The Quad – Winter 2017

the Quad Winter 2017 Grove City College

SENIOR EDITOR:

Kathleen McAlister

JUNIOR EDITOR:

Anne St. Jean

SECTION EDITORS

Poetry:

Annie Dupee Casey O’Brien Delaney Martin

Short Stories: Holly Ahrens Caitlin Salomon

Essays:

Drew Santa Noah Gould

Creative Nonfiction: Abby Opst Hannah Spatz

Book Reviews: Eric Gardner Josiah Aden

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR:

Nicole Mingle

CHIEF COPYEDITOR:

Katie Shilling

COPYEDITORS:

Dear Readers,

I love Christmas. I’m one of those people that starts listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving, watches White Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life and probably every bad Hallmark Christmas movie each year, and can spend hours just sitting and looking at our Christmas tree. We have reindeer antlers on our Keurig, for goodness’s sake.

A couple evenings ago, I was coming back from Walmart with my new bottle of Nyquil and decided to take a quick tour of the neighborhood by the college to see the decorations. It was getting dark and lights were coming on. There were wreaths on doors and trees gleaming from the windows. All was calm, all was bright. And then a sudden, overwhelming sense of sadness came over me, like fog rolling in from the sea. I felt lonely and tired and heavy-laden. These were families, fully formed lives and here I was, living in the in-between just a couple blocks away.

Before the dawn always comes the night. Before Christmas, there is Advent. That evening, the longing and sadness that I felt reminded me of our present state here on earth.

We are waiting and mourning in “lowly exile here, until the son of God appear,” the hymn “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” reminds us.

In this issue of The Quad there are many lights glimmering in the darkness of our Advent. An unexpected and unlikely friendship in “Eclipse” by Delaney Martin comforts us with the reminder that we are not alone, while Holly Ahren’s poem “Aliens and Azaleas” encourage us to celebrate our singularity and savor our melancholy for “even the Earth is sometimes sandstone, icicles, and iron.” Our period of waiting, Austin Zick reminds us in his poem “I Would Be Like Moses,” is a chance to wrestle with God and know him more, as revealed, Graham Allen notes in his poem “Holy Saturday,” by the light of Christ at Calvary.

Christ came down. He has borne the burden of flesh and broken the power of death. And we can rejoice in our waiting for we can be certain that he will come again. Gloria in excelsis Deo! Merry Christmas, Kathleen

Katheryn Frazier Emmaline Ireland Lauren Tebben Sarah Ramsey Katheryn Wong Hannah Spatz Emily Way

ILLUSTRATOR & COVER ART:

Christie Goodwin

ADVISORS:

Kathleen McAlister Senior Editor

Anne St. Jean Junior Editor

Dr. Joshua Mayo Dr. H. Collin Messer

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD:

Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller

Volume 10, Issue 1 Fall 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, but leave off your name on your submission. Times New Roman, 12 pt, single spaced in Word Document form is preferred; 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

Winter 2017 volume 10 issue 2

CONTENTS Merry Christmas

O4

(Short Story)

Holly Ahrens

I Would Like to Be Like Moses

O6

(Poem)

Austin Zick

12 Ways Your Phone is Changing You

(Book Review)

Dr. T. David Gordon

Pearls and Swine

O9

(Short Story)

Katie Shilling

The Mosquito Bite Sally Goustafson

Payday

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(Poem)

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(Poem)

Jenna Shallcross

Finding Love At Grove City: Vol 1 Noah Gould and Liney Parker

(Creative Non-Fiction)

Transparent Was on Manic Optimism Graham Allen

Eclipse

Rising of the Lights Kathleen McAlister

Reconciliation

(Poem)

(Short Story)

Ann Busch

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(Book Review)

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Dr. Kimberly Miller

Josiah Aden

26 33

Holly Ahrens

(Poem)

17

(Poem)

Aliens and Azaleas

Silence

(Poem)

14 18

(Short Story)

Delaney Martin

Picking Daisy

O7

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Merry Christmas Holly Ahrens

The man stood under the light post in the cold December dusk. The snow blew in flurries around the multitude of Christmas shoppers, but the freezing air didn’t hinder the cheery music playing from the speakers placed around the outdoor mall and the sound of the Salvation Army bell ringing from the doorway of the grocery mart. No cars were allowed as the city had designed it to be a pedestrian mall in the center of the city, so people walked freely and the street was made of cobblestone and trees grew in the center. During Christmas the whole area was decorated in lights and Christmas trees and was generally agreed upon as a very lovely part of town. Christmas had always been his wife’s favorite time of year. She said that it made people happy when they were usually very grumpy, and she had loved to give gifts.

When they had first started dating, she had given him a tea kettle. Her reason was that he was a grown-ass man and he needed to stop heating up water in the microwave every time he wanted a hot drink; plus, she claimed that it was easier to make two cups of tea if he had a kettle. Every year after that she gave him a thoughtful gift: a book she thought he would like (she was right), a sweater that she claimed was perfect for the cold Colorado winter, and once, a new wallet with his initials stamped on the front. But the third year he thought that he gave her the better gift: a white gold antique style engagement ring (picked with the help of her best friend). She said, “Yes, of course,” and they got married in a barn in October. It was the best day of his life.

It was the best day of his life until 3 years later when their daughter was born. The man didn’t know how to be a father and he didn’t think he’d be a good one; he hadn’t had a great father growing up. He really hadn’t had one at all, excepting the biology part of that puzzle, and it worried him—what if he messed up his kids; what if he just wasn’t supposed to be a dad? But his wife never let him lose sight of the good man that she saw in him.

Even during the late nights and the exhaus-

tion fueled fights, she still believed in him. He needed that; he needed her.

This is not to say that his wife was a saint who supported every decision he made without question. She was stubborn and willful, opinionated and bossy. She was not afraid to call him out if she thought he was doing something stupid (which was often). Sometimes all he wanted was a “Yes, hon” and a cold beer, but she never gave up on him. Like he did with most other things in life, he rose to the occasion and could even rival her in sheer stubbornness when the occasion called for it. He didn’t know how he could just let go of that.

A gust of fresh cold snow jerked the man back to the pedestrian mall and the envelope he was clutching in his pocket. He had written nothing on it, just slipped the two rings inside and sealed it. He knew where the envelope needed to go, he just didn’t want to let go of those rings. But he felt that this was right, and it was why he had come here on this particular night to this particular place. His slowly watering eyes landed on the Salvation Army man ringing his bell heartily. The cheerful man’s presence comforted him. He was large man with cheeks red from the cold and a trim gray beard. His coat looked rugged and warm and he wore knitted red mittens and a matching hat. He wore a name tag that said “Jack” in large black letters. Jack had Santa Claus written all over him, and the man knew instantly that his daughter would have loved him.

All he had to do was walk over, drop the envelope in the bucket, and walk away.

Three simple steps, and yet it seemed like the hardest thing he ever had to do. There had been too many of those moments lately. The hardest thing he ever had to do was drive to the hospital that night, to put on that suit, to pack up the house. The past year was made up of things that he never wanted to do, but here he was, 364 days later, and maybe this was the last hard thing he would have to do. He knew that wasn’t true, but it was nice to believe so.

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His daughter was a precocious five year old. She had her mother’s attitude and her father’s brains and she made life interesting. She loved to play dress up and put on her mom’s makeup, especially her lipstick, and she would march around the house in her princess dresses and plastic jewelry with messy red lipstick and proclaim the rules of her kingdom.

Usually these rules involved what she thought she should be allowed to eat or what she was allowed to play with (since her discovery of her mother’s paint set, the walls had to be repainted several times). He loved taking her to the park and on daddy-daughter dates that gave her mom an excuse to nap and maybe have a glass of wine. She ruled the playground of her kindergarten and he had been called to her school several times because of her “strong disagreements” with the other students. Eventually the school started calling her mother because he was such a pushover when it came to his daughter. She believed completely in him and having her around made him into an amazing father, more so than he ever could have dreamed. She had him wrapped around her finger; he knew that when she got older, there would be nothing that he could refuse her—mom will have to be the tough one.

Would have. Her mom would have had to be the tough one. When it first happened, he could not imagine ever forgetting that phone call, but now that a year had passed, he sometimes woke up from a dream or drifted back in time and forgot, for a moment, everything that had happened that icy winter night. It’s funny that he could have forgotten now, in this moment, because he had come to get… closure, maybe; maybe he had come to

let go. He didn’t really know why he was doing this, and he didn’t want to, but he knew that he needed to. His wife would have liked it. She would have said that it was some kind of symbolism, a metaphor or something like that. She was better at putting these things into words than he was. His daughter would have liked it too. She had a generous heart, even at five, and she would have liked that maybe another little girl got to play with her favorite costume ring when she couldn’t. If she understood money (which she didn’t) he thinks that she would have liked the idea that maybe someone was going to get to eat a nice Christmas dinner because of Mommy’s ring.

Tomorrow would be a year since the accident that had taken his wife and daughter from him. Even though he missed them every day, he knew that he couldn’t hold on forever.

He had to move forward because there was no use in living in the past—at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He had seen too many people hold on for far too long and had lost themselves in the process; this is not what his wife and daughter would have wanted for him.

Although they seemed like his whole world, he hoped that there was something else out there for him. There had to be, or else why would he be here, feeling like the only way to let go was to give away these stupid, beautiful, wonderful rings? Something in him told him that this was it: it was now or never, and holding on would ultimately cause more pain than even this moment could.

So he approached Salvation Army Jack, clutching the envelope with the rings inside, and dropped it unceremoniously into the pot. He did not want to be recognized for this “donation;” it wasn’t for him. This was for his wife and his daughter whom he would love for the rest of his life. But there was more out there for him. He heard the jolly man call “Merry Christmas” after him as he walked away and he felt a still, small sense of peace around him. This would not be a merry Christmas, but it could be a good one.

Holly Ahrens (’18) loves Buzzfeed Unsolved and doesn’t care who knows it..

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I Would Be Like Moses Austin Zick

I would be like Moses or a moth— drawn to burning things drawn to ground where my shoes are unwelcome guests.

Despite the heat, I dismiss them every time.

Instead I’m more reptile more Iscariot building my home in wet places as I fraud my God and cry ‘patriot’ any law that saved me now smites me one coin at a time.

I would be more Ezekiel— a steady ox, parchment breath who has plowed every dry valley til not one bone remained unturned till I return my mystic’s eyes to the sun and blinded beg again for more sight that I might burn them again.

But yet I’m more squirrel, my gilded hovel furnished with scraps of holy writ— I keep myself warm with it— I forget their purpose that they exist.

I seek holiness in a nut I forget any vision the sun serves only to measure time.

I would be the woman who wrest your garment from your hip I would be the man who pulled his dead daughter from your mouth I would be Jacob who wrestled you till dawn if only to know the shape of you if only to know the shape of me if only to know the place where the two meet.

Austin Zick (‘18) is currently studying abroad in Italy and has yet to get back to us with a bio.

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12 Ways Your Phone is Changing You T. David Gordon

Journalist and author Tony Reinke has written the book that many Christians have wished someone would write; a thoughtful, well-informed analysis of the smartphone (the most intrusive, and therefore most life-altering, of the various digital technologies) that is neither techno-philic nor techno-phobic, and that is intentionally (and persuasively) focused on the question of how this technology affects Christian discipleship. Reinke’s concern is not about how smartphones alter political discourse, public education, etc.; his concern is primarily about how the phone shapes us as followers of Christ.

As is appropriate to such a timely work, Reinke’s thinking is informed both by broad reading in the Christian tradition and by intelligent interviews with contemporary theologians, pastors, educators, philosophers and ethicists. Reinke is well acquainted with the works of those whom we call “media ecologists;” he has digested the insights of Marshall McLuhan, Jacques Ellul, Daniel Boorstin, Neil Postman, Nicholas Carr, Douglas Groothuis and Sherry Turkle, and has consulted with theologians and philosophers from John Flavel and Blaise Pascal, through the twentieth century’s G. K. Chesterton and C. S. Lewis, to contemporaries such as Tim Keller, Rick Lints, Jamie Smith, John Dyer, Alan Jacobs, Oliver O’Donovan, and John Piper (and others). The breadth of his sources makes it difficult for readers to dismiss his thoughts as merely his own idiosyncratic opinion.

Happily, despite Reinke’s thorough familiarity with pertinent thought on the matter, his book does not read at all as a dull or merely academic survey; pulsating throughout the prose is the drive of a follower of Christ, eager to believe, quick to repent, and indignant at the Enemy’s counterfeit of the true life our Redeemer offers and calls us to.

The chapter titles alone will intrigue many of this review’s readers: We Are Addicted to Distraction; We Ignore Our Flesh and Blood (Ken Myers has often lamented their “dis-incarnate” nature); We Crave Immediate Approval; We Lose Our Literacy; We Feed on the Produced; We Become What We “Like;” We Get Lonely; We Get Comfortable in Secret Vices; We Lose Meaning; We Fear Missing Out; We Become Harsh to One Another; We Lose Our Place in Time.

I have become so accustomed to the abuse/misuse of Scripture citations in so many publications that I only occasionally bother to consult them. After consulting the early citations here, I abandoned that practice. Reinke’s citations (with just the Scripture references) are as apt as any I have encountered; they are not at all superficial “proof-texts.” Reinke’s citations are profound and persuasive. In remarkable succinctness, Reinke provides a rich biblical assessment of the categories of the “seen” and “unseen,” with due warnings for how the onslaught of visual images on our smartphones calls our attention to exactly the opposite of what we ought to attend to. Groups who study this book together would be well advised to take turns reading aloud the Scripture passages Reinke cites in order to derive the full benefit from this volume.

I was pleased that Reinke has observed the paradox that others (Giles Slade, Sherry Turkle, Nicholas Carr, Maggie Jackson, Alastair Roberts, William Deresciewicz et al.) have observed: that typical use of smartphones robs us of both true solitude (and self-knowledge) on the one hand, and of true society (and other-knowledge), on the other. Readers unfamiliar with this paradox will be fascinated by Reinke’s seventh chapter.

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This is perhaps the most practical volume touching on digital media that I have read; nevertheless, Reinke issues no imperatives. His effort is to demonstrate what is going on in the faux, profit-driven, narcissitic, contemporaneous, image-based world of the smartphone, so that his readers will have to wrestle with how to benefit from the best of this tool while evading its worst.

Towards the end, however, Reinke does raise the question (197f.) of a temporary or permanent “cold-turkey” opting out of their use (and he quotes approvingly Alan Jacobs’s having done so earlier in the book, 116-17), though he has not (yet?) made that decision yet himself. Though Reinke eschews imperatives, he routinely passes along sound advice on how to moderate and discipline smartphone use so as to evade/avoid their most damaging effects.

A Quibble (a little bickering over words)

Reinke rightly says that the challenge of determining what constitutes the proper use of these (fairly new) devices properly falls on the shoulders of this generation, an observation he derived from Oliver O’Donovan, and with which I concur. Like the initial colonizers of any new world, the original inhabitants thereof profoundly shape the experience of future denizens. However (and I am merely quibbling with the title here), I would suggest that the smartphone is not changing this generation (it may have changed us); it shapes them initially, so they

do not even notice the ostensible “change.”

The prairie-dog world of digital adolescents who pop up and down from one environment to another incessantly is the only world they know; and this is precisely why they will have difficulty taming the beast. They will not realize one day that it is harder to read Tolstoy novels than it once was, because they have never read Tolstoy novels (or, ordinarily, even Hemingway’s novelettes); they have not lost an attention span they once had; they never had one to lose, because the smartphone may well be “changing” our culture, and has “changed” many of us adults, but it is the nursery in which the Millennials were reared, and they cannot perceive any change in them at all. But this is mere pettifogging; O’Donovan and Reinke are right in assigning the duty of taming the smartphone to the Millenials, and only an academic nitpicker such as myself (who teaches/nitpicks an introductory course on Media Ecology) would bother to split this hair.

I hope Reinke’s book receives a wide readership; and I hope many will read it and discuss it as a group, in the manner C. Christopher Smith suggested in his recent Reading for the Common Good: How Books Help Our Churches and Neighborhoods Flourish (2016). It will not be the “last word” on the smartphone, and it isn’t entirely the first; but for those attempting to follow Christ with one of these in purse or pocket, it is currently the best.

Dr. T. David Gordon is a professor of Biblical and Religious Studies and Greek. He is perhaps the only person to own (and wear) and hand-tied Patriots bow-tie.

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Pearls and Swine Katie Shilling

Jim awoke to a blinding light and someone roughly shaking him. Squinting and raising his hand slightly, he found himself face to face with a stern-looking cop with a bushy mustache.

“Come on, let’s go,” the cop said. “Your ride’s here.” Jim gazed blankly up at him for a few seconds, blinking slowly. The fluorescent light on the ceiling framed the cop’s head like a halo.

The cop took a step back and motioned for Jim to get up, which he slowly obeyed. He wobbled slightly, and he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Your wife just bailed you out,” the cop told him. Jim stared back uncomprehendingly, and the cop raised one of his eyebrows. He asked Jim, “Do you remember, we came and picked you up at the Duffer farm?

You fell off that fence when you tried to run away.” Jim’s eyes widened, and then he scrubbed his hand over his face as he nodded slowly.

“How drunk was I?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“You were telling the cows that they were beautiful.”

“Well, I hope they were, at least.” Jim attempted a halfhearted grin. The cop narrowed his eyes slightly but made no reply.

Jim blearily followed the cop through the hallways of the jail, the fluorescent lights buzzing above them and their shoes clacking softly on the tile floor. “So, uh, do you eat a lot of doughnuts here?” he asked, laughing slightly.

The cop sighed.

Vivian was waiting for him in the lobby.

She was wearing her waitressing uniform which looked wrinkled and worn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Sorry I couldn’t get you earlier,” she said. “I was working the night shift at the diner and there was no one to cover for me.”

“It’s fine, Viv, I like sleeping on hard

surfaces anyways. It’s my secret to long lasting beauty.” Jim gestured vaguely to his face while quirking half of his mouth up into a smile. He ran one hand through his hair, feeling how it stuck up in the back. Vivian stared at him for a moment, then turned sharply and walked towards the door. Jim followed her out into the car, and they drove away in silence. He did not ask if they could turn on the radio.

While they drove, Jim continually glanced over at Vivian, but she kept her gaze fixed on the road. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel, and her knuckles were nearly white. The sunlight glinted off of Vivian’s wedding ring. They passed field after field of corn, green and rippling like the sea. “Wow, those stalks are huge! It’s like we’re in Oklahoma!, right?” Jim grinned and looked over at his wife. No response. “Viv, come on, you know, ‘Where the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye.’” His voice cracked slightly as he sang, and he looked over to see her reaction. Her face remained impassive. Jim bobbed his head slightly and relaxed into his seat.

After a few more minutes of silence, they passed a small, white Methodist church. “Hey, Viv, did you know that the Methodists will be the first ones in heaven?” Jim asked. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Because the dead in Christ will rise first.” He jokingly tapped Vivian on the shoulder, and she pulled away slightly.

“Come on, Viv, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“You used to think that joke was hilarious.”

Vivian shrugged and exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t know, you just tell that joke so often, Jim. Forgive me if I stop laughing after the two hundredth retelling.”

“But it’s a good joke, Viv; it’s funny every time. That’s the sign of good humor.”

“No, it’s really not. I’m just tired of the joke, Jim. Is it really that hard to understand?”

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Jim chuckled. “I just don’t get it. If something’s funny to me, it’s just funny. Not much to it.” He pulled the lever on the side of the seat and leaned his seat back slightly, resting his hands on his stomach. Vivian sat rigidly with her head pulled away from the headrest.

Vivian’s voice nearly escalated into a yell. “You went to jail last night. Does this not matter to you?” Jim’s eyes were wide, but he sat in silence.

“Jim, seriously. What were you thinking? Did you really think that you could actually steal a pig? Why would you even want a pig?”

“Well, I guess that’s just how it is for me, then. I’ve been telling you this for years now.

Can’t you just think of something new to say?”

She brushed her hair away from her face, but she did not look away from the road.

“Well, I mean, we were talking about how we wanted to do something absolutely crazy, and then Robbie said he thought we should get wild, and then Jake said, ‘You know what’s better than wild? Hog wild,’ and then, well…”

“I just don’t understand how you can stop finding me funny, Viv. I mean, I was told in college that humor is my spiritual gift,” Jim replied. He quirked one of his eyebrows up and continued, “If that’s the case, then my jokes are a gift from the Lord Himself. It would be a sin to tamp that down, don’t you think? Because even the Apostle Paul says—” “Jim,” Vivian interrupted sharply.

Jim stopped talking abruptly. “What?” he asked her, when she didn’t continue. “Viv, what’s the matter?”

“Jim, can you please be serious for one minute?” As she turned to look into his eyes,

“You have got to be joking.”

“Nope, I’m dead serious. Funny guys, aren’t they?”

“Jim.” “What?”

She sighed deeply and Jim watched her jaw clench briefly. “Jim, you’re not a twentyyear-old frat boy anymore. You can’t just keep reliving your glory days with boys who are practically half your age.”

“What? That’s not what I’m doing!” he exclaimed indignantly, jerking his body around to face her. Her eyebrows raised and

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she made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded half like she was laughing and half like she was choking.

“Look at yourself, Jim. You’re thirty five years old and you still hang out at college bars every night, and you spend all of your time with frat boys. What thirty-five-year-old actually hangs out with college kids instead of people his own age?”

“They’re my friends, Viv. So what if they’re a little younger than me?”

“They are not your friends. They don’t care about you, Jim. Did any of them care that you got arrested last night?”

“Aw, Viv, that’s not fair. I mean, they had to run and protect themselves, you know? Jake texted me, though. He said that it really sucked and that they would all buy me a drink when they saw me again.”

“Oh, well, forgive me; I was deeply mistaken. If a sympathy text isn’t the hallmark of true friendship, then I don’t know what is.”

“Viv, don’t be like this. Please.” Jim’s voice softened, and he saw Vivian’s shoulders slump slightly.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, Jim. I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, I know how those night shifts really sap the life out of you.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” she said, and she sighed again. “It’s just… Jim, we’ve been doing this for a long time. I’ve been doing this for a long time. Taking care of you, I mean. I’ve been cleaning up your messes since we were in college and honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up. You’re thirty-five, Jim. You need to grow up.”

Jim did not respond. He simply stared

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straight ahead, watching the highway lines blur together.

“Do you understand me, Jim?” she continued. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I really, really do. But we can’t keep going like this. You can’t keep going like this.” Vivian looked at Jim, but he continued to gaze out on the passing scenery. He opened his mouth for a second, as if to speak, but then he closed it again. The humming noise of the engine filled the car.

Vivian pressed her mouth into a line and rubbed one of her temples. “I’m sorry. That was harsh.”

Jim fiddled with his wedding ring. It looked dull and worn, and the metal was smooth beneath his fingers.

After a few more moments of silence, Vivian asked, “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t mean to sound that harsh. Or that upset. I know that it’s hard to, like, change, I was just trying to say… well, never mind. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m fine.” Jim flashed his lopsided smile at her, but his eyes only met hers for a brief moment.

“Okay, good. I’m fine too,” she replied. They pulled up to the house and without saying anything more, Vivian turned off the car and walked inside. Jim sat in silence for a few minutes, then opened his door and climbed out. He stood for a moment in front of the house, stretching his arms and his legs. Through the front window, he could see Vivian sitting at their dining room table. She was slumped forward with her elbows resting on the table and her head in her hands. Her phone was laying in front of her, but she didn’t touch it.

Jim exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and turned away.

Katie Shilling (’18) is using this bio to procrastinate on her Shakespeare paper. Sorry Dr. Harvey.

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The Mosquito Bite Sally Goustafson

My love is not a burning forest fire, A whirlwind or some cutesy butterflies.

My heart does not race with unkempt desire; I don’t stare deeply in my lover’s eyes.

But Love’s mosquito bit me with a pinch And left a bright red spot on full display.

I do my best to just ignore the itch, But fail to keep the trying itch at bay.

Just when the hovering presence vanishes I start to wonder if it’s fully gone, And then I peel right back the bandages That kept the bug bite dormant for so long.

I scratch it in perplexing, pointless penance And make the itch come right back with a vengeance.

Sally Gustafson (’21) is an English major with a keen appreciation for attention to detail, quality coffee, and artful punctuation.

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Payday Jenna Shallcross

“Mama please!” my little girl begs, Her small hands grabbing at the folds Of bleached white bedsheets and pillow cases.

Two eyes as deep as the sky appear From where they were hidden to meet my own.

They ask too. “Mama please!”

“Alright baby,” I say. So she helps.

Soon enough she’ll do this herself, Folding sheets like years until she’s grown and gone.

I want her to know what it’s like to have lived Instead of a life that came and went, A folded sheet like Mama’s.

My life hardening, but her life. Oh! There is so much for her to know.

“Alright baby,” I say.

Jenna Shallcross ('19) thrives on awkward dancing. If there was a contest for it, she would win first place.

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Finding Love at Grove City: Volume 1 Noah Gould & Liney Parker

From a Diary Found in the SAC 9/22/2017 Dear Diary, I bumped knees with a girl at Chapel today. I guess you could say that Dr. Keelwhetter brought us together. I didn’t know her name, so I guessed Sarah... I was right. Her roommate’s brother is my OB mom’s boyfriend, so we definitely have a lot in common. If this works out, my mom won’t make me take Courtship and Marriage next spring!

I asked for her middle initial so I could email her. Elizabeth couldn’t be a very common middle name, could it? Didn’t receive a reply for a long time; she must be very studious. I hope she’s not too busy to go to Warriors with me. When I got a reply, she said that the wrong person had got the email first. Turns out there are 11 other Sarah Elizabeths on campus. And I thought Millennials were supposed to be the uncreative ones!

We met in the Sac for a meal. She wanted Hicks, but I thought that was a bit too much of a commitment. When we both arrived, it was a bit awkward. She doesn’t talk much; I think she might be homeschooled. Felt too bad to ask. When I was really running out of small talk, I brought up predestination. It was a hit! I think she’s missing something of the finer points, but she’s taking Old Testament, so hopefully the kinks will work themselves out. Question for reflection: Is it too soon to gift her a copy of Calvin’s Institutes??

Praying open hours come soon. Yours truly, Noah

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Fall 2017

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9/27/17 Dear Diary, Last night I had a terrible dream. Remember that girl from Chapel last week and how self-confident she is? I dreamt that she was a feminist! I thought we had a good thing going. Well, not a thing exactly, not really sure what it is—but it’s good. Anyway, back to the feminism. I dreamt that she cut her hair short and listened to Beyonce and wore hats! Decided to take a stroll through her hall to find evidence (yes, her Glance page is bookmarked). As far as being a so-called feminist icon, she had some George W. Bush memes on her door, so you can imagine that I was quite relieved.

No sooner could I be relieved then I was unrelieved. The door was slightly ajar, which seemed like a welcoming gesture until I saw the Adidas size 12 in the door. What could I do but walk in to investigate? There was a guy in her room! She didn’t even seem ashamed or anything—the nerve!

I was about to challenge him to a game of Settlers to avenge my honor, when she introduced him as her… brother. Awkward. Didn’t know how to introduce myself, so I stated the usual hometown, and major: from Ohio, majoring in Business Management with a Concentration in Moral Superiority. Also said that I was Sarah’s friend. “Friend,” what an unsatisfactory word. After her brother had cleared his throat seven times and the seven minute Hillsong number playing in the background had started to repeat, her brother got the hint and bolted. Smart kid, but a little unaware; must be a MECE. Then, we both got fake Starbucks from the Sac and walked in circles around the quad. Leaves drifted gently down from the trees and smells of dead animals wafted gently from Ketler. What a night. I said that God hadn’t meant for man to live alone. She said she was pretty sure I quoted that out of context. Darn! I bet her dad is a pastor or something. I subtly shifted gears. I said it was a beautiful night. Then she replied that talking about the weather reminded her of the 10 plagues of Egypt and thusly the Bib. Rev. test she should be studying for. (Note to self: She’s taking Old Testament and Bib. Rev—she must be real spiritual.)

As she walked slowly away from me across the Quad, I felt like I was losing her forever. She would now be to me a person who nods when I pass her on the sidewalk, saying only a quiet “hey,” but never a “how are you” or even a “hello.” I said the only thing I could: “Will you go to office hours with me?” She said she would pray about it… I’m confused.

A week is a long time to know somebody. I feel like she should have a pretty good idea about what she wants in life by now, which is why I was utterly shocked at her treatment of me. But then I remembered that “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away” and found solace. What I need is someone’s shoulder to cry on—if I cried, which I obviously don’t. Anyway, it’s only 2 in the morning—perfect time to go give my RA an update.

I’ll let you how it pans out. With love, Noah 10/4/17

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Dear Diary, Well I couldn’t find my RA when I got back. He keeps joking about hiding from me. Haha, good one. The next day when I finally cornered him, the talk did not go well. I thought RAs were supposed to be encouraging yet distant role models. My RA—let’s call him “Chump” for anonymity’s sake—said that I shouldn’t start a relationship in my first year at college. What is this, a prison?

Stormed out of Hicks as fast as I could. Well, tried to. Unfortunately, the sensor didn’t pick me up, so I slammed into the door full tilt. When I regained consciousness a few minutes later, slowed but still not unresentful, all I could do was sit in Hicks and stew. Booths are great to share, but they seem to magnify sorrow when you’re sitting alone. Also, the soup was salty enough to swim in and my salad looked as sad as I felt.

Not even the fact that they had Mint Chocolate Chip AND White Lightning could cheer me up. Nothing could. Then who comes along and starts scooping the ice cream but she herself. Just sitting there, watching her from three booths down, my eyes were opened to a wonderful and extremely practical fact. She’s a leftie! And I’m a rightie! Which is actually perfect because it means we can hold non-dominant hands while doing homework!

God is good. Yours Truly, Noah

To be continued

Noah Gould (’20) and Liney Parker (’20) insist that any resemblance in this diary to ‘that guy you met in writing 101’ is merely coincidental.

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Fall 2017

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Transparent War on Manic Optimism Graham Allen

When home is taken away, when the good and the American dream are shown to be lies and you cannot wander empty halls, flanked by the friend of quiet thoughts because there are no halls—straight and clean, light bathing panes your thoughts are broken circuits, split and open and yours

And all is din, flickering static and bulbs, full-eclipsed full-noon

fractured, buzzing, pinned squirming in umbra while the horizon burns Banished to a brain not seeming your own formless and void, the hovering fizzling silence synching corsets of smiles screaming muted by waves of sedative crackling canned laughter pulsing delirious pathetic laughter assaulting pure Laughter

Thumbs jammed into sockets, forcing frenzied jigs on black-lit lids

frantic to find – to flip the switch, Let there be light of some kind!

Turn the radio OFF Stop pumping me with noise and neon!

Fight the day through dark and filter Hoarsely sing and saintly scream

And my voice is to scratch out life?

And my eye is a prism of light?

Today all I glimpse is a glinting stark and single string dangling white through crowding clouds grasping the edge of the crown of Jesus summiting a far hill Slackening, fraying yet caught in my eye.

Refracting, echoing the blooming array cresting the hill

I march on, always

Him towards me.

Graham Allen (’18) is a senior MECE with one piece of advice: avoid the disease of busyness!

Defend quiet, unplanned spaces, these can be holy and wholesome.

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The Quad

Eclipse Delany Martin

Regis Bursch started a pot of coffee for himself on Monday morning. It was early, and the sun had not quite made its way past the horizon. He could tell from looking out of the window behind the sink that the pale, streaky light meant the sun would not be up for another half an hour. Geoffrey the cat laid out on the rug at Regis’ feet as he filled the pot up with water from the sink. After his first cup of coffee, Regis filled Geoffrey’s bowl up with smelly food, which Geoffrey gratefully ate.

Someone on the TV in the other room was talking about the total eclipse that was to take place that day. Regis poured another cup of coffee, took it into the other room, and sat down in front of the screen.

The room was dark except for the flashing light of the television. Regis wasn’t at all interested in listening to the news, but felt that people liked him better when he knew what was going on in the world. It was all bad anyway. He took a sip of his coffee, closed his eyes, and rushed through a list of things to bring for the day. He batted them off in his head: glasses, sunscreen, a hat, the folding chair, camera, money for lunch, and the journal. Regis had been keeping a journal of every total eclipse he had seen since he saw his first one. He was only 18 years old at the time, but he traveled from his home with his girl just to see it. Now, he took Geoffrey with him because he didn’t have anyone else to bring anymore. By the time Regis finished his coffee, Geoffrey was basking on the rug in a fresh patch of sunlight, and he figured he better take a shower and get on the road. r

The previous night, in a small, one floor house, Henry Salmon was speaking with his shrink. He liked to call her his

shrink, but she refused to acknowledge that title and preferred her more professional title of therapist.

“Can you tell me what happened yesterday that made you want to throw away your house keys?” she asked, sitting in a plump, red loveseat with purple pillows.

“Well I, um, saw the fish jumping up in the water. I just felt compelled to throw my keys in the river. See, the fish seemed like they needed somethin’ better than the river there, you know? Like they needed a real home.”

“So, you offered yours?”

“Well yeah.”

“I see.” Dr. Amaris shuffled through her papers as Henry looked around, nervously fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Okay, well what you saw this time caused a radical action and that is making me think that this is something we should look into. It is starting to affect your actions now, and we don’t want that.

We are out of time right now, but please call me to report any unusual behavior. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

After the appointment, Henry walked to the bus stop. Radical actions, radical actions, radical actions. What the hell was that supposed to mean? All he did was throw his keys—his own house keys—into the river. He wasn’t actually crazy. Crazy people do worse things and he wasn’t going to do anything like that. He believed the problem was in his eyes. It had nothing to do with his brain or anything. His eyes were messed up, which caused him to see things that weren’t really there. The bus ride home was sweaty and smelly because of the August air and the rush hour bod-

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ies. Henry imagined himself screaming.

“See,” he thought, “If I were crazy then I’d actually scream.” At his apartment, Henry plopped onto the firm couch and turned on the news. An announcer voice was saying something about a total eclipse on Monday afternoon in Henry’s state of South Carolina. He didn’t understand. He went over to the large desktop computer that he had sitting on a card table and searched “total solar eclipse.” A total solar eclipse is when the moon goes directly in front of the sun. Henry could hear his heart inside his ears. At that moment, he fully believed that the only thing that would help heal him of “seeing things” was to look right into that eclipse. It only makes sense. He continued his internet search to find out exactly where this total eclipse would be and how he could get to it. The bus schedule showed that he would have to leave at 8 AM the following morning. A little early for Henry, but he knew that this was a special occasion. He decided not to tell Dr. Amaris or Frankie, who lived in the janitor closet down the hall, where he was going. He wanted them to be so surprised when he got back and his eyes were fixed. r

At 8 AM on that Monday morning, Regis was packing his necessary items into the backseat of his 1977 Cadillac. Geoffrey walked right into his carrier on the ground.

“You know we’re leaving, huh?” Regis grinned as he zipped up the screen sides of the carrier and carefully placed it in the passenger seat. He had on a teal t-shirt from Yosemite National Park that was tucked into his light wash jean shorts. He had some comfortable sneakers on his

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feet and a watch that was set five minutes fast. Looking down at the big silver face, he noticed that he was six minutes behind schedule, which meant that he was really one minute late. There wasn’t much in Regis’ life that caused him to move with urgency, but a total eclipse was one of those unusual cases. Slamming the passenger door, he scurried around to the driver side of the car and began his road trip.

With a full tank of gas and a Styrofoam cup of coffee, Regis was the most content man on earth. r

On Monday morning, Henry laid in bed with his eyes opened as wide as they could be. No longer would he have to worry if what he was seeing was real. He knew that after staring into the dark pupil of the moon, everything he saw would be real. He opened his window and screamed into the alley, “I AM GOING TO BE HEALED.” The hum of the air conditioning drowned out his voice and made it less effective, but Henry was powerful.

He knew the world heard him correctly.

At 8 AM, he waited at the bus stop. All he had with him was a small drawstring bag of Peppermint Patties and Milky Ways because out of all the other candies, they reminded him the most of space.

There were other things in his bag too, like his wallet and reading glasses, but he didn’t much intend on buying or reading anything. He had them for emergencies only. He fell asleep for most of the bus ride because he had gotten up unusually early that morning. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping, but when he heard the high pitched brakes and felt his body jolt forward, he figured it was his stop and got off the bus. He looked up at the street

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and saw that it said Pine Street. He was supposed to get off at Woollings Street.

He considered running after the bus, but it was already halfway down the street and he didn’t feel like exercising. He saw a flickering yellow sign for a diner across the road and figured he would have something there while he came up with his plan for what he was going to do. r

Regis had been driving for about two hours before he got hungry and needed another cup of coffee. Every fast food restaurant he drove by was enticing to him, which was unusual. He hadn’t eaten at a fast food restaurant in a couple of years.

He noticed one food place that wasn’t a franchised fast food restaurant, and decided to head in there. His stomach growled at the thought of a burger, although it was only 10 o’clock. He carried the cat carrier under his jacket as he walked into the diner. It smelled strongly of frying oil, and the air conditioning made Regis uncomfortable at first, but he was in too good of a mood to care. All he cared about was getting some food. He sat down at the nearest booth and ordered a cup of coffee to start. It was fairly empty. There was a small family a couple booths over and a man at the counter. Regis watched the man for some time while sipping his coffee. At first he thought the man was talking to the waitress over the counter, but after the waitress left, the man continued talking. It looked like a heated conversation. He was either upset about what the waitress said or did, or he really thought he was talking to somebody. Regis was compelled to talk to this man. He had never been so intrigued by a person before.

Something was wrong but interesting

The Quad

about the man. Regis blamed his strange eagerness to socialize on the eclipse. He scooted out of his booth and went over to sit next to the man.

“Hey there, sir,” he said while awkwardly tapping the man on his shoulder.

The man looked at him, startled, as if someone just woke him up from a long nap.

“I-I was just telling that man there that he shouldn’t bother anyone here anymore.” The man angrily waved to the silver coffee maker sitting across the counter.

“He was making faces at that waitress.”

“I see…Do ya mind if I ask your name?”

“It’s Henry.”

“Okay, Henry. I’m Regis. You wanna sit with me over there in that booth? It’s just been me for a while, so I’m feeling pretty lonely.” Regis gestured Henry to the booth. Before following Regis over, Henry told the coffee maker that he was now going to sit in the booth. The two men slid into their separate sides, and Regis lifted his jacket to check on Geoffrey.

“Whatchya got down there?” Henry wagged a finger nervously at the empty spot next to Regis. He sat slumped in his chair with his arms close beside him as if his elbows were attached to his hips.

“Don’t worry,” Regis chuckled. “It’s just my cat.” He whispered the word cat and quickly covered up the carrier as the waitress approached with both of their orders. A cheeseburger with extra pickles and fries was set in front of Regis, and Henry had a tuna salad sandwich with nothing else on it. The two ate their food without much conversation until mid-bite, Henry said, “Wait, why ya have your cat?”

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“I’m going to see the total eclipse today. I usually take an eclipse buddy with me, but it’s just me and Geoffrey today. He has trouble being left alone for very long.

Plus, he can tell when I’m leaving.”

“Oh hey, I’m going to see the eclipse too. Well, I was, but I don’t think this is where I was supposed to get off the bus. I was gonna ask that fella over there what the bus schedule was.” Henry gestured toward the coffee maker that was steaming from a freshly brewed pot.

“Uh, don’t bother him anymore. He seems like a busy man right now.”

They finished up their lunch when Henry saw something skirt across the tile. It ran under the table, and Henry moved his head underneath the booth to get a better look.

“Everything alright, Henry?”

“There’s a mouse.” The sound was muffled from Henry’s head still being under the table.

“What?” Now, they both had their heads underneath the booth. Henry was staring intently at a spot on the ground where he could see a little mouse, and Regis was looking from the empty ground to Henry. “I don’t see any mouse.”

“Why can’t you? It’s right there.” He pointed to the mouse with a hushed voice so as not to scare it away, but all Regis saw was an empty floor.

“Henry. Talk to me for a little bit.”

Regis slowly lifted his head back up into the light above the booth. Henry followed him and sat in a crouched position with his legs off the floor so that the mouse wouldn’t run over his feet. “I know we

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just met, but I can already tell there is something…” Regis looked for the right word. “Something strange about you.” That wasn’t the right word. Henry’s face became sad and concerned. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. No, not at all. I just feel like I should tell you that the man you were talking to over there is actually a coffee maker. And I never saw that mouse you were talking about. I don’t want to be rude, but I feel like the nice citizen thing to do is tell you.”

“Oh,” Henry said, defeated but not surprised at what he heard. “I know I get like that sometimes. It’s my eyes. They don’t really do their job right and see things that aren’t there. But, I don’t know the things aren’t there until someone like you tells me.”

“Your eyes do that to you?”

“Yeah. My shrink thinks it’s my brain, but ‘I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,’ I always tell her. That’s why I’m goin’ to see the eclipse. To fix my eyes.”

Regis panicked for a moment, remembering what he was there for in the first place. He checked his watch and was relieved to see that he was doing fine and on schedule. Then he thought of the last thing that Henry said.

“Wait, you’re going to the eclipse… to fix your eyes?”

“Yeah.”

Regis was silent as he considered the extent of Henry’s delusion. He didn’t know what it meant when Henry said that he was going to fix his eyes with the eclipse, but it didn’t sound safe. Regis pitied this man. He couldn’t, with a good conscience, let Henry go on his own and fix his eyes.

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“I don’t really know what you mean when you say that.”

“Well I’m goin’ to look into the eclipse and it will fix my eyes.” Henry said it with such confidence, as if it were common knowledge and Regis was silly for not knowing.

“Right. Well, there is a safe way of doing that, and I can help you if you want.

Why don’t I drive you the rest of the way down? It will be more comfortable than the bus, and we won’t have to make as many stops.”

Henry agreed and the two gathered up their things. In the car, Henry started eating the mini Milky Ways, one after the other. He offered some to Regis, who declined. He alternated between glancing out of the sides of his eyes at Henry and glancing at the sky. Perfect weather for an eclipse. Henry wasn’t sure why Regis was being so nice to him. Usually when he met people out in public, they would uncomfortably walk away from him if they found out that he saw something that they didn’t think was there. Nobody ever believed him when he told them that it wasn’t his brain that was the problem, but his eyes. He knew it was his eyes because he was a very smart guy. He went to college and everything. He didn’t graduate, but Henry didn’t see any difference. The only place he had ever found a job was a manager position at a grocery store. They threatened to fire him when he got angry at a customer. The owner of the grocery store told him he was just yelling at the air. Regis was different, though, because after Henry explained his problem, he invited him to go with him instead of running away.

“Can I put something on the radio?”

Regis asked. He didn’t want to make small talk if he didn’t have to.

“I don’t care… Do you think the eclipse will fix my eyes?”

“We will see.” He muttered, “I don’t think so,” so that only he could hear.

Henry chuckled. “The first time I knew there was somethin’ wrong with my eyes was in my house, about two, maybe one and a half years ago. I just happened to catch a glimpse outside my window and saw a man walking up the front steps. I prepared to open the door for him. I really had no idea who he was, but I clearly saw a man. He never came to the door and I never saw him walking away or anything like that. My ex-wife was yellin’ at me, sayin’ that there wasn’t any man after all.”

Regis was silent. He felt bad for Henry never knowing what was reality and what was in his head.

There was traffic about five minutes from the field where they were going to watch the eclipse, which Regis expected because there was usually traffic like this for eclipses. Henry was confused. He couldn’t understand why so many people wanted to see the total eclipse. Were some of them seeing things too? It was possible he wasn’t the only one who came to get his eyes fixed. After ten excruciating minutes of traffic, where Regis honked the horn every time someone didn’t move the second that they could, they made it to the field where they were going to watch the eclipse. They really didn’t have much time, so Regis was moving pretty fast and Henry had to take small quick steps to keep up with him. They found an opening in the grass where they could comfortably

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sit. Regis started unfolding the blue chair that was underneath his arm while Henry sat down in the grass. Around them, there were young families, old couples, and the rare individual who came alone. The grassy area was situated on a hill so that when Henry and Regis looked down the hill, they could make out tiny groupings of people playing around or sitting and talking. Everyone had settled into their comfortable patches of grass. Regis let Geoffrey out of the carrier to walk around a bit. He was a good cat and never left Regis’ side. The eclipse coverage was about fifty percent at that point. They still had some time. Regis slowly sat down in the blue chair and popped on his hat. He got his small journal out of his back jean pocket and started writing about the things he saw around him.

“So why are you here? You just wanna see what the eclipse looks like?”

“No, I know what a total eclipse looks like. I’ve seen at least six of them. I’ve been travelling all around to see them. I used to take people with me: Buddies, girlfriends, you know. Well, nobody in my life really stuck, so I’m just bringing Geoffrey along…” Henry trailed off. His hands were getting sweaty from all the personal talk.

“Henry, I know what’s going to happen when the totality hits, and I know that your eyes aren’t going to be healed, or whatever you think, when it happens.”

“What’re you talking about? Why am I here then? Why did you invite me to come with you if you believed that?” Henry was getting angry, and because Regis barely knew him, he tried his best to calm him down. He was beginning to regret having a stranger, and a crazy one at that,

in his company. He shut his journal.

“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you that until you saw for yourself, but I couldn’t stand it any longer,” he said. “It wasn’t right. I’m very sorry.”

“I know my eyes are broken, and I know they need to be fixed!” Henry was yelling now and he looked over his shoulder and said, “Don’t look at me.” There was nobody directly behind them, but Henry believed that there was a family there, shaking their heads in unison.

“Nobody is back there, Henry. There wasn’t a mouse in the diner, either.”

Henry just sat there, looking straight ahead at the backs of the families in front of them. He wished he could join one of the families, and that one of them would tell him that he was right and Regis was wrong. Henry’s sanity relied on him being right. The gentle background of people’s conversations began to quiet down as the lighting got strange. It looked like a storm was moving in, but the sky around the horizon was light blue, and not like the dark gray that comes with storms. Henry and Regis both thought it reminded them of something out of the Twilight Zone. Within seconds, their surroundings became dark. They could hear quiet gasps from the people around them. Regis grabbed Geoffrey to put him back in his carrier and motioned for Henry to look up into the sky. They stood up and stared right into the blocked sun. Regis saw the sun’s corona and noticed how there was a sunset all around the horizon. His favorite part was always when the crickets start chirping. He loved that he was suddenly immersed in the night for three minutes.

Everyone around him was in a blue haze.

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Henry saw an eye. He saw the dark black pupil surrounded by the silver iris.

He saw the eye wink at him for a moment.

His eyes couldn’t have been any wider. He was letting every bit of the outer sunlight into his eyes as if it would coat the lens and cause every invisible thing he saw to disappear.

“Look away now,” Regis said as a bright spot of sun started to appear. Henry stayed staring just as wide-eyed as before.

“Henry, look away.” He said more urgently. Henry could hear him, but he knew he had to keep staring for it to really work. He was going to know when it was working. He wasn’t healed yet.

“Henry. Stop staring.”

Regis shoved him over, so that he would take his eyes off the sun, and Henry stumbled over the blue folding chair. Regis didn’t usually touch anyone, especially violently, but he knew the danger of staring at the eclipse. Henry was going to go blind if he didn’t stop. Henry was upset now. Regis had brought him here so that he could get his eyes fixed, so that’s what he was going to do. Sitting on the ground with the chair on its side, he went back to staring at the sun. Now, the sun was becoming a small sliver, wrapped around one side of the moon. It didn’t look like an eye anymore, so Henry thought the process must be done. He stood up and went straight for Regis. He tackled him to the ground with more force than Regis thought his skinny body could be capable.

“I was just trying to help you,” Regis grunted while attempting to get off the ground. A crowd started to form around them, but nobody stepped in to help.

People awkwardly shifted from leg to leg, as if any movement would make them seem helpful. Henry saw someone try to get between Regis and him, so he threw punches in the air. He missed him the first time, but he punched violently and repeatedly. He wasn’t hitting anybody. He could see the man clearly, but his fists flew in the air, untouched. He stopped punching and reached out his hand into the air, swiping it back and forth, trying to feel something.

Nobody was in front of him. He stood staring at that space as the light around him got brighter and the crickets stopped chirping.

“I—I don’t get it,” he said to the empty space in front of him. He slowly stood up. Regis shooed the bystanders and gave them calm looks that assured them the situation was taken care of.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my eyes, is there?”

“I can’t be sure… No, nothing is wrong with your eyes, Henry. It doesn’t work like that.”

Henry looked at the ground and nodded. The eclipse didn’t heal his eyes. He saw a man who wasn’t really there. He understood now, but it was exactly the opposite of what he had hoped for. He had been seeing things for two years, and then his wife left him, which only made things worse for him. He never wanted to acknowledge that something could be wrong in his brain. Eyes are easier to fix, he thought.

The sun was fully exposed now, and Regis let Geoffrey out to walk around for a bit. When he bent down to the carrier, he saw his camera and let out an aggravated sigh.

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Fall 2017

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.

“I forgot to take the picture. I take a picture of each eclipse.” Looking around, he spotted a young woman who was not doing anything that looked particularly important.

“Excuse me. Would you be so kind to take our picture?” He gestured toward Henry.

The woman tentatively agreed, because she had just seen the two fighting and was wondering if it was all a joke.

“Might as well use it for something,” said Regis as he awkwardly positioned himself beside Henry. Henry gave semi-enthusiastic thumbs up to the camera.

On the drive back, the men shared Milky Ways and turned down the radio.

Regis concentrated on the road, because he didn’t glance at Henry every few seconds.

Henry amused him with stories about his short time in college. Occasionally, Henry would say something unusual, but Regis didn’t point this out or call him crazy. They decided that Regis would drive Henry down to the bus stop by the diner, and they would part ways there. The familiar yellow sign blinked at them again as the Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. It was late afternoon, and the black pavement made the air around it feel like the air inside of a toaster oven. Regis and Henry met around the back of the car.

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“I hope that you get the help you need. I really mean that.”

“Thanks. I hope that the eclipse was worth it again.”

“I may not be able to travel around much longer to see them. You know, getting older and…” His voice trailed off. “But maybe for the next one, I’ll give you a call and you can come along. You made this eclipse worth something. They were starting to lose their wonder,” Regis said as he scribbled his number on the back of their photo. Handing it to Henry, he said, “Keep me updated. You know, on your…eyes” “Sure I will.”

Regis wasn’t sure if he could believe him, but it didn’t matter. He just felt good having known he saved someone somehow, and he was being honest when he told Henry that he would call him. Henry wished he would. Regis watched him cross the street and walk to the bus stop. There was a certain hopefulness to his walk that wasn’t there before. Henry sat down under the clear awning of the bus stop and gave a wave. Regis waved back and grinned to himself as he walked into the diner.

Delaney Martin (’20) is a sophomore English major who hopes that she can will herself to write more.

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Rising of the Lights Kathleen McAlister

It started with a dryness In the back of the throat— Hot and scratchy it reminded me Of a sweater I owned once Without its red rosy charm.

Mornings and evenings, Certain I was dying of TB or the plague, I curled up in our armchair And watched the orange leaves skip Through the frost-soaked air.

In a breathless panic, I awoke in the heavy night, Its black weight pressed against My wearied lungs, clinging In my constricted throat.

A cup of hot tea and a pale dawn Soothed like a mother’s midnight hymns; I watched the light rise from the horizon, Wrenched from the earth’s crust—

A lover’s confession, a startled breath,

Or, racing home at last, the soul at death.

Kathleen McAlister (’18) has been surviving the past couple weeks on Nyquil, mint truffle Hershey’s Kisses, gallons of coffee, and Christmas cheer.

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Fall 2017

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Reconciliation Ann Busch

“How was it?” Will leaned over to his son who he had just picked up. Will’s own father, Henry, stood on the front porch, waving.

Will waved halfheartedly back and gave a polite smile.

“It was so cool! He showed me all his farm equipment and I got up on the tractor and even let me taste a fresh soybean! Well, it wasn’t exactly fresh because he said if you eat a raw soybean you can get sick,” said Jack, his little ten year old body wiggling into the seat and fastening the buckle.

Will backed out of the driveway, careful not to hit the old, immaculate forest green 1961 Ford pickup truck which sat there.

Henry had tried to teach Will how to drive in that. It was a stick shift and Will gave up after stalling at a light, deciding to learn on his mom’s automatic station wagon instead.

Will always felt like his dad thought he was soft for not learning how to drive stick. He hated that truck.

“Hey Dad, how come you don’t ever come with us? He tells stories about you; they’re kinda funny.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of stories? ” “Well, he said that when you were in school you used to cause a lot of trouble.”

Jack’s brown eyes looked reproachful.

Will scoffed. Trouble was one word for it—destructive vandalism, another. He didn’t go to church back then; now, he saw things in a different light.

“He said that one time you plugged up all the drains in the science hallway, turned on all the water, put a brick on the water fountains, and let it flood the whole school!” Here Jack couldn’t help but let out a little grin.

In front of his son, Will said, “Well, that’s all true, but it doesn’t make it good.

Don’t do what I did; it wasn’t right.” Will wondered why, of all stories, his father would share that one with his son. There were plenty of other ones like how in the fourth grade, he won an award for a poem he wrote and his father failed to show up to the award ceremony. Henry said there was trouble with the hill field; it wasn’t draining properly and had to be fixed that very instant and of course he was very sorry. At least that’s what his teacher told Will after his father called to explain why he was so late to pick him up.

That night, Will made himself and his son pancakes and scrambled eggs for dinner.

Then they watched Newshour on PBS together. Usually, once Jack went to sleep, Will would pour a glass of whiskey and read. His father always hated the fact that Will liked reading; he said it was useless for farm work.

But tonight, the phone rang. It was Henry, calling to say Jack left his school bag at the farm.

“I’ll pick up the bag tomorrow after work. Hey, thanks for taking Jack out today.

He really liked it.”

“Well, he’s a good kid.”

“He is. I hope I can raise him right.”

There was a beat of silence.

Henry sighed. “I know I worked a lot when you were a kid. But I want Jack to see me as a better man. Don’t ruin this for me, Will.”

“I’ll try not to.” Will said and hung up.

The next Saturday, Will dropped Jack off at his dad’s farm. In the back room, where Henry did all his finances, were papers with important dates scattered about the desk, a fountain pen, a roll of stamps, and a desk

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lamp with a green shade. Bookcases full of trinkets, magazines, and model planes lined the room.

“What’s this airplane called? Did you fly these ones?” Jack asked.

“That is a C-47… and yes, I was a…a… pilot in the air force during World War II.” said Henry.

“Really? That’s so cool!” Jack looked eager. “What did you do?”

Henry cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “Er, well, the C-47 was a cargo plane, so we dropped supplies to people.” Jack’s eyes were shining so Henry went on. “And one time, my plane went down in Germany. During the Battle of the Bulge in fact, and uh, we were captured by German soldiers.” Jack sat enthralled, so Henry continued. “My co-pilot and most of the crew didn’t make it. But the rest of us boys escaped to American lines.”

“Wow, were you scared?” Jack asked.

“Yeah... Listen, don’t tell people about this. I don’t really like talking about it. War is not a glamorous thing like the movies make it out to be. Just keep it to yourself,” said Henry. “Say, how about we go out to lunch?”

Later, Will stopped by the farm to pick up Jack. As usual, Henry waved from the porch and Will waved back as Jack hopped in the car.

“Dad,” said Jack breathlessly, “Dad, Grandpa flew planes in the war! Did you know that? He said his plane got shot down and he got captured by the Germans! And he had to escape! It’s like that movie we watched one time, what was it called?”

“The Great Escape?” supplied Will.

“And yeah, I knew he was in the war. I

just didn’t know what he did…” His voice trailed off.

“It was nothing like The Great Escape,” thought Will. “There is no way that happened and I had no idea. I wonder if I can find anything about this…”

r As the years passed, Henry’s stories became lore and much admired by his grandson. Christmases brought gifts of baseball bats, air force uniforms, and toy guns for Jack. For Will, it was gift cards to Macy’s, bottles of cheap wine, candles, or inspirational quote calendars.

“Thanks! I want build this right now!” said Jack, after Henry had given Jack a model rocket ship kit that Christmas.

“Well, you’re welcome, I’m glad you still like these kinds of things. Kids these days, they just play on their gadgets. Nothing but the best for my grandson,” Henry said.

“I’m glad you had that same mentality when I was a kid, Pop,” said Will, sitting in a dark corner.

“It was your mother who gave you gifts,” Henry said.

Will glared at Henry, daring him to speak. Jack looked questioningly at both of them. No one said anything. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. The fire cracked, and Will got up to stir it.

The next day, Will went back over to the farm. The house was exactly the way it was when Will lived there. The old 1961 forest green Ford pickup truck sat in the driveway.

The swing in the back was still there; the swing that Henry put up after he didn’t come to Will’s school play in the sixth grade.

It swung there in the wind, mocking Will.

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Will knocked on the door. Even though Henry was in his seventies, the outside of the house was impeccable. Henry always cared about appearances.

“Will.” Henry opened the door. “Where is Jack?”

“Jack’s not with me today. I need to talk to you,” Will said and walked in the house. It reeked of mildew. The men sat at the kitchen table in a stony silence.

“Well, this is going nowhere fast,” Will thought. “I didn’t drive all the way over here to sit in silence, just like every single time I try to start over with him.”

“How are you?” Henry finally said.

“Fine,” replied Will. “Why did I say that? I’m not fine.” Will thought of his own son, resolutely took a deep breath, and said, “I just want to restart with you.” Henry raised an eyebrow in skepticism, but Will pushed through. “Since I’ve been going to church, I’ve come to see things differently.

They talk a lot about reconciliation and restoration and how God—” “I don’t want to hear about your religious talk. I don’t like it. Besides, a loving father wouldn’t send his son down to die,” Henry said bitterly.

Out of habit, a habit that fueled a bitter fire, Will wanted to say, “Yeah and what would you know about being a loving father?”

Instead he said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.

I want a better relationship for me, for you, and especially for Jack. He’s thirteen. He’s just learning how to be a man. He shouldn’t have to see the only family he’s got sitting in an unspoken feud. Can’t we put it aside?”

Henry shifted in his seat, eyes wandering. A picture of his wife sat on the end

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table. “Your mom liked church. She took you until you refused to go.”

“I know, Pop.” Will stared at the crystal bowl of peppermints that sat on the counter. Henry played with his watch. The clock ticked, obtrusively loud. Henry cleared his throat.

“I have cancer.”

“What? What—what do you mean?”

“I was diagnosed about a year ago. I haven’t been back to the doctor since. I don’t want to know.”

“You’ve known for a whole year and haven’t told us? Dad, we can help you. We can get you a nurse.”

“No. No. I don’t want any nurses or anyone rummaging through this house. I don’t want to be moved, Will. That is my only request.”

Will sat in shock. He wanted details, facts to comfort him, facts to wash away doubt, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Liver cancer, and apparently I’ve had it for about three years, untreated,” Henry said in answer to Will’s unvoiced questions.

“Three years? And no pain? I’m surprised, Dad. You hardly ever go to the doctor.”

“Who needs the doctor anyway? If I haven’t lost my arm or leg, there’s no need for a doctor,” Henry said.

“I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll call the doctor to see if they can recommend an inhome nurse.”

“No, Will. I am not having anyone come in here. I told you already. I want to die at peace in my own home.”

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“Dad, you might not be able to do things on your own. It’s hard to think about, but we have to. In a few months, who knows how you’ll be feeling.”

“I am fine right now,” Henry said decisively.

“Alright,” Will said, knowing he was in a losing battle. “Let me know if you’re even in a little pain.” Will knew perfectly well his dad would not be likely to ever ask for help.

Henry got up, and walked Will to the door. On the way out, Will looked at his dad. His face was more tired, more aged, and more sad. Will left him alone in his house. r Jack and Will tried to bring meals and tried to clean the house whenever they could. But Henry was an obstinate man. He would yell at them saying that the house was perfectly clean and that he’s never had any trouble cleaning before. Once he got so angry when he found them cleaning the bathroom, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, that he told them never to come back.

As they were driving away from the farm, Henry’s little porch light slowly diminished. A grey sludgy snow covered the fields around them as the weak winter sun fell gently behind the horizon.

“We are just trying to help him. It’s so annoying that he acts like that.” Jack said.

“I know. I guess it’s really because he’s not used to having people care about him. I mean, I didn’t really care about him growing up. He cared for my mom in her sickness, although I’m sure she would have cared for him better if her strength had allowed it.

He looks at life through a lens of duty and hard work. His childhood was hard. Didn’t have much. Then the war came, and he was

honor bound to serve our country. And for the latter part of his life, since I came back home, he’s just done whatever he wants. He’s very independent.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s blonde head turned to look out the window. There wasn’t much to see: dead fields, a lone bus stop, a sign that read State Route 53.

“Did he really get a purple heart?”

Jack asked.

This was news to Will. What he knew of his dad’s military experience was because of Jack.

“I honestly don’t know.” In his heart, Will highly doubted it, but he could hardly bring himself to shatter his son’s view of his grandfather. r “Are you sure you don’t have any records? How could have they all been destroyed? Didn’t you make backups?”

“I’m sorry sir, but as I have already told you, there was a fire in 1973 which destroyed seventy-five percent of all air force personnel records from 1947 to 1964. Your father would have been included in that. I only have a copy of a formal discharge. It says, Henry McGowan, Airman, First Class, discharged April 23rd, 1947.”

“First Class?” Will swallowed. “What’s the chance that a First Class Airman could earn a purple heart during World War Two?” “I don’t know about the chances, but as I work in the archives here, I do know that purples hearts were a dime a dozen, especially during World War Two. Guys sold and traded them like cigarettes. It’s possible that your father earned one, but you might want to contact the Military Awards and Decora-

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tion Archive to see if they have any information regarding that. I could transfer you.”

“No. I mean, no thanks. I’d rather not find out.”

“I understand. Have a nice day, sir.” Will hung up the phone and looked at the clock.

Jack would be back from school soon, and this being his first day back after winter break, he wanted to be there for him when he got home.

The front door slammed. “Hey Dad! Do we have any food? I’m starving,” Jack said as he walked in the door. He ran through the kitchen, tracking slush everywhere, as he rummaged through the pantry.

“That’s the hello I get?” Will said jokingly. Jack laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Hey, do you think we could visit Grandpa sometime?” Jack asked, sitting down at the kitchen table to start his homework.

Will sighed. Their last visit had not gone well. He sat down at the table and pensively tapped the eraser of Jack’s pencil on the table.

“He needs us. He’s all alone in that house. And the house is just in the middle of a bare field. He doesn’t even have any neighbors. We’re all he has,” Jack said.

In the midst of the kitchen, dirty dishes piling high, and no dinner in sight, an unspoken understanding passed between father and son. For Will, it was the fact the Jack was no longer a child. For Jack, it was the realization of how much he and his father needed each other.

The next few months brought nurses, frozen dinners, and pastoral visits. Henry refused everything except the frozen dinners, but as the days wore on, he began to refuse those as well. One night, Henry called Will.

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“Hello?” said Will.

“Will? When are you coming home? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Your mother was just saying the other day about how you’re doing great in school. I haven’t seen you. Did you ever learn how to drive stick shift?”

“Hey Pop. It’s gonna be okay. I saw you today. Remember? I brought you a hamburger and fries.”

“Your mother, she—she was just—” “You’re alright Dad. Mom died a long time ago. How are you feeling right now?”

There was a long pause on the other side.

“Dad? You still there?”

Henry coughed and said, “Yes. I’m here.

I can’t tell you how I am. You—I’ve been thinking a lot about your mother. She was an amazing woman. She took you to church.”

“That’s right, Pop.” Will hesitated. He had tried so many times before, why would this time be any different?

Jack stood in the kitchen in his pajamas that exposed his skinny childlike ankles, straining to hear every word, hanging on to hope.

Will looked at his son, whose eyes were full of hope. “I’m coming over.”

There was a mild protest from Henry, something about how he had never had visitors this late before. But Will made up his mind.

Jack raced back into his room. He returned fully clothed, only saying, “I’m going with you.”

The green pickup truck sat in the driveway of the farmhouse and the lone bulb used as a porch light was on, just like normal.

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What light the little bulb shed was barely enough to see the steps on the front porch.

The field surrounding the house was vast and dark. Will let them in with a key and led Jack through the still, dark house, over creaky floorboards to the back bedroom. Jack hung back as Will entered the bedroom. Soft words were exchanged and Will beckoned for Jack to come in.

The undertakers sat in their truck behind the church. After the service, as Jack and Will were walking back to the car, an old man came up to them. His name was Frank and he had been an acquaintance of Henry’s during the war who lived nearby.

Henry apologized over and over again for having guests while he was in bed, but Jack told him it was okay.

Jack nodded vigorously in agreement.

Will said nothing.

“There was something I needed to tell you, Jack,” Henry whispered and Jack leaned closer.

“He’s going to come clean about the stories. Just don’t. Don’t tell him they were lies. Let them die,” Will silently pleaded.

Henry took a deep breath. “I love you, Jack. I haven’t ever told you that before and I can’t just—just leave without you knowing.”

Henry tried to straighten up in his bed and Will exhaled in relief. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want Jack to know about the stories, at least not yet.

Henry continued, “I always wanted you to like me and look up to me. I wanted you to think that I was better than the pathetic excuse of a father I was to your dad.”

“Dad,” Will interjected, “It was hard, but I forgive you.”

Henry had quiet tears running down his face. “I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re McGowan’s son, I take it?”

Frank said to Will. Will nodded. “He was a good man, your father. A true hero.”

“Always made me feel like his friend.”

He chuckled a bit. “Sometimes during down time, he would sing to us, sometimes it was a hymn, sometimes it was bits of songs we heard on the radio before we left the US. It always made us feel a little funny, being sung to and all, but it comforted us. It reminded us of home.”

Jack looked up at Will, with that same look of hope he had in the kitchen that night Henry called for the last time. Will thanked Frank and shook his hand.

When they got back to the car Jack asked his dad, “Do you think he’s in heaven?”

“I don’t really know. I guess Dad knew some church songs. His salvation—that’s between him and God. But we can hope.”

Will gave a half smile.

Henry left Will the old Ford truck.

It sat in their driveway, but Will didn’t hate it. He learned to drive it, and one day, when Jack was old enough, he would learn too.

Henry died three days later. The funeral was quiet—just Will, Jack, and the officiant.

Ann Busch (’18) would like to submit a query to the Quad asking why third person is the vogue voice choice in writing these bios.

The Quad

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Aliens and Azaleas Holly Ahrens

Distorted people spew atrocious, opulent words.

They fill the silence with things better left unsaid.

Therefore be a lady. Be floral and bright and lovely.

Have adventures and tell flowing fables in the bleary morning sunshine.

Chew bittersweet rhubarb and dance gracefully, Lay in warm sheets and look up at Jupiter.

Don’t be disappointed when you are melancholy, Even the Earth is sometimes sandstone, icicles, and iron.

Let yourself be sleepy and forget to track the Wednesdays.

Listen to the tune of the Hubble telescope as it swings by, And count your knockouts as blessings.

Brevity should not be your goal so Let your complicated poetry sing out and don’t mind criticism, But roll it around. Let it sit lightly on your tongue and on your brain.

In the end what matters is the wildflowers, aliens, and paper cranes, Azaleas, watermelons, oak trees, Chicago, spring, and God.

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The Quad

Picking Daisy Dr. Kimberly Miller

In relationships, why does one person choose another? Some might guess it’s sharing common interests while others argue that physical attraction is essential.

Regardless of the answer we choose or support, culture reinforces daily that our worth is tied to the way we present ourselves to others.

Despite harping on a consistent ‘we are all beautiful’ narrative, the media fails to validate their point in advertising, film, music, or any other form. Instead, airbrushed images and messages assault the audience at every turn, serving only to prove that physical beauty—in whatever manifestation it is noted (hair color or length, height, eye color, weight, or any other number of physical features)—is truly what matters for success in relationships, and indeed, life.

My debut novel, Picking Daisy, challenges the cultural expectations of beauty by making the female lead beautiful where age, perspective, and personal preference won’t change anyone’s estimation of her worth. She is beautiful on the inside—and even with a personal struggle that means she isn’t perfect, it is my hope that Daisy Parker inspires readers to consider their perspectives on beauty, and to look deep inside themselves and others to determine this quality, rather than relying only on outward appearance.

In the novel, the relationship between a celebrity rock star and a ‘nobody’ recluse takes the boy-meets-girl story and adds dimension and depth. Robby Grant isn’t a man who would ever consider someone like Daisy as being worth his time. And for her part, Daisy has no inclination she’d ever trust someone like Robby for friendship, let alone love.

The idea for the novel came from the question I ask all of my writing students to consider when generating ideas for their own work.

What if…?

I was sitting in church one Sunday when the question arose. While I should have been listening to the sermon, instead I was focused on the young woman in front of me who was sitting in a wheelchair. I wondered if any man would see her as a human being with a personality, drive, emotions and value. In short, would he see her as more than a wheelchair and a problem? From that I wondered ‘what if the man who was least likely to see her as a love interest discovered he’d been viewing love all wrong?’

And so grew the story of Daisy Parker and Robby Grant.

Put simply, the story is about a man whose life has been easy to those viewing it from the outside. As a handsome, award-winning musician who as recently as two years ago was voted the ‘sexiest man alive’—Robby appears to have it all. There’s no song he can’t write, no instrument he can’t play, no woman he can’t win.

But on the inside, things aren’t as simple as all that. Robby is full of selfdoubt, and he’s buckling under the pressure of maintaining the rock star façade.

Because of this, he’s just completed his sixth stint in rehab and everyone around him wonders if this time will be any different than the others.

Even his closest allies are doubtful.

But with new songs and an upcoming tour with his popular band, there appears to be hope.

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The difference this time is that Robby is tired of being what everyone wants. Inspired by his older brother, he’s looking to be a ‘real man’ and he is certain he can do it. Although his new faith is weak and his support system is small, it appears Robby is on the right track.

Until his band dumps him.

Insert the only woman who doesn’t care about Robby’s fame.

Thanks to an accident a few years earlier, Daisy Parker has been housebound and hiding from the world. Her friends take care of her and visit often, but even the young writer can see she’s not living the life God wants of her. But changing her situation seems an impossible task until her good friend and neighbor, Nick Patterson, ends up in the hospital after a fall and his nephew, one Robby Grant, comes to take care of him. Robby’s licking his wounds from rehab and his band dumping him, but figures coming to a tiny Pennsylvania town to regroup can’t be a bad idea so he can get his life back in order. And more importantly to Robby, his career back on track.

When Robby and Daisy meet they are almost solely interested in their own survival. With no interest in a relationship beyond what’s necessary, each gets to know the other in a way that had been all but foreign to either of them in previous relationships. It is only after each moves beyond all the troubles of the past that Robby and Daisy grow into more together than either could have imagined being alone. r

While Daisy isn’t a perfect character, she sees Robby immediately as a man in need of help—not as a wealthy and

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famous rock star from whom she can ‘get’ something. This challenges Robby since he’s spent years giving the world what it wants—and what it always wants is to be associated with him, but not to know the man inside.

But Daisy isn’t like everyone else.

Her love for others is shown in numerous ways in the book—and the hope in the story is that this love is more than any found in superficial relationships like Robby has known for years.

And in this Robby discovers he’s worth more than he’s ever believed. r

One of the greatest challenges in writing this story—which began as a completed screenplay and developed into a novel later—was writing a fully-realized and authentic handicapped character since I have never faced this situation personally. I spent significant time and effort researching this situation, even interviewing one woman who was open to being transparent regarding her experiences as a young person in a wheelchair.

While I have gotten numerous compliments on the portrayal of Daisy as being authentic, and outside reviews of the work have largely been favorable, I wonder if I might not have done even more research. And yet, there comes a point as a writer when you have to end the research so you can start writing. I have to trust I’ve done my share and related a story that will inspire readers to rethink the way they view and treat others.

Picking Daisy is currently available on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com in print and digital formats.

Dr. Kimberly Miller is a professor of Communications and newly published author.

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Silence Josiah Aden

Whispering, sibilant pages turned As students learned.

Studious silence, broken now – A car horn, as raucous as a crow, Shatters the serene study space.

Early to bed, early to rise: One of the old Lies.

Purple blackness covers all Shattered by siren’s wailing call Rousing firemen from their dream-place.

Reverent, hushed quiet Church is silent.

The pastor’s wise words Punctuated by singing birds.

He prays for grace.

Pondering the state of the nation In tranquil recollection Leads to a lot of frustration Or even depression.

Horrors unimaginable leave behind their trace.

Silence is the sound of peace But noise does not cease In a world this disheartening God is strengthening.

Find rest in his embrace

Josiah Aden (’19) is a Junior History and English major, but he thinks it’s more important to know that he sat on a cactus when he was more than old enough to know better.

The Quad

Recommended Readings Life Under Compulsion by Anthony Esolen I very rarely read a book that impacts me as much as Esolen’s did. His basic thesis is that thought we live in a society obsessed with freedom and choice, we practically live under compulsion, not to the state or some other entity, but to ourselves. On the one hand, this should be a fairly obvious conclusion given the fallen nature of man, but Esolen does a brilliant job of putting into contemporary context, and he’s just a joy to read.

Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton.

This book is a classic and a must read for all Christians who seek to ground their faith in clear, logical thinking. This book will turn your world upside down—or, really, rightside up—and it will equip you to think rightly about issues of Christian orthodoxy so as to resist and avoid much of the misguided and unbiblical thinking that passes today as Christian intellectualism.

The Civil War: A Narrative by Shelby Foote Poised to become America’s greatest novelist, Shelby Foote abandoned fiction to write the greatest history of America’s most important event. The only American achievement in historical writing likely to be ranked with those of Herodotus and Gibbon one thousand years from now.

Augustus by John Williams The relatively unknown John Williams might be my favorite American novelist! Augustus is a magnificent historical novel on the last fifty years of Caesar Augustus’ life written in epistolary format (letters, memoirs etc. from various people/angles). The result is a complex, multi-faceted perspective of Rome that is both entertaining and (relatively) historically accurate.

Dr. David Hogsette

Dr. Caleb Verbois

Dr. Jason Edwards

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins One of my favorite mystery novels is Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone. Different characters narrate different parts of the story, and I love how their personalities come through in the way they “write.”

Dr. Rebecca Harmon

Dr. Seulgi Byun

Good and Angry by David Powlison.

An excellent Christian treatment of the topic of anger and I think has actually impacted the way I process anger.

Dr. Rebecca Harmon

Check out these books and more at Hearts & Minds Bookstore Dallastown, PA heartsandmindsbooks.com

the Quad The Quad c/o Kathleen McAlister GCC# 1927 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127

Winter 2017 volume 10 issue 2