Pause | Fall 2019

Calliope PAUSE

Calliope PAUSE

because e v e r ywhere i want to submit calls out f or the other the “ r a w and unhinged ,” b ut i’m more ca r nation than ca r nal.

rejection emails are the newspape r,

“ w e ’re so r r y to s a y , b ut y ou ’ re just not what w e ’ re looking f o r . w e l o v ed y our piec e , b ut it doesn’t quite match our styl e w e encou r age y ou to k eep w r iting and w e hope to hear from y ou again . ” seems that i am what no one looks f o r i match not their style nor their ideal.

“ w e ’re so r r y to s a y , b ut y ou ’ re just not what w e ’ re looking f o r w e l o v ed y our piec e , b ut it doesn’t quite match our styl e w e encou r age y ou to k eep w r iting and w e hope to hear from y ou again ” seems that i am what no one looks f o r i match not their style nor their ideal.

m y optimism dec a ys upon the real, f or i w ould r ather w r ite odes f or a sp r ing sh ow er than winter ’ s dec a y , seems that i am a v e r se to poetic disa r r a y

m y optimism dec a ys upon the real, f or i w ould r ather w r ite odes f or a sp r ing sh ow er than winter ’ s dec a y , seems that i am a v e r se to poetic disa r r a y li k e the b o y who called me o v e r l y soft in a text he sent in september one d a y detailing h o w he w ould not see me again. to dism a y . the disappointment of the “ w e hope to hear from y ou again ” and not n o w seems that i am m uch too g r aceful

li k e the b o y who called me o v e r l y soft in a text he sent in september one d a y detailing h o w he w ould not see me again. to dism a y . the disappointment of the “ w e hope to hear from y ou again ” and not n o w . seems that i am m uch too g r aceful

li k e the d a y i donned m y bell-bottom denim jeans , cuffs rolled up t w o times to collect petunias gr o wing wild in them , of

li k e the d a y i donned m y bell-bottom denim jeans , cuffs rolled up t w o times to collect petunias gr o wing wild in them , of the g r ass of the w oods in m y g r andmother ’s because e v e r ywhere i want to submit calls out f or the other the “ r a w and unhinged ,” b ut i’m more ca r nation than ca r nal. rejection emails are the newspape r,

“i

In the trees, birds chir p sweet melodies, the light timbre of their music embr acing you, even through your car window The summer air is war m and humid, so thick that it almost envelops you, but the breeze is cooling.

Stopped at a gas station far from your hometown, you nestle in that one , perfect car seat,

tank. His features are serene; his demeanor is calm.

He peeks at you through the glass, scr unching his face up into an amusing gesture . You laugh, and he makes another expression.

pale from how hard he gr ips the steer ing wheel, and how his head r ises to stare at the str anger s.

And then you hear par t of the str anger s ’ words: Go back to where you came from.

It’s a single moment, just a few seconds of time , but the wor ld silences around you.

You can only see the back of your father’s head as the str anger s meander away, but he’s still. After they’re out of sight, he twists in his seat, tur ning to face you.

where do you come from?

The two of you chuckle as he gets into the car He closes his door, and the summer’s air stills without the breeze .

A pair of str anger s approach, knocking on the passenger-side window You don’t think much of them.

Instead, you focus on your father, and how the sweat makes his shir t stick to his dar k skin You obser ve how his knuckles tur n

You wait for him to say something, to address the identity of the two str anger s. But his lips for m different words.

My little Rambu, he says in a steady voice , where do you come from?

All other thoughts cease for a moment The lines in his face are so deeply etched that you think, perhaps, they have been car ved into his mellow skin. His eyes are impassive , but the shadows beneath them are midnight-dar k

He tur ns away suddenly, as if disappointed. Never mind, he mur mur s.

Does the bird ever wish to be a mouse?

The old man who lived in a cave on top of the mountain once asked me this when I delivered a message from his daughter in the village below. What does a mouse have that a bird does not?

I replied. It seems I was too young to under stand that when you are at the top, the only way to go is down

As I aged, my desire to see the wor ld beyond the mountains grew, though I was bound to the land below. What was the point of having wings if I couldn’t

I had once believed that someone like me would be invincible to such uncer tainty, as I would never be able to change my situation in my shor t lifetime . I

yet it is in all our natures to search for something more

I began to ask myself, would things be different, if I were a mouse?

I met a mouse once , ear ly one mor ning at the base of the mountain on the outskir ts of the village . He asked me , will you share the wor m you found with the birds that follow?

I asked him, will you take the cheese before you help the mouse out of the tr ap?

Now I rest atop the mountain as the old man had, my body soon to be bur ied in the snow, my year s blur r ing together before my eyes, wonder ing: Does the human ever wish to be a bird?

ALEXIS SEED

ENDLESS DAY S

TEERADA THIA

I always think about what it would be like to r un away from ever ything.

7:20 a.m. That’s the time I wake up ever y day. When I do, I always stare at the white ceiling above me . I think about a lot of things but at the same time , not enough. Of cour se , I think about what I’ll do that day, what I’ll wear, what classes I have to go to. But there’s always something else I subconsciously think about. I ponder back to memor ies of being a child, star ing up at that same ceiling 8, 9, or 10 year s ago without a care in the wor ld. Back then, I didn’t have to wor r y about anything. I could r un and play as I pleased. I could be free . I didn’t have to wor r y about the piling stress, increasing wor kloads, and dreaded tests I just had to be a kid and do the things that kids did. my needs Even if I wanted the wor ld to stop, I wouldn’t have the power to do it I’ll grow more and more as time goes on. Such days of never having worr ies will never come again. “I have to grow up,” I hypnotize myself into thinking ever y day.

7:50 a.m. I leave to go to school and think about that white ceiling again. How I would love to

stare at it all day and how much comfor t it br ings me as I lull in my cozy bed. But I have to leave because that’s what society demands of me and ever yone else . No matter how much I think about it, I have no capability to change it because that’s the way of the wor ld. It stops for no one and moves for ever yone .

11:30 p.m. as I’m about to fall asleep, it’s dar k again. The white ceiling can’t be seen but I know it’s there and that gives me solace . But I can’t help thinking that there could be more . More things that I could do to free myself from the drear y, mundane life I go through. Day in day out the same nonsense and the same repeated patter n goes on in an endless cycle . “Sure I can’t be a kid again but I wish I could at least go back to those days” I think as I fall asleep to that thought But time won’t stop It won’t go back either It’ll keep moving at its ever constant speed I’ll str uggle to catch up but I can’t expect it to wait for me

7:20 a.m., a new day, I stare up at the white ceiling.

I have tasted the sickly sweet illusion of freedom like sugar coating the bitter pill of reality its cr ystals get caught in the cr acks of my judgment enticing me with its false sense of comfor t it dr aws me in and whisper s in my ear that it is not an illusion

but I know it is not real I know what tr ue freedom is I linger on the edge of it how it speaks to me with tr uth just one more step, it says, for the rest of humanity is content in believing

but I know that cannot be tr ue we are all bound by wor ldly chains of love , of hate , of desire listen to the voices in my head some begging to end it

then I could too

with my cur rent reality perhaps I could lear n to embr ace the chains of the wor ld love , hate , desire and leave tr ue freedom for the next life

“Easy does it,” she says ginger ly, taking my hand and guiding me that shifts with ever y step.

salt water spr ay abundantly into the midnight air.

We stop walking. She looks at me with a nostalgic sor t of melancholy glimmer ing in her eyes.

“It never stops,” she whisper s, barely audible amidst the ocean ambiance .

I feel my hear t sink in my chest, a broken vessel inevitably dr ifting

She tur ns her back and obser ves the sea.

“Be here now,” she says decisively, over looking the cr ashing water. “Be here now, in this moment. with me . ”

She gr abs my other hand, and we face each other. The cor ner s of her lips cur l upwards.

I say nothing, only nodding softly That’s all I needed.

S TAIRS

a staircase sits before her abandoned and neglected the steps, dusty, cement, cold her feet, bare , chilled shoes, lost like Cinderella’s slippe for her, though she takes a step as she ascends, and she can’t help but who was here last after all, ever yone takes the elevato nowadays

Slower 404

TESS LEDDEN

Whoosh. Bang!Ow. Landing inside someone’s mind always hurts, but this time I fell on we bring a witness to crime into our lab and send me or another memory hopper into their heads. It’s a fun job, and we earn hazard pay because of the possibility we can’t leave a witness’s brain. Deep inside everyone’s mind, there is a road called Memory Lane. Sometimes it’s long and winding, other times it’s short and straight, and still other times it goes through a tunnel and the reception is bad, manifesting in memory loss. Everything that has ever happened to a person is stored on Memory Lane, even if that person can’t access the memory.This witness’s early years fade into fog past the sharp clarity of the present as I look behind me. Each major memory has its own house on Memory Lane: some are old and gray, nigh invisible in the mist, but many are colorful and bright, merry in the sunlight. In sharp contrast with the happier memories, there’s one house about a mile behind me that seems to that chaotic in my life and even from a mile away I feel like I’m staring into an abyss, standing on the brink of nothingness. Some primal fear pulls me back, begging me to look away, even as a sense of duty and morbid curiosity drags me forward.This has to be it; the time frame from our witness. All I need is a glimpse of the perpetrator, and then I can go home. My body is on autopilot. I’ve never felt like this for any other case-but then, I’ve never had a murder case before. I walk up the front steps and then I’m inside.The hallway is pitch black, so I feel around for a light switch. position.

Whoosh. Bang!Ow. Landing inside someone’s mind always hurts, but this time I fell on we bring a witness to crime into our lab and send me or another memory hopper into their heads. It’s a fun job, and we earn hazard pay because of the possibility we can’t leave a witness’s brain. Deep inside everyone’s mind, there is a road called Memory Lane. Sometimes it’s long and winding, other times it’s short and straight, and still other times it goes through a tunnel and the reception is bad, manifesting in memory loss. Everything that has ever happened to a person is stored on Memory Lane, even if that person can’t access the memory.This witness’s early years fade into fog past the sharp clarity of the present as I look behind me. Each major memory has its own house on Memory Lane: some are old and gray, nigh invisible in the mist, but many are colorful and bright, merry in the sunlight. In sharp contrast with the happier memories, there’s one house about a mile behind me that seems to that chaotic in my life and even from a mile away I feel like I’m staring into an abyss, standing on the brink of nothingness. Some primal fear pulls me back, begging me to look away, even as a sense of duty and morbid curiosity drags me forward.This has to be it; the time frame from our witness. All I need is a glimpse of the perpetrator, and then I can go home. My body is on autopilot. I’ve never felt like this for any other case-but then, I’ve never had a murder case before. I walk up the front steps and then I’m inside.The hallway is pitch black, so I feel around for a light switch.

position.

I knew she had it in her, the little feline monstrosity.

It’s my cat.

It’s my cat.

I knew she had it in her, the little feline monstrosity.

the night my breath stood still my ear to the ground of your hear t so i could study its beating and teach my lungs to dance .

Remember when I was The Sun?

Dr ipping effer vescent yellows, tendr ils caressing your hear tache I drowned in your azure eyes

“Love me into consciousness,” I said

And so

The rhythm of your love letter s breathed ballads Through the monotonous mar shes I waded in And the cr ystalline cadence of your laughter belted life Into the blank caver ns of my hear t

But then

The melody ends

Crescendoing violins forced behind cupboards

Cymbals shatter like icicles

This silence is so dar k

I watch your hand search for his Finger s basket weave in that golden brown air Fresh pollen conducts a symphony

Your love for him is so pure

And so sweet

And it’s simplicity sings lullabies to songbirds

But don’t you remember when that melody used to be mine? Back when you called me The Sun? And so I whisper, “Will you play me one last song?”

Here , nothing can grow, and now, there is only me The clock inside used to tick, tick, tick, but now it is silent. The once fer tile ground, from which the mir acle of life could spr ing up, is now a dr y and ar id deser t, deep inside of me , but sur rounding me with no end in sight.

How do I go on? Is this all that is left? An express line to death, with nothing left to show? Will I go away forever, having left only memor ies in my wake? When I am under ground for good, and the year s pass, and I rot away, do my dreams of life rot with me? Or will They tr ansfor m, and the life I bear will reach not for me , But for the sun?

A whir lwind of redhead spir it

GR A CIE

It’s bliss- but soon I dr ip out of the pool, stomach twitching with anxiety over an impending histor y test.

A dew-spr inkled, cr isp-aired mor ning, the sour pinkness of a gr apefr uit clutched in hand, we listen to sweet birdsong and wait for the imminent sun-war ming; But the buzz from a lit-screen distr acts from the giggling Gr ace ,

A semi-molten, water-cascading after noon,

We gulp dr aughts of club soda, make-believing we are Nana.

a sundress-wear ing, stomach-full golden hour, where sizzling meat, plump tomatoes, cr isp lettuce combine in a mouthwater ing taco, a spread of Calculus laid in front of tense shoulder s, but Gr ace insists on Tic-Tac-Toe; We share the content closeness of conver sation among family

a care-for saking, chlor ine-laden evening, with Ar izona constellations shining in the sky,

Dunking under, we spy the beams of enemy submar ines, and suddenly all other cares shr ink into the deep folds of navy-blue r ipples.

a blanket-heated, gr asshopper-squeaking twilight, a Notre Dame Ter vis Cup of water by my side , a rosebud-lips par ted cur ly-haired head resting on my bicep; I pore over the phr ases of my choosing from long-gone author s whose words are their only legacy.

a fr igid deser t night, when even the air molecules seem to be shiver ing; But all my troubles reside in the Land of Lincoln,

Slower

My hands spr awl across the profuse White hill of paper which lays across the valley of Pens and post-its

The oak desk caressed in the cor ner of the room

I continue to tr avel between the valley and the hill

The hill of day in and day out.

I am Sisyphus rolling the stone up

The never ending hill of day in and day out

Then a cor uscating light

From the Basil & Moss candle Captures my attention. As it pleads for me to Rest

To pause

Pleads for me to breath Student, please breath.

My hands lay in the valley

Of post-its

And my body comes to a halt

Me We You.

We are all r apidly tur ning The wor ld has no time to Cease its movement

I cannot stand idly by With my hands in my pockets. I cannot pause But I must

We . Me . You.

Must recognize the hur r ied Routine we are addicted to Yet Find the beauty within the hill of Day in and day out

Me . We . You.

Cannot for get

To look into the cor uscating light.

the ache of a pause between yes and no is something so tender and intensely familiar the idea of what we could’ve done of what we didn’t so constant that we fall into a cycle of missing

She is not her self when she is in the r ain

GARDEN

GARDEN

She is a mockingbird Mocking me with her gr acefulness She is a r ipple , a wave in the sea: elegant but stor my Ener gy cour ses through her veins, dr ips from her laughter,

She is an embodiment of ever y contr adiction known to this wor ld.

The way her beauty sends shiver s up my spine yet one laugh and i feel war mth on my cheeks. The way she plunges through the puddles as if she were at a beach in the midst of July She is as pretty and dainty as a sprouting daisy, but stands her ground and shakes the pavement with her strength.

How can one tr uly capture

Before you can even begin to comprehend it she’s spinning you around, sweeping you off your feet to join her dance .

She is not her self When she is in the r ain.

You Create • Calliope

We hope you e njoy our newes t edi tion of C alliope , Pause, a s much a s we did cr eating i t

A s G le nbr ook Sou t h ’ s li te r ar y and visual ar t s maga zine , we showca se a var iet y of poet r y, shor t s tor ies , essays , photogr aphs , and visual ar t We value all cr eative s tude nt s at G B S and their wor k , and we s t r ive to pr ese nt their incr edible ar t to our communi t y

Z ain A k bar

Ya smee n R afee

Nicole Sur cel

A lex Szmyd

Er in Ak gun

Nz ah Tajuddin

Chaeyeon Par k

A nne R ibor d y

Mia Me r chant

Ru t h T homa s

VISUAL ARTS

O m Patel

K at he r ine Schur e r

Mr. John Allen

Emily Cho

Olivia G e r ns

Ve r onik a G liwa

Emilee G r uszec zk i

Audr ey Hage r

R handa Halawah

Mar cel Hoang

A nu K he r le n

Sar ah K im

R achel Kunkel

J ose phine Mo

K ate Os t r ows k i

Ste phanie Pi t te r man

A li Seed

L aur e n S haw

Tee r ada T hia

G abi War r e n

A lex Yunda- R aije r

Emily Yunda- R aije r

Lucia Zde nahlik