The Quad – Summer 2017

The

Quad

Grove City College Summer 2017

The Quad Senior Editor Junior Editor

Grant Wishard Kathleen McAlister

Department Editors Creative Nonfic.

Ruth Finley Abigail Opst Poetry Becky Tzouanakis Nathan Snitchler

Anne St. Jean Austin Zick Essays

Dabney Glover

Book Reviews Peter Herman Eric Gardner Short Stories Allie Bimber Holly Ahrens Illustrator

Christie Goodwin

Design & Layout Editor

Nicolas Giorgi

Copyeditors Katie Shilling Katie Wong Madeline Wishard Faculty Advisor

Dr. H. Collin Messer Prof. Josh Mayo

Editorial Advisory Board

Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger

Dr. Daniel S. Brown

Dr. Joshua F. Drake

Dr. Michael F. Falcetta

Dr. Gillis J. Harp

Dr. Charles E. Kriley

Dr. Julie C. Moeller

Dr. Jennifer A. Scott

Dr. Kevin S. Seybold

Editors’ Note

Dear Reader, Did you know Esquire used to be a major publisher of creative fiction? Well, the man partially responsible, former editor-in-chief Terry McDonell, has just recently retired and published his memoir, The Accidental Life. Now at the end of a long career, McDonell takes a look back on his work as editor of Esquire, Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, Newsweek, and Us Weekly – all enormously profitable magazines at one time, with countless readers across the country. Profiles of McDonell love to mention his boozy high-flying lifestyle, the game of golf he and journalist Hunter S. Thompson played while tripping acid, and his salty relationship with Steve Jobs. But what struck me most was his sincere love for words, and the people who put them in order, storytellers.

Did he enjoy working on the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue? Actually, not really. Did he love helping other people edit and publish their writing? Absolutely, and I think that’s what has made his life such a happy, successful affair.

McDonell’s love of words for their own sake is inspiring, and until Dr. Messer starts rewarding editors with the jet-setting expense accounts we richly deserve, The Quad might as well have the same mission – celebrating our friend’s accomplishments, and helping them improve their work. In this issue, we’re especially excited about Schuyler Kitchen’s short story “The Thing With Feathers,” and Ryker Minch’s poem “Odysseus Recognized by His Nurse,” both of which take great cues from classic literature.

Congratulations to Annie Dupee for her “Ishmael Limmericks,” it’s about time someone rhymed “Ishmael” with “stuffed whale.” This campus is full of great student writers and we’re proud to feature a few of them.

The Quad has been in print now for 12 years, and we’re excited to announce that we are in the process of relaunching our website. Having decided this whole ‘internet’ fad isn’t going to blow over any time soon, and in an effort to publish our writers more broadly, we believe a new website will help us better preserve and distribute each new magazine issue. McDonell is right, whether in print or online, the words and the writers come first. Lavish expense accounts, of course, come a close second. Right, Dr. Messer?

Sincerely, Grant

Junior Editor Kathleen McAlister

Senior Editor Grant Wishard

Volume 9, Issue 4 Summer 2017 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source.

Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process.

Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, campus mailbox number (or address) with your name and use 12 pt Times New Roman font, single spaced; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors.

The Quad

Summer 2017

volume 9 issue 4 Contents 1

Odysseus Recognized by His

Ryker Minch

Poem

Nurse 2

A Riddle

Vincent Michael

Poem

3

Beauty

Dan Slozat

Creative Nonfiction

5

The Endless Night

Annie Dupee

Short Story

10

Take, Eat

Katie Shilling

Poem

11

Number One, 2017

Nathan Snitchler

Poem

12

The Thing with Feathers

Schuyler Kitchin

Short Story

19

The Clear Glass Walls of Hearts

Austin Zick

Poem

21

The Coal

Vincent Michael

Poem

22

The Accident

Ryker Minch

Short Story

25

Middling

Nathan Snitchler

Poem

27

The Ishmael Limericks

Annie Dupee

Poem

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1

Odysseus Recognized by His Nurse

Ryker Minch

Everything changed by an ankle’s scar Thin, white, jagged.

As the skin, torn and bleeding, was sewn back together so may Ithaca, hopes dashed, tossed afar, be healed.

Weary is he, ragged clothes and belongings Breath strangled, hair tangled, mud-caked grey skin.

But with eyes unworn he scours his surroundings, failing to mask the joy therein.

There sits his old nurse plus some new wrinkles.

Not the scar, but his eyes her eyes see to realize its him.

She knows he knows and he knows too Penelope’s king has come to make old things new.

Ryker Minch ('17) was going to stay at GCC for as long as it took him to get published in the Quad. Now he can wrestle kangaroos and cranky cats in peace.

Summer 2017

A Riddle From ages past man has given Unto God incense pure White fragrant smoke a holy gift An offering sent onward before To heaven’s height To praise the Lord But God is greater than dust born man And greater are the gifts he’s given For God has made a delightful jewel With greatest scent when split and riven Above all myrrh Sent from heaven While insubstantial incense rises Solid is this gift of sod Good are the things which man has offered Greater to him is given by God What is this incense Seemingly odd?

Vincent Michael ('17) sometimes wishes he was a velociraptor; the rest of the time he is one.

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Vincent Michael

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Beauty

Dan Slozat

The first church I remember attending was torn down and replaced with a parking lot. It was a little white country church that had been standing for over one hundred years. A new, modern brick church building was built to replace it. I remember showing up the morning it was torn down. My mom and I stood in the parking lot, watching as the claws of the backhoe ripped through the old building.

It wasn’t that the building was inherently beautiful. It was a simple structure. Little thought had been put into its design. It had been added to and remodeled without any appreciation of esthetics. But it had a charm that comes with old buildings. A history and a warmth that the new building lacked. To see it so crassly torn down and replaced seemed like a great sin to four year old me.

I grew up, a child obsessed with architecture. Buildings and their design captivated me. My parents were quick to recognize this, and took me to see as many amazing structures a possible. They kept me well supplied with notebook paper with which I would draw and design my own buildings. I was always observing the world around me, picking up design styles and beauty. Looking for things that would inspire and resonate.

Many of the world’s most beautiful buildings are places of worship. The Sistine Chapel. Hagia Sophia. St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Notre Dame. St. Peters Basilica. The Pantheon. These are all churches, cathedrals, and temples, buildings planned to overwhelm and engage the worshiper. Imagery and iconography mix with architecture and design. The beauty draws one in and brings one closer to the holy.

When in a place like this, it is not hard to move one’s mind into a position of contemplating the divine mysteries of faith.

These spaces resonated with me. But my family was Protestant. More than that, we were Wesleyan Methodist. We believed that this world was temporal. Someday soon, it would all burn. There was little room for beauty in our worship experiences. Why should we work at creating beauty when it would all pass away? Images would only distract. Better to focus on the eternal. Saving souls. Purifying hearts.

Our buildings were as drab and depressing as our theology. While admirably focusing on heaven, the earth had been forgotten completely.

Six years after that old church had been torn down, we changed churches. But we kept the same building. The people of this new church had been to our old church and used the same blueprints when constructing their new building.

It was a very traditional and conservative congregation. The design of the building reflected as much. Being good Wesleyan Methodists, and sure that a church should only serve as a waiting room for the saints, the church was plain. The sanctuary walls were white and bare. The only color in the room, other than the royal blue of the carpet and pews, typically came from the simple flower arrangements that would grace the “In Remembrance of Me” table at the front of the sanctuary. The building was unadorned. Inexpensive. Practical.

I first walked into St. Patrick’s Cathedral when I was ten. It was grand. Lavish. And impractical.

We were visiting New York City for the first time. I was surrounded by stained glass and stone. The celling soared high overhead. Symbols and ornate details dominated every available surface. A mighty pipe organ dominated the back wall. Everything in nave pointed towards the front wall, and the beautiful altar in the apse. Outside, the duel spires were reaching to heaven. It was a beautiful building. I didn’t want to leave.

Back home I was again in a plain white box. But there was still beauty to be found there. The simplicity served to draw the worshipers gaze to the very front of the room. There, behind the pulpit and high on the wall, hung a simple wooden cross.

This simple symbol was beautiful in its own right. I may not have been able to worship in a stained glass cathedral, with all my surroundings ablaze with Christian symbolism, but I could focus

Summer 2017

my gaze on the key symbol of Christianity. The cross. That whole church building was centered on it.

From the air the building’s footprint takes the shape of the cross. Everything in that sanctuary pointed towards the front wall. Towards the icon of our salvation. It was the one form of imagery that we would allow ourselves. For me it was grounding. A constant reminder of the love and work of Christ.

One summer, my family and I returned from vacationing over the 4th of July holiday. I walked into church and was appalled by what I saw through the sanctuary doors. The cross, my symbol, had been taken down and replaced. In its stead hung the American flag. Jesus had been replaced by George Washington.

I felt physically sick, and rushed to one of the Sunday school rooms to attempt to clear my head.

No one else was bothered by this. No one else thought that this subversion was a problem. It was there in that Sunday school room that I found my symbol, the cross, stuck in a corner behind a filling cabinet.

A few years later, I found myself in Coventry, England. During World War II, Coventry’s Cathedral was bombed. All that remains of the original medieval cathedral is the bell tower and some smoke scorched walls. But the old was not bulldozed. Rather, it was preserved as a memorial. Those walls have been preserved. The peaceful remnants of a grand structure. A disaster made beautiful. A new cathedral sits to its side, its quiet companion.

The new Coventry Cathedral is humble. It does not reach towards the sky. It does not sprawl in multiple directions. It is a meditative sanctuary. It is self-aware. It knows what happened to the world around it. When one goes forward to receive the Eucharist all that is visible is a massive tapestry of Christ sitting enthroned. You become wholly aware of the sin in the world. Of the unreachable holiness of God. But when you return to your seat, you encounter the windows. Massive panels of stained glass line the walls, hidden in niches so as to only be visible on this return trip. They let in brilliant rays of colored light. You feel as though heaven is shining through. Beyond the stained glass, a giant etched screen shows saints and angels ascending to heaven. Through the glass you can see the shell of the old cathedral. You can see hope.

Standing in the bombed out shell, your eyes are drawn forward to where the altar once stood.

The focal point of Anglican services was torn down when a German plane dropped a bomb. But soon after the bombing, the cathedral stonemason found a new focal point. He saw two charred beams laying at right angles to each other. Tying them together, he placed them were the altar had once stood. To this day, behind the altar and high on the wall, there hangs a simple wooden cross. A constant reminder of the love and work of Christ. A peaceful reconciliation with beauty. I had found my symbol.

Dan Slozat ('17) once had his Achilles tendon severed, experiencing the third worst pain known to man. He is okay now.

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The Endless Night

Annie Dupee

When I open my eyes, I’m expecting the moon.

Relief floods through my chest as I realize it isn’t there. Instead, sunlight is streaming through the window, illuminating my view of a simple countryside. As I blink the world into sharper focus, my other senses seem to wake up, too; I can feel the firm fabric of an armchair supporting me. When I try to sit up more, I find I’m much weaker and wearier than I was last night, though I’m not sure how I know this, because I don’t remember last night.

I turn my head, wincing at how much my neck aches, and see a young man sitting on a bed. He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t figure out why – his tousled brown hair, bright green eyes, and kind smile are comforting. I open my mouth to ask who he is, or maybe where we are, but he puts a finger to his lips and nods at the door. A few moments later, it opens, and a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs comes in, pushing a wheelchair toward me. “Good morning, Miss Amanda!” she says cheerily.

“It’s time for your treatment. Can I help you up, dear?” I try to lift myself, but my body feels like it’s made of lead. The woman, whose nametag says DOLORES, picks me up almost effortlessly and situates me in the wheelchair.

Dolores pushes me down a beige hallway with doorways every few feet leading to more rooms.

There are pictures of landscapes hung between the rooms, and we glide along the polished hardwood floors. Midway down the hall, Dolores pauses and leans into one of the rooms to talk to someone else.

I turn my head and see another girl in a wheelchair next to me. Her skin is pale, especially in contrast with her limp black hair. She looks thin – too thin: her sweat suit is baggy on her tiny frame, and her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes make her look like a skeleton. She stares at me, wordlessly, and I try to smile at her. Then Dolores appears behind her, smiles at me, and glances up at another Dolores, who is also behind me.

I’m looking in a mirror.

Dolores pushes me to a big room with lots of couches and tables, and a TV on the wall. There are a handful of people scattered around the room, but she parks me by a table in the corner and promises she’ll be right back. As she walks away, the young man I saw in my room sits down beside me. “I’m John,” he says.

“I’m Amanda.” My words come out slowly, and I cough.

“I know,” he tells me. My eyes slip off him and focus on a poster on the opposite wall. It has a picture of a cat hanging in a tree, and below the cat are the words KEEP TRYING! I blink a few times and the words change to YOU’RE DYING!

“Dying…” I mutter.

John nods, drawing my gaze back to him. He leans forward in his chair and whispers, “Look around. Where do you think you are?”

When I first entered the room, I didn’t notice anything strange about the other people in it. As I look at them more closely, I notice they’re mostly older folk, some staring vacantly off into space, a few holding conversations with the empty chairs around them. More people dressed in blue scrubs, like Dolores, are walking around with plates of food and pill bottles.

“I’m in a hospital,” I say slowly.

“You’re in a wellness institute,” says Dolores, and she begins pushing my wheelchair toward the door on the other side of the room. “The Bedford Home for Health and Healing.”

“Death and Dying,” John whispers as I pass him.

“Dying…” I say again. My leg starts twitching, and I can’t get it to stop.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” Dolores says soothingly. “We’re on our way to your treatment now.”

I blink.

Summer 2017

I’m back in the room I woke up in. It takes a moment for everything to come into focus, and as I wait for my eyes to adjust, I hear voices around me, tuning in and out like I have a bad connection.

“…sleeping?” a woman’s voice asks.

“Unfortunately, no,” a man’s voice replies. “The progression of neurodegeneration in her thalamus…”

“…doesn’t have long, then.” Another man’s voice – I blink again and see a middle-aged couple sitting on the bed. There’s a man in a long white coat – a doctor? – standing beside my chair. There’s a strange kind of tension in the air, like they’re afraid of something.

“She’s approaching the final stage.” The doctor’s tone is grave, and the couple on the bed take each other’s hands.

“Those are your parents.” I turn and see John perched on the windowsill. He points to the man in the white coat. “That’s your doctor.”

I look back at the couple. “Parents,” I mumble.

They look at me and smile, and their faces look ten years younger. “That’s right, Amanda,” the woman says, “we’re your parents.”

With some effort, my mouth lifts into a smile, because I can see how happy they are that I know them. I absent-mindedly wonder if there are days when John isn’t here to remind me who they are.

“How are you feeling today, pumpkin?” my father asks.

As soon as he asks, I realize I’m very cold: I can feel it seeping into every layer of tissue, into every chamber of my heart. “Cold,” I tell him through chattering teeth. The doctor takes a blanket from the end of the bed and drapes it over me. As he tucks it around my arms, my eyes drift for a moment and settle on a cat poster above the bed. YOU’RE DYING! It reminds me. “Am I…” I lose the word for a moment, and glance around the room like it might be waiting somewhere for me. “Am I dying?” I ask.

My father bends over and hides his face in his hands. My mother takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eye, though my gaze keeps sliding off her. “Yes, darling,” she says matter-of-factly. “You are dying.”

I’ve made them upset. “I’m sorry,” I say, and my words slur.

“It’s all right, baby,” my mother says, but her smile looks sad. “You’ll be with your brother soon.

You’ll get to see John again soon.”

I look at John, who nods. “I had the same disease you have,” he tells me. “It’s hereditary. I died first.”

“Amanda?” my mother asks tentatively. My father is sitting up straight again, smiling, but his eyes are red.

“Time to go,” John says.

“We love you, pumpkin,” my father says, squeezing my mother’s hand again. “We love-”

I’m alone in my room, in the armchair, facing the window. I can tell by the moonlight that it’s the middle of the night.

“Amanda.” I turn my head and I’m on a mountaintop. The breeze whips my hair into my face; it smells like salt. We’re near the sea, and as soon as I think of it, I hear waves lapping against some distant shore. Everything beyond the mountain is dark. The only light comes from the moon, which is twice its normal size.

“Amanda.” There’s a man standing on the peak of the mountain. He’s hunched over, and his face is twisted with pain and grief. It takes me a moment to register that he has the sky pressing down on his back. “I need you to take this for me,” he says, breathing heavily. “I need you to take the sky.”

I look at his body, deformed and broken by the weight of all he holds, and I take a step back.

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“Amanda,” he pleads, “take it. Please-”

I turn and run down the mountain. There’s nothing but darkness below me, but I keep running from the man, and from the moon. He is screaming for me to come back, but an overwhelming fear has taken my heart, and I just run faster. I can hear the blood pounding in my skull and my own ragged breathing, and my leg jerks uncontrollably; I trip and fall and lurch forward in my armchair. My eyes fly open, and I’m expecting the moon. Instead, I see someone sitting on the windowsill. “John?” I ask, unsure of where the name is coming from.

He grins and leans back against the glass. “Don’t worry; insomnia is a common problem. Try not to lose any sleep over it.”

“Wasn’t I just dreaming?” I ask, but now that I can hear birds chirping and see rays of sunlight streaming through the window, I’m not so sure.

John thinks about it for a moment. “No,” he says slowly, “those are not dreams.”

“Good morning, Miss Amanda!” A middle-aged woman in blue scrubs is pushing a wheelchair toward me. “It’s time for your treatment. Can I help you into your wheelchair, sweetie?” She picks me up and settles me in the wheelchair. Something about her seems familiar, though I can’t figure out what. As she drapes a blanket over me, I notice her nametag, which says DOLORES.

Dolores pushes me down a beige hallway, stopping midway to lean into another room. I turn my head and see another girl in a wheelchair next to me. Her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her green eyes sparkle as she smiles. She crosses her legs and leans on her armrest, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand. “It was kind of thrilling, at first,” she says, “being so wide awake while everyone else was asleep. I would go on long walks and admire the stars – everything is so still at night, you know?” She takes a sip of coffee. “But that thrill wore off.”

Dolores takes hold of my wheelchair again. “On to your treatment!” she says, and pushes me away, leaving the girl with the coffee behind. We go through a room with lots of tables and chairs, and a cat jumps out of a poster on the wall and into my lap.

“You’re dying!” it says coyly, stretching. “Keep dying!” My leg twitches and the cat jumps off.

Dolores takes me to an office. A man in a long white coat is sitting behind the desk, and he stands as we enter. He and Dolores start to blur as she shuts the door behind us, and I can see his mouth moving, but no sound is coming out. Everything tilts to the right, and I close my eyes.

I can hear bits and pieces of conversation – it sounds far away, almost like I’m hearing it underwater.

“…the onset of dementia…”

“…because now she can’t get past stage one sleep…”

“…sensory deprivation tank…?”

“…disease literally has the word ‘fatal’ in the name…”

“…extremely rare, only twenty-six families in the world carry…”

“Amanda.” I open my eyes, and I’m on a mountaintop. John and the girl with the coffee are standing on the peak, beckoning me. I take a hesitant step toward them, and thunder booms in the distance. “It took a few months for people to start noticing,” the girl says. “Of course, after we watched John go through it, Mom and Dad saw the symptoms right away. The panic attacks, the paranoia…”

John puts an arm around her protectively. “And the insomnia. It always comes back to the insomnia.”

“I don’t understand,” I say desperately, and the wind picks up, knocking me off balance. “Why are you telling me this? Who are you?”

“Oh, Amanda,” she says, closing her eyes and stretching out her arms, “I am the moon.”

I’m in my room, standing in front of my window. As I stare out into the night, a scrap of paper

Summer 2017

floats through the window on the breeze. I catch it. It’s a clipping from a newspaper: an obituary.

John Oliver Carter passed away last week after a long battle with Familial Fatal Insomnia.

My eyes blur before I can read the rest. I look up and see John standing next to me. “There is no cure,” he says, smiling sympathetically. “There are some treatments that can help, but they only do so much.”

“What about sleeping pills?” I ask, clutching his obituary.

He laughs. “They only make it worse. I know death isn’t funny, but you’ve got to appreciate the irony, right?”

John Oliver Carter passed away last week after a long battle with Familial Fatal Insomnia.

I tear the paper in half and suddenly I’m in the office again. John is sitting behind the desk.

“John?” I whisper, but he doesn’t respond. He just sits, staring off into some distance I can’t see, eyes out of focus. “John,” I say louder.

“We love you, pumpkin,” Dad says. I turn around and see him standing in the doorway with Mom. She’s crying silently; big, fat tears slide down her face. They drip off her chin and onto the ground, forming a puddle, and in it, I see her reflection.

“It’s all my fault,” her reflection tells me. “I made you this way. I’m a bad mother.”

I turn back to John, but instead I see my own body behind the desk. It’s staring straight ahead, eyes as vacant as John’s were, mouth hanging open. I walk around the desk to my empty body and shake its shoulders. “Wake up,” I demand, and I slap it across the face. “Wake up!” Tears stream down my cheeks, and they drip from my chin to the floor. I look down and see my own reflection looking back at me. “Keep dying!” it says cheerfully. I scream and jump on the puddle with both feet, obliterating my reflection; but there isn’t any floor underneath, and I fall through the puddle into an ocean.

When I surface, I gasp for air, struggling to keep my head above the water; the wind is fierce, and the waves are unforgiving. It’s night, eternally night, so the water is as black as the sky. I paddle frantically, spitting the taste of salt out of my mouth, and see a mountain rising above me.

“AMANDA!” a booming voice shouts above the storm. I squint and see a man standing on the peak, hunched over from the weight of the sky. “AMANDA!” The next wave pushes me under, and I spin through the water, the force of the currents pushing the air from my lungs. I fight my way to the surface and inhale, only to breathe in a mouth full of water. Desperate for air, I spit the water out of my mouth and into Dolores’ face.

“Oh dear!” She jumps up and grabs a napkin off the table, wiping her face and my blanket.

“That’s all right, hon, let’s try again.”

I’m in a room with lots of chairs and tables, and lots of people sitting in those chairs at those tables. There’s a plate of food in front of me, hardly touched, and Dolores has a glass of water in her hand. She holds it up to my mouth, and this time I take it in tiny swallows.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” she says, smiling.

I nod, and she holds up a spoonful of applesauce. The thought of eating is repulsive, but I let her feed it to me anyways. “Good girl,” she says approvingly, “let’s keep up your strength, or you’ll wither away!”

I’ll wither away whether I eat the applesauce or not, and we both know it, though I’m not sure how. As Dolores spoons more tasteless paste into my mouth, my gaze slides around the room and lands on John. He’s sitting across the table from me, soaking wet. “This is the calm after the storm,” he tells me. “It’s all smooth sailing from here.”

Dolores tries to feed me more applesauce, but this time I purse my lips and turn away from her.

“No more, dearie? That’s all right, we’ll try again later.” She picks up the plate and takes it away.

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“I just want to sleep,” I tell John, and I’m surprised to find that I’m crying. I’m sure I’ve never imagined a weariness like this: I feel stuck in the limbo between awake and asleep, like a spirit doomed to eternal unrest. John leans across the table, dripping water all over its surface.

“Soon,” he promises. “You can sleep soon.”

“All right, sweetie,” Dolores says, pulling my wheelchair away from the table. “We’re going to try something new in treatment today. Won’t that be nice?”

I watch John as she wheels me out of the room. There’s a black cat in his lap, and its yellow eyes follow me.

Dying.

I’m standing at the bottom of a mountain, and there’s a boulder in front of me the size of a car.

The moon is shining down, lighting a path up the mountain. There’s a whispering sound all around me, kind of like the wind, but everything is still. I know I can get this boulder to the top of the mountain. It’s not just that I can: I have to.

I put my hands on the rock, brace my feet against the ground, and start to push.

My muscles strain and ache under the weight of the boulder, but little by little, I force it up the mountain. I throw my weight at it, grinding it against the hard earth, hearing it scrape against the gravelly soil, urging it forward. I should get wearier and weaker as I near the peak, but instead I grow stronger and steadier. The moon shines down on me, and I drink in its luminescence, its resplendence.

When I’m only a few feet from the peak, the boulder shifts. My foot catches and I fall forward to brace myself against the rock, but it isn’t there anymore. I fall hard onto the ground as it rolls around me and back down the mountain. As I lift my head and look back, I see it clearly in the trail of moonlight, plunging back to the bottom.

Shame burns within me. I know I could push that boulder to the top of the mountain – it was bad luck that I tripped and let go. I could get it right if I tried again. I have to try again.

“Amanda.” I look back up to the peak. John is standing in front of me, holding out a hand. I take it, and he helps me to my feet. “Don’t go back down the mountain.”

“I have to,” I tell him. “I know I can get that boulder to the peak, I just need to try again.”

“I know you can, too,” he says soothingly. “But that’s not your fate.”

“Fate?” I ask, and it comes out more harshly than I want it to. “What does fate have to do with this? What does fate have to do with anything?”

John reaches out and plucks a piece of paper from thin air. “Our fate is what defines us. It’s the legacy we leave behind,” he says, holding out the paper. “This was mine.”

John Oliver Carter passed away last week after a long battle with Familial Fatal Insomnia.

I grab it from him and tear it in half. A gust of wind whips the pieces from my fingers, and I watch as they float away over the edge. John shakes his head, smiling sadly. “It’s not that easy.”

Hot tears sting my eyes. “I don’t want to die,” I croak.

John takes both my hands. “It’s not as bad as you’d think,” he tells me. “You’ll just stay with me for a while.” I nod and close my eyes, trembling. “And then, when the time is right, you finally get to sleep. That’s all it is, really. Eternal rest.”

I breathe out slowly and take my hands back to wipe off my face. “I want to rest,” I say shakily.

“I’m so tired, John. I just want to sleep.”

“Soon,” he tells me. “You can sleep soon. Until then, we’re in this together.”

“Together,” I promise, smiling.

John takes my hand and leads me to the peak of the mountain. There is no sky, no horrible weight to hold; it’s just me, and John, and the moon.

Annie Dupee ('18) likes long walks and the beach, but never at the same time.

Summer 2017

Take, Eat Even I, a self-proclaimed fruit snob, Must admit that this peach is perfect, With a beautiful scarlet blush Splashed over one golden cheek.

I bite into it, feeling the fuzz on My tongue and the juice dripping Down my chin. I remember Ezekiel, How God's word became as sweet As honey in his mouth. God has only Given me a peach, not Ezekiel's scroll, But I feel its weight on my tongue Just as Ezekiel must have felt the weight Of the scroll on his. My peach is pungent, Its succulence like abundant promises, and its bright flavor Like the sweetness of irresistible grace.

I take another bite of this sloppy, Sticky gift and let the juice stain my shirt.

Katie Shilling ('18) would literally kill a man for Rita's.

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Katie Shilling

The Quad

11

Number One, 2017 When I ash my burning pen upon the page And hope it looks like Pollock’s, So intentionally unintentional, My eyes chasing that cyclical dance across the canvas, I am coveting that unsung lyric He found Looking down, Cigarette in mouth, At birth-blood Flicked From the brush.

Nathan Snitchler ('17) is straight edge and, as a result, cannot die.

Nathan Snitchler

12

Summer 2017

The Thing with Feathers

Schuyler Kitchin

It had come to the point that Don was watching birds. He watched birds every day. He knew their names, where to find them, their calls. Every day he walked around the island looking at birds. Ospreys, eagles, woodpeckers, seagulls, cormorants. But he especially loved watching the tern out over the bay.

Dashing about, focusing on a target, suspending itself, dropping as if shot into the water, coming up with a little fish. Full of life and vigor.

Don was the only one who lived on the island. It was a small island, called French’s, amidst the many islands scattered in Casco Bay off the southern coast of Maine near Freeport. It was by no means an impressive island, but it was quiet and Don was alone.

His cabin was in the middle of the island. It could only be seen from the side facing the ocean. It was small, but enough for Don. It was worn from a number of storms. The shingles were starting to peel on the roof and some of the siding was rotting. Out front, he had a neat wood-pile covered by a blue tarp to fuel the cast-iron stove. Most nights, Don sat inside in the light of kerosene lanterns, reading his books. During the day, he watched the birds.

The sky had been wiped clean by the storm the night before. The birds were singing. A brigade of clouds marched across the sky in tight linear formation, coming up from the south. It was nearly low tide. Don watched the birds from the bank. He had a thick salt-and-pepper beard. His skin had grown taut and crusty over the past few years—aged with winter and saltwater—like the old blue windbreaker he had stretched across his shoulders. His right arm was mildly deformed by scarring, scars that throbbed painfully whenever it stormed.

Don was watching a bald eagle chase an osprey that had robbed its nest. Like a dogfight. As if their minds were in sync. They went out of sight. He watched the seagulls down on the ledges flap up, drop a crab, and then eat out of the cracked shell, seasoned with seaweed and barnacles. Some crows were perched on a smooth pale tree that had been stranded by the tide.

At 8:25 the ferry would bring in the tourists to Bustins, the island across from his. The people who showed up on the 8 o’clock cared about Bustins. Tourists came on the 11 o’clock, without eyes for the landscape. Just for lobster rolls and Maine’s soda, Moxie, at the restaurant. Looking for “the feeling of Maine.” Don went to the other side of French’s at 11. But it was only 9:30, so he stayed where he was, watching the birds. A gull flew off the ledges and landed on some driftwood on the beach. The storm that night had been a real rager, probably towed in plenty of wayward junk. Don headed over to see if anything worthwhile had floated in.

Usually cans, old rudders. Maybe a dead fish or a license plate. As the beach came in full sight, Don swore. The storm had brought in a boat. Outboard fishing cruiser. Medium size. Called Feisty Girl.

Don climbed into the cabin and rifled through the drawers. A wrinkled, salty notebook gave him the name Ricky Spencer. Don reached for the handle to the companionway. Inside was a body on one of the bed-cushions. A woman. Brunette. Thirties. Pale blue. Clutching a life jacket under a badly bruised arm.

Don swore again, staring down at the body. He climbed down the stairs into the cramped compartment to check her pulse. Alive. Blood was congealed in her hair right above her left ear. He picked her up and struggled out, walking slowly to avoid bumping her head. He placed her on her back in the sand and checked her pulse again, listening for breathing. He lifted her legs to get blood-flow back to her brain.

After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. Dilated pupils hid in her blue irises.

She looked around confusedly and tried speaking, but fell asleep. Don leaned her up against the boat. If he could get her on the 11 o’clock ferry to Freeport, he could get her into more qualified hands. He climbed back into the boat and tried the radio. Broken. He left her on the beach and ran for his rowboat. He kept it tied up in a small cove, concealed beneath a blanket of pine branches. The rope was still tied around the tree, but it had snapped and the boat was gone. He kicked the tree. No boat. No

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telephone either—too far from the mainland. And his radio was only inbound, to check for weather.

He returned to the beach. She was stirring.

“Don’t worry,” said Don. “You’re alright.”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re alright.” He pulled off his pack and got out a water bottle and uncapped it. “Here.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Don’t worry. Take a drink.” She took a small sip. Don crouched next to her. She was wearing a light gray sweatshirt and athletic shorts. She was shivering. He pulled off his windbreaker and draped it over her. She drifted off to sleep.

He emptied the water bottle out and filled it with seawater. He poured it on her head around where the gash was. She yelped and grabbed his arm. “Sorry, you’re okay. Got a big gash up there.” He looked at her cut—not too deep. He cut a strip from his jacket and covered it up. She’d need painkillers. He checked her pulse. Good enough. She fell asleep again.

He stood up and looked around for boatmen. Ever since he’d moved onto the island and set up signs, people didn’t come too near. Maybe a dumb tourist would.

He came back with pills and more water. She looked worried.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Don. “Storm last night washed you up. You remember anything?”

“Who are you?”

“Don.” She searched his eyes. “Where are we?” She had a light, timid voice.

“Maine.”

“Maine?”

“Ayuh. You remember where you left from?”

“No. I—I’m not sure. I don’t remember too much.”

“What’s the last thing you remember? Was anyone else on the boat?”

She thought. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

“What’s in your pockets?”

She had a waterlogged change-purse. She pulled out her driver’s license.

“What’s it say?”

“I’m having trouble reading it.” She handed it to Don. It was messed up by the water, but he could make out a name.

“Nadia. Your name is Nadia. Sound familiar?”

“Nadia. Nadia. Yes, I remember that.”

“Anything else?”

“Sorry, John, I’m really tired.”

“Don. Alright. We’ll go to my cabin. Can you walk?” She was already drifting. “Alright then.” He picked her up and started back to his cabin. He put her down three times before getting there. It was 11:30.

He set her down on the couch. It wasn’t going to be comfortable. He pulled the sheets off his bed and tossed on some blankets, laying her on top of them. He put a kettle on the stove and picked some teabags.

He sat in his chair in the sitting room. He’d been reading Walden before the storm the night before. He picked it up off the floor and kept reading and drank tea while she slept.

Between the two chairs in the sitting room was his bookcase, full of literary, aviary, and nautical works. A display case with a tri-folded flag inside sat atop the bookcase. Across from the chairs was a large window.

Several paintings and photos hung around the perimeter of the window, several of birds. He hated most of the paintings he had done, but he kept one. The one with the flycatcher chirping away in a pine.

He fell asleep in his chair. Nadia slept through the night, only waking once in pain. He gave her more pills.

Summer 2017

In the morning, he went out to watch for anyone who might come within shouting distance. He was by the ledges again, near the wreck. A silent gray morning. Light fog, salty air, low tide. Lobstermen crawled across the bay, periodically stopping to check their traps. No motion besides them and the birds.

A tern caught his eye, about to dive. It came up empty-beaked, so it circled around again. No success. A few more tries, and it emerged with a small fish and flew off.

No one was passing by. He walked back to the cabin. She was sleeping. He grabbed his book and walked back. A skiff had pulled up by the wreck. Two teens were looting it.

“Hey!” Don shouted, waving his arms.

They looked up in surprise. They jumped into the boat and pushed off.

“Wait! Wait, no, help!”

The boys motored off as Don ran down to the shore. They were right to be nervous. The last group of boys that came onto his beach and ignored the signs Don had scared off with shotgun blanks.

He pulled down the signs. Might help. Otherwise, Nadia was stuck here until he could figure a way off the island. He walked over to a rock, sat down and began to read.

He dozed off in the bright sunlight and began to dream. He had the shotgun and she was rowing away with the young doctor. He fired off some shots and yelled. All he could do was watch.

He woke to a slam. Nadia came out of the boat. She was holding a tattered map.

“These markings. It looks like I came up from Long Island,” she said.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be out.”

“I’m feeling better. I remember more, up to a point.” She grabbed onto the side of the boat to keep from falling over.

“Sit down.” Don got up and led her to a rock.

“The last thing I remember is meeting my cousin at the marina to borrow his boat.”

“That gets you somewhere,” said Don. “I haven’t got anyone to stop and help.”

“Don’t you have a telephone?”

He shrugged. “Don’t need one. Anyways, there’s no powerlines out here.”

She chewed on her lip. “So I’m stuck here for a bit?”

“Ayup.” Don sat down by a rock and began to read. Nadia paced in his peripherals. Some seagulls chattered on the ledges.

Suddenly, “We could put a message in a bottle and throw it at that island.”

“What?”

“A message in a bottle. Asking for help.”

Don snorted. “No way that works. No one would take it seriously, let alone find it.”

Nadia considered for a moment and then walked to the shore and began skipping rocks. Don continued to read.

“What about a big log?”

“What about it?”

“I can float to the island holding on to a log or a tree or something.”

Don continued to read.

“No, really, what about that?”

Don stood up. “You’re not getting off on a damn log. How would you push yourself over there? That’d take hours. Just wait, you’ll be fine.”

Nadia’s hands rested on her hips. She stared intently at Bustins. She began to sway. Don looked up and swore as she collapsed onto the sand. He picked her up and brought her to the cabin. No one was coming. Stranded on an island in the middle of a populous bay. Maybe search crews would come. He put her in bed, then read Walden and drank Moxie in his chair.

He woke to the sound of boiling water. She walked in with tea and sat down. Don pretended to be asleep, but watched her. She eyed his book, which had fallen to the ground. She smiled and picked it up, placing it neatly on the side table. She opened its drawer and pulled out his medal and looked at it,

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The Quad

surprised, and put it back in the drawer. She picked up the Audubon book he had on the table. The one with the photograph in it. She leafed through and came upon the photo. The one from his honeymoon.

The one where he was rowing her in the boat.

A mourning dove cooed outside. Nadia was still looking.

“Oh no. Oh no.”

Don opened his eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I remember. I remember why I was out.” She paused and thought. “I—” she exhaled. “I needed some time alone. Time away.”

“From what?”

“My husband was seeing another woman. Our babysitter. I found out. He said he would stop, he was serious. I believed him, but I needed time to think, to decide.”

Don was staring at the wall, at his painting of the flycatcher. He could hear her crying softly.

“Bastard.”

Nadia gave a tearful choke. “What?”

“He’s a bastard. Your husband. You should leave him.”

Nadia wiped her eyes. “But he’s my—”

“I don’t care if he’s your husband. He’s a bastard and he can go to hell.” Don shook his head and picked up his book.

Nadia sat quietly and then went into the bedroom to rest.

A few hours went by. They ate chowder out of mugs in the sitting room for dinner. Don stroked the scars on his arm. They were starting to throb lightly. Don was reading. Nadia had opened the drawer and was looking at his medal.

“Is this a Purple Heart?”

“Ayup.”

“Which war?”

“Vietnam.”

She was silent and nodded slowly. “That was a rough one.”

“Ayup.”

“That where you hurt your arm?”

“Ayup.”

She was quiet. She stood up and looked at the paintings on the wall. She paused in front of the flycatcher.

“You painted this one?”

Don didn’t look up. “Ayup.”

“What kind is it?”

“It’s a flycatcher. Makes a sound like—well—it’s call is ‘phoebe.’”

“It’s very pretty.”

“Want any more chowder?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” She was quiet for a while. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Don stared at her. “Why do you have so many damn questions?”

“I’m sorry. I just figured if we’re stuck here together, we might as well get to know each other.”

“You’re stuck here. I’m not stuck here.”

She thought for a moment. “Why do you like to live alone?”

“Alone?” Don laughed. “I’m not alone. I got the birds. ‘The soul selects its own society then shuts

the door.’”

Nadia grinned. “I love Emily Dickinson. Oh, you’d like this one. ‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—”

“Yeah, I know it.”

Summer 2017

“Is that why you watch birds?”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” said Nadia. “What’s your favorite one?”

“Terns.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Follow me.” They went out to the water. The birds weren’t singing. Not many were around. Wind was starting to pick up. A tern darted into their sight, highlighted against a darkening sky. Don pointed.

“There.”

“Isn’t that a seagull?”

The tern hovered over the water, dangling like a hummingbird in front of a feeder, flapping for balance.

“What’s it do—?”

“Wait.”

It tilted slowly and suicide-bombed into the waves. Nadia tilted her head. The tern hauled itself back out of the water with a fish. Don and Nadia stood in silence, watching it fitfully fly away. Don turned.

Nadia was smiling.

“That’s wonderful. I like that one too.”

Don could see rain down in Portland. Five minutes away. Nor’easter.

“We’d better get inside.” He pointed towards the wall of rain that was inching ever closer, a giant gray comb raking the deep.

“I’ll stay out here. I love storms.”

“Not this one. Nor’easter’s are real sonsofbitches. You don’t want to be out in one of these.”

Nadia wasn’t listening. Her eyes were locked down on the shore, down on the beach. Don looked.

A red rowboat. People climbing into it. Nadia was already running and shouting. He chased after her.

It was a woman and three children, picnicking. Nadia caught her attention before she could push off. The woman spoke first.

“I’m sorry, I know there were signs, but I thought—”

“No you’re fine,” Nadia said. “I need you to row me over to that island. Please. I wrecked here and I need help getting off.” She pointed over to the wreck.

The lady looked from the wreck to the storm. “I need to drop my kids back on the island first.

The boat can’t hold two more people.”

Don spoke up. “No it’s just one. I’m staying here.”

“Either way, that’s too much weight, and in this weather. I’ll try to come back after the storm.”

“Please do,” said Nadia. “I need to get home.”

“Yeah.” She looked at the storm again and started pushing off. “I’ll try my best.” She climbed in and began rowing. The sky was teeming with rain. The waves tossed like deep grayish-blue sheets covering a restless sleeper. Up above, a seagull was hurled around at the mercy of the winds.

“We really should head back to the cabin,” said Don. “Wait out the storm.”

Nadia smiled at him. “I like watching storms. I’ll wait here for her to get back.”

“It’ll be a while ‘til she can get you if she even comes back. These things are wicked.”

Nadia nodded at him. “I know. I just need to think.”

“Suit yourself.”

Don walked back to the cabin. The world was encased in shadow. Drops glanced off his forehead.

He shut the door tight, and all the windows and blinds. The wind battered the house. He could hear the blue tarp flapping outside. He ran out with some rope to tie it down better. Leaves were whistling past him. The door was slamming in the wind. He ran back in and bolted it. Rain began strafing the roof. He was breathing heavily. He looked around the sitting room. He found Walden on the floor and sat in his chair, trying to read. The rain came down relentlessly. He dropped his book and grasped his head in his hands. He grabbed the bird-book and leafed through the pages. He turned to the page with flycatchers

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on it, marked off with the photo. He had taken such comfort in the face in the photograph. She would stroke his arm after he’d wake sweating and yelling from the dreams. But gradually, the photo had provided him less and less comfort.

She had started having heart issues. Nothing major. Young doctor kept having her come back for check-ups. Said he wanted to check her vitals regularly. Don drove her every month, then every week.

Thinking she only had so much time. Wanting to do more than just watch her plummet. After a year of that, she confessed. Said the young doctor and she were leaving, getting married, moving to another state.

Here sign the papers. Please don’t look at me like that.

You were okay the whole time?

Not at the beginning, but—. Your episodes. They’re hard on me. You frighten me.

I’m getting help. I swear. I’m trying—.

Yes—but. Please, just sign it.

Phoebe.

Don watched her go. He migrated north for the cold months. Driving to Maine through the rain.

Take some time to sort things through. Five years of sorting things through. He had clung to the memories long enough. They no longer gave him hope.

Don crumpled the photo with his fingers. He threw it into the stove and watched it smolder. He walked back to his chair and stared at the paintings. The flycatcher was staring at him, mocking him, still crying phoebe. He snatched up the painting and threw it to the ground. He pulled the canvas out of the frame and put it in the fire. He sat in his chair and tried to read Walden. He was nearly finished.

The windows buckled with the wind. Small chunks of ice joined the rain, drumming across the roof like angry fingers. Don dropped his book and gripped the arms of the chair. His eyes flitted around the room restlessly. The hail beat into the shingles. Nadia was still in the storm. Breathing haltingly, Don rubbed his maimed arm. He stood and put on his blue windbreaker, walking to the door. His fingers fumbled over the bolt. Hail was pelting, scourging the roof. He gripped the doorknob. Lighting flashed in the darkness, momentarily silhouetting pines flailing in the wind. Don knelt next to the door, trembling.

Twenty seconds. Thunder growled. Four miles out. The storm was worse than the one that had wrecked her boat. The house might not take it. Don held his head in his hands. He was breathing rapidly, his hand running along the valleys of his scarred forearm, pulsating painfully.

A loud knocking came at the door. “Let me in!” Don jolted up clumsily and let Nadia in. Her hair was stringy, sticking to her cheeks. She was grinning.

She looked at Don. He was pacing around the sitting room. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Lightning flashed onto the walls. Ten seconds. Thunder. Two miles. Don was whimpering in the corner. Nadia stared. “Don, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

There it was. The sound he feared most. Sharp rapping on the metal stove. A leak in the roof. He cursed and lurched to the stove. He grabbed a mug and put it under the drip. Another drip started over the table. He put a pot underneath it. The mug was overflowing. Don stood on a chair and dammed up the leaks with duct tape.

Nadia poured out the mug in the sink and placed it back under the drip. She looked at Don. He had a dazed look in his eyes, as if he was elsewhere. The hail and rain continued to barrage the roof.

Lightning. Five seconds. Thunder. One mile. Don ducked under the table. He kept yelling and punching the floor. He held his hand before his eyes. Blood streamed down his forearm, his scars flowing again like rivulets. Nadia knelt down under the table next to him and covered him with a blanket. Don was whimpering with sharp breaths.

“Don, we’re going to make it, don’t you worry. I’m right here. We’ll be alright.”

They sat under the table until the storm receded. Rain fell lighter on the roof. Thunder sounded in the distance. Nadia stood and rinsed her hand of Don’s blood in the pot on the table. Don was clutching the leg of the table, still seated beneath it. Nadia took a cloth and wetted it. She washed the blood off

Summer 2017

his hand and forearm. Don looked towards the door, still shaking.

“You’re alright Don. The storm’s done.” Don looked blankly into her eyes, his breath beginning to even out. He stood up slowly, holding on to the edge of the table. He walked to the door and went outside. The trees were swaying slightly. The air felt clean. He could hear Nadia following a ways behind him. The lavender dawn stretched over the bay before him as he reached the bank near the beach. He breathed in deeply. A heron glided across the bay. Don came to the edge and plunged his hands into the saltwater, stinging his fresh knuckles. He looked across at Bustins. Nadia came up next to him. A small figure was coming down a dock in the distance, and it climbed into a rowboat and made its way across towards French’s.

Nadia was smiling. “Looks like she did remember after all.” She looked at Don. “I’m going to go back to my husband. I think it’s the right thing to do.”

Don turned to her and nodded. A songbird lent its melody to the silence of the morning.

“That’s beautiful,” said Nadia.

“What is?”

“Even after a storm like that, birds’ll still sing in the morning.”

Don nodded. The rowboat was halfway across the strait.

Nadia turned Don by the shoulder. “Don, will you be alright?” He was silent. The rowboat was within shouting distance. A tern caught his eye, plunging into the water, pulling up a fish.

“I don’t know,” said Don. The boat coasted into the beach. The lady looked tired. Don stared ahead at Bustins.

Nadia looked at Don with concern as she got into the rowboat. “Don.” He began pushing the boat into the surf. She held out her hand. “Don.” He grabbed hold and climbed into the boat as the woman rowed towards Bustins. He looked back at French’s. The birdsong gradually receded, phoebe phoebe.

Schuyler Kitchin (‘18) is fueled by the $5 boxes at Taco Bell.

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19

The Clear Glass Walls of Hearts For the men sentenced to death in Arkansas. April, 2017.

Past the highways of inmates clanging their musical hands in cell-bar time —1-2-1-2—

a tattoo:

not a teardrop to show how many men murdered, but a beat that marks four-four calling back to enclosure

the tapped out kegs who are slowly drained by the man tending bar.

Past the interstate of convicts & criminals—pack-mules bearing the ugly sins the unacceptable sins flesh & bone semis brim-full of shit tired drivers

holding out for the next

hooker or hit or rest stop cigarette a drag for the miles a queen for the night— yes, past all these, if you turn your cheek to the right from a wrong are seven men the Angel of Death does not pass over

—Lord, spare me the cup.

Austin Zick

Summer 2017

where is their redemption in 100mg of liquid paralysis? to quietly suffocate them paint it with hyssop upon their cell-door— it draws death like a salt-lick and all we have to do is wait.

I cannot hear you over the sound of me not breathing As they set down to a final meal liberty now seems cruel: a choice between appetizer & entrĂŠe

which dessert

small thoughts when the only boon worth granting is that impossible query Lord spare me the cup?

And when the 10,000 signatures came through to delay the use rotten medicine gone bad these seven souls are spared there's still grace to be had.

morning & evening

one more day for the dove to try and enter in to break its neck on the clear glass walls of hearts.

Austin Zick ('18) has spent this year cultivating a love of seltzer water.

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21

The Coal In these clouds of fragrant smoke Behind the veils unseen Clothed with light and darkest cloud Through the humble screen Glory pours forth glory Beyond the human mind And if fiery ranks dare not to glance What hope is for mankind?

And I see the dust assemble And leave the ground behind Transposed on earth to heaven All with mystery signed.

And stubble tastes the Fire Which the stubble eat and drink Consumed, they are not burned away, But carried past the brink.

All the fountains within Paradise, The rivers from their springs Cannot convey the cool repose Which the Fire brings.

Eve sought Apotheosis Adam wished to be a god And now the Burning Fire Gives this unto the sod.

The Quad

Vincent Michael

22

Summer 2017

The Accident

Ryker Minch

I spent many hot summers slaving away on my grandparents’ farm. My memories of those days have melded together, lost in the haze of the sweltering heat and the sound of the buzzing cicadas. But there was one different from all the rest.

I was sixteen. I was always a hard worker, but that day, I have to admit, I was something special.

Never worked that hard before or since. I got there an hour early to help Grandma with the morning milking, and I even skipped lunch. Pap made me come inside for some water, but other than that, I worked straight through. Reason for my feverish pace? June – June Dotson.

I had it for June bad. I’d never told anyone, but I thought she was Marshall High’s prettiest girl.

A lot of guys thought the same. None of them talked about her like they did the other girls, though. For instance, they had this “Hot List” going, which ranked each gal at Marshall by the more notable parts of the female’s anatomy. By rights June probably should’ve led every category, but her name wasn’t on the list since she was so nice. I mean, real nice – there wasn’t a soul she wouldn’t talk to. Some guys would jot her name on the List, but then she’d flash them her warm-hearted smile from across the hall, and they’d feel guilty about it and take her off. She was that kind of girl.

At the end of the school year I’d signed up for the Outing Club. It was a student organization that did outdoorsy stuff. I don’t know what, exactly. I didn’t care about the Outing Club. I cared about June, and June was a member. The club was going on a camping trip that summer and since June was going, I signed up. Two hundred bucks and I’d have a whole week to bask in her presence. But it wasn’t that easy. You see, it was Pap’s custom to pay his grandsons for all their work on the very last day of summer. He had four grandsons; all of us worked on the farm at one point or other, but none of us did together – we’re pretty spread out in years. Not one of Pap’s prized grandkids had ever asked for even a penny before mid-August. But that year I asked to get paid early, on this special day in July. It was a gutsy plea, and it took me from May till the end of June to build up enough courage to ask. But since I was youngest, I figured I’d get away with it.

Pap reacted exactly as I knew he would. He scratched his chin and said my name, “Aiden, Aiden Aiden,” until he could think of something else to say. Then he talked for a good fifteen minutes about how he never got rewarded for anything until he got the job done, how America was going to pot because we no longer lived by such principles. He reminded me how he’d upheld this ideal for his kids and grandkids, and how strange it was of me to ask him something different. And then he admitted that times had changed, and as long as I finished clearing out the thorns and thistles along the fencerow, I’d be paid my dues.

So here I was, done with all my regular morning chores and chopping away at the brush on the side of the fence. It should have been a summer-long job. There was a mile’s worth of thorn bushes along that thing, but Pap wanted it all neat and trimmed up like a golf course. Each day I’d lugged a chainsaw, weed-eater, and pair of shears to the pasture and worked at the thicket until the sun set. I had about a hundred yards of it left. The sweat poured off me as I yanked at the tangled vines. My arms were so scratched from the thorns it looked like I’d been assaulted by a rabid cat. But I hardly felt a thing; as I had all summer, I thought of June. My heart pounded until I could hear my pulse in my ears. They say in the Bible that Jacob worked for years to get Rachel, but it was only like a couple days to him since he loved her so much. Well, Jacob was crazy. I had been working seven weeks so I could see June again, but it felt like seven years. But the wait was almost over. The only thing keeping me from seeing her was that thicket of thorn bushes. It didn’t stand a chance.

I finished, with some time to spare. It was only three o’clock, and the bus didn’t leave till five. I leaned on my knees, sweat dripping off me as I looked at all the brush I had cleared out. The fencerow seemed naked now. I smiled to myself and gathered my tools. It was time to collect my cash and grab a shower. I already had my bags packed – I wanted to be first in line at the bus so I could snag a seat some-

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The Quad

where close to June’s.

My worn boots hit the loose gravel of the farm lane. The tools were heavy and awkward to carry all at once, but I wanted to make it in one trip. I’d only taken a few steps when the old roar of Pap’s tractor came chugging up the lane. Soon the wiry old man came into sight, his hat stained with decades of dirt and grime, a stem of alfalfa bouncing like a cigar in the corner of his mouth. He pulled up next to me and turned down the throttle, but I still had a hard time hearing him over the engine.

“All finished up?” he asked.

“Yeah!” I said. “Fence is done.”

“Gee!” he said. “That was awfully quick, Aiden. Real nice. I’m picking up a load of hay. Help me unload at the barn, and then I’ll give you your cash.”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. Those of you who’ve grown up on a farm know that the hay only needs unloaded at the most inconvenient times. I would still have time to shower at least, but I probably wouldn’t get to the bus early enough to sit by June.

I climbed onto the tongue of the old red Farmall and hung on as Grandpap put her in gear and drove off. By the time we hitched the hay wagon and got to the barn it was 3:30. Pap picked the bales off the wagon, tossing them up to me as I stacked. Just like we’d done a million times. I glanced down at my watch after every bale. 3:45. 3:50. Pieces of hay stuck to my sweaty arms. The back of my neck itched like crazy. At 4:00 we finally finished. I climbed down the mountain of bales, trying not to smile too big.

What I’d been looking forward to all summer was finally just around the corner.

“Aw shoot,” Pap said suddenly. He kicked his boot against the ground. “I forgot to go to the bank. I don’t have cash! What time does the bus leave?”

“Five,” I said. This was bad. Pap’s bank was in Graysville, and the school was a forty-minute drive in the opposite direction.

“Shoot,” he said again. “Well, I’ll go to the bank. You go inside and shower up. By the time you’re done I’ll be back, and you’ll have just enough time to catch the bus.”

That wasn’t going to work. I knew my Pap, and I knew he knew every man, woman, and child in Graysville, including the bank tellers, by name. Pap was also a talker – if I wasn’t there with him, he’d lose track of time and start shooting the breeze. I would miss the trip. “No, I’ll come with you,” I said. “I don’t need to shower.”

Pap wrinkled his brow. “Sure? People on the bus might think differently.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “No one showers when they’re camping anyway.”

He chuckled. “Alright. Let’s go. If we hurry, you’ll still make it.”

At 4:05 we climbed into the front seat of Pap’s old Ford and were on the road. By Pap’s standards we were driving pretty fast, but he still managed to wave and toot his horn at everyone we passed. He talked a lot as we drove. I nodded my head to keep him going, but I didn’t really listen. I was too busy staring at the clock on Pap’s dusty dashboard, watching the minutes tick by. I wish I could remember what he said. Now I’d give anything to have another ride with him in his truck. Sixteen-year-old me didn’t know I only had two summers left with him.

At 4:15 we pulled into Graysville, and by 4:20 we had parked at the bank. I quickly walked ahead, trying not to run. Pap followed behind. When we got inside he saw Mr. Henderson, his neighbor and longtime farming friend. Pap started to talk to him about the load of hay he’d just stacked up, but I cleared my throat. He remembered the present business, told Mr. Henderson he was in a hurry, and walked up to the bank teller. He picked up the cash. By 4:30 we were back in the truck. Praise the Lord – it’d be close, but we might still make it.

At 4:48 we pulled up the farm lane. Pap handed me the wad of cash and shook my hand.

“Thanks for all your hard work, son. Your grandmother’s probably done with dinner – I’d tellya to come

Summer 2017

inside and grab a bite before you go, but I know you’re in a hurry.”

I thanked him and hastily shook his hand before jumping out of the truck and climbing into my rusted Pontiac. I wiped my palms against my jeans. 4:50. It was a twenty-minute drive from the farm to the school, but I’d make it work. I was off before Pap had even gotten out of his seat.

I raced down the lane, past the old oaks and the grazing heifers. I stopped at the bottom by the mailbox, glanced both ways, and zipped onto the main road. But in my haste, I didn’t realize a car was coming. I saw it too late. My head jarred forward and nearly bounced off my steering wheel as the other driver slammed into my back bumper. Tires squealed. Glass shattered. Then, silence.

I shouted a curse. I punched the dash. It was over. Not only was all my money now going to be spent fixing up my car; there was no way I could catch the bus. I opened my door and slid out. My back bumper looked like a smashed up soda can. The front of the other car, an old station wagon, was just as beat up. Its door opened and out stepped a girl.

It was June.

“Aiden!” she said. “I am so sorry. I was running late. And driving way too fast! I didn’t see you at all.”

My mouth felt superglued shut. Her sky-blue eyes were even brighter than I remembered. The fact that they were directed at me and me alone, not her friends, not some other guy at lunch in the cafeteria, made it really hard to talk. “No, no – it was my fault. I hardly looked before I turned onto the road.”

She shook her head at the sad sight of our cars. “I guess we’re not gonna make the bus, are we?”

“Probably not.” I pointed up the lane toward my grandparents’ house. “But if you’re hungry, I bet Grandma’s got dinner ready.”

June laughed. And then she smiled.

24

The Quad

25

Middling On a Wednesday As fickle as all other Wednesdays The iron will of the gods began to rust.

Not with the breaking of stone by which the earth was made

as Wednesdays are ill-suited for greatness

But with a handful of sand the defiant nakedness of boyhood And he threw it at the sea and said Je suis Dieu And Poseidon sent his wrath And Poseidon held his breath And the boy Surfaced And blood did not grace that Norman altar until a Tuesday in June

as Wednesdays are ill-suited for greatness For the first time in a long while, The impotent sea thought of A Greek Too slippery for dying, dry hands.

Seeking and sought, A man is always troubled in leaving The wars he fought.

Odin’s conscripts, Having performed their earthly service, Join death’s inevitable march.

Glory, They said, Has always waited there For them.

Feasting, They said, Their one-eyed king prepared For them.

The hall, They said, Is full of fellow braves Like them.

Nathan Snitchler

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Summer 2017

The doors, They said Are locked And like his brother cyclops Odin guarded jealously his flock Of valiant men in combat slain – Over hordes of them he reigned.

The hall, He said, Is full.

The hound that ate the hand of war Made its way to Valhalla’s door.

The god that gave away his eye Sat behind it, afraid to die.

The beast who bested battle there Did linger, fouling up the air.

Glory, though once abundant, fled.

Honor amongst soldiers is dead.

Hel herself opened up her maw; The god and dog, she ate them raw.

This is how it ends.

Not with the fire of the hearth But that of the haunting guns.

27

The Ishmael Limericks There once was a tiny stuffed whale Who went by the name Ishmael His life was carefree But soon he would be Involved in a great lovers’ tale.

The whale knew a bottle of water Whose good heart constantly fought her She wanted to be A big ocean for he; As grand as the strait of Gibraltar.

A whale should have somewhere to swim But she could not provide that for him She filled up with woe She feared he would go The light in her heart grew quite dim.

The whale saw his lover was snuffling When she smiled, he knew she was bluffing He said, “My sweet dove It’s you that I love; An ocean would ruin my stuffing.”

The Quad

Annie Dupee

The

Quad

Volume 9 Issue 4 The Quad c/o Grant Wishard GCC #2409 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127

Summer 2017