH And with that, Hubert’s eyes rolled back and his body slouched onto the loathsome cement floor as happier memories from a month ago filled his mind.

With a quick swish of the curtains, light from the single pane window flooded into the quaint bedroom and was met by Hubert’s boyish grin. His soft green eyes hid behind a lock of disheveled curly black hair that still needed taming from the previous night’s rest.

Hubert jumped on one foot across the green shag carpet as his other was being forced into a one-size-too-small brown loafer. Grabbing a wire-toothrd comb, the juggling act continued while a toothbrush hung precariously from the corner of his mouth. With two minutes to spare, Hubert hopped the final steps from his porch to the sidewalk revealing the Star Wars socks hidden beneath long black slacks.

Regaining composure, Hubert rocked lightly from heel to toe while enjoying the fresh Saturday spring air that wafted in between the perfectly maintained apartments of the apartment complex. From around a rose bush, the town trolley peeked out as it picked up riders to transport them to their next destination. It glided to a silent stop in front of Hubert who bounded up the steps like an antelope before grabbing a lone newspaper an earlier traveler had forgotten.

Settling down on the squeaky red pleather seat, Hubert eagerly opened the newspaper and was immediately intrigued by the front page’s headline, “Old Woman: Death Wish Sentence.” “Oh, Bother,” Hubert thought as he continued to read the article. The first paragraph was dedicated to summarizing the last 50 years. It went in depth into the fall of the United States and eventually all the world’s individual powers and how this led to the rise of the world’s first unified government in the form of today’s Truthful Hierarchy. The paragraph gushed about the improved world that boasted a shared moral code that was unified by one belief: Always Tell the Truth.

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21

Hubert then skipped the next paragraph about how the old woman was raised in what is now considered “The War Age,” because, well, he didn’t care to think about what life could have been like. Finally at the meat of the article, Hubert unconsciously raised the newspaper closer to his clean-shaven chin and read the reason for the woman’s sentencing.

“This woman will be sent to court for sharing views about an all-powerful being that decides our fate in the afterlife. As there is no scientific evidence or eye witnesses that can attest to such a thing, this view has been deemed a lie and has been forbidden from being shared. The woman has refused to stop believing in this lie, violating the only moral code of our current age. As the woman refuses to see the truth, she will be sent to court and will most likely be found guilty. The death sentence will be her fate if this is the case. More information, page B7…”

“Well, it would be nice if there were such a being watching out for us, but if the Truth Seekers say it is a lie, it is,” Hubert thought before flipping idly through the rest of the glossy pages.

Like every other respectable individual, Hubert put his full trust in the Truth Seekers. They were the guardians of this new safe world.

These men and women had proven that it was true that our world was suffering from overpopulation. To solve this, all houses were torn down and rebuilt as apartments to conserve space. They had also used facts to prove that pollution was damaging the world and thus banned the use of cars. Now, only busses, subways, and trolleys are used for local transportation. Always seeking the truth using facts, the world was much better off than it used to be. And for those who thought 22

otherwise, like the women in the article, well… they were quickly silenced for their incessant lying. There could only be one truth, and the Truth Seekers insured this was true.

Looking up from the paper, Hubert watched the trolley travelers sway at every turn and he began to hum the beat of a silent song while tapping his fingers against the polished window. With a small exhale as if knowing its work had been completed, the trolley slid to a stop in front of the lush town park. Hubert stretched his arms, let out a sigh, and placed the now slightly worn newspaper back on the red pleather seat before following the last person off the trolley. He sauntered over to the small coffee stand situated on the corner underneath a large oak surrounded by yellow, purple, and white crocuses. Throwing two quarters for two cups of joe onto the counter, he turned to survey the picturesque park in hopes of spotting his date strolling down the pebbled path or feeding the Koi fish in the mirrored pond. Two sharp taps on the shoulder cut Hubert’s survey short as a stout woman pointed at the price of coffee: 50 cents a cup. Hubert could have sworn that just yesterday it was 25 cents a cup, but the stout women’s reddening face believed otherwise.

Hubert was about to argue when the wellknown blue of a Truth Seeker suddenly appeared behind him. Tall and intimidating, Hubert ceased his talking, and changed his thoughts to those of truth. Well, if she thought it was always 50 cents, and the sign says it’s so… “it must be true” Hubert faltered as he passed over two more quarters. Two cups in hand, Hubert rushed away from the Truth Seeker and the coffee cart and over to the farthest bench while trying to quiet the small pain that had formed in his gut from his encounter.

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Unexpectedly, two small manicured hands fluttered by Hubert’s vision before covering his eyes and a sing-songy voice engulfed his ears asking “Guess whoooo?” Placing the coffees down on the bench, he gently pulled away his long-time girlfriend’s hands and turned his head causing his mess of black locks to swoosh from side to side. “Ameliaaa??” Hubert jokingly questioned as she ambled around the bench and hungrily grabbed a cup of coffee.

Her bright blonde hair bounced and her knee length flowing emerald dress puffed as she sat herself down upon the wooden bench. Wiping away a pink lipstick stain already forming on the white styrofoam cup, Amelia pulled Hubert in for a long passionate kiss. Surprised by the sudden onset of loving emotions, Hubert pulled away to look into the deep blue eyes that conveyed way too much joy for a girl who had been on this same date, with this same guy, at least a million times. “What… what is it?” Hubert inquired, tilting his head like an inquisitive puppy in such a manner that always drove Amelia crazy, even if Hubert didn’t know it. Smiling, Amelia turned away and grabbed something from deep within her burgundy purse and hid it inside her small palm. Twirling back in Hubert’s direction, Amelia speedily dove into their 5-year relationship, reciting the ups and downs, but highlighting all the truths they had shared.

Hubert’s brows wrinkled in confusion as he watched his girlfriend bounce up and down in anticipation, anxiously uncrossing and re-crossing her petite ankles while her hands turned white from the death grip she had on whatever was inside of them. Finally ending the monologue, Amelia finally unclasped her hands to reveal a small silver band that Hubert cast his gaze upon with puzzlement.

Laughing anxiously, Amelia grabbed Hubert’s chin and forced his eyes to meet hers. Will.

You. Marry. Me. These four words fell from the tip of Amelia’s tongue and hung in the air with balloons of hope, love, trust, and truth supporting them.

Stunned, Hubert quickly wrenched his head from Amelia’s grasp and scooted farther down the bench. No, he did not love her. Hubert shook at the realization that this relationship had always been a safe spot for him, but nothing more. Oh yes, Hubert had dreamed of marriage and kids, buying a small apartment for him and his wife to live in, but he had never thought he could have that with Amelia.

Hubert stammered and stumbled on his words, and the warm blue eyes turned cold as Hubert’s incompetence in answering what Amelia had assumed was an easy ‘yes’ popped the balloons of hope, love, trust, and truth.

“I…I cannot. I do not love you,” Hubert spluttered out as he pushed himself off the bench and restlessly looked for an escape.

“But you do, you MUST love me! How could you not after 5 years? You are lying!” Amelia shrieked in pain. “You are a liar! Liar! You must always tell the truth and you are not!”

Throwing her coffee on the ground, Amelia shakily stood and cursed Hubert and his disobedience of the law, yelled that he was a scandalous criminal. Color drained from Hubert’s face as he grasped the full intention of Amelia’s screaming. Amelia’s perfectly delicate figure quaked with anger and hatred as she stared upon the man she thought her future was with and now could not be because he refused to see the truth, that he DID love her. Hubert stood frozen as Amelia’s rant called the attention of passers-by who gasped at the sight of a liar. Hubert turned to run when he was abruptly knocked down onto

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the pebble path soaked in 50-cent hot coffee.

Spit-shined dress shoes pressed in-between his shoulder blades as he struggled to get up and the last thing he heard was the high pitch of Amelia’s voice screeching “Liar! Filthy Liar!” before a prompt baton met his mass of curly black hair.

Very few know that the first thing they do to you in a Deceiver Penitentiary is strip away your human dignity. Hubert’s black locks were the first to meet their untimely end, but soon followed the glow of healthy skin and the boyish grin that Hubert had always had. Atrophy set in and Hubert struggled to maintain the figure that once filled out his orange jumpsuit. Hubert sat in his moist cell rubbing his hand across his head for hours on end, feeling the smoothness of his scalp and then comparing it to the roughness of the cement floor. No one talked to Hubert; the Truth Seekers say the truth will come out when a person is given enough time to think about it.

Abruptly, Hubert was brought back to consciousness by the splash of cold water upon his face. The Truth Seeker was crouched in front of him, the baton ready to deliver another beating if Hubert refused to cooperate. The Truth Seeker repeated: “Are you ready to speak the truth and nothing but the truth in order to clear your name in front of the Truth Seeker Judges?”

“YES” Hubert hollered as the baton began its downward motion once again. The Truth Seeker stopped and gazed into Hubert’s eyes, looking for any signs that he was lying.

Little did he know that Hubert, for the past 6 months, has been practicing delivering that exact line. He was ready to confess that he did

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love Amelia, and that their marriage was what he wanted. Convinced at Hubert’s truthfulness, the Truth Seeker seized the slender shoulders of the inmate and lifted the weightless man off the ground and into an upright position.

He instructed that Hubert follow him down the corridor and to the court room, located just outside the door. There, he would be put to trial. Hubert nodded and forced his bony feet to walk behind the Truth Seeker while he convinced his heart that it was Amelia that he really wanted. As the Truth Seeker opened the court room door, the glistening wooden posts and warm light shining down on the members of the room was a nice contrast to the cell Hubert came from. There was a trial going on, and Hubert was tucked into a hard-wooden seat as the Truth Seeker strengthened his grip on his shoulders from behind.

An old woman stood at the stand arguing with the jury about the truthfulness of her belief. No hair, pale skin, and an arched back identified her as a prisoner. But, there was something different between her and Hubert.

As she spoke, there was a tinge of pride and honesty that was woven into her speech. She truly believed she was telling the truth and was willing to fight to the end for this belief.

A twinge of guilt wriggled its way through Hubert’s stomach as he watched this old woman defend herself in a way that he did not know if he could.

“There is a higher power, we do not need evidence for this to be true, we just need to believe. We just need faith.” The women pleaded as the judges shook their heads at her disobedience.

Hubert suddenly stood up only to be pushed down by the Truth Seeker at the startling realization that this is the same women from

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the newspaper he had read so long ago. Here she was, after all this time, still pleading that she was telling the truth. At the time, Hubert whole-heartedly believed that she was a liar that needed to be silenced, but now there was something in the way she moved and in the way she spoke that drove Hubert to believe that she was speaking the truth, or at least some form of it. Hubert clutched his bloody, oozing scalp at the sudden insight that there may be more than one way to view the truth, and that this old woman was fighting for this concept. Hubert was brought out of his stupor by a loud bang of a gavel and the following sentencing for the women: “This woman has been found guilty of sharing views about an all-powerful being that decides our fate in the afterlife. As there is no scientific evidence or eye witnesses that can attest to such a thing, this view has been deemed a lie and has been forbidden from being shared. The woman has refused to stop believing in this lie, violating the only moral code of our current age. As the woman rejects the suggestion to cease spreading lies, her actions must be stopped leading to the Truth Seekers ruling of the death sentence. This sentence shall be fulfilled immediately.”

The old women slouched a bit lower, but no tears flowed down her pale wrinkled cheeks.

Two Truth Seekers rounded the corner and hauled her back to the door Hubert had just come from. For a second, her pale brown eyes met those of Hubert’s green, and somehow, Hubert knew what he must say on the stand, for the truth will set you free.

The next day, a young girl scurried onto the trolley that Hubert once rode. She flopped onto the red pleather seat and crossed her arms in indignation that today was a school day. A newspaper peeked out from beneath two cushions and her little hands were soon swallowed by the pages. The headline read, “Young Man: Death Wish Sentence.” The girl brought the paper closer to her chin and squinted her green eyes as she read what the following paragraph had to say. “A young man was brought before the court due to the failure to tell his significant other the truth.

Reviewing the actions and events that had occurred in their past, it was evident that the young man loved his significant other and should have conceded to marriage. Yet, the young man adamantly claims he does not love his significant other and shall not marry her. His view has been deemed a lie which violates the only moral code of our current age. As the man rejects the suggestion to cease believing in this lie, his actions must be stopped leading to the Truth Seekers ruling of the death sentence. More information, page C7.”

The little girl quietly sounded out each word of the paragraph in hopes of bettering her reading, but the meaning was lost in the sea of syllables. The little girl shrugged, stuffed the newspaper back under the cushion, and resumed her former thoughts of anger that today was a school day.

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SABRINA YASSEM

The Untold Story of Amelia Earhart This is it, I am going to die. The footsteps get louder. I can hear them drag through the gravel.

I roll over letting the tiny rocks in the dirt dig into my face, trying to take my mind off of the nightmare that will eventually ensue. Suddenly, I am projected to the day everything went wrong.

I can start to feel the vibrations from the turbulence in my chest. I remember the Yoke spinning out of control. I glance around trying to make sense of what is happening. The left wing, check. Right wing check. Right turbine engine intact, check. Left turbine engine intact, check.

What is happening to my Electra? She is the fastest two-engine Lockheed 10E Electra on the market. What is the problem? I try the radio; the rustling wind hitting the front windows is met with deafening static. I can hear the engine start to rattle as I drop altitude, it was fine a second ago. I can’t land because we are surrounded by water. Everything in my body knows I should be panicking, but there is something that feels at peace. My body starts to convulse from the jerking, my head hits the side of the cockpit window.

I jolt to reality. The footsteps have stopped. A man bends down and takes a handful of hair and yanks me to my feet. I can barely stand on my own. I am tired. My feet are so blistered they have swollen to twice their normal size and puss is pouring from the open wounds. I am grateful the maggots haven’t descended upon them yet; there are some who aren’t as lucky. Instead of having me do manual labor like the men, I am subjected to something more sinister.

My feet have not been ripped apart by the earth like them, mine have endured something more man-made than that. The man throws me on the ground, he turns to his comrades and they yell

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something in what I assume is Japanese to each other. I want to believe they are discussing my death, but I fear it is something that is far worse, something I am more familiar with. I fall to my knees and force myself to think of that day.

I can faintly hear Fred in the background pounding on something, or is that the supplies bouncing around? Knowing Fred, he’d try to save all the navigation equipment before he saved the rations. I am afraid of unstrapping my harness to check because the craft is so shaky. I remind myself that fear has no place on an airplane as I remove the harness strap in one sweeping motion. I enter the cabin and I see Fred’s body crumpled under a crate. I race over and check if he is alright.

No pulse. I stagger to the wall and hang on to a piece of rope attached to the ceiling as my Electra plunges into the cold, raging ocean. I float in the water, letting the chilly solution swirl around me. I close my eyes and think of George.

The way he looked the day I finally said I’d be his wife. He was one part shocked that I finally gave in after all his incessant proposals, but the other part of him looked blissfully happy. I hold on to that as I drift through the cabin. The pain in my body starts to numb and my mind starts to fade. I open my eyes when I hear a loud thud and inaudible chatter. The light is blinding.

I am pushed off my knees unable to finish the memory. The man who led me here is climbing on top of me as his friends hold my arms and shoulders. They must have learned if they don’t hold me down I’d keep kicking and biting, trying to break free. He pulls down my pants and during that moment everything inside me wants to die. I have been here for far too long, I have seen the unthinkable. Japanese killing men for

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sport. Defiling women because no one is strong enough to stop them. I haven’t eaten in three days, not since the last time I bite the man who is now on top of me.

I twist my head around and I catch the male prisoners turning away from what is happening to me. Before they would scream and throw rocks, now they try to pretend not to hear the screams. I want to pretend too, but I have no choice but to live this reality. I am forced to endure, even when enduring means I must stay here in this camp. I have thought about leaving, I even thought of a plan once. I was unsuccessful and now I am too tired and weak to try again.

After he is done, others gather around the misshaped circle awaiting their turn. I bury the side of my cheek into the dirt, the tears running down my face create a paste that I try to smear onto it by moving my head back and forth. I do this hoping that they are repulsed by what they see. I am wrong.

One after one, they each take a piece of my very essence, I almost have nothing left. Eventually I am left in the small square, alone. They know I will not run; my feet are too badly beaten from the last time I tried. I curl around my knees and hold on so tightly that my finger nails puncture the skin and blood rolls down my leg. I let myself wonder back to the day I thought I was rescued.

I was naïve, I was not rescued, it was the exact opposite.

Japanese soldiers saved me from the wreckage, they pulled me from my Electra. They brought me back to hell. I wish I would have listened to George, I had already accomplished enough. I built the Ninety-Nines, the first international organization whose sole purpose was to promote the advancement of women pilots. I placed third

in the All-Women’s Air Derby. I was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean.

Circumventing the globe was not something I had to do; I had already proven myself. My stubbornness demanded I make an even bigger statement. I was one of the best pilots and I was a woman. I did not have to board that plane or even leave that runway, but I did. I did and now I wish I hadn’t. I could have stayed with George and started that family we talked about.

The last thing I did before I left that sunny day in Oakland, California was kiss George goodbye and promise that when I got back we would try to conceive a baby. I promised and now I will never fulfill that, I will never see George again, never tell him how much he really meant to me.

The light is fading, and I know tomorrow will yield the same outcome. I turn towards the last golden ray and the light glistens off something that is pale. I crawl toward the small object and take the bamboo in my hands. The little shoot is exactly what I needed.

I think of the first time I flew my Canary. Her bright worn yellow wings are what drew me to her. I knew the second I saw her that we were connected, made from the same material: Hard, resilient, wise. She and I were a team; she was my first craft. She will forever be etched in my memory -- the way she glided through the air, freeing herself from all constraints.

I want to be free, too. I want to be lost in the field of white clouds. I dig the little piece of bamboo into my arm. I force it as deep inside of me as it can go. I need it, it is my last hope of escape. I feel the warm blood run down me, I close my eyes and think of the first time I flew that old yellow plane. The way the sun seeped into the cockpit and lit it up like a falling star;

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the light fracturing off the controls and falling down to the floor. I remember this, and I feel grateful for those memories. They were my only solace. I can finish my flight now, I am no longer bound, I am a canary that has been freed from the cage. I will spread my wings and soar.

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TOTEM 2019

Contributors’ Notes NICOLE ANDERSON

JULIA FULTON

Senior, Early Childhood Education and Special Education

Senior, English

“Wonder” This photo was taken at Presque Isle. There are not many things more magical than watching a sunset after a long summer day.

“Red Sunflower” My love of sunflowers caused me to grow my own sunflower garden. After a rainy summer day, I snapped this photo of rain drops resting on this red sunflower.

“Do-Over” You can spend your whole life wishing things were different and wishing you could go back in time and change things, or you can accept your mistakes for what they are and learn from them. It’s not always easy, but I try my best to do the latter.

LILY BARGABUS Freshman, Occupational Therapy “New York” New York City is one of my favorite places to go because the city is so alive. Every time I go, I feel a part of the fast moving community. The different architecture of the buildings give a perspective to the city’s past, present, and future.

“Pirate Ship” I saw this ship in New York while walking towards the Manhattan Bridge. Seeing the pirate ship brought me back to my childhood of watching movies and television shows, and imaginary play with my family.

JULIA EADS Senior, Mechanical Engineering “Garden of Hope” The poem “Garden of Hope”came from my love of plants and my tendency to think, think, think all the time. So much growth and change happens in college and it’s easy to forget where you started. I hope that when you read this poem you take a moment to remember and appreciate how far you have come and how much you have overcome despite the trials you have faced.

“Life in the Fast Lane” Look down. You might see something.

“As Hemingway Intended” I wrote this on my 21st birthday and may or may not have been drinking at the time.

“A Bratz Limo, Unfortunately Deceased” For anyone who asks, I get my humor from my mom and Dave Barry.

“But You Wouldn’t Know” Yes, Adam. This one’s for you.

ALEXIS GRAU Freshman, Nursing “Abstract” The piece Abstract was part of a project that showed the type of art we are best at. My instructor assigned me with the task of creating an abstract oil piece based off of a silhouette.

“Golden Tears” The piece Golden Tears was part of a project where my class was instructed to copy a famous art work and create it in four mediums. Instead of cutting the board, or blocking it into four sections, I combined the four different mediums. I used acrylic paint, chalk pastels, colored pencils, and gold leaf.

RYAN HAMILTON Junior, Economics and Finance “Feeling Blue?”

This watercolor is part of a series I have been working on throughout the past years called Blossoms and Blotches. This rose specifically is inspired from my employment at a flower shop near home. The blue coloration for the rose is directly in the face of the standard red rose that one typically sees, so I thought the aesthetic was interesting and was different than the other pieces in the series.

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KATHERINE KISS

BERWYN MOORE

Senior, Occupational Therapy

Professor, English

“Adventure Awaits” This photo was taken during the fall of my sophomore year, 2016. I was exploring Erie with one of my roommates and we found this tunnel with an old train track. I played around with the lighting and we were happy with how this shot turned out.

“Poem as a Field of Action” William Carlos Williams’ essay “Poem as a Field of Action” inspired me to write this poem. It was originally published in the Briar Cliff Review and is included in my book, Sweet Herbaceous Miracle, winner of the 2017 John Ciardi Poetry Prize (BkMk Press). I’m honored that Totem selected it for publication.

BETHANY LEWIS Alumnae “I-81 N/S” When you’re a writer, sometimes putting what’s making you sad into words makes you feel better. I got used to the drive, but I never got used to saying goodbye. 364 miles is no longer the farthest I’ve ever driven at one time: my new record is 471 miles, which I drove the day my boyfriend and I moved to be together.

NADYA MAKAY

RENEE LAUFER Junior, Psychology “A Trans Plays on Words” I was inspired to write “a trans plays on words” when I realized, for better or worse, I tend to view everything through a lens of transness. Every time I would hear a word beginning with “trans” my ears would perk. This got a bit ridiculous, although I feel a subjectivity of transness provides valuable insight into many things.

The poem is more a protest than anything.

Freshman, Accounting “Happiest Flower” This photo was inspired by my love for both photography and sunflowers. Sunflowers are my favorite flower, because simply seeming one puts me into a better mood. They are yellow and yellow is the color of happiness. To me, sunflowers most definitely are the “Happiest Flower.”

RACHEL MCKERNANY Sophomore, Physician Assistant “Truth” I specialize in realistic fiction pieces that focus on challenges and the strength needed to overcome them. With this in mind, I decided to challenge my own writing ability and enter a new genre. As my first dystopian piece, “Truth” has an overarching theme that focuses on the presence of truthfulness in society and where one should draw the line between truths and lies. This dystopian story stemmed from the my time spent in Honors- Intro to Philosophy taught by Mr. Prianti. During the class, we talked about ethical issues plaguing today’s society and the philosophical disparity of ideas behind those issues.

Truth, and the relativity of this term, peaked my interest and was the inspiration for this piece.

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MALORIE PATTERSON Grad Student, English “Point of Departure” “Point of Departure” is the first part of a short story I began writing in Berwyn’s Moore graduate Creative Writing course. Initially, it was a poorly disguised version of a past relationship of mine, but the more I worked with Ben and Olivia, the more I realized a different story was taking shape. I wanted to capture the magic of a new relationship, the beginning phases when everything is shiny and clean, and the other person is simply charming and seemingly perfect. No one begins a relationship with the end in mind, but as I was writing this, I knew how I wanted to end things and it was kind of fun to reverse engineer a relationship based on how it would end.

BETH REYNOLDS Graduate Student, English “Meeting Mia” for my stepdaughter

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ALEXA ROGERS

JOSHUA TAYLOR

Junior, English

Freshman, Undecided

“A Night Like These” He dies at the end

“The Elementalist” I wrote “The Elementalist” as a way to express the feelings that are associated with coming to college as an undecided major. The thoughts of being overwhelmed about deciding on a major and the hope that comes with discovering new possibilities are what occupied my conscious while I wrote. The magical aspect reflected how popular majors are portrayed by certain characteristics...or it’s just me being a nerd.

MARGARET RUTKOWSKI Senior, Industrial Engineering “Coffee Shop Ballet” & “Colorful” My medium I use to show how I see the world is through photography. I tend to look at the little things and the details that I like and take pictures of those small details, and these two photographs showcase that. I saw two big pictures and pinpointed what I like and got close to them and captured how they made me feel. We all see the world differently and I love using photography to showcase the world through my eyes, and these have become two of my favorite pieces.

DAVID SLUSARICK Freshman, Philosophy and Seminarian “Prayer of Awakening” How many of us, who profess to be believers, wake up and check our social media, or mentally review (and perhaps become overwhelmed by) our to-do list for the day, before we check in with God? I was inspired to write Prayer of Awakening as a way to offer every part of myself to God for the day ahead. It need not be used exclusively as a morning prayer; it may be prayed at any time to re-orient ourselves to God, when the pressures and distractions of daily life have dulled our awareness of His presence, His commands, and His promises to us.

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TOTEM 2019

Colophon Totem 2019 was designed by Julia Fulton, Editor, and Andrew Lapiska, Creative and Brand Strategist in Gannon University’s Marketing and Communication department.

The cover art, “State Street After Dark,” is a digital photograph by Matt Fassnacht.

This year’s Totem contains acrylic painting, digital photography, multi-media collague, pencil drawing, and watercolor. Artwork was reproduced in CMYK builds.

Headline text is set in Qanelas Soft and body text throughout is set in Jura.

The cover box was printed on 100# Accent Opaque Smooth Cover; inside booklet covers were printed on 80# 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 2019; photographs and artwork were prepared for publication with Adobe Photoshop CC 2019.

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

Funding is provided by Gannon University.

Totem is distributed free of charge.

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Shadows Alexa Rogers

5 The Elementalist Joshua Taylor 8 I Saw Her, I Lost Her Paige Sherbine 10 Borneo Jordan Seroka 12 A Bratz Limo, Unfortunately Deceased Julia Fulton 14 Point of Departure Malorie Patterson 18 The Girl Who Fell From the Sky Nicole Borro Truth Rachel McKernan

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The Untold Story of Amelia Earhart Sabrina Yassem

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Contributors’ Notes

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