Penswort
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Spring 2017
Pensworth: A Journal of Alumni and Student Writing and Art
New Series No. 14 Spring 2017
Edited by Becky Branham, Student Editor Katelyn Dunne, Student Editor Sarah Rainous, Student Editor Cristy Hall, Faculty Advisor Jamey Temple, Faculty Advisor and Managing Editor
sponsored by Sigma Tau Delta and the English Department University of the Cumberlands
Editors’ Note Pensworth appears annually in the spring. Alumni and students of University of the Cumberlands may submit work for consideration for the next issue by the last Thursday before Christmas break. Submit original poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, photography, and artwork online at www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth. Visit the website for details on how to submit your work. Since its first issue in 1985, its revival in a “New Series” in 2003, and its current online format, Pensworth has provided an outlet for alumni and students’ creative work, and our thanks go to all who have submitted work to the journal. We believe the current issue once again shows an impressive array of talents. We are proud to publish in this issue the winning manuscript of the University of the Cumberlands annual Creative Writing Award, sponsored by the English Department. Submissions for the Creative Writing Award are accepted in late March and early April. Contact the English Department for submission guidelines. We are also pleased to present the winning piece of University of the Cumberlands annual The Next Generation Creative Writing Award for local eighth grade and high school students. To learn more about this contest, visit www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth/ contests.php.
Front Cover: Katie Herrington, photograph, “Stone Unturned”
Contents Spring 2017
Poetry and Prose Story Hour, Justin Adams.............................................................................. 1 The Fall, Justin Adams.................................................................................. 2 When You Look at Me, Andee Schuck........................................................4 Magic, Josiah Davis........................................................................................5 Parental Influence, Todd Radford................................................................6 the urge to tell is relentless, Katie Herrington..........................................7 Autumn Jay, Bethany Blount..........................................................................9 Mamaw’s Kitchen, Katelyn Dunne............................................................ 11 Melted Ice Cream, Sarah Rainous............................................................ 12 Where are they now?................................................................................. 13
Artwork Pigeons on the wrong side of window, Todd Radford ........................ 3 Sell Down the River, Katie Herrington.......................................................8 Untitled Photograph, Andee Schuck......................................................... 10 Through My Eyes, Sydni Grimes........................................................... 15 Artemis, Shay King...................................................................................... 30
Creative Writing Award Winner The Anorexia Journals, Katelyn Dunne.................................................... 17
The Next Generation Creative Writing Award Winner Poems, Ceyda Baysal.....................................................................................25
two poems by
Justin Adams
Story Hour A densely carpeted floor extending at the edges up the wall, thick to absorb story hour voices – I sat slowly, deliberately, dreading carpet burn on naked knees Mothers and grandmothers surrounded us like a hedge wrangling fussy toddlers. As the greying librarian raised wide tortoise shell spectacles to her nose from their perch on her denim blouse, we strained to watch the flipping of pages rather than the cheese puffs and grape drink waiting on a card table against the Berber wall – until she lulled (or did she sing?) And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree scarcely above a whisper. I wondered then, even at four, how she read those words upside down.
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Justin Adams, Story Hour
The Fall Every spring we’d join hands and circle the old tree at recess to see how many of us it’d take to make it around. It was seven-and-a-half feet round, a-hundred-and-ten feet tall and that’s when I was a boy. We’d mark its height on the side of the building like my pa done with us on the door frame in the kitchen. It was older than the school, older than the town, probably older than all of us put together. But then the school got consolidated and moved out, and the big shot that bought it, everyone said he was no account. They said he hated how trees blocked his view and their leaves crunched beneath his wingtip shoes. So, he had it roped off and condemned. Called it a safety hazard. Said it’d fall through the new roof, ’cause of being rotten. Told us not to be fooled by all them green leaves, it was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Dead, my eye! If Lincoln’s War couldn’t kill that old, stately tree, what could?
Justin Adams, The Fall
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Todd Radford, Pigeons on the wrong side of window
Andee Schuck
When You Look at Me You look at me as if I were a flower, rose-colored, petals in the wind, and opened to the sunshine,
or the rain, pat-pat-pattering,
on your windowpanes.
You look at me with a telescope, galaxies, naked and uncharted territories, and other forms of life,
among the dead stars,
tink-tink-tinkling, in the blanket sky.
You look at me through honey brown eyes, sweet and thick, milky combs of wax dripped over me like the birds
and the bees,
buzz-buzz-buzzing
on your stove top.
You set down a cup of tea and look at me, like I’ve always wanted to be loved. Andee Schuck, When You Look at Me
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Josiah Davis
Magic Whirling spells, spinning songs, Flowing from my flippant fingers— Sparks and bells and fire and gongs, Raised and rung by sighing singers. Nascent mana shining brightly; Words unspoken, thoughts unthought, Freed and making merry nightly With the wild ideas they’ve caught. Bolts of brilliance, cracks of wit, Channeled, focused, cloudy, clear— Brainstorms gather, burst, and split Spilling ditties there and here. Silver songs with copper choruses, Molten, fluent, shaped with ease, Conjure bats and brontosauruses, Broken hearts and willow trees. Plishing, plashing, juicy rhymes, Charged with arcing smirks and smiles, Shot with signals of the times And filled with well-used charms and guiles.
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Josiah Davis, Magic
Todd Radford
Parental Influence Daddy threw fear against the wall—it splattered, dripping to the floor where it became like fog on a valley floor, drifting across the wood, seeping in the pores of my bare feet, rising in my body, blanketing my soul
Todd Radford, Parental Influence
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Katie Herrington
the urge to tell is relentless You never can capture anything—what’s yours is left or dead. A moment’s bliss is here and gone and never will be again. A ripple mars the serene glass—but seconds pass and it’s smooth once more; The golden haze that breaks the ridge is but a thought that vanishes. What use are words or photographs? What one man sees is nothing new. It’s all been said and done and still the urge to tell is relentless. I never will mimic the murmuring brook, draw the gnarled root. The moment’s pause will always pass through my fingers that long to possess. The reality injects despair – this futile passion forever fails but sometimes still I long to try, finding myself when least I look.
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Katie Herrington, the urge to tell is relentless
Katie Herrington, Sell Down the River
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Bethany Blount
Autumn Jay Perched on a swaying twig, The blue jay lifts his wings; His Chinese fan of feathers spreads behind his back. First blue, then white, then black tips align Until he is a tiger ready to pounce. He crouches, then lifts-Up into the clear fall sky with a flurry of feathers. He keeps time with the beat of his wings And conducts a symphony of sleepy crickets With every lift and drop. He is not an easy conductor-He has a tendency to eat the tone-deaf. Fortunately, no one sings flat this evening. Tonight he glides through crisp air, Turning into updrafts, A beacon shining on a pink- and red-brushed backdrop Until black night swallows up his blue And he returns to his frosted nest.
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Bethany Blount, Autumn Jay
Andee Schuck, Untitled Photograph
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Katelyn Dunne
Mamaw’s Kitchen When I was flush-cheeked and seven, I would wake up Mamaw, 3 am, I’m hungry, I’m hungry! Let’s make pancakes! She would never sigh, never complain, always follow my frantic bare feet to her empty and shadowed kitchen. We’d drag down a giant glass bear full of mix, I’d stand on a chair and crack the egg, bury my treasure beneath the milk and flour, tuck it in its bed. I’d let it sleep before waking it with a sharp twist of the spoon and the burn of an oiled skillet. I’d plop down into my green lawn chair throne, stealing the quiet moments with Mamaw and the sizzling stove.
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Katelyn Dunne, Mamaw’s Kitchen
Sarah Rainous
Melted Ice Cream When the anterior chamber of my eyeball grew inflamed, I rated my pain at 9.5 because I’m saving 10 for childbirth. You ever survived a 9.5? By then, you’re in shock, like Holy God-loving mother, what is happening to me? And the shivering can last an hour or so. Mommy saved me the Haagen-Daaz she bought us before Kroger called around and discovered the narcotics I was prescribed weren’t carried in the whole state. By the time I’d begged God to heal me, then heard jack squat and popped four-Motrin-two-Tylenol-God-please, the ice cream had melted. The meds helped, thank God. Mom poured our melty treat into cheap foam cups. It wasn’t the same, but chocolate chip cookie dough will never taste better.
Sarah Rainous, Melted Ice Cream
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Where are they now? Every year we hear about how our past contributors continue to impact the literary world. As much as we share in their joy, we thought our readers would like to hear more about these contributions, too. Last year we nterviewed novelist Jolina Petersheim, and this year we have chosen Emily Vander Ark, who is an adjunct professor and managing editor of the The Trees for the Forest. Emily graduated from UC in December 2013 with a double major in English and Christian Studies. In May of 2016, she graduated from Spalding University’s Low-Residency MFA in Writing program with an emphasis on writing for children and young adults. Her creative nonfiction essays appear in several literary journals, and her first short story publication is forthcoming in YARN (Young Adult Review Network).
Since you first published in Pensworth and graduated, what have you done to continue your writing and/or work in the literary space? Well, pursuing a master’s degree was a pretty big step in the right direction! Spalding’s program forced me to not only continue my writing, but also to explore new genres and push myself, especially in the revision process. After graduating from that program, I have continued to submit short essays and stories to literary journals, and am currently searching for that elusive creature: the literary agent. I have been an editor, a proofreader, and a guest writer on blogs for both my local coffee shop and the national organization The Honeybee Conservancy. Finally, I founded and manage Forest for the Trees, an annual literary journal that publishes writers ages 13-19.
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Where Are They Now?
What’s the biggest difference between your writing process in college and now? In college, I found an idea and wrangled it onto the page in a way that seemed effortless. I liked a lot of what I wrote, and editing for me back then mostly consisted of proofreading. Now, writing is much harder! I do a lot more planning before I begin writing something. The first person who sees the work now is my local writing group, rather than my professor. When a work is done, I edit to their comments and send the whole thing off to one or two writers who I know through my graduate program, asking for big picture critiques. Only after receiving their comments and editing again would I consider sending something out to a contest or a publication. There is a lot more time now between when I start writing something and when I receive feedback, so I have to keep myself motivated to keep going. What advice can you give to young writers? What has helped you the most? The most helpful advice I’ve ever received is to write every day. If you are able to do this, go for it! When I have, I have noticed that writing becomes easier - the mindset is never too far away. However, sometimes it’s just not realistic, and that’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up. If my words aren’t coming or they feel flat, I like to take my dog for walks and try to notice something new because nature really feeds my creativity. Probably what has helped me the most is submitting small pieces like essays and short stories to journals. It doesn’t Where Are They Now?
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pay, and there’s a lot of rejection to sift through, but if, like me, you want to write novels, getting something shorter published in the meantime can be a great confidence boost. Do you find networking to be an important part of writing and/or publishing? Why or why not? Absolutely! The friends and connections I made in grad school, as well as my local writer’s group, are invaluable resources. The only way to become a better writer is to get feedback and revise, and to do that you need to know people who are on your level - not just ask your mom to fix your comma splices! Plus, if you develop a writing community you are able to support your friends when they are successful, and they will do the same for you. Tell us about a current project. While I’m in the process of querying the middle-grade novel that was my graduate thesis, I’m about halfway through with another middle-grade that I am really excited about! It’s about a young girl who is a huge fan of a sciencefiction book series, and she is trying to raise money to go to the books’ convention at the end of the summer. To earn money, she starts helping out a local farmer and beekeeper, selling produce and honey at the local farmers market. In the process, she learns about honeybees and discovers that people are not always what they seem. Where can readers follow you? Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, website, blog, etc.? My website is emilyvanderark.com, and I write blog posts and post videos there. My twitter, Goodreads, and Instagram accounts are at ibelonginabook. Feel free to include anything else you feel is important for readers to know. Writing is hard. Revising is hard. Publishing is hard. But the rush you get when someone reads your writing and loves it is worth it!
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Where Are They Now?
Sydni Grimes, Through My Eyes
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Katelyn Dunne
2016-17 Creative Writing Award Winner, Fiction
Anorexia Journals January 1st: *Preface* This is my illness narrative . I read online that it ’s
supposed to help me , writing, that is. Writing about my
starvation . In essence , writing about my descent from an-
gelic beauty (or the attempted pursuit of it, at least – I was
stopped short) into the depths of wretched disgust at my figure . They’re trying to make me fat. And by fat, I mean one hundred pounds, which is still apparently underweight,
but I think – I know – it ’s horrendous, it ’s atrocious, it ’s
ugly. I’m eighty-five pounds right now, and they want me
to gain fifteen whole pounds. It ’s insanity! I don’t want the weight, I want to lose that much , actually. I’m doing just fine . But I know what this is doing to my body. And it
scares me . It really does. The lack of focus, the fatigue , the
gray skin , the lanugo. But I’m not sure that getting healthy is the better alternative to staying sick . When I’m sick , I
have beauty, I have control . I have love . And that ’s all I ever wanted .
Overall , I honestly don’t care about the effects of this
“dis-ease” on my body. I’m fine , I’ve been fine . And I will be fine . How much worse can this get? I’m not doing this for me . I’m doing this for Claude (strange name , right?
I always say that I’m on “Claude nine” when I’m around
him. Ha! Get it? Cloud nine , Claude nine . Never mind). I
am in love with him. And he wants children one day. And if I keep up my, um, habits, I won’t be able to deliver. And
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Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
I can’t do that to him. He will leave me . And I don’t want that.
The insurance will not cover therapy. So writing is
my way of – reluctantly – getting better. Mental illness is apparently not something that needs to be treated ,
not a real problem. No one cares about the crazies (al-
though , I do not think I am crazy, per se , I am just in a stringent pursuit of beauty. There’s nothing wrong with me . I am just determined . At every cost). If I really do
want to get better, I really need to be placed in inpatient care – for months on end – but the price is just ridicu-
lous. Thirty grand a month is just not worth it. It is way, way, way too expensive . I know my parents want me
to go, they want me to get healthy, but I don’t want to
place that burden on them. My dad already works two
jobs. It isn’t fair to him, not at all . This is my problem,
so I will come up with my solution . No help needed . I’m Angie Merdoff, and I can do anything. And , plus, this
writing thing is supposed to work . It ’s supposed to help. It ’s supposed to heal . Maybe even cure? Who knows, I’m not really into this, but I’m going to try anyway. It ’s important.
So here it is, my illness narrative . Enjoy.
Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
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February 14th: I’m getting fat. My restless fingers claw at the places my bones used to be. The beautiful valleys of my cheeks are no longer a place where old pirate ships would be wrecked. No longer sunken the ships rise the dawn of the dead my soul. The mirror taunts feeding me images of a skeleton turned rotund.
March 27th: “I won’t eat.” Everyone and their mother thinks that’s the mantra of anorexics everywhere. But let me tell you, that is far from the truth. We all know that we cannot survive without some form of sustenance. We are just masters of limiting. We know how to push the envelope as far as we can without pushing over the limits of our eternal destruction. We cut our calories as much as we can, but we never go beyond our limit. We know the exact amount we can eat, the exact amount
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Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
we can puke up, the exact amount that is in each food item. This is what we live on. We play with fire. We hug the edge, we embrace the edge. That’s where we live. We ride the rails of mortality every day. We glide between life and death every day. We never want to die though. Because what is the fun in dying? We need to be alive to feel the rush. The rush of starvation. The adrenaline rages, our stomach rumbles. It’s the best. We feel beautiful. We feel in control. We feel that someone will love us. That’s all we ever want from this dance with the devil. We know that, with one slip up, everyone will find out about us. They will know our deepest darkest fear. They will know that we know we are fat. See, what they try to do is hide this fact from us. They sugarcoat things. They tell us we should eat a cheeseburger, that those jeans don’t make our thighs look big, that we can afford to eat the fruitcake that Grandma has made with love. And it’s a lie. They think we’re stupid. Family, friends, even doctors. They think we are blind to what they are really thinking: wow, this girl has some meat on her bones! And that is not okay. Not in the least. The worst is when people only hug you to count your ribs. May 15th: This is what I want to look like. It’s not that much to ask for. It’s really, really not. Just look at those bones. Silky white, daring, stylish (even after Labor Day). They’re beautiful. A protruding clavicle, distinctive pelvis, ribbed vertebrae, that’s all I want. I want my skin to hug my bones so snuggly. I want them to shape themselves around every curve, every crevice. I want my skin and my bones to be identical, indistinguishable. People notice you when you’re that thin. Everyone stares at you. They think you’re drop dead. Gorgeous, that is. It’s amazing. You’re flawless. It’s so wonderful to feel powerful, in control. To feel Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
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loved. You’re the first thing on anyone’s mind when you enter a room. Everyone comes to greet you, to hold your hand, to help you to your chair. It’s like you’re a princess. Their princess. Your hands shake with anticipation as they do this for you (I promise it’s not because of the lack of energy in your system, it’s just because you’re not used to feeling this loved and you’re excited), and they stroke your bones, errr, I mean hands, to comfort you. Although, I think they are just being discreetly envious of your physique, envious of your skeleton, your bones. They just don’t want you to know how much they want to be you. Skinny. It’s a marvelous thing to be loved so dearly. To be held like you are going to die. I hope this feeling stays forever. July 4th: “Angie, you need to eat,” she prodded me. My mom is always getting after me for this kind of stuff. “I am eating,” I replied, “You’re just not watching me.” Typical. Instead of eating though, I am a master of deceit. I got this whole routine down pat. I chop up my food, that’s step one. The smaller the better. Then I move it around my plate, to make it look like I am actually consuming something. I always, always, always look busy. No one can accuse you of not eating if you are always in the process of touching the junk on your plate! I also always look like I’m chewing, that’s key – I chew on my tongue to make it more believable, it puffs out the cheeks, too, which is a double bonus. Anorexics are the best liars in the world, better than even the best blackjack player. I have plenty of tricks up my sleeves. It’s like I’m a magician. I can make calories disappear without even trying. I can live even when it seems like I am supposed to die. This is what I was made for. There’s never any sauces on my food. Ever. They add extra calories and they are so taboo in the anorectic world. You gotta make sure you watch the person who prepares your food, too. If they get suspicious of your weight loss, they will try to pack in as many hidden calories as possible, which is definitely not okay. Not okay at all. But, before you try to trick someone, make sure you actually nibble on your stuff at some point or another. I know that sounds like the most awful thing ever, but you have to do it to take suspicion off of your chopping routine, and you kinda do need it to, ya know, actually
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Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
live. Just take tiny bites. You’ll get through it! You can also puke it up when you’re done, if you need to. Just saying. “Angie.” “Hmm?” “Listen to me, honey. You need to eat.” “I am! I am! I promise I am! You just never look when I do.” “Angie,” Mom scolded. “I’m not dumb. I see you. You’re going to get yourself sent to the hospital if you don’t eat. They’ll put a feeding tube into you.” I heard the and I won’t care if they do implied in her voice. I think they’re starting to see through me. September 12th:
Bones crevices, hollows, divots. They bring Comfort, satisfaction. They make me feel Whole, lovable, wanted, beautiful. It’s a hard thing to maintain. A lot of pain, strife, of Starvation. More than I would like to admit. Routines plague my existence, taunting my every move, waiting for me to slip up. Fail. Tiny bites, capable of big Deception, hide my illness. No one knows, and no one ever will. It’s my dirty little Secret, it’s how I stay pretty. How I stay loved. How I stay Perfect. Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
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November 21st: I’m running out of things to write about. I don’t think this is working anymore. The writing. I want to go back. I want to escape. I want to be fully sick again. But I know I can’t. I know I mustn’t. I know God doesn’t want that for me. He doesn’t want me sick. He doesn’t want me hospitalized. But He’s the one who caused me to be this way. If only He had made me beautiThe shiny magazines ful, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I of women thinner than a toothpick, they’re beautiful, wouldn’t be suffering. I wouldn’t be they’re everywhere. They’re striving towards a goal that no one wants me to achieve. Society supports waiting for me to join them. me though. The shiny magazines of women thinner than a toothpick, they’re beautiful, they’re everywhere. They’re waiting for me to join them. And I know I can. I need to give up this writing thing. I don’t care about getting better anymore. It wasn’t even for me. Claude and I broke up. It doesn’t even matter anymore. I won’t need to mother his children. Next time, I will find somebody okay with adoption, someone who will support my needs. Someone who I won’t tell that I have Anorexia Nervosa. Well, Bulimic tendencies in addition, but no one – at all – knows about that. No one is suspicious of that. And no one ever will be. So be it. I’m going to starve. And there’s nothing anyone can ever do about it. They can put me in an institution. My family can go broke. My friends can all forget that I had even lived. The insurance company can gloat about all the money they saved by not helping a helpless patient. That’s fine with me. Because I know I would have never gotten out. All the hidden sauces and all the grandma’s fruitcakes and all the feeding tubes in the world would not have gotten me out. I wouldn’t want to be out. They would never have cleared me for release if I went in. I would not have gained the weight, no matter how much they watched me. Gaining weight is my biggest fear. Because what’s the point of living in a world when you’re fat? What’s the point in living when the one goal you had
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Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
aspired toward for so long is unattainable? There is none, point blank. There’s no point in living in the outside world when there is no one who would love you, when there is no one to be beside you, kissing the stomach you think is fat, and wiping away every tear as you stand unclothed in front of the taunting mirror. There’s no point. They can lock me away, I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to stay there. There’s no cure for this devil anyway. I’m stuck. Stuck. Always stuck. Always, always. So I will stay there, crazy. I’ll be happy. I’ll be there with my best friend. Hunger Pangs. December 22nd: “Abandon me.” I’m a lost cause. Worthless. Caught in a web of my own self-destruction my will ceases. Crevices, hollows of silky white, reemerge. Overtaken, I lay helpless to their siren song, an eternal slave to my thoughts, to the mirror, to the scale. Family, friends, doctors, they all quit caring, I’m hopeless. But my ribs, my hips, my happiness, my beauty, they will never abandon me. Katelyn Dunne, Anorexia Journals
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2017 Next Generation Creative Writing Award The Next Generation Creative Writing Contest, sponsored by University of the Cumberlands’ English Department and its literary journal Pensworth, welcomes submissions of original fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry from eighth through twelfth grade students, who attend school within a 200 mile radius of Williamsburg, Kentucky. The contest opens in January and closes in March. Prizes are awarded for the top three entries, and the winning entry is published in the spring issue of Pensworth. This year’s winners are as follows:
1 place 2nd place 3rd place st
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Ceyda Baysal, Easton High School
Ava Dill, Olmstead Middle School
Hannah Jones, Mount Notre Dame High School
Poetry by Winner Ceyda Baysal, Easton High School
Desert Me in the Desert Leave me be, Desert me Dismiss the turmoil of my core, Disregard the corners of my lips, Complying to Gravity’s rein, Watch chaos sown into Gaea’s skin As if it had been written in a prophecy that it be there Listen to her cry in agony, Become deaf by her silent screams, And haunted by her pleas for peace As she is taken granted for ground And matures her children, the trees To unimaginable heights In hopes to obtain the comfort That is Uranus’s drift Before questioning my isolation Address your own actions, You take up swords To not only cut the life of another man short But also to bring Gaea’s efforts to a sudden demise You slit the leaves like wrists And crush the rocks like skulls But what for? The death of disunity, The Three Fates tell me, Is not near
Ceyda Baysal, Desert Me in the Desert
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24 Hour Daycare Depression is an infant Who erupted from Mother’s womb He finds placidity In the pacifier that is her breast He wails for nurturance That marks Mother’s daily sacrifice, Her pain for his height Stop growing Stay young forever Don’t outgrow the span of Mother’s arms Don’t develop a tolerance for the white noise That is Mother’s flag for freedom Sleep Become enchanted by the lullaby’s sirens And let Mother sleep But he only cries Cries to be planted in the groove he’s developed in Mother’s hip Cries for the bottle he refuses to take, Cries for Mother, on behalf of Mother For, she is numb Numb to his cries Numb to his kicks To his punches, to his pelts, to his petty For they are incomparable to the success of her suppression Mother watches her baby Develop into a boy she cannot handle She fears the day In which he will begin to crawl, Then the day he will walk,
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Ceyda Baysal, 24 Hour Daycare
Then that day he will run For that will mark the day in which He would stop following Mother And Mother would start following him, Constantly chasing her unwanted pregnancy Yet convinced she conceived it herself Until then, She hooks the baby monitor on her belt, Calmed by her baby’s beats Knowing that her boy’s quiet Would only teethe her death
Ceyda Baysal, 24 Hour Daycare
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The Following Leader Why is the Sun following me? His persistence is but puny And his popularity but perpetual Crimson craters boil in my peripheral Yet Warmth neglects my façade He shadows me As if I were light And encumbers me As if I were free He follows me as if I were he, In a millennium’s search for familiarity He orbits me as if I were a like star of self-destruction, Both thriving from what we are dying, High functioning failures, we belong to the family of Contact does not comfort this lone star I need space, my rays admit He fades into the night, Colorless Crestfallen Hasn’t anyone ever told him not to stare at the sun?
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Ceyda Baysal, The Following Leader
Shay King, Artemis
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Goodbye to Hello Compromise a wave, A smile, Perhaps a smirk, I’d be satisfied with a glance I’d be warmed by a scoff I’d be revived by a “hello” But you say, “Goodbye, Hello” His smile is a wave whose crash I never run from, The single tide the Moon cannot control, An undertaking of standard for the risk of extraordinary Destined to save my soul Yet entitled to something worth while I will suffer so that he may smile For his prosperity, Is based on my capability To suppress my affections It’s the scarlet letter on my bosom Except the red embroidery is shaped into a heart And everyone wears it And so, “we” dissolve The air carries us as its ingredient Oxygen, Nitrogen, and Unreciprocated Love Nature does not blame us Yet there is as much fault in I As is in you And so, out of Closure’s persistence, I compromise a gesture, And a forlorn frown I wave to you, Chance And to you, Attention I say, “Hello, Goodbye”
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Ceyda Baysal, Goodbye to Hello
Contributors Justin Adams, Alumnus Ceyda Baysal, HS Student Bethany Blount, Senior Josiah Davis, Dual Enrollment Student Katelyn Dunne, Senior Sydni Grimes, Senior Shay King, Alumna Katie Herrington, Senior Todd Radford, Graduate Student Sarah Rainous, Senior Andee Schuck, Alumna Emily Vander Ark, Alumna