Effectrix 2017

Effectrix

2016-2017

Masthead Effectrix 2016-2017 Editors: Lila Ingersoll and Ryan Redding Staff: Chad Angelini, Cora Duncan, Annabelle Gillespie, Grace Holmes, Hunter Mansfield, Rachel Pettit, Erica Reece, Madison Rudder, Tong Shen Faculty Advisor: Amanda Newell

Cover art by Rose Fan Elephant drawing by Anneliese Clair

Affliction Jo Wanner 5 Obsession Lila Ingersoll 6 Girl in Silhouette, photo Shiloh Clark 6-7 The Troubador’s Feast Ben Byerly 8-9 Pink Seashells Michell Pagan 10 Visual Music, drawing Cora Duncan 10 Devil’s Play Katie Schiwy 11 White Love Elaine Jiang 12-15 Barbie, photo Madison Rudder 13 Dreams Grace Holmes 16 Sun and Moon, drawing Cora Duncan 16 Chesapeake Sam Johnson 17 Face to Face with the Other Rachel Pettit 18

Contents

Song of Myself Gillian Felton 4

Song of Myself

by Gillian Felton

It’s a shame she has had to deal with this It’s a shame that her life has come to be this way It’s a shame she feels alone right now Sometimes she even dreams of running away

She’d never run away, of course She’d never put down her foot She’d never give her opinion to those who need to hear it It’s sad watching her happiness turn to soot

Some days can be good, some days can be bad Some days she just feels so meek Some days the anxiety covers her body like a heavy blanket It’s clear that the girl emotionally is becoming weak

He helps her though, he tries his best Despite this huge mess, he pulls her through Each day a day closer to freedom, he says He does not know how much he helps her to not feel so blue

Some days can be good, some days can be bad Some days her soul stops feeling so bleak Some days she is able to control the anxiety that rises in her throat It’s clear that this girl is no longer so weak

She’d never run away, of course She’d never let her anger and sadness settle in her head She’d never want to create more issues though But it’s okay because she has somebody to remind her of what’s ahead

It’s a shame she has to deal with this It’s a shame her life has come to be this way It’s a shame she was alone in this But now he helps her feel OK

•4•

“Affliction” was selected for the 2016 student anthology by World Artists Experiences

Affliction

by Jo Wanner

Wind stings me, pushing in from the slit of the car window.

“Do you remember anything else about him?” I ask the question as though He is dead, perhaps I want him to be, and perhaps He is dead to me.

“Like what?” She is barely looking at the road, despite being the in driver’s seat. We are alone on this stretch of isolated highway.

“Something funny.” It’s no wonder I ask for those things, they make Him easier for me to remember.

A short pause. “Once he was driving me to the store, back when we were married. This Black guy was walking all slow across the road in front of us, so I told Him to slow down and pull next to the guy on His side.” She is darker than me, but still so pale that many believe she is White when they first meet her, something that has never failed to anger my Mother.

“So when He does, I have Him roll the window down and shout to the guy, ‘Hey, just ‘cause you’re Black doesn’t mean you have to act ignorant.’” Maybe it’s not easier to remember him with humor, but rather less painful. Easier to think of him as amusing and gone, than the truth and his constant presence in my life.

“Then your Father Speeds out of there all panicked, ‘Why’d you do that? That guy looks in the window and all he could see was little albino me.’ He whined the entire time we were out that day.” We both laugh. It is much more pleasant to think of him like this. To think of the silly, goofy man with a welcoming face. He was the most selfless friend you could’ve had. I was proud to be his Daughter.

But this welcoming face changes—or can it really? Could that same face be the one that turned red with curses and anger? The round face with the thick arms that lifted my brother up by the throat and shattered windows in our faces?

One I love and miss, the other I pretend is dead and hate. To love one is to love both and ignore the sins that terrorized me for years. Why should I be obligated to forgive and remedy the distance?

But how much can I really hate him, when I search for the stories that make him a sympathetic man? Because to hate one is to hate both, and who am I to hate the man that went without food so that my brother and I could have dinner every night?

Both are separate in my mind, yet I know they are the same man. Love and hatred are more intimate with each other than stories would have you believe, and both lay claim to certain parts of your soul that no protest of will can undo.

The question for me is not which is stronger, but which is the heavier affliction.

•5•

Obsession

by Lila Ingersoll

I’m an honest man he said wouldn’t do you no harm got two sisters just like you wouldn’t dream of hurting no one Hospital room 319 His card sits by my bed His scar lies across my face I’m an honest man he says

•6•

•7•

The Troubadour’s Feast

by Ben Byerly

There once was a Troubadour who lived in Paris, France.

He wore clothes of gold and red and blue as he traipsed around and danced.

He giggled and laughed with his booming voice, he was quite the entertainer, But he made no money so every night he would break in, and steal people’s dinner.

This sounds strange I know—I know, but I swear I tell the truth.

He would barge inside and steal the food from the old and from the youth.

With every single dinner he stole his gut would steadily increase, And he’d always yell when he ran out the door, “Haha! I’ve ruined your feast!”

There once was a day where a man and his son were preparing for an evening meal.

They lit the candles and set the table and prepared to eat their veal.

They said their grace and picked up their forks and readied themselves to dig in, When all of a sudden through their window came the Troubadour with a huge grin.

“I smelled your veal from a mile away and I must say it smelled mighty fine!”

“It looks tender and juicy and cooked medium rare—and veal is a favorite of mine!”

The father stood up and brandished his fork and pointed it at the Troubadour’s chin.

“I’ve heard about you, foul Troubadour, you think you’ll take our meal? THINK AGAIN!” The father did brace with a frown on his face and charged straight and then lunged forward, His son in tow and his glass in hand and his fork outstretched like a sword.

The Troubadour then nimbly dodged it as if he were an acrobat or balladeer.

He drew his rapier and then pointed at his gut and exclaimed, “That veal is going right here!”

The Troubadour and father locked blades and in the midst of the duel on the table spread, The Troubadour produced a potato and knocked the man upside the head.

On top of his table the father was out cold and The Troubadour stole the beef.

With a vault out the window and a click of the heels he exclaimed, “Haha! I’ve ruined your feast!”

There was another time where a sailor did sit and enjoy his morning honey & bread, And down from the mast of the tall wooden ship came the Troubadour robed in red.

“I perform and I sing and I dance all day but I don’t receive any money.”

“I’m awfully hungry and awfully tired so please give me that bread and honey!”

The sailor did scowl and furrow his brow and grab a wooden oar.

“Be gone heathen! Be somewhere other than here! Or else you shall be no more!”

The Troubadour produced his sword and leapt into the air.

With a flip and a twist and the flick of the wrist the oar broke into a pair.

•8•

The Troubadour lunged forward and knocked the sailor off his ship, He took the bread and snatched the honey and replaced his sword on his hip.

He leapt from the deck and landed on the dock and sprinted to the East He turned his head and called back to the sailor, “Haha! I’ve ruined your feast!”

Word spread fast of the Troubadour's antics and the city’s patience became thinner, Until one day an angry mob formed, they were to cook the Troubadour for dinner.

They gathered their forks and gathered their knives and napkins and their beverage They marched in a line and knew they would find the Troubadour under his bridge.

“COME OUT COME OUT FOUL TROUBADOUR WE HAVE A MEAL FOR YOU!” And the Troubadour—he did come out, but he didn’t have a clue.

The mob leapt forward and grabbed the Troubadour and tied him like a hog.

They put an apple in his mouth, and lashed him to a log.

They propped the log on a platform and surrounded it in a pyre.

The leader came forward with a blazing torch and lit the wood afire.

The apple fell out of the Troubadour's mouth and he screamed and thrashed and then stood.

“My friends if you just paid me and treated me kindly, I wouldn't have to steal your food.”

But the mob didn’t listen they let him burn and then took down his roasted body.

They carved him up into deli meat strips and made a sandwich for everybody.

Later that night though they all woke with a fright to terrible heartburn and gas, Some chewed on chalk, some chewed on wood, some even chewed on grass.

And their bowels fought them, all the way to the restroom, angry as a beast.

Some even swore they heard from the door . . .

“Haha! I’ve ruined your feast!”

•9•

Pink Seashells

by Michell Pagan

Wind flowing through her hair Waves crashing at the shore Feet wandering the sandy bottom Soft scent of salty water And her mellow blue eyes On the cotton candy sunset: Sand running through her hands The pigment of her lips Like pink seashells.

• 10 •

Devil’s Play

by Katie Schiwy

Walking…Yes I am walking for sure…Every step I take sends a sharp pain up my right leg.

But it is completely automatic. I’m not even mildly worried until I hear a crunch of leaves behind me. I turn very quickly and there he is . . . tall and handsome . . . but very unfamiliar.

More unfamiliar than unfamiliar, like a TV show character with basic features like he could be anybody. I am standing here and staring at him and time is passing like fire burning. Fast as hell and I can’t seem to look away like his smile is gripping at my skin yet looking into his eyes burns me inside out. His eyes. His eyes burrow into me and I can’t look away. What is it about his eyes? Red . . . No . . . they can’t possibly . . . They are. His eyes are a fiery red. As soon as I realize, he is gone. I turn a full 360 but he is nowhere in seeable distance. My legs move again without my control. More than a walk and less than a sprint. But a run for sure and I can’t stop no matter how hard I try. Like my movements are controlled by someone other than myself. Could it have been? . . . That man . . . What was it about him? . . . He has to be behind this . . . Wait . . . Where am I . . . What was I talking about

What?

Where am I?

The tall man Who was he?

No

Could?

I He can’t . . .

God . . .

Red eyes

Lucif— Wait . . .

The man. Why me? What did he want? . . . Why can’t I remember anything but that man?

Like I am not a who anymore. I am a what. Lucifer. I halt. I sit. On the sidewalk. He is there and I stand I sink like the sidewalk is quicksand . . .

I shouldn’t have stabbed that poor girl last week.

• 11 •

White Love

by Elaine Jiang

The wall is pale.

The sunset wakes me up. No matter how unwilling I am, my face is forced towards the blurring light. I try to shy away from the blinding sunlight by turning towards the dark shadows of the room. Due to my splitting headache, I have already lost track of how many days I’ve stayed in bed, nor do I care anymore.

My phone is ringing, and I know that it is reminding me that today is his funeral. He is a married man with a gorgeous wife and the perfect marriage. I start to laugh at myself. Who am I to him? A woman who works with him? Who loves him secretly and expects nothing in return? The only thing I can do is to fill my head with fluids, so that I may get to see him again in my hallucinations.

Nobody knows my feelings for him. Hiding my feelings from him may be my best talent. I have never met his wife, but I knew of her existence ever since I first met him. He never forgets to put on his wedding ring in the morning. I’ve seen it so often that I even notice the small scratches and fading of color. I have heard from other colleagues that his wife has everything a woman dreams of having: a model-like face and figure, high intelligence, a well-known family, and a perfect husband. They may be expecting a baby, as well, since I noticed other people preparing a gift for their baby.

Maybe it’s fate that such a perfect couple ended up together and have the perfect marriage. I have never thought of destroying him or harming his marriage. Nobody needs to know my true feelings.

My head starts to become heavier and heavier, and I fall into sleep . . .

Everything is white—white flowers, white tablecloths, and white dress. Although I am watching all these things as an observer, I know that this is my wedding, and he is in a black tuxedo standing right next to me. He looks at me firmly and starts to take his vow: “I, Jason, take you, Lisa, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

Everything seems to be so real that I feel like it actually happened before. I love the way he looks into my eyes; I love his smile and his voice; I love that I know he is there for me . . . I can’t stop giggling after I hear “until death do us part.” My heart is filled with love, and that sweetness goes through my head to my toes.

Eventually, I come out of my dream with smile, but the sudden sadness washes over everything. Although my bed sheet is also white, this white is far bleaker and colder.

The policemen said that Jason committed suicide by taking too many antidepressants, but I don’t believe them. Deep down, I know Jason was killed by someone. The Jason I knew was so cheerful and sunny—there was no way he would fall into a state of depression. I knew I had to find out the truth about his death. Otherwise, I would never be able to walk away from his death and meet the light again. There is also a deeper reason behind seeking the truth—this would be my last chance to be that close to him.

I hired a private detective named David to investigate everyone who may have had the motivation to kill Jason. However, the truth seemed to sink to the bottom of the sea after three months of investigation. Those

• 12 •

• 13 •

White Love who had money conflicts with him all had solid alibis. His sister, his only relative, was in London the whole time as well. But I was still not ready to give up.

“David, how about Jason’s relationship history?”

“We have discussed this before. As far as I know, there is no evidence of him having an affair at all . . . This is a dead end. I think we should stop.”

“When have we discussed . . . ? No, I will not stop until I dig out the truth. So . . . now we only have his wife left.”

“Oh, you are scaring me. You must be tired. I think we are good for today. How about you go to bed and have a nice rest? I will meet you tomorrow morning.”

I was not happy with David’s attitude. Why does he think it is impossible for his wife to kill him?

Because she is too beautiful to kill anyone? Stupid men never use their brains to think. If I need to do this myself, I will!

And so, without hesitation, I drive to Jason’s house, break in, and search for evidence.

I arrive in no time at all. I don’t even know if his wife is in the house, but that is the least of my worries. I am surprised that none of the neighbors have dialed 9-1-1 yet.

I find their bedroom easily. I feel a rush of happiness as I enter. Their room is filled with their wedding photos portraying the wedding just like the one I had dreamed about. His wife is very pretty— no wonder they all like her. A crimson diary by the dresser catches my attention. It has the name “Melly” on top, and I instinctively know this is what I am looking for.

“Melly, what a pretty name for such a pretty woman,” I chuckle to myself. I open it, as if by second-nature, and start to read.

2.24

I think Jason is having an affair. There is a girl named Kelly who works with him. He always smiles when he talks about her. He’s started to work later and later recently, and I even found out today that there was a lipstick mark on his collar. We had a huge fight about it today. Jason thinks that I am insane and suggests I see a psychiatrist. I feel like I am broken.

2.27

I can’t take it anymore . . . Jason is avoiding me! He must be having an affair! I hire David to spy on Jason. David says there is no reason to worry. I don’t know why he says that. Kelly must be younger . . . maybe prettier! One day Jason will betray me, if not to this Kelly, but to somebody else. I don’t know how I am going to take this. I vomit every time I think about it.

• 14 •

2016 Honorable Mention L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest 3.5

I just found out today that I am pregnant! I was so happy! I’ve been wanting to tell Jason all day. But when I told this to him, he didn’t seem very happy. He seemed . . . worried? Why is that?! Doesn’t he love me anymore? Is it because of that woman Kelly?

3.9

Can somebody help me? Our love is leaking from my hands and I can do nothing about it. I am willing to do anything to make him love me forever. Why won’t he love me?

3.15

I made the biggest decision in my life today—I killed Jason. This may sound crazy but I will never regret it. I made the right choice. I helped him keep his vow—he loved me with all his life, and only death parted us. If anyone dares to judge me, it is because they don’t understand my incomparable love to him. Pregnancy is one thing that I can’t control. Do you know how disgusted I feel about myself every time I look into the mirror and notice that I am gradually getting fatter?

Hands shaking, I drop the diary on the ground, and it makes a giant thud.

My mind is now as bleak as the white wallpaper. My whole body is shaking uncontrollably, and I have lost all control of myself. I snap out of my daze and use up all my strength to lean over and pick it up. Raising my head, I notice a full-length cheval mirror in front of me. My eyes widen.

There is only one person in the mirror. Despite her horrified expression, I could tell that she once had the most beautiful hair, gorgeous, sparkling eyes, and a perfect body. I look around the room again in bewilderment. In every wedding photo, this same woman stares back at me with a smile . . .

I hear a voice outside the door.

“Hey kid, don’t enter the room. Only authorized people allowed.” There is a knock on the door. A doctor dressed in all white enters the room.

“Melissa, you have your headache again? It is time for your medicine.”

I wake up into reality.

The wall is pale.

White Love • 15 •

Dreams

by Grace Holmes I dream of outside, When I’m there I feel alive.

But now I’m stuck inside, Trying to hide.

For I can’t break these walls, And no one comes to visit.

I didn’t mean to do what I did.

Sometimes life just happens.

I can’t undo my mistakes, But you my child can fix them.

In the mirror I see a monster, But when I feel my face it’s normal.

Oh won’t you help me escape this prison.

I dream of outside, Where I feel alive.

• 16 •

A fire smokes up from a dugout canoe,

A crab’s armoured bulk, swims swift through the mirk.

The scent of roast fish on the Autumn air.

A bass stalks prey slowly, with shimmering scales.

Now they row back to the village their home,

An osprey dives fast, its claws seize its meal.

Then unload their catch to feed wives and sons.

A deer stead’ly creeps through bushes and grass.

The shore is their wealth, the waters their health.

Through many a year, they’ve always been here.

The boats now are different, so are the men;

I’ve lived my summers, while sailing the Bay,

From planked varnished hulls, they fish with great nets.

Swimming its waters, and hiking its woods.

White sheets of canvas hang over their heads,

Finding the secrets, that eons have formed,

Miles of rope run through forests of spars.

Learning the story of this special place.

Through time’s changing tides, the Bay still provides.

I implore you to search, the Bay as your church.

The Indians are gone, with their log canoes,

I hope it lives on, this wonderful place,

And the English have left, in their tall ships.

Where I’ve spent my life, at work and at play.

But though they have gone, their traces remain,

The Bay it has made me, I know that it has:

The folk still set sail, here on Chesapeake.

Hist’ry and nature, culture and life.

Their legends shant flee, where land meets the sea.

I’ll help it endure, of this I am sure.

The low-trim white boats, with sails and with oars, Now ply the great Bay, enjoying its wealth.

The fish and oysters, the crabs they all come, Brought in by watermen, steadfast and true.

The hardworking soul, shall here fill his bowl.

Chesapeake

The catch is now smaller, the workboats more rare;

by Sam Johnson

But still they go out, to greet the Bay’s wealth.

Something is shared, in all of these men: The love of the Bay, it’s ours and its home.

I have pride in this land, truly it’s grand.

With hist’ry’s great tale, comes nature’s wide world; It’s here in the Bay, in beautiful form.

In air and on land, in water it lives, The fish and the birds, they all call this home.

Through field, shore, and stream, I live the Bay’s dream.

• 17 •

Face to Face with the Other

by Rachel Pettit

“Pursue your education and you can do anything.” The words uttered could have been spoken from a college guidance counselor or read from some cliché motivational poster in a bleak cubicle. Instead they came from the mouth of a man whose words were weighted with truth and whose eyes had been eclipsed by horrors I couldn’t imagine. I stood with my eyes fixed on a young African refugee who had fled his home country of Cameroon. As I revealed to him the school I attended and the state I was from, he revealed to me the poverty he had fled and the war he had escaped. I glanced around at the tattered tarps and tents strewn across the outdoor pavilion and felt the immense injustice which engulfed these men.

I never planned on visiting an African refugee camp in Los Chiles, Costa Rica, but here I stood, clad in clothes damp from the work of installing a water system earlier that day, wishing I had the power to open a border. My friend approached me and mouthed a simple “wow,” which captured the awe we both felt. I looked around at the fifty young refugees who each contained a story, a legacy, that would be left spoken to the dark. I moved from group to group, hearing tales of survival and descriptions of home villages dripping with nostalgia.

In those moments of complete captivation I wanted to harness their stories and preserve their memories. I wanted to take their words and fly them back to America with me, a land where these refugees were banned and their presence unwanted. In those moments of connection, the label “refugee” fell away and I was left gazing into the faces of human beings stripped free of stigma.

“Face to Face As the Costa Rican humidity plastered my hair to my forehead and the with the Other” night buzzed with the sounds of a rural town, I realized how wrong I was was selected for to have been afraid. I had walked to the refugee shelter with stereotypes the 2017 student set in place, believing that these African men could be potentially anthology by dangerous. I realize now the great irony of being afraid of people who World Artists had spent their life fleeing because of fear. I was intimidated by men who Experiences had come from Africa to Brazil by boat, who had worked their way up to Costa Rica by foot. These men knew what fear truly meant, and I had no right to turn that fear onto them. As I stood and listened to one of the men explain to me the vast importance of education, the stereotypes faded away and I realized the condition of these people did not define who they were.

That summer night in Costa Rica I realized that in a culture that fears “the other,” what we truly need is an international understanding between “us” and “them.” African refugees, Syrian refugees, the homeless, black people, hispanic people, gay people—these labels teach us we are not one. It is by sharing stories, by becoming the voice for the voiceless, that we can close the borders in our hearts and open new understanding.

• 18 •