Catalyst 2022

CATALYST

Lily Pond

Allison Carnell

Oil on Canvas

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear

Readers, Welcome to the 2021-2022 edition of Catalyst! We are extremely proud of this magazine and the fantastic creativity found within its pages. Here you’ll find poetry about topics ranging from You’ll enjoy short fiction that will transport you from the while telling many stories in between.

Working on Catalyst has been an invaluable experience that we are thankful to have been given. We drank all the coffee, repeatedly cursed the weirdly formated publishing of InDesign, and laughed through the whole process. The result is what you see before you: an excellent collection of work that offers a peek into some of McKendree’s most talented and creative minds.

We’d like to thank our faculty advisor, Dr. Jenny Mueller, for both this amazing opportunity and also for the unwavering support and guidance she offered throughout the process. Special thanks to Matt Seniour for helping with design and layout! Thanks also to Tim Mullins and the staff of the McKendree Print Shop for their hard work and patience answering our countless questions.

And finally, thank you to you, dear reader. Thank you for your support, for picking up this magazine, and for attending our reading. We suggest you grab a cup of coffee and some snacks, find a cozy nook somewhere, and enjoy. We think you’re going to love it!

Sincerely,

Allison Carnell, Felicity Crowell, Alivia Garcia, Amber Gillam, JT McGee, Haley Moody, Kirstin Rood, Taylor Roth, and Hannah White

AMERICANA

Haley Moody

Inspired by Savana Ogburn’s “Americana” (2021)

It’s picket fences; white, but peeling off like crackle polish on painted fingers.

It’s gloves of satin, pulled over the elbows of those who chose to wear white, because it’s “sophisticated.”

It’s baby-blue twirls of handmade dresses with lace-lined edges and fabric cut from tablecloth prints.

It’s worn-in leather of one-inch heeled boots with etched-in lone stars and sewn-in designs.

It’s planted flowers,

representatives, the suns on Earth, who receive too much of themselves and wither.

It’s Americana.

It’s “won’t you stay, why won’t you go?” from eyes that speak far more than lips. It’s bringing back what’s not in in.

Taylor Roth

THE CONTRACTOR IN THE MOON

Tessie Naumovich

But how big are we talking?

Big enough to see out your window, but small enough as to barely make out a face. And how big is big?

3 million meters—no make it 3.5!

What, will we run out of space?

No— this diameter will be too great. And when will its faces change?

Every Monday would be too soon, but every month, yes that should do!

And tell me what happens when the sun goes down?

Oh, when the sun goes down, that’s when we’ll all come alive.

The immense awakening of teenagers and wolves

Greek goddess Artemis reharnessing her strength

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde true colors triumph even the water will dance.

But sir! What will we call it? Why, we’ll call it the moon!

PERSEVERE

Julianne McGee

ONLY SPACE FOR THE RICH

Taylor Roth

Sci-fi has always been comforting to read

Often the stories were about the underdog winning

About survival in a world stacked against you

An escape to the cosmos, where what you do is more important than your name

But recently looking up at the stars, has done nothing but put a pit in my stomach

Because if this world is to burn?

The only ones escaping it will not be heroes

It will be villains

It will be a starship of cowards

A rocket full of billions of dollars holding only hundreds of people

After all, if this world has proven anything to me, it is that there is only space for the rich

And there will only be space for the rich in the next world too

Julianne McGee

CHOKING

Nat Wilk

The holy yellow of death; suffocating warmth, the overwhelming radiance of being too close to the sun, of warm feet on blistering sand, of being kissed for the first time.

I once knew… a yellow like that.

A summer of lemons where we squeezed lemonade into glass Mason jars, and the bumblebees buzzed under dim golden string lights that illuminated the backyard. And I think, I’ve never known a smothering yellow quite like this before.

BLUE BETA

Clara Andrews

CAGED

Hannah White

The words you spoke to me

Were oh so pretty

And not for a second did I suspect

That they were simply building

My own gilded cage

Pretty bars

And Beautiful words

An arsenic tongue

Your breath

Intoxicating against my ear

So badly did I want to be held

To be protected and loved

And how nice to find it all in one

Beautiful Arsenic

Place

I saw the gilded bars

Turn into

Stained glass windows

And then

I watched myself fall apart inside them

FEAR

Maci Meyer

Her immense ice and bite in the pool of the night. The mere geometry of an instrument of the sky!

Nat Wilk

She is awake, and clicks across the sky like a metronome, crooning for the hour of a midnight meal.

From what dimension does such an enchanting timepiece emanate from?

What secrets does she hold within her concave craters?

She whispers softly on a glacial Monday morning, “I know what you did.”

My pupils dilate, her crescent shape reflected in my eyes. Nothing is sacred under the sky— only the moon can break my icy calm.

NAVY PIER FERRIS WHEEL Emily Lease

THE CANVAS ATE THE ARTIST

Alivia Garcia

The canvas ate the artist.

swirled acrylic doused in paint smothered in stroke

The canvas ate the artist. smooth flowing scumbling stroke

The canvas ate the artist. a self-portrait a gaping mouth an infinite scream

The canvas ate the artist, until the artist was full.

GIRL WITH FLOWER

Clara Andrews

THE SHADOW PARADOX

Brianna Burke

There is a stretch of road on Summerfield Street here in Lebanon where the streetlights run out until the next road. This stretch of the road falls into near-complete darkness at nightfall, leaving you with the simple quiet of the graveyard beside the road and the silence of the stars above. Normally, that stretch of darkness might be foreboding or misgiving, ; a threat of the unknown. After all, who knows who or what could be lurking in the shadows when the streetlights run out? While that may sometimes be true, the 200 feet of shadow on this street is rather a reinstatement of modesty. The patch of dusk on Summerfield Street is ultimately paradoxical to the domineering nature of material life. Without the streetlights to silence the night sky, the constellations become all the more present, a reminder of the higher world.

It’s a shame, isn’t it? Humanity has fallen so in love with material production and capitalistic power that we need to be reminded of where we live in our solar system and our place in the universe. The foundational needs for everyday life, such as lights, create a world that forgets our transcendental connections to the stars. It is a world so blinded by industry and commodity that the infinite universe becomes a subtlety. The stars stand as a beautiful enigma to our egotistical civilization, and reduces us to our diminutive and original state. It’s what I like to call the shadow paradox. What this paradox entails is humanity’s belief that we may take a god-like approach to our society by reinventing nature’s thresholds, and in turn forgetting our true place in the vast cosmos.

Coming from a big oil town in Northern Canada, I grew accustomed to living in a place where the stars were never quite as present as they should be. The pollution clouds from the oil sands would place a contaminated curtain over one of humanity’s only signs of humility. Consequently, I would often forget to appreciate the overarching reminder

of our microscopic role in the universe. I am therefore not here to place myself on a pedestal of environmental superiority, given that I am equally as culpable of falling prey to the commodified conveniences of life, such as succumbing to the environmental ignorance created by pollution. Global warming as a whole has reached a point of no return, a point that makes the prospect of mass exodus more appealing as opposed to putting in a true effort to preserve the planet that we currently occupy. Neither situation would be easy, but leaving the planet would be much simpler than reversing generations of environmental damage. The “simplicity” of the former option encapsulates our governments.

Humanity likes to believe that their morals include compassion, love, and care for others. But unfortunately, those in power possess a different agenda: convenience, commodity, simplicity - all of which do not allow for a mere adjustment of streetlights, for example, so as to not disrupt the original condition of the universe. Of course, a mere remark on how life’s artificial simplicities interfere with the natural state of the night sky may seem trivial. After all, some of the only emotions this reminder can evoke are those of disappointment and hopelessness. However, while environmental advocacy should be on everyone’s agenda, a simple reinstatement of universal modesty is the first step in the right direction for foundational means of change. So, the next time you walk down a gravel road without streetlamps, humble yourself. Look up and remind yourself of your place.

COUNTRY CHURCH

Allison Carnell

SENSORY

Hannah White

She hears the call of a songbird, drifting in the lazy early-June breeze. The wind snakes coolly across her skin, kissing it and leaving goose bumps; Nice chills that raise and then vanish almost as fast. She closes her eyes and takes in the shadows that dance through the light behind her lids. The warm, fire-like tones subtly interrupted by black; shadows of the things that move around her. She takes in a breath, letting the air fill her lungs and tastes…nothing.

Clean air that hasn’t been filtered.

Clean air that’s never been touched by city pollution.

The water of the creek slaps lazily against small rocks. They’ve been rounded and smoothed, broken and smoothed again. She reaches blindly, eyes still closed, and grabs one of the small stones. No bigger than her thumb, she rolls it around in her hand and feels the many pathways in the stone. The side that had been resting is slightly cooler. She turns her face to the sound of the water, her ear pressed against the ground, and places the cool side on her head.

Taking an odd comfort in the slight weight on her temple- letting the cool seep into her skin. She sees a flash of shadows, smoke, pavement, and rubble in the back of her mind- she pushes it away. Resisting the tug of memory, she counts silently in her mind the things that she feels around her.

“One.” She whispers, noting the weight on her temple.

“Two.” A blade of rough grass grazing her resting hand.

“Three.” In acknowledgment of the breeze.

“Four.” The hair that tickles her face.

“Five.” Her heart beating slowly in even pulses.

She moves her hand silently and slowly across the

grass and rocks. Touching and counting what she feels as she goes.

“One.” Each tiny petal of a dandelion.

“Two.” The many different shapes of the many differ-ent stones.

“Three.” A handful of dirt and grass now crunched in her limp fist.

“Four.” The creek water licked the fingertips of her opposite hand.

She takes her hand from the creek, releases the dirt and grass, and lays them across her stomach. She takes a deep breath and her head swims.

“One.” The sweet smell of wildflowers.

“Two.” The earthy smell of the dirt and grass. “Three.” Perfume, her mother’s.

She turns her head to the right, eyes still closed toward the sky, and feels the rock slide off her temple. She listens.

“One.” Two songbirds now; they call each other.

“Two.” The hushed cascade of the creek.

She finally opens her eyes, shocked at the sudden light. She twists her head slowly, letting it loll first to the left where the creek lays, then to the right.

“One.”

She breathes. She stares. She sits up slowly and feels the heavy weight of her head back on her shoulders. She turns slightly and leans out, reaching towards a large stone – the only one. Her hand stops just before the stones surface. The sun has passed its highest point from when she first laid down. Though the breeze has died, her chills resur-face for one…two…three…five seconds and subside.

“One.”

She repeats the word to herself. Creeks of her own slide ever slowly down her cheeks. She doesn’t touch them but lets them run and drip…drip...drip. Tears hit a dandelion as that one word echoed through her head. She turns away from the large stone. She doesn’t need to feel it to know the pathways that will never smooth out.

"One. The grave of her mother.

FLY AWAY

Maci Meyer

Ella Lehman

Preparing to give yourself a tattoo is an intense process. You have to use a specific type of ink, burn your needle to sterilize it, breathe through the adrenaline, and most importantly: plan it out… Unless you purposefully forego the latter. Or even better, trust a friend to give you a mystery tattoo. The worst part of receiving a DIY stick-n-poke isn’t the individual sewing needle stabs. It isn’t the bleeding or the swelling. The worst part is the time between sticks when your best friend apologizes over and over again for hurting you even though it was your idea to give each other tattoos. It gets repetitive after about a minute.

Stick, stick, “Sorry!”

“I’m fine, keep going.”

Stick, stick! Poke! “Shit, are you okay?”

Every morning I make a thirty-minute commute to school. I get to decide whether I take the main highway (the boring way) or the country roads (the fun way). Usually, I’ll choose to take the country roads because I can drive at twice the speed limit. I drive east to get to school, and as the sun rises, it blinds me when it hangs low in the sky. Usually there are pastel-colored clouds or a thick morning fog to disrupt it, but sometimes I find myself hurtling down the road at high speeds with next to no visibility. For almost the entire journey, the roads are bordered by woods on both sides. When the woodlands disperse, corn fields replace them and herds of deer forage for a meal, ears piqued as they hear my approaching vehicle. I might drive the whole route without passing a single car, these back roads disrupted by me alone.

“Three Figures” by Russian artist Anna Leporskya

features three faceless people standing together. The painting is exhibited in the Yeltsin Center in Ekaterinburg, Russia, where a security guard decided to draw eyes on two of the figures with a ballpoint pen. What would motivate a person to do such a thing is beyond me, but I do find it rather funny. The juxtaposition between carefully brushed paint and a few scribbled circles is ridiculous. Similar to when a toddler draws on the walls in crayon: a messy, out of place, nuisance. I know I shouldn’t laugh about a nearly 100-year-old work of art being vandalized, but I can’t help it.

**

The day after our stick-n-poke adventure, I tried to hide my new tattoo from my mom. I didn’t think she would be angry, but I did think she would question my judgment. To be honest, I was questioning my own judgment. The tattoo my friend decided to give me was a small flower on a stem, and it was very swollen. You see, when you get a mechanical tattoo, the swelling is minimal to absent. Maybe the lines of the tattoo raise a little, but this stick-n-poke was completely raised. The entire area was, for lack of a better word, lumpy. At the time, I didn’t know this was irregular, so I simply moisturized the area and stuck a band-aid on top.

**

Even though I disturb the mornings of dozens of woodland creatures every day, I am proud to say that I’ve never hit a crossing animal. At least, until a few days ago. I didn’t do it on purpose, I don’t think anyone makes roadkill intentionally. I was driving at my typical speed, and the sun was in my eyes as usual. A bird flew across the road just a bit too low. I’m not sure what type of bird it was, but it was small. I saw a flash of wings and heard a light thump against my windshield. It’s not like there was anything I could do. If anything, it was the bird’s fault. It can fly hundreds of feet off the ground, and it chose to glide right in front of my (low to the ground) vehicle.

But birds don’t understand how roads or cars or velocity work. All they know is to fly away from danger, scrounge up a meal and find their mate. It would be selfish to blame the bird, but it would be foolish to blame myself.

The painting can be restored, the damage isn’t permanent, just as a toddler’s crayon mural can be cleaned. The faceless figures will be faceless once more, but I still wonder what compelled that security guard to “add” to the painting. After all, his entire job was to keep people from tampering with the art. Maybe he was bored, though I can’t imagine the thirty seconds it took to draw four circles was worth losing his job.

Perhaps he thought the painting was incomplete. Is a person without a face really human? But who was he to decide whether or not someone else’s piece was complete. Or maybe, he thought the painting was pretentious. A person without a face? Seriously? The most difficult part of portraying a person is perfecting their face. It was lazy for the artist to skip the face altogether.

My efforts to hide my tattoo lasted for all of three hours. There was no dramatic discovery. I didn’t make a mistake that led to my mother seeing the tattoo. Frankly, I just didn’t care to try and hide it for an extended period of time. I showed my mom, and I was right, she did question my judgment. She asked me “Why?” and I couldn’t answer, I just wanted to have some fun.

“What was the point?”

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

She thought it was unwise to get a tattoo at such a young age. She got her first tattoo at age forty-eight. But, after a few minutes I was able to convince her that it wasn’t that serious. What’s done is done, it wasn’t very big, and she

knew that it was my decision.

I guess what I’m trying to get at here is that everything has its natural state. My skin was unmarked before I decided to let my friend doodle on it. The countryside I drive through every day is marred by a winding road. And the painting was finished when the artist decided it was. Each sequence of events that cause a state to be altered are coincidental. Life is random, it’s unpredictable, it’s cruel, and then it’s over. Control is an illusion.

If I had been just a little more tired after my shift that night I would have gone home and gone to bed like I usually do. If I had left for school just a few minutes earlier, the bird would have lived. And if the guard had been assigned to patrol a different section the painting would have been left intact. But those caveats are only obvious in hindsight. Control is an illusion.

It’s better to accept things as they are rather than lament about how they could have been. Our choices, once made, cannot be unmade. The painting can be restored, but it will bear the marks of its vandalism. I can do my best to avoid hitting more birds, but I cannot bring the dead back to life. And I could remove my tattoo, but it would be painful and likely leave a scar. I can accept that control is an illusion.

CHICAGO THOUGHTS

Julianne McGee

TWO OF A KIND

Jasmine Gage

“Stupid phone!” a woman shouted out as she held her cellphone into the air. The lady walked down the dark road a bit more, still holding her phone in the air. Her phone had no service, and it didn’t seem that she would be getting any anytime soon. Frustrated and a bit of anxiety getting to her, Dorothy continued down the lonely road and hoped one of her friends would stop by.

As the night continued to grow, Dorothy began to worry. She had no phone service, no car had passed her for miles, and it was getting late. A quick rustle from the trees sent a chill down her spine as she jumped to see what could pounce at her. A cute bunny appeared from the bushes as she calmed herself down a bit and carried on down the road.

Walking for a while longer, she noticed a bright light flash in front of her. She held up her hands to shield herself from the brightness of the light. A rusty pickup truck slowly pulled up next to Dorothy as she took a step back. Interior lights cut on from the inside of the truck as a man stared at Dorothy as she clutched herself in the night.

“You alright, miss?” the man said, his deep and brash voice startling her.

She answered with hesitation, “I-I’m fine overall. I just need a ride to the nearest payphone. I have no service and all of my friends that I was with have already left me. I’m just trying to get home.”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Some friends you have, huh?” Dorothy heard the clicking of the locks. “I personally think you need new friends. Hop in.”

Dorothy nodded and took her time to make her way to the passenger side of the truck. She pulled on the rusty door handle and opened the door. The interior of the truck actually looked better than the outside. The seats seemed to have been freshly cleaned as the inside smelled of bleach.

Dorothy climbed into the truck and shut the door as the man kept his eyes on the road. Silence filled the car as Dorothy shifted in her seat, deciding whether this was a good idea or not.

“So, where ya’ coming from?” the man said, breaking the silence.

“A party, bonfire actually.”

“Bonfire, eh? Let me guess, college kids?”

Dorothy said nothing, only giving the man a curt nod. The man scratched his stubble, “Mhm, college kids. That’s who mostly come up to these woods anyway.”

“Where are you headed at this time of night?” Dorothy asked. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to make a bit of conversation, right?

The man began to side-eye Dorothy. He watched as her chest lifted up and then down, showing signs that her breathing was steady. As the man continued to stare, he made a short glance toward the purse she was clutching.

“Headed into town.”

“What for?”

“A few items,” the man replied, shifting his eyes back to the road.

More lights appeared in the distance as the man pulled the car into the gas station. He parked by the nearest pump and opened the door to get out.

“Payphones should be on the side of the building. Here’s a few dimes,” the man said as he gave her the last dimes he had. Dorothy took the dimes and headed toward the payphone.

“Thank you, sir,” she called out.

The man fixed his cap and watched as she walked to the side of the building. As he took the gas pump from its holster, he filled up a tank and put the pump back.

Reaching into the side of his truck, he slowly pulled out a switchblade and stashed it into his jacket.

“Slot holes are rusted. Phones are busted, and you will be dead. Need to start running before I start coming, and you just might have a chance,” the man sang in a very low tone as he made his way around the building.

As he turned the corner, the payphone light flickered, and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Confused and also intrigued, he approached the payphone and saw her purse laying on the ground. He grabbed her purse and made his way back to his truck and turned on the radio.

The radio stuttered a lot before saying, “Howdy night dwellers! It’s Old Man Buck delivering your late-night news! As much as I hate to bring bad news to your lovely ears, be on the lookout for a woman with an ID belonging to Dorothy Matthews! It is a fake, and the person could potentially be the Mistress of Darkness. She is known for standing in the woods and tricking men into taking her to safety. She is very dangerous and armed. If you see this woman, call—”

The man shut the radio off as he quickly whipped around to grab the woman’s hand that was holding a syringe. He twisted her hand, making her drop it, and pulled the blade from his pocket to stab her. Dorothy used her other hand to block his attack and smashed her head against his. Both of their heads clashed, but neither of them seemed to be phased.

“Did you really think you could trick me, Mistress of Darkness?” the man said as he pushed the lady off him and touched his head.

The woman tilted her head to the side and wiped the blood from her head.

“It’s not every day you get to meet The Hunter. Wanted to try my luck and I found you!” the woman shouted happily.

Another car pulled into the gas station, and a drunk

couple got out of their vehicle and went into the store. The man and woman slowly turned their heads and watched the couple closely, stalking their newest prey.

“How about a truce, Mr. Hunter? I take the male while you get the female.”

“Know what, Ms. Darkness? I think I like that idea.”

A wide smile appeared on both of their faces as they made their way toward the store.

Madison Rohn

I have yet to understand humans. Indecisive. Skeptical. Breakable. Often afraid. Their worries drown out any memories of past promises, fatally forgetful. But I do not forget anything. If any one of these beings beheld the glory I have seen, they would certainly fall back in awe. What I am witnessing now, however, stuns the very core of me.

I stand in front of a dying man, condemned by his people for a crime he did not commit. His execution draws masses of onlookers, including me. I never want to consider myself simply a bystander; I take my role as a protector very seriously. Yet, my orders for this darkened day are not to protect, not to fight, not to sing praises, but simply to watch.

The humans know nothing of my presence. Surely seeing my concealed companions and I would reveal to them the gravity of the situation or at least stop some of the mockery. But the loudest of the crowd continues their insults as the innocent man’s breaths grow more labored. I mentioned humans are forgetful. Well, this man spent his days healing the sick and conversing with outcasts. Who remembers that now as he is taunted by frenzied mobs? But I cannot forget. With one swoop of my wings, I wish to show these earthly beings the truth they have forgotten: this is not merely a man broken in front of them, but a king, my King … and theirs.

However, here is my King publicly displayed as a warning sign for any who dare defy the conquering empire. Usually, time does not matter to me, but the hours of this whole day have passed excruciatingly slow compared to the timeline of eternity. Watching – something humans do so passively – has been my hardest assignment yet. How am I expected to stand by and let my Lord, the very One I was created to serve, be killed right in front of my eyes? It takes every fiber in my being to restrain myself from bursting into

action. I yearn to clothe his bare torso in a robe of light, like the splendor he wore on his heavenly throne room. But today, he is only crowned in piercing thorns. His hands, hands that I saw create the planets, are now pinned to coarse wood and held in place by thick nails in his wrists. His feet, which used to walk on top of surging waves, are treated the same way. By saying a word, he could heal any wound, but now his ripped skin is decorated with stripes of deep gashes and crimson blood.

I wonder if my Lord can see me from his uplifted position. When he looks down upon the crowd with his weary eyes, can he tell that a host of angels is among them? Or does the burden of many millennia of sin veil his vision from any sign of holiness? Perhaps all he sees are the mixture of scowling, weeping, and indifferent faces. He tilts his head up to the overhanging sky of black clouds and cuts through the cacophony with a cry of utter despair, citing an old Psalm of forsakenness.

Why can I not help him? Why will he not give me any orders? If he just says a word, I would unsheathe my glowing sword and rush to his aide. My companions and I assisted him before on this earth. We declared his birth along the countryside, we tended to him after he resisted the evil one’s temptations in the desert, and last night I gave him encouragement while he waited in the garden for his betrayer. But at this hour, he says nothing to his heavenly servants. Instead, with a voice trembling in agony, he forgives his executioners.

I still do not understand it. I know this is all part of my King’s plan to save humanity from the clutches of sin. But … why? Why for these creatures who disobey, who coward, who destroy? Why would he cast aside his powers and my help to allow stoic soldiers to treat him like a treasonous criminal? Why would he bleed so easily for the sake of people who spit in his face? Why would he give his life for any human who will likely only speak his name to curse? My King looks down

at the crowd once again, and a tear mixes with a streak of blood on his cheek. The soft look on his face says it all. He is not bitter nor regretful like the crucified criminals next to him. Rather, his expression is one of love. The humans are his creation, in his image. He loves them and will sacrifice himself for them as I stand here. Watching.

SANSA Rio Tomlinson

A handsome little finch rests on the ledge of a dirt-crusted window, pane ajar to let the breeze blow inside. Its yellow plumage with black dipped wings rustles lightly with the wind. In its beak, the sole sunflower seed is held onto by the tip.

A goldfinch visited my grandmother before she passed. She would tell me how lovely its song was, or how her hands had fed it biscuit crumbs. She named him Sansa, short for Sansa Rimba. His coos like a thumb piano, giving him his name. I grew to love goldfinches after her stories. Sansa would speak to me through my grandmother, tales of the past. Tales of golden, champagne stars, dripping from the sky like bowls of butter. Japanese cherry blossoms linger in the winds, swirling in memory and delight. The scents of midsummer dreams and sounds of crickets, clicking their wings and echoing into the open air. Sansa. A handsome little finch.

Through my grandmother, Sansa speaks. Stories of pirates racing the shores, voyaging the Caribbean for gold. Memories of fetching a chicken for dinner in Africa. Passports enveloped in stamps from her travels. The tales tinkering from my grandmother’s tongue like fingers, agile, plucking at the finger-piano keys.

On my ninth birthday, I was gifted a finger piano of my own. It had been carved out of a coconut shell. Little turtles had been delicately edged into the wood with a small carver knife. I had once used a carver knife with my grandmother. She wanted to teach me to carve from wood. With my shaky, anxiety-riddled fingers I had missed the wood and sliced open the pale flesh of my hand. Blood had gushed out and my face flushed with fear and disgust. She had wrapped my hand with a terry cloth soaked in some antibacterial. The injury left no scar, only a stained memory.

Sansa would bring his friends to visit my grandmother. Two goldfinches turned into five, and from five finches to eight. Each day they would bring her gifts; Auburn leaves dripping with glossy dew, acorn caps fit for the heads of fairies, twigs wrapped in silky spider webs, or stray flower petals. My grandmother kept a box filled with these treasures. In return, she would lay pine nuts and sunflower seeds on her windowsill. On a special occasion, she would spoil them with a drusy honeycomb or leftover yarn from her finger knitting. She treated me like a little finch on occasions. When I was small, upon every visit she would give me a unique old-fashioned candy. Some days it would be decadent ribbon candies, other days it would be candy buttons embellished with licorice spots. When I was younger, I hated those candies. She had always let them get stale or kept them in a suitcase buried in her doll collection. I currently find myself ordering these same candies, reliving the memory.

On a cool July evening, the 19th to be exact, and expected, yet an unusual sense of whim and angel hair floated in the air. My grandmother was sitting in her satin-sheeted bed, dressed in her favorite purple button-up and clay-colored pants. She sat, toying with her wedding band, breathing the oxygen from her medical tank. She looked to the sky, to the stars. Smiling, she spoke four words, “What a lovely night”. The goldfinches had flown to my grandmother’s window, carrying a chorus of heavenly voices on their tails.

THE RISKS OF FLYING TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN

Haley Moody

“How could you even show your face after what happened last night? No doubt word has gotten to the king,” Philippe de Lorraine whispered harshly. “All the evidence is pinned against you. The only way out of your situation is through death.”

I leaned in closer to him and whispered, “I don’t believe I had much of a choice. It would have looked more suspicious if I didn’t come.”

“You should have just left Versailles like I told you to,” he snapped.

Before I could even think of a response, I heard loud footsteps approach me from behind, so I bit my tongue.

“Mademoiselle de Dumont,” a firm, low voice spoke. Just a moment before, all the aristocrats were participating in idle chatter, but at the sound of my name, the room grew eerily quiet. All I could hear was the pounding within my chest, and my cheeks felt warm, no doubt a bright shade of red visible to the many eyes that burned into my skin.

I looked to Philippe, someone who I considered a good friend, for strength, but he merely adverted his gaze from mine and hung his head low. I tried my best to compose myself, taking in a deep breath before turning around to see Alexandre Bontemps, the respected and feared valet of the king. He was looking at me with a pained expression as two guards stood behind him.

“I believe you know why we are here,” Bontemps said before the two guards rushed toward me, grabbing each of my arms. I thrashed and screamed, but their grips only tightened.

“I didn’t do it! I was framed!” I cried. “You have to believe me!”

As they dragged me away, my eyes set on Madame de Montespan who was sitting at one of the tables. I gave her a pleading look, but she turned her head towards the group of girls she was playing cards with.

“By the way she’s screaming you would think she was innocent,” Montespan said, a giggle escaping her lips.

Inside the dark dungeon of Versailles, I was left to wonder why I ever trusted her?

Every woman in the palace of Versailles had hoped to win over the affection of Louis XIV, as did I, and could anyone blame me? He was the sun that shone through the palace, and I would have done anything to stand next to the sun, no matter how bright it was.

I had been at court for years, living a life like many did where I simply spent all my money on clothing and fine jewelry, so I could gain it all back through gambling, only to spend it all over again. Philippe taught me how to do this best, and even without a single glance from the king— or any man for that matter— I was perfectly content with my life. At least, that was until I encountered Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, Marquise de Montespan.

I often prayed in the chapel at night when everyone was sleeping, because I preferred to do things in private. I never spent much time there, but one night as I was leaving the chapel, I came in contact with two men.

One of which was Louis XIV and the other Alexandre Bontemps. The king wore a long, cream-colored nightgown, and Bontemps seemed to be in his sleepwear as well. To see Louis dressed in this way came as a shock to me, for I had never seen him in anything but glamorous fashions, usually in the color blue.

“Sire,” I said, bowing.

“You will go to your rooms and not speak of this to

anyone. Is that understood?” Bontemps spoke in an unyielding tone.

I nodded immediately and quickly walked past them, but when I was only a few steps away, a voice spoke up from behind me.

“Wait,” it said.

As I turned around slowly, Bontemps whispered, “Your Majesty…”

“What are you doing at the chapel so late at night?” Louis inquired.

“I came to pray, sire.”

“What do you pray for?”

“For me, for my friends, for you… and for the glory of France”

Louis paused for a few seconds, and in that moment, I felt like I had been standing there for what seemed like an eternity.

“Will you come to pray with me?” he finally asked.

“Your majesty that would not be wise,” Bontemps objected.

“I see no issue with it,” Louis replied before directing his attention toward me. “Will you accept my offer?”

“I cannot refuse, sire.”

Once we were in the chapel, I could see the dark circles under Louis’s bloodshot eyes.

“What do you wish to pray for, sire?” I asked.

“I haven’t slept in days,” he said, clearly distraught. “Prominent people are being murdered, poisoned within my court. I believe that someone wants me dead, and they are killing those who are closest to me. I wish to pray that Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie will find whoever is doing this so that not only I, but everyone within my court can live peacefully once again.”

I had never anticipated that I would one day pray by His Majesty’s side. Maybe I was a bit selfish, but the thought that I could somehow ease Louis’s mind filled me with light. Afterward, I went straight to my room, not uttering a word to anyone— not even Philippe— but someone must have seen us together that night because Madame de Montespan approached me the next morning. Why would she want to speak with someone she had never been interested in before? I knew, surely, it was only because that very someone had tried to take something she believed to be hers.

“Magdelaine de Dumont,” she said as if it were a demand.

I curtseyed, keeping eye contact with the lady before me.

“I do believe that we have not yet properly introduced ourselves. As I am sure you are aware, I am the Marquise de Montespan.”

I gave her no response.

“I wish for the two of us to become friends,” she said, forcing a smile.

I had not expected such a request to come from the mistress of the king, but I bowed my head nonetheless. “I am honored, madame,” I said. “But why with me?”

“I heard good things about you from the Chevalier de Lorraine tonight while I was at the same table as him,” she replied. “He even said that you have exceptional skill at playing cards, that he taught you everything you know, and if I may be so bold, perhaps we could play together sometime.” “I would very much like that,” I said.

“Ah, good to hear. Come to me next time you wish to play, and we’ll see just how good you really are.”

She walked away, and I rolled my eyes.

Later that day, I was looking for Philippe, planning to tell him about the weird encounter I had with the Marquise. He was at one of the tables, gambling as he usually was, so I walked toward him.

It wasn’t until I heard a voice say, “Care to join us in a game of cards?” that I realized Montespan was at the same table. I sat down before her and joined their game. That’s when the strangest thing happened: I enjoyed it— no, not the game, but rather her presence. I found myself smiling at her witty remarks toward Philippe, and I found her confidence admirable; I was starting to understand why Louis had taken such a liking to her.

From that point on, I guess you could say we had seemingly grown close. We often played cards and walked around the gardens together. I continued to pray with Louis in the chapel, but she chose to ignore it because that was the extent of our relationship; the king seemed to have little interest in me romantically, as he was still attentive as ever to Montespan.

Considering how close we had gotten, it was no surprise that the king took notice. One day, Louis approached our table and asked if he and I could speak for a moment alone. Of course, I could not refuse the king; however, this left Montespan feeling bitter, and— I had not realized it at the time— our relationship had turned sour.

Louis asked me to help him make preparations for Montespan’s upcoming birthday. I did as the king had asked, and on the day, everything seemed to have gone smoothly until dinner time.

Everyone was provided drinks and before Montespan took a sip, one of her ladies stopped her.

“Perhaps I should taste it first,” the lady whispered to Montespan.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary this time.”

“Madame, I insist. With everything that’s been happening lately, I don’t think we should risk it.”

The lady took a sip and there was a brief pause before the cup fell from her hand, the glass shattering to pieces as both the cup and the lady’s body hit the floor. Gasps and screams were heard throughout the room before Bontemps yelled at one of the guards, “Somebody get the doctor!”

Bontemps then directed his attention to everyone in the room, “Everyone go to your rooms. No one is permitted to leave the premises.”

I, like everyone else, did as I was told, but I knew I would be one of the suspects.

Not many hours after I had been held in my cell, I was visited by Louis. I had been sitting with my back against the wall, but at the sight of him, I ran to the bars that separated us and fell to my knees.

“Get up,” his voice boomed over me. I did as I was told and stood up.

“Why did you do it?” he continued.

“Sire, I had no part in—”

“You are a murderer!” he interrupted. “You attempted to poison your friend, the Marquise de Montespan, at her own birthday party.”

“I was framed,” I said in a strained voice. “Your Majesty, you have to believe me.”

With that, Louis looked me in the eyes for the last time, and his expression seemed to have softened— or maybe, I just saw what I wanted to see— and he left without another word.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been sitting in that cell, but it felt like it had been weeks before I heard word from one of the guards that I would be executed within the

following days. I had come to terms with the fact that there was nothing I could do, and I would have done anything to forget my last encounter with Louis.

I had been told that Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie would be the one who would escort me to my public execution, so when he finally opened my cell door, I knew my fate had been sealed.

“Mademoiselle de Dumont, under the king’s order, you are free to go,” he said. He must have thought that I deserved further explanation, so he continued, “I found the woman who was behind all of the poisonings. Her name is Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin. She kept a record of all the people who used her… services. Your name was not on her lists while Madame de Montespan’s was, so the king confronted her. She confessed to using dark magic to keep his favor and confessed to framing you for the murder of her lady.”

“Did she say why she did this to me?” I asked.

“She did not.”

“What is to happen to Madame?”

“She was already stripped of her title as Marquise, but she will remain within the palace.”

“His Majesty is too kind,” I said before quickly making my way toward my room, ignoring everyone who tried to talk to me. I packed my necessities and headed out the door. I ran into Philippe who exclaimed, “Magdelaine, I am so excited to see that you’re alive! Wait, where are you going?”

“As far away from Versailles as possible.”

TESTIMONY

Julianne McGee

No one ever imagines or thinks that they will lose their person, their best friend, at a young age. It just isn’t thought about in normal friendships. I never thought about it heavily, until it happened to me. I would like to take this piece to reminisce about the times I did have with my friend. The good days, the long days, and the ugly days. No matter what those days were like, I’ll always be grateful they were spent with her.

A Bright, Sunny Morning

I was sitting in a third-floor classroom of Carnegie Hall on McKendree University’s campus, tired and ready for coffee. It was a bright morning. A truly beautiful spring day, just two short days after my birthday. In the 60s, the sun was shining, and the birds were chirping fondly. I was in a good mood. I was planning on having a good day.

My best friend’s mom calls me. I ignored the call, thinking she just wanted to chat about my best friend’s kids. My friend had twin boys who were just over six months old at the time. She texted me right after. “[She] died!!!! You need to get here.” My heart hit the floor. The rest was a blur. I remember yelling, crying, and Dr. Trask helping me make my way down the stairs. The stairs felt like they took years to get down. My head was throbbing.

My mom picked me up from campus. By the time she arrived, the tears were slow, and I became silent. The numbness set in.

My best friend was struck by a vehicle as she walked down a dark highway on a cold night. She was pronounced dead at 3:30 a.m... The question that most ask is, “Why was she walking down the highway at that time of night?” I cannot answer this question without a long trip down memory lane. If the events in the past six months hadn’t happened, she would not have ended up on that lonely, dark highway in the

early hours of the morning.

The Road to that Night on a Dark Highway

To put it simply, my best friend was an addict. She was chained by an almost unbeatable addiction to hard drugs. When she was sober, and when she wasn’t, she was consumed by a lifestyle that even her sober mind hated. She told me so many times, “Nobody wants to stay addicted, but no one knows how to stop.”

Through this memorial, I want to bear light on those who struggle. Addicts aren’t always what they are perceived to be by the media. In my own personal experience, I have seen addicts portrayed as dirty, uneducated, and living bad lifestyles altogether. My best friend was a hard worker, kept a clean house, had her bills paid on time… But she also just happened to be addicted to methamphetamine and fentanyl. Towards the end, heroin was her vice. Heroin was her killer. She was a caring mother, who would have given the world to her sons. She was an incredible friend, who was there whenever I needed her, no matter what was going on in her own life. She was strong-minded; she beat addiction multiple times before her life was taken from her. She truly was a light in the world, who kept fighting for her sobriety until the day she died. Her life was taken too soon because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

In the Beginning

I met my girl at a new job I was working right out of high school. She was my boss. As two young girls who didn’t have many friends and were out in the world on their own for the first time, we decided within a week of meeting each other that we would be each other’s person. She openly told me she was an addict but was going on two years clean. She talked about her scary experiences in the dark of night going to buy drugs, and how she never wanted to live that lifestyle again. The first time she told me these stories, we were having a sleepover, making pizza, and watching our

favorite television shows. We enjoyed each other’s company so much that we never lost contact after that first sleepover.

We worked long nights together and I crashed on her couch many times. Six months went by that were full of nights that ended too soon. She quit her job where we worked together. She began not returning my phone calls. Her actions were erratic, and although I refused to believe what was happening right in front of my eyes, she had lost her sobriety for the first time since becoming clean.

I did my best to stay in touch, to just know she was alive. I knew that she was ashamed of what she was doing. I always told her I’d be here when she was ready to come back, and I was. Six more months passed, and I received a Snapchat that changed my entire world.

Our Boys

The image my friend sent me had no context, just an image of a positive pregnancy test. I told her I was still here if she was ready to begin her journey to sobriety. We met up the next day for the first time in months. She was horribly skinny and looked so tired. My friend was not “fat” but she had never been this small. I asked her about her new boyfriend and what the plan was for the baby, and she decided to keep the baby and drop the drugs. I will always be proud of her for making that call.

She did not have a vehicle, so I drove her to most of her doctor’s appointments throughout the course of her preg-nancy. These days were filled with lots of food from Bread Company because that is all the pregnant girl wanted. Oh, did I mention the biggest part of this whole ordeal? TWINS!

My best friend was pregnant with not just one, but two little bouncing boys. We knew we were going to have our hands VERY full.

I could go on for days and days about how the babies’ father was just a garbage boyfriend to my girl, but I want to focus on her. She blew up like a balloon within the first six months of her pregnancy. She was sober and absolutely glowing. She was a kind-hearted human.

At her very last doctor appointment, they took her in for an emergency C-section. Our boys came into this world three weeks earlier than planned, but as healthy as possible. She was a proud mother and I was honored to be her best friend and self-proclaimed “auntie” to the boys.

Downhill

Two months go by and my girl is back to work. Just like the old times! She had started working with me again but this time around I was her boss. If she worked late, I would head to her house and put the boys to bed. Usually, this was a normal occurrence. Their dad was useless when it came to bedtime. I headed over to the house and started getting the boys changed and ready for a bottle when I noticed bruising. The bruising was abnormal, and I knew something was not right. Why would a two-month-old baby have bruises on his arm? The next morning, after a very long night, my girl and I loaded up the babies and filed a police report. Their dad went to jail. We went to the emergency room, where the boys had a full work-up. Broken bones, bruising, and drugs in their system...

That same night, custody was given to the state. They would now be cared for by their grandmother. This broke my best friend. She felt as though they were the only reason she was sober. When she lost them, she lost her sobriety. But this time, I would not let her lose me too. I spent long nights at her house where we would make plans and goals for her to get her babies back. When their dad was released from jail, he came back into her life. I am not the type to place

blame, but if he had left her alone it is likely that my best friend would still be a living soul and not an angel in the sky.

I stuck around and we spent time with the boys when she hadn’t been using. I was approved through the state to care for the babies, therefore my friend could spend time with them when I watched them. She had a rocky relationship with her mother, so seeing the boys when they were with me was her best choice.

Eventually, she stopped coming around as much. Even after the boys’ dad had gone back to jail. He hit my best friend with a car, so that was his one-way ticket back to the slammer, at least for a little while. She was not do-ing well, weight was dropping off before my eyes and she was horribly depressed. She overdosed. She lived, but she wished she hadn’t. I remember picking her up from the hospital when she was cleared to leave. She said to me, “It was the worst feeling of my life. I was burning, like fire, from the inside out. I feel so bad that I threw up on the paramedic, but I wish he wouldn’t have given me that second round of Narcan.”

Her Last Night

I apologize if this seems scattered, but it is a difficult testimony to tell. Let’s talk about her last night on this planet. She was in a small town about eight miles from her house. She was using heroin with her “friends”. One of these people overdosed. When the paramedics arrived, they recommended that she leave so she would not be in any trouble when the police arrived. She had a vehicle, but she handed off the keys to someone who was on parole because she felt it was more essential that they got out. She walked. And just kept walking. Trying to call people for a ride or for help. She was cold. Her legs were probably tired. She walked four miles, all while calling these “friends” and begging for help. The last message she sent was disorderly, we assume this is when she was struck by the silver truck that ended her life. The operator received the 911 call a short two minutes after my

best friend sent her final message. By the next day, I was helping plan her funeral and kissing her earthly body goodbye.

What happens now?

Now my best friend is not a phone call away. She is worlds away, hopefully somewhere beautiful and painless. Her sons are almost eight months old and resemble her in so many ways. The army of people who loved my best friend will now carry her memory while helping to raise her two beautiful boys. It gets hard many days when I want to pick up the phone and call her. I have a lot of questions that she can never answer. The biggest one being why she didn’t call me for a ride on that cold spring night. I would have been there like I always was. But if there is one thing I have learned out of this awful experience, it’s that I am luckier than most. I will always have a piece of her smiling back at me when I care for her children. I will always have some of her personality laughing at me when I make funny faces at the boys. I do have pieces of her left. I feel her hand on my shoulder in the wind sometimes. And I feel comfort because wherever she may be, her addiction is gone.

Through this piece, I hope to possibly connect with a reader who knows the struggles of caring deeply for an addict. It takes a lot to love an addict. But it is well worth the time. Loving an addict taught me compassion, patience, understanding, and how to love deeper than I ever thought I was possible. No matter how many nights of lost sleep I had, or how many tears I’ve cried, I will look back fondly on the good times. And be thankful for what came from this terrible disease. There is light in every situation and sometimes you just have to find it. My light is the twins, where will you find your light?

In loving memory of my best friend, 1998-2021.