Shards of Light Volume 006

Kat Shaneck

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Lydia Wood

Associate Editor

Nattilie Kirby

Art Editor & Journal Designer

Joseph Deitzer Danny Friesen

STAFF Morgan Bojie Leah Dolloff

Thank you again for your support,

L U D W I G

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Your Co-Editors: Kat Shaneck and William Newton

L A I N A

COMMITTEE LEADERS

Will Newton

Meggie Duncan Lizzie Good Ali Jargo Ellie Nelson Nemanja Obradovic Elijah Patterson Kate Shields Grace Sutton

U N T I T L E D ,

T A F F

EDITORS

Before you begin reading, we wanted to take a moment to celebrate just how far Shards of Light has come. Volume 006 is a very special issue of Shards of Light, as it is the first edition to accept submissions from the broader Arkansas academic community.

This is just the first of many milestones we will achieve as we continue to grow our journal across Arkansas, and eventually, the greater United States. Thank you for continuing to support this journal and the artistic community it represents. We’re so gracious you are taking this journey with us.

T H E D I G I TA L I R O N Y O F U S E L E S S F I L M , S H E L B Y B R E W E R

THE FACTORY FLOOR AND THE METAL BALCONY

BY AIDAN STINSON

S

lide. Click. Twist. Repeat. Slide. Click.

Twist. Repeat. Slide. Click. Twist. Repeat.

Mundane and brain-dulling work. One might think that constructing watches would be an interesting and engaging task. But, of course, they forget that most watches these days are made by a hundred people together, not just one per watch. My repetitive motion of picking up the body, clicking the assigned gear into place, testing the rotation of the incomplete collection of cogs, and sliding the device to the next station drains any attentiveness or excitement that I might have.

The hours don’t blend together nearly enough.

I can still feel how long I actually twist those stupid cogs together, so unfortunately, the mundanity doesn’t cause time travel.

Far on the other end of the factory is where the machinery rumbles and steams in order to produce all the vital organs of the timepieces. In between the assembly line and the production area, a metal staircase leads the way to a balcony overlooking every poor, sapped, working soul here. Upon said balcony often stands smartly dressed men with auras of wealth and power.

A simple, blank door leads to the foreman’s office. None of the common workers have stepped foot inside the office. This gives inspiration to some far-fetched rumors about what is on the other side of the forbidden door.

Most of the stories are similar. A large oak desk with a padded chair behind it and an

unlimited supply of sweet treats on a silver tray. Perhaps a large fireplace and a cushy bed for comfortable naps during the workday.

Maybe it wasn’t an office in the first place.

Some say the room is actually a tennis court with an open bar for all the corporate snobs that waltz from factory to factory. Even others claim the door is just a gateway to heaven. Or hell. Depends on who you ask.

Today, I gained consciousness from my workinduced stupor to notice two things. First, three stiff businessmen in sharp suits are standing on the metal balcony, surveying the progress being made in their factory. They appear to be standing in order of age, from young to mature to nigh elderly. After one last critical look, the middle-aged foreman, the one who makes the most consistent appearances at this factory, steered the other two corporate gentlemen into the mysterious office. I let my eyes fall slowly from the balcony. I have been working here for so long that my eyes can wander while my hands continue to assemble. The second thing I noticed was that one of the men across from me and to my right on the assembly line was absent from his position. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me (which is entirely possible in this boring environment), he was there earlier wearing the same blank face as everyone else. However, it didn’t seem like the other assemblers saw anyone leave their station.

A clocktower tolls out two chimes, alerting

AA LL OO NN EE

GALEANA BOOMER

TIRED TIRED TIRED

me that I have been in the factory for eight hours already. A sigh of relief almost escaped my lips at the last minute, being replaced by an anxious groan as my longing to be home with my family resurfaced. I glance to my right at the station before my own.

The man working that section, Ivan, is a long-time friend of mine. His first day here was filled with excitement as he eagerly took his place in the machine. The days following were less enthusiastic, but even so, he always managed to keep a positive attitude. This being said, he isn’t immune to the dull mind and blank face of repetition. Today, his eyes stare at no point in particular as his hands perform our monotonous tasks.

As if sensing my tired gaze, Ivan shook his head to refocus, turning his eyes to me. We smile as best we can under the circumstances, both of us wishing for home.

Our friendship has made most of the long days bearable. After every shift, we walk together to the train station, talking as we go. Our words have been cheerful, supportive, saddened, philosophical, and theological. In a dull life of work and minimal rest, a good friend becomes close very quickly. I’ve shared my aspirations of being promoted to a corporate position someday, and he’s spoken to me about his religious beliefs.

We have inspired each other to reach further to achieve more in this impoverished life. He would say to me, “Dmitri? You know I’m praying for you, right?” I didn’t understand at the time. I thought he was meaning

to have me congratulate him or something. But when I saw he was serious, and when I thought about how religious he was, I’d say yes. He’d say, “Good. I just wanted to make sure you know you have people in your corner.”

He was and still isn’t seeking any praise for his actions. He just wants to lift people up. All of the hurting and sinful people he’d call them. I understand what he’s saying, I’m no saint.

Ivan and I started a staring contest right there at the assembly line. With our hands occupied, we can’t really play many games. Staring contests are, by far, the best two-person activity in the entire factory. I keep staring intently into Ivan’s eyes, warping my face into mock fury. Stopping himself from laughing, he meets my glare with equal intensity. I can barely make out anything around us as the contest grows in competition. The machines keep rumbling and steaming; workers mindlessly assemble their timepieces, and a delivery man drops off packages for the engineers by the machines.

All of this goes on in a blur as Ivan and I reach the tipping point of our battle, our eyes watering. With a sudden moment of darkness and relief in my stinging eyes, I realize I had lost the staring contest. Ivan holds back a whoop of victory, and we laugh silently as we get back to work.

The next few minutes pass like many of the others, dull and pointless. My eyes start to wander again, and I notice that the man across from me and to the right is back at his station. Knowing that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me earlier makes me feel strangely

relieved. But right as my eyes begin to roam farther away from the man, I notice something about his eyes. His face is blank, the same as every other worker in this factory. But his eyes… they seem more focused and attentive than any other pair of eyes that ever saw the inside of these walls. The unsettling contrast between his face and eyes makes me extremely uneasy.

As sudden as the blink that ended the staring contest, a bright light dominated the work floor, accompanied by a deafening boom and a ringing silence.

I’m on the floor with no memory of being knocked over. All of the other workers are scattered across the factory, forced to the ground by the explosion.

I see the machines on the far side of the hall are in flaming ruins. The ringing is persistent and intrusive, blocking any other noise from my eardrums. I see the first man to get up after the sudden destruction. It’s the man with attentive eyes. He pulls something from his ears as he climbs up on top of the assembly line. Shouting and waving his arms, the man seems pressed to get us on our feet, although I have no idea what he’s saying. What I do see are his eyes.

Crazed and burning with passionate conviction, his eyes dart from one man to the next as if willing them to rise from the ashes and listen to his sermon.

As the ringing begins to subside and the roar of fire takes its place, a familiar hand grips mine and pulls me to my feet.

Ivan motions to me while speaking.

His words were still drowned out by the invasive side effects of the sudden boom. I keep shaking my head, trying to lose the dizziness.

moment. I train my attention on Ivan, who is now waving frantically toward the wall. My eyes widen as I understand his meaning, but it comes a second too late. Ivan and I are swept up into a crowd of disoriented the city, which was now covered in darkness. Smoke and frenzied men, spurred on by the man on the and fog cause the day to become night, with factory assembly line. I cough out the words, “sorry… door… fires sprinkled throughout the industrial districts. run…” to Ivan. He nods his head fervently, but we I can almost hear the screams of panic and pain. are unable to escape the onslaught of factory workers. Another push has me stumbling farther into the room The man with the insane eyes continued his as the crowd parts just enough for the Revolutionary speech, and I only now began to listen to it. (the man on the assembly line) to pass through. The clamoring voices of “...today! Keep on, the workers began to my comrades. We must die down, allowing turn our attention to the Revolutionary the balcony! Go and to speak. My mind claim our rightful still spins at what I place in society! The saw out of the office revolution has begun!” window, rendering His words inspired my ears useless to passionate roars from sound. Mouths move, the crowd. I almost but I hear no words. willingly turned Ivan’s face changes towards the staircase. from silent fear and It didn’t matter concern to a picture anyways, as the men of horror. Before I around us pushed can process even my the group forward. own puzzlement, Among the war cries Ivan surges forward and coughing, I hear through the crowd, workers praying and finding his nerve. repeating the phrase His voice penetrates “for my family, for my my shocked mind. family” over and over “No! Stop this! Can again. Thoughts of you not see how my wife and children wrong this is?” spring into my head, The Revolutionary bringing tears to my pauses before the eyes. The confusion of mature businessman, the strange and sudden the object in his turn of events is almost UNTITLED, VICTORIA BLOUNT hand partially too much for me to obscured by process as the men bang on the metal door on the balcony. I soon found his body. He smiles and responds, “Pray, tell, myself standing in the office, unaware of how I got friend. Are we so wrong in liberating ourselves?”

“In this way, yes. Has this man truly wronged there. As it turns out, the rumors were all false. No oak desk dominated the space, only a simple wooden table you? What sin has he done to deserve this?”

“What sin? Living! He sits here, reaping the with rickety chairs on each side. Three smartly dressed men, now detained by the factory workers, had been rewards of our hard work and our hours of labor. sitting and drinking the cheapest of coffee from small He’s never been employed in a factory before!”

“This may be so, but there are those more tin cups. The walls are bare brick with windows facing deserving of this punishment that evade its grasp.”

Only now do I realize the object in the Revolutionary’s hand is a pistol. A firearm meant to topple the hierarchy of business. Of inequality. Of exploitation.

H A L L I E

Some of the crazed man’s words start to filter in through the noise. “UP… GO… WITH…” Others around me begin to stand, becoming more coherent with every

S A R A H C A S PA R I

F L O W Ivan saw the truth that all have fallen short and have sinned. We all deserve death. But this crazed man with the gun sees only the wrongs dealt to him. He begins to speak with a fervent passion.

“We are the very thing our labor has produced, day after day. All of us, together, are a clock. The gears and cogs within are the individual comrades doing their duty to society. But the men here before us are the vessels of exploitation. They grip the timepieces in their grubby hands and wind them up, making them run and then sitting back and enjoying the benefits of time. They steal what is rightfully ours! The inequality of man is more obvious in this factory than in most places you may see. They take advantage of our hard-working nature and our desperation to gain something for us and for our families. They are our overlords until we say otherwise!”

After letting the men shout in agreement, Ivan raises his hands in a calming way and addresses the youngest of the corporate men. The young man is fresh out of school, a school designed to train leaders. He was able to work odd jobs here and there to pay for some of it, relying on

S O F I A ET T EM A loans for the rest. He lives in a poor neighborhood and is still trying to pay off his debts. Ivan asks the eldest businessman about his life in this company. The man had grown up in the poor district, finding work at a factory when he was only twelve years old. He kept working at the factory until it burned down after an unfortunate accident.

Soon after, he began work in this factory here, working his way up until his dress code required a suit and tie.

I couldn’t see what was so terrible about these men until Ivan addressed the third. His story held much less struggle, consisting of friends in high places living in wealthier parts of town. Ivan turns to the Revolutionary and asks if the unfair aspects of this one man’s life could justify the murder of three men. The Revolutionary, eyes bright with rage, declared that if the men tear off their oppressive suits and renounce their association with inequality, they can join the movement. The young man and the mature man both rip off their ties and suits, cursing their family names and the job that they once held. The eldest man stands his ground, proudly saying that he earned his place in the world.

The Revolutionary opens his arms for the young man

and hugs him tightly, calling him a comrade. As the middle-aged man steps forward to embrace the radical, a gunshot echoes within the office, causing the workers to instinctively cower.

The mature man falls to the ground, dead.

“When I said you can join, I wasn’t talking to you. You lived your entire life as an oppressor, and you can never come back from that.”

The Revolutionary raises his eyes toward the old man. Silence permeates the air. The eldest man locks his eyes on the radical’s, keeping his chin held high. The gun rises. I close my eyes.

A gunshot rings out. My ears are throbbing, and I keep wishing for this to end. A second gunshot forces my eyes open in surprise. My shock triples as I watch two men fall to the ground. First is the old man. The second is Ivan. His face is set in permanent sadness.

A brief moment of silence lingers on until the men start a chorus of war cries once again.

They all storm out of the office, no doubt to stoke the flames of rebellion, leaving me behind

to try and accept the death of my best friend.

Time passes strangely on by me without any regard for my well-being. The city burns before my very eyes, and I don’t feel a thing. I had my eyes closed when the shot occurred, but now they feel forced open by the cold hands of regret. A creak of rusty hinges brings my focus back away from time. I turn slowly as if in physical pain (it felt as though this were true). The Revolutionary stands in the doorway with an expression almost like sadness. I don’t know what else to do. Hatred is present but is overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness. I decided to ask him his name.

“My name is not important, comrade.” He pauses.

“Come. The revolution is at hand. The exploited laborers shall rise and guide society toward equality. All of us are on level ground. No more factory floor… and no more metal balcony.”

WHEN OPPOSITES ATTRACT

S H E L B Y

B R E W E R

C A M P B E L L

M A T T H E W

U N T I T L E D ,

THE FIRST MONTH

verity callahan

Dear John, We live on Meadowlake Road, which has no meadow or lake.

We. I keep skipping over that word, over the plurality of us two, as if we own these red-bricked apartments, these speedbumps and the stray calico that our neighbor Rhonda feeds.

Do you think we’ll ever forget the way light crackles through our bedroom window on weekend mornings, or Charlotte’s slick little black dog, the one that always comes to you first? Do you think we’ll forget the trees that we can hear only when it gets quiet? Those leaves always whispering about our new life. Our. I’m not used to that word, or the upstairs neighbors who are too loud when they play movies and laugh, startling us in the same way marriage somehow made us different despite thinking it would be an easy change.

When I ask your parents about their first apartment they can’t remember much.

But I can’t forget how close we are to the gymnasium where I used to do somersaults as a kid, next to the kind of suburban hell I swore I’d never live in but now crave. I want to remember these mismatched kitchen chairs from the thrift store and the little lamp on our fridge.

I still feel strange that we sleep in my old bed, mostly because I’m still on the same side. You offered to move, and I don’t know why I got upset.

Maybe you do. Us two. We are hidden at the end of the apartment complex, where they hide the ugly units. It’s the best part, you told me once, because we are next to the forest, or maybe it’s just someone’s backyard.

Sometimes I wonder what those trees say to one another.

We. Are slowly getting used to how each other looks in the dark, in this strange dance we have in the morning when you make cereal and I struggle to make coffee the way my parents always did.

I don’t know what to call the house I grew up in anymore. Home doesn’t seem to cut it, since Charlotte and Rhonda aren’t there.

I can hear them laughing outside, smoking as they always do.

I think they may wait for you to get back from work, too.

W

B A L D W I N

SEAT

v i c t o r i a

B R O O K E

EMPTY

A K E D F N K A H E O G F H I A L O O K I T ’ S A L I T T L E B O AT

b l o u n t

GWENNA

DYE

L E A H S C O T T

E X P O S I T I O N

t h e subu r b s (c o n tin u e d )

overflowing love THE SUBWAY mak cofer

below ground, trains scream. wind and heat rises up beaten stairs made of silver. beaten. a grown man’s body folds, to dream or to die on the subway floor. converse and boots could kill, crush. christ this body is a shadow of the city’s brown breath.

caroline house

i let the man slip beneath crowds with trodden faces i leave him with nothing, not a hand or silent prayer and button my coat before leaving at the next stop.

Sofia Ettema

T H O M A S

C A S S I E

S N O W ,

“I come to the realization that parts of me are invisible to science.”

T H E

heaven that zapped me clean of worry, until I was windburned and bruised with new love.

There was no voice. The soft plod and faint click of my horse’s steel shoes against the jagged ground told me he cared. And like a heaven-sent friend, he wanted to carry me to the edge of all that I knew and explore a nightsilent land together. Wind thrashed around us, and, like children holding hands, we both wanted to race into it. In jockey fashion, I leaned against his neck, feeling the air crest over my back as we thrilled through it. By morning, we were slowly meandering over hills. Night’s parade was over, and all was hushed by the blue mercy of dawn. The sky felt close.

I fought tears as we marked our 75th mile.

My horse was tired, having expended every stride of energy he possessed. When he couldn’t sustain a trot, with patience he resigned to a slow, persistent walk, a motion as seamless as the sunrise around us. With vigor, he accepted every challenge, and with shared wonder he took me through thin places, where matter and mystery are one. And I laughed into tears because, in my horse’s tired, hopeful, trusting submission, I saw that he, like a human, had character that could be called virtuous. He was so patient and willing to endure what had to be at times excruciating, that I saw reflections of God. All along my thin place was right there, brown-eyed and curious, carrying me.

ELLIE NELSON

I N

It only happens when I’ve worn a day’s pale morning hours into the saddle, when I’m emptied out of comfort, heaviness, and idleness. All the clutter is out. Muscles are instead filled with aches. Mouth filled with salt and dryness. Sometimes I think about my riding posture, or I absently watch the silvery black tips of my horse’s ears. But on rare occasions, in the woods late at night, little blinks of stars peek through tears in the forest roof, catching my soul. In the sweltering, buzzing afternoon, I sometimes feel a warmth distinguishable from my nearly overheated body. I become aware of all that humans are made of—the chemicals, the atoms, and the light stuff between and in and around.

Baking under the sun, I come to the realization that parts of me are invisible to science.

In muggy June of 2021, when my horse and I finished a mile-long climb by 2:00 a.m., we emerged on a plateau, bordered by a halo of violent orange art. A flickering orchestra of an electrical storm rumbled across the grey pallet of a Montana night sky. We were on a stage, moving swiftly through the wind, God our audience.

I’ve been told that humans are the only creatures with souls, but I know, too, that horses have a way of bringing out the soul in their humans. Not an inner child, but a timeless self. In a methodical joining of hands with past horseback travelers, I watched the stars punch through the dark like coils of tin, punch through me. Up on that plateau, there were bites of

S E Y

THIN PLACES

ANYTHING AN ANNA, ASHLYN RANCUDO

BUT

I am a car backfiring, a sudden jolt, or perhaps more like

FLESH

a yawn, a slow circle around the important stuff

like good grades and listening and I want to be cruel

sometimes, but I’m soft with the words I use and on the hips.

I am the third drawer of my childhood dresser, where the heavy books like to live. I am Robert Heinlein, C.S. Lewis, a collection of space rocks in a secret stash under my bed. I don’t tell anyone that it’s quartz crystal that I pick carefully from the playground, but that’s what I am.

See, I am the freckles on my mother’s skin, every sun beam that traveled across time to kiss her, to want to cling to her, I am robins in the tree next to the porch, calling out and waking everyone up because I cannot keep quiet, and I am the glasses on the bridge of my father’s nose while he does the voices for The Never Ending Story. I am stuffed animals, mostly Raggedy Ann or the teapot on the stove yelling or perhaps it’s just me making that noise. I am impatience, waiting by the door stumbling through seasons and trying to be steady. I am a bumpy ride, wild and perhaps a little frightening except when I’m not. I am the little window in the bathroom in Florence, misty in the early morning the least real thing to touch. I am anything but flesh.

Verity Callahan

Daughters Dinners

and

G O O D

“Why are all the men in the other room?” my sister asks. Too young to know that we don’t pass on invitations to them. Because it’s better this way. Just the spices, our Ma, her daughters, and their daughters.

To sit in the kitchen is to endure that sweet warmth, to know the fiery ways a woman labors.

It is not that men don’t labor, or that we couldn’t use their help in this room.

But, it’s the stove’s warmth that melts our confessions and shakes them loose. It’s an invite from the oil crackling in that cast iron skillet that seems to target daughters.

This is why it takes nine women to pass the spices.

My aunt secretly shakes more cinnamon into the applesauce. She swears by extra spices and epidurals during labor.

She describes the differences between the births of her two daughters, Explaining what it is like in that fluorescent hospital room.

That cold room where one becomes a mother seems so uninviting, so different from the ones we’re in when our mothers invite us to know them. To warm

M a n u s

up to their rages. To hear of their discarded passions, while warming the green beans is a different type of vulnerability. To be critiqued in your choice of spices while hearing descriptions of teenage romance takes the most feminine of invitations.

This is not dinner table talk, what it is like to go into labor, but there is no doubt that its place is in the room where mothers recruit their daughters.

C e d a h l i a

L I Z Z I E

H a u n t e d ,

On

mak cofer

there is more grief than there is of me.

I am fatal, a pilot rowing through zodiacs and the black. sifting through sand and salt. wounded in the eye. this atmosphere is godless and on earth it rains for us.

E D E N , L E A H S C O T T

H E L D ,

T A R A

W A R D E N

HELD

I entwine myself with your hollow jacket,

and it is cold like the floorboards in a home where the quiet swells and burrows into skin. the hydrangeas gave no sign that they would die. the cicadas have sung themselves to shells. summer is gone– don’t you hear the bombs? these clothes have lost the weight of you that filled them.

THE MENDING JESSICA THOMPSON

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese practice of repairing pottery. Instead of

JESSICA THOMPSON

KINTSUGI HANDS

discarding a broken piece of pottery, the craftsman mends the cracks and breaks with gold, creating something beautiful and valuable out of what was once mundane. This idea struck a deep chord in my heart. I felt it was a wonderful representation of how God takes our broken lives and mends us with grace and mercy, changing us from broken to beautiful through His loving kindness The breaking began early: small chips caused by small things. Little lies told when I was a child, harsh words spoken to me by supposed friends. Little hurts taking little pieces, breaking them off bit by bit.

Little chips grow, turning into large cracks. My foolish sin and pride causing some breaks while others come from the hands of those around me.

Tearing searing pain from pieces broken while fear of never being whole again gnaws my heart to shreds. The cracks grow wider, deeper, darker and my heart knows no hope of redemption or repair.

“No hope,” voices whisper all around me as I stare at what I’ve become. A small wretched thing: broken, smashed, and battered. So engulfed by fear that just to stand is more than I can do. No hope.

Hope. As a child hope was all around me. Abundant, free, and within easy reach. Now the thought seems as foreign as another world.

But there, in the dark cold night of the soul when all around is fear and despair.

A hand it reaches, a light it flutters, a voice it whispers, “You are not alone.”

From my place, shattered on the cold stark ground, I reach, tentative and marveling, could there be someone who wants someone as broken as me? Don’t you see the cracks, the pieces fallen off, the marred self: unfixable and ruined?

Hope. Fragile as a newborn cry and as warm as the first sunbeam comes creeping curling in. Again, the voice whispers, “You are not alone”. And a hand— gentle as a summer rain and as strong as the ocean tides— closes over my frail broken one. The Craftsman carries my broken pieces. Slowly, deftly, with love defying all the odds, He begins to rebuild my soul. I am remade, redeemed, restored.

The Potter takes my clay and mends me, placing piece by piece my shattered edges back. Gold, tried by fire and purged by the flames, kisses my seams and melds me into shape. Golden lines stand stark, filling and closing the wounds given from love, war, and sin. Finally, the shattered self stands whole again. I am not the same, could never be as I was before. Instead, I am something stronger now with a beauty from the brokenness.

The Lover stands before me, grace and joy pouring from His hands. The mercy given in the mending, painting me with a glory beyond any mortal means. Now this wrecked and wretched creature—once so bound by fear and shame—stands proud and strong. No glory of my own making but in the shadow of a glory so strong and true its shadow is the sun.

Cracks still form and broken bits still fall from my fragile brittle self. Fear still creeps, seeping in, to try and make a home of my aching bones and feast off my battered heart. But the golden lines of grace and mercy binding me together and anchor my soul in the one who holds me safe against all foes. His love, deeper than the skies and brighter than the stars, lingers over me. Holding me, mending me, saving me. I am broken yet mended by mercy, broken yet held together by golden strands of love.

D A U G H T E R O F EV E , S H EL B Y B R EW ER

D E M ET ER , B R O O K E B A L D W I N

h o u s e c a r o l i n e u n t i t l e d ,

mak cofer

before this love

life was half awake rosy and ill inside this newborn blindness scaling earth’s nebulous shoulders bloodless and delicate.

I met you in this sleep I came wrapped in a world spun with lethal winds fresh thunder thin soot you were there beckoning my layers, calling upon an overflow of something bubbling and alive underneath. they notice when you change.

I remember the August you came the ocean flaked into sky where the hands of miracle bore a new needle, and your thread maybe before I was seamless in my corners or borrowed at the curves, spilling whatever it is that makes us full.

It is these things I can hardly speak of and could spend all my life in search of the ways I could keep our memory in gilded youth where there are your bridal eyes inhabitable and rich, our shared breath baked and cosmic at home, how your salt matters down to the edge of teaspoons. that tenderness when I am hollow and dim how we rise and disappear inside the same smoke.

T he older woman wiped the sweat from her brow before reaching up for that one last apple.

With a snap, the green fruit popped off the branch. She turned over the apple in her hand, feeling

the skin— no blemish, no worm holes, no mushy spots. A good apple, one that deserved to be eaten by the river side on a nice summer’s day or baked into a delectable apple pie. She placed the apple into the already bursting basket.

She reached down to pick it up when a voice called to her. “Here, let me help you with that.”

The young man stooped down and in one swoop lifted the basket from the ground and onto the cart loaded with other baskets. Around his wrist sat a leather band, in the center of which rested a scorpion encased in amber, and by his side a curved sword and strange crescent shaped knife.

His brown hair fell over fae-like ears, and his olive skin and dark orange eyes gave away his ancestry: a Coanian.

“How far away is your village?” He asked, grabbing onto the handles of the cart. His Futharese was almost perfect, save for the accent he carried.

“Oh, just a ways down the main road.”

“Splendid. If you’ll lead the way?”

“Of course.” The pair began to meander down the country road. The Coanian couldn’t help but be amazed at everything around him. The trees, the call of songbirds, the fields dotted with wildflowers, rolling hills, all leading to a far-off plateau. He breathed in the fresh air of the grasslands, feeling his heartbeat thrum with the land.

“Who are you?” the old lady asked, finally speaking up.

“I’m just a simple traveler.”

“Where are you traveling to? Are you lost, young man?”

The Coanian let out a chuckle before shaking his head. “No, no. I’m not lost.”

“Where are you traveling to, then?”

He gave a faint smile. “Have you ever heard of a philosopher named Ikkyu?”

“I can’t say that I have. Was he Coanian, like you?”

“Actually, he was a human; lived among the nymphs of Tethra. Strange man, that Ikkyu.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I know he was a wise man., I might have met him at some point.” The Coanian began to trail off. “Anyways, he had a saying: “Having no destination, I am never lost.”

T H E P O W E R O F C R E AT I V I T Y, G W E N N A D Y E

THE TRAVELER RYA N KEES

CIRCLES ashlyn rancudo

“I’ll say one thing about you.”

“And that would be?”

“You are a strange man.”

A chuckle formed at his lips before bursting out in a full-hearted belly laugh.

“Indeed I am. And what would your name be?”

“I’m Vanya.” She gave a slight bow of her head. “But everyone just calls me Nana.”

The Coanian gave another smile. “So, where exactly am I?” “A small nation named Achil, but everything I need is right here. I’ve only left our borders once, you know.”

“Really?”

Vanya gave a slow nod. “It was back when I was much, much younger. I visited Efrea, down the river, saw Lake Mavi, and spent some time along the coast. It was truly a beautiful sight.”

The Coanian let out a sigh. “Ah, the shores of Lake Mavi, how I long to see them again.”

“You’ve been?” She turned to face the Coanian.

He paused. “I guess you could say that I have. It’s been a long, long time.” His eyes found the horizon over the plains and followed it east. “I haven’t thought about that place in quite a while.”

Vanya nodded and pointed up ahead.

“Welcome to the village of Pashach.”

“A beautiful village.” The Coanian smiled as he looked over the squat houses, their roofs covered in grass and flowers, chimneys waving hello as their smoke drifted in the breeze. Bridges dotted across the river, while boats went to and fro along the docks. Old-growth trees dotted the landscape of the riverside town, providing shade by day and light

by night with small lamps in their branches, with some boasting a green and blue banner. In the center of it all stood a large hill, and atop it rested a great hall, decorated with beautiful carvings. The brilliant white marble spoke to the care done in keeping it pristine.

“Where do you need all these apples?” he asked as the pair stepped into the village.

“My house, please.”

The two passed through the streets, everyone calling and waving to Nana as she passed.

“Right this way.” She turned down a side street, arriving at a knoll dotted with white daisies. Vanya led him to the side of the home, where a little wooden awning had been built, with the right amount of space for the cart to fit into it.

Vanya leaned over to the Coanian. “I noticed your amber charm; I recommend you don’t use your magic in this town.” She looked around. “We’ve had a spotty history with magicians., Most folk in this town don’t like it too much, especially the more destructive types of magic.”

The Coanian’s eyes lit up in recognition. “You’ll have no trouble from me. I assure you.” He gave a bow of his head.

“I know, Wanderer, but the others don’t.” There was a pause. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Why don’t you stay with me?” She motioned for the traveler to come around to the front of the house. “I have a spare room you could use.”

The Coanian shook his head. “I have plenty to buy a room at the inn. If this town has one.”

Vanya nodded her head. “We do––it’s just across the Center Street Bridge. But, before you go, please, let me at least cook you dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

The Coanian was silent for a moment. “Sure.”

The pair stepped inside the home, and the Coanian couldn’t help but notice how cozy everything was. The hearth was made up of beautiful slate rock. On the oak mantle rested several river rocks, and even a couple gems, one ruby, the other emerald. Maybe his host was a magician. Hanging above the stones was a spear, the shaft neatly decorated, with green and blue ribbons streaming from the joist between the metal and wood. A piece of true craftsmanship.

The rest of the home was just as the hearth. The floor

B R O O K E

INTO THE DEPTHS

was made from beautiful black slate, the ceiling a pattern of hardwood, small windows all over letting the setting -sunlight in, casting everything in an orange hue. Chairs were strewn about a bookcase in the corner.

The Coanian took off his shoes and weapons—, he would not need them here—, and followed Vanya into the small, yet open, kitchen.

She flitted her head about, looking out the window before, with a wave of her hand, lighting the wood stove.

She turned around and jumped, clutching her hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

“Apologies.” The Coanian flashed a smirk before stepping over to the counter. “How can I be of service?”

“I need some help preparing a dish. It’s a nice fish stew from the Mavi Coast.” Vanya set out an array of ingredients and seasonings on the counter before turning to work on the other counter. “I’ll be over here, baking a nice surprise for you.”

“Why, thank you.” The Coanian gave a nod before sliding the fish over and beginning to filet and trim them, being careful not to waste any meat. He gingerly sliced the onions, tomatoes, and capers, and delicately sprinkled garlic and

couscous spices over the filets.

“Ah ha.” Vanya slammed her hand down on the counter, startling the Coanian. “I knew it.” She pointed her finger squarely at her guest. “There’s something off about you. I never told you how to prepare that stew. Only a native would use the right ingredients without being told. And you sure do know how to handle your produce, for a wanderer.”

The Coanian shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Traveler.” Her tone went sharp, and the Coanian set down his knife, and relented.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Look into my eyes. And there you will find the answer.”

Vanya sighed and crossed her arms. When the Coanian gave no further words, she raised up to be even with his eyes. And she looked into them. Those orange eyes, they weren’t the eyes of a young man. They were the eyes of her grandmother as she told stories of Ages Past, the eyes of the Elders in the temple, the eyes of family she once had.

She stumbled back.

“Did you find the answer you were looking for?” His voice

Her eyes grew distant. “I don’t always like to think of my time as a mage. There are some rough memories.”

“You studied at Granak, didn’t you?”

“That I did, I’ll never forget that place.” Vanya shook her head.

“Those halls, that blue lake, the people. When did you go there?”

The Coanian sighed. “That is not an easy question to answer.”

Vanya pursed her lips. “You’ve been dodging questions all day.

Long story or not, my curiosity is piqued, my dear Traveler.”

“I want to give you answers, I just.” He looked down at the table.

“I don’t know all the answers myself.” He looked back at Vanya.

“All I can say is that I carry memories, memories of lives now past. Whether they are my memories or the memories of others, I, I can’t figure it out.”

“You are quite the strange man, Coanian.” Vanya paused. “You said you carry memories. Then, could I ask you to do something for me?”

The Coanian nodded. “Of course.”

“Just, listen, so I know that a part of my son lives on.”

So he sat, and he listened. Listened as the stew finished, and

BRADLEY BURGIN

B A L D W I N

HEHEHE, SHE’S GONNA GET YA

was like a breeze through the leaves.

“Oh, Traveler.” She shook her head and embraced him. “I’m so sorry.”

The Coanian gave a tired smile. “My people have a saying.”

“The Coanians?”

He nodded and gave a chuckle. “Sunshine all the time makes a desert. The things I have gone through, the memories that I carry. They have made me a better person.” His orange eyes moved towards the spear and the gems above the mantle.

“Who did you lose?”

“My son.” Vanya bowed her head. “Achil has not always known such peace.”

The Coanian gave a solemn nod as the pair continued to prepare the meal in silence.

“You’re a mage.” He turned towards Vanya.

“Yes, I am. Though I gave that life up years ago.”

“You were quite daring to use magic without a talisman.”

The Wanderer’s hand traced over the amber stone on his wrist.

“You must have been quite the fire mage.”

F R A N C I S

as the meal carried forward, listened as the apple pie was taken from the oven.

“Thank you.” Vanya seemed to melt into her chair, tired, weary.

“No, thank you, for everything.” The Coanian rose up and took their dishes to the wash basin, and began to clean up before heading to the front door.

“I’m glad I got to meet you, Coanian.”

“Likewise.” He gave her a smile before placing his fist in an open palm, and bowed to his host. “Thank you, Vanya, and may the sky bring you rain, and the ground yield you abundance.”

The Coanian turned to part ways with his host, when a thunderous roar rose from the ground.

The Coanian’s hand went to his sword, ready to draw.

“Those bandits are back again.”

“Go back inside, please.” The Coanian stepped out into the main road, the dust cloud of the approaching horses lit by the full moons.

The five horses and their riders stopped just short of the Coanian. “And who might you be?” Their leader barked.

“The man who is going to ask you to turn back the way you came. There’s no profit in attacking this town tonight.”

The leaders gave a cackle, the raucous noise reverberating off the earthen mounds that made up the town. “Or what, you’ll kill us?” He waited for an answer. “Tear him to ribbons.”

Two out of the five stepped off their mounts and approached the Coanian, blades drawn.

“I wouldn’t do that,” He warned.

One approached, and in one fell swoop, the Coanian drew his two blades, one curved sword, and one crescent-shaped knife, and one man was already on the ground. He turned his head to the other man, and stepped towards him.

“Hey, Olim. Olim, get up.”

The Coanian figured that ‘Olim’ was the man lying in the street.

He wouldn’t be getting up.

The other man turned and ran, screaming back to his horse, and rode away.

“Oh, damn it,” the leader cursed as he and the other two approached the Wanderer.

“I ask that we take this outside the town.” The Coanian’s eyes bored into the leader.

“Sorry, bud.” He drew his weapon, a set of short swords, and the Coanian couldn’t help but notice the large pieces of turquoise in the guard of each blade. “We finish this now.”

The other two drew their blades, and all encircled the Coanian.

“We don’t have to do this. Please, let’s take this outside of the town.”

R O B B I N S

S K Y L E R

G R A C E

U N T I T L E D ,

BONE SHEARS

E A T !

SAMUEL PATTERSON

Impact #2: Outreach

L A I N A

The leader gave a roar as he charged the Coanian, his partners following in his footsteps. The dirt road crunched under the Coanian’s feet, his blades an arc of moonlight.

Metal sparked, and with a swing of his knife, another man fell. The Traveler saw his blood on the ground before he felt it, his knife arm screaming in pain. Another hit to his back, the gash deep, searing in pain.

Cold, the next strike was so bitter cold, again, across his back, his skin freezing on contact.

He stumbled, and rolled, standing back up at the ready, his two opponents ahead of him.

The Coanian closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Energy flowed. The smell of a thunderstorm filled the air. The Coanian launched forward with a boom of thunder, electricity arcing between the hilt and point of his sickle-like knife.

His opponent was lucky, he was able to dodge, but he wouldn’t be able to dodge what was coming.

With a flick of his sword, lightning arced through the bandit’s body, and into the tree behind him, exploding with the roar of a dragon.

“We can end this now,” the Coanian called, lowering his weapons, but not his guard.

“Yes, I will.” The bandit leader rushed forward, his twin swords coming down in a cross, sending a wave of ice, each tip as sharp as a spear.

This shot had to be perfect. Miss the ice, die by the sword.

Miss the sword, die by the ice.

L U D W I G The Coanian inhaled once. He aimed his sword, directing the lightning, feeling the energy flow through him. He raised the crescent-knife, electricity arcing once more.

Ice shattered in light and the bandit fell with the thunder.

The Coanian sheathed his weapons, and turned to examine the town. The fire was spreading to the other trees and wooden structures around town.

He bowed his head. There was nothing he could do, and he knew all too well that they wouldn’t want his help.

But he would still offer it.

He ran towards the nearest townsfolk, fighting the blaze.

“Please, tell me what I can do to help.”

“Leave,” one man shouted, his hand resting on his dagger.

“And don’t come back.”

The Coanian nodded, and stepped away from the burning wreck. He turned back down the street and saw Vanya, standing there.

He turned away, and left the way he came, remembering the heat of the fire on his face, the sting from his wounds, the ice on his back, and the sound of bodies hitting the dirt.

T

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< UNDERWATER (YOU AND ME)

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PEONY PHONE CEDAHLIA MANUS

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B U R G I N

Wa l d r o n

james yates

The guy who lived here before used the maple floor of an old gym for the deck.

Maple burns nice and quick, but it’s well past worthless as a deck.

I tried to keep it safe and sound from the rain and heat and snow, but the more I tried, the worse it got.

I tore up half of it last summer, where the planks had snapped and fallen through.

In October, I broke apart the second half, finished dismantling the rotten boards in November and burning just before Christmas.

Down here I find a kind of peace.

After the wife and son are asleep, I creep down here, light broken wood, sit, in the dark, Guinness and pipe in hand, music in the background, brief roaring heat in front.

I wonder if this is passion, taking the old, worn wood of yesterday and burning it alone in the dark, snow piling up outside, puffing smoke and tossing back beer alone.

I wonder if this is faith, feeling the heat fire up from the rotted planks of the past to burn hot and smoky, giving warmth and glow in the cold.

I wonder if God has moments like this.

I take a puff, a swallow, and toss on another plank.

ashlyn rancudo

ROSE COLORED EVENINGS, KATELYN KINGCADE

BURNING THE DECK

ENTWINED WITH PERMANENCE

THE OF

BIPOLAR

Your marrow, like arctic sun— godless In metallic light— you chatter inside dishes At dinner, soft clinks tied to echoes of a moths beaten Wings, gasping behind blinds like you, Later somewhere surrendering to dust As it settles on faint breath your head just tearing The surface of life outside the skin of rich flesh.

DEPRESSION SOPH, CASSIE THOMAS

Lungs grip air in thin streams,— a rush Of birds circles inside the fatal trunk of your own body— Murmuring Of wicked horizons the coiled life Found still— rolled tightly and tied With silk.

Dark milk thickens like crux in the eye, Some halo of fire gives birth to your head A choir bends the body with her tidal Force and squeezes— It has always been this way.

Bloodhounds haunt high fires near earth’s shallow edge, Their sirens reach between sunk wake and sleep.

A light in the kitchen says somebody’s home And it’s you. You when no one can hear That damp sour run— The running yourself to death on coasts Of cold smoke.

MAK COFER

UNTITLED, AIDAN STINSON

CERDDORIAETH1 m e g g i e

d u n c a n

It’s almost onomatopoeia, Or it must be phonesthemic2, The Cymric3 word for music: Cerddoriaeth.

The phonaesthetic4 paragon cellar door5 Softened by the care Of rolling brook streams, now Enfold a tourmaline emblem In benediction on your tongue.

Waters branch, trace elements Infuse rainbow into stone, we breathe Pipe organ crystals With warm air and lifted soft palates.

Surely this is a hymn Incarnate in syllables.

1 IPA pronunciation: kɛrˈðɔrjaɨ̯ θ (“Cerddoriaeth”).

2 “A phonestheme is a particular sound or sound sequence that (at least in a general way) suggests a certain meaning” (Nordquist).

3 Welsh 4 Phonaesthetics (from the Greek: φωνή, phōnē, “voicesound”; and αἰσθητική, aisthētikē, “aesthetics”) is the study of inherent pleasantness or beauty (euphony) or unpleasantness (cacophony) of the sound of certain words and sentences (“Phonaesthetics,” Sensagent).

5 “The English compound noun cellar door has been widely cited as an example of a word or phrase that is beautiful purely in terms of its sound (i.e., euphony) without inherent regard for its meaning.” J.R.R. Tolkien referred to the phrase in his 1955 lecture “English and Welsh,” “in which he described his reverence for the Welsh language and about which he said ‘cellar doors [i.e. beautiful words] are extraordinarily frequent’”

SPACE ODDYSSEY G W E N N A

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L E A H

S C O T T

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UNTITLED,

RAIN

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SARAH

FAL

LAINA

CASPARI

LUDWIG

vasive maneuvers

H O U S E

C A R O L I N E

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G R I E F

Mijo, follow me, papá says, his red ball cap a shield blocking the blow of the cold air as we pass between parting doors, the heat rising from our backs.

I shuffle behind him, watching dirt drop from his work boots.

I’m stepping on small clumps, trying to erase our passing, as papá hurriedly grabs produce — dirty, dry-skinned onions; dripping cilantro clumps; waxy red and green peppers; and tomatoes.

A tall white man, a huero, my papá would call him, crosses our path like a truck running a red light.

He hesitates only a moment, grabbing bagged salad, spinning and swinging one foot, his shiny black shoe catching the wheel of our cart.

My papá smiles, dips his head and turns aside, one hand pulling me behind. The huero turns, surprised at our presence, pivoting on one heel he stands fully erect, his back arched, as if he has paused before taking flight.

In tandem, my papá and I step back, retreating between pyramids of melon, the shopping cart mirroring our moves.

We’re giving way, making ourselves small, as the huero inspects the toe of his shoe.

There’s a dirty smudge on the tip, It might be a scratch or just the imprint of grime and floor wax passed on from the wheel.

The huero’s hand forms a fist around the salad bag and he growls, why don’t you go back to where you came from?

I was born here, I say Into the hard palm of my papá.

His hand smells of wood and earth and fear.

A callus catches my lip as his hand withdraws, and cups the back of my head, pulling me onward, ignoring the heat rising from our faces. ¿Qué nos dijo, mijo? What did he say, my son?

He said the salad is expensive, papá.

seth sears

HOLY HORSE, G RACE FRA NCI S

B L I N D T O T H E B E A U T Y I N T H E PA I N , S A M U E L PAT T E R S O N

A BUS STOP IN NORTHERN IRELAND

Outside, Union Jack flags connect each house to the other like they’re hugging.

My mother’s delicate fingers grip the seat of the bus as it slowly stops.

These houses are a different breed from home, with rounded roofs and doorways that hide snails in August. My granny’s house is no exception.

I close my eyes and am in the bedroom again.

I think of the ugly bright pink hydrangea comforter, of sleeping in the same bed my mother slept in as a child, in the same room with the purple walls and the sharp click of the lightbulb’s pull switch.

Time was an outlaw in the room, a fleeting, senseless thing that stuck to the radiator, which was probably why it never worked quite right.

The questions sit in my lap, the bus being stopped for too long now.

I want to ask the ugly things: if she agreed to marry my father because it meant leaving the room in the attic, what would we call my grandfather if he had lived to know us, why my granny has never once said I love you.

I want to ask if she ever grew used to the soldiers, the fear. I want to ask about the barely-mentioned gun barrels pointed at the back of her head when she walked into school.

I do not feel the need to look behind me, selfish in my safety.

The dark carpet was sacred ground, and to sleep was to waste the chance to explore its secret corners. My mother’s books hid in a cupboard with a creaking door.

The stories of little girls, boxcar children, and puppies were tedious, But I liked to imagine that my mother mouthed the same words, her hands the last to cradle these spines.

We do not talk about the 3500 people who were left behind on these streets during these Troubled years, or what Uncle Allen did back then.

I do not ask if this corner is one she ever walked by, if she knew people who used to live here.

I wanted to eat the strange titles and fonts.

I do not ask if she noticed that this place feels strange, like everyone is collectively holding their breath.

It was not enough. My grandfather’s possessions rest in an unsteady pile across the room, a formidable dark shape in the night. They were a secret I did not know how to unravel. Not allowed. Untouchable.

It was inevitable that I would break that unspoken rule.

I was old enough to know better, and young enough to taste blood in excitement.

I could feel that dark leather briefcase in my hands before I ever touched it, my desire was so thick.

I thought all that want was falling out of my mouth, but it was just the cold in that quiet purple room.

How disappointed I was to find nothing extraordinary but the sharp, careful handwriting of a man who died before I could ask him to please change these suffocating colors.

I blink and am back on the bus. I turn to look at my mother, who is looking out at the neighborhood.

She once said she would look out her window at night to see where smoke from bombings was rising, to choose the best bus route to take in the morning.

Did she get up early today? Did she double-check the window before we went out?

What I ask is if she knew this neighborhood, and she says, I didn’t go here, I didn’t want to get shot.

I can feel the words bubbling in my mouth: Let’s go now, mom, let’s get off this bus, I’ll get off with you.

How can we remember what happened if we can’t leave?

I want to tuck my mother into bed.

I want to tuck in every child that didn’t come home, all 186 of them, to tuck their fear into bed and then suffocate it.

Kill it with comfort.

Love can only do so much.

And mom, I am not strong enough to heave the lines under your eyes to bed, to make them rest, for you to close your eyes and feel safe.

I remember how carefully you heaved that ugly comforter over my shoulders last night, but I cannot open my mouth.

I can still feel my grandfather’s leather case in my palms.

Verity Callahan

Sé mo laoch, mo Ghile Mear, Sé mo Chaesar, Ghile Mear, Suan ná séan ni bhfuaires fein O’ chuaigh i’ gcéin mo Ghile Mear.

Talbot Street: Barricades and torn metal, Smoky faces and ravaged eyes, Stern fingers vise-like on rifle grips; Grainy mist like foggy dew On crumbled, burning buildings.

Talbot Street: Brick wall against backs of men, Blindfolded and hands tied, Facing rows of rifle-barrels; Grainy mist like foggy dew Above crumpled, lifeless bodies.

He is my hero, my Gallant Darling, He is my Caesar, a Gallant Darling, I’ve found neither rest nor fortune Since my Gallant Darling went far away.

POSEIDEN, BROOKE BALDWIN

J A M E S YAT E S

THE FATHER’S LOVE, KATELYN KINGCADE

Y O U R G O O D N E S S , TA R A WA R D E N

DUBLIN, 1916

cloud

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treaking across the lawn, feet soaked in the earth, I breathe in the cozy smell of home. Muggy summer air blows across my face, wispy blonde curls tickling my neck as they sway against my sunned cheeks. I reach the swing; then I am soaring through the air, my legs propelling me. My brother scrambles onto the swing next to me.

Daylight is fading, the yellowy sky sinking into a creamy dark orange. The dew sticks to my clothes as the moon approaches. The grass, dripping with sweet nectar from the air, feels soft on my skin as I glide out of the swing and plop onto my hands and knees. As before, Ty’s shadow is not far behind me.

“I know who I want to marry when I grow up!” Ty hollers.

“Who?” I reply.

“You. I wanna be best friends forever.” As the words fall from his mouth, my nose scrunches, and a giggle escapes me.

“That’s weird, Ty! You can’t marry your sister.”

“I don’t care. You’re my best friend.”

I answer him, “Well, when we grow up, you can come visit me at my house any time you want.” His untamed yellow curls wrap around his sticky brown eyes. A smile of delight coats his face.

I fall back on the grass, Ty nestled beside me. We grasp for the glowing flies humming through the milky black. I feel the grass and dirt sifting through the rocks and weeds until I find his grimy hand. His sweaty warm pulse climbs into my memory, snug.

H O U S E C A R O L I N E

morgen

H O M E S I C K ,

GOODNIGHT, SWEETNESS

T W I NS W I TH B A L LO O NS

B L O U N T

< THE STORY OF MOONLIT HOURS M E G A N

W H I T M O R E

TYLER

V I C T O R I A

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SKYLER ROBBINS

FINE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

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School Dismissal in Elementary

MAK COFER

R Y A N ,

B R O O K E

B A L D W I N

RYAN

SEMBLANCE, SAVANNAH GREEN

With my hands splintered, half-baked below Vaseline, I steal tangerine smiles from the others.

Shimmering mothers pluck their warm heads, sheltering Them inside silver baked mini-vans like iridescent pearls.

Here, it’s burnt peach air–- and in my hands I have ruby Skin. no gloves, a rotten runny nose. terrible khakis That run past the ankles— no winter coat or lunch box But electric goosebumps. sweating fists of Halloween’s candy Flattened and glued inside— like brass and gleaming beetles below rocks. The kids are gone, I think I hear them ask— Who is there to take you home?

GRIEF II caroline house

RESEMBLANCES james yates

They tell me, “He looks just like you; You can’t deny the resemblance.

He’s his father’s Son, alright.”

My eyes My chin My face.

I tell them, “He’ll grow out of it.”

Now, bathed in the pale moonlight sitting here, naked, holding him for his 3 a.m. bottle He looks up, reaches out, touches my cheek.

My throat tightens.

I fear the resemblance.

Not the physical one; the one deeper where the rivers of the heart run dark and silent.

I hope for a good reflection: That’s what I see when he smiles, when his face beams with light, kicking away the darkness.

I want him to feel safe and warm, accepted and loved.

That’s where our resemblance ends.

His birth, my birth his childhood, my childhood.

Two paths split in the dark.

He almost died at the beginning.

I died a little later.

At his age, I knew fire: hot, blazing, destroying.

So they tell me.

I brushed Death twice more within six months.

She stepped up onto the highway and met a truck head-on.

Then, so they tell me, Mother went out for groceries and didn’t come back for eight years.

They tell me it was Abandonment.

But it felt like Death, only softer.

I don’t want him to know this feeling: left alone for hours, cold, wet, hungry, dirty, crying in the dark with nobody home.

I don’t ever want him to feel a father’s fist punching his lips and the taste of copper.

When he’s older I’ll tell him what it was like to watch from a doorway

across the street, accidently, as she climbs aboard a bus secretly.

He’ll never sit screaming between natural father and the legal one, whiskey hanging in the air, between shaking fists and angry voices.

I hope he’ll never remember: six years old, sitting for hours alone and cold in the car outside a bar, waiting, or the long meandering road back up the holler to the still and the moonshiner’s weak-old sweat, tobacco juice stream, and greasy overalls.

I hope he never spends Christmas dinner alone in public because the old man put away a gallon of peach brandy before his very eyes.

I know his birth papers will be easy and clear and his family branches untangled legally.

He will look like me on the outside and he may carry my good parts; but there the resemblance will end.

His light will come from my shadow.

And here, we are joined in the pale moonlight.

I know he will be rooted and solid and true.

1998

TARTARUS, L AIN A L U D W IG

b r e w e r

S ER ENI T Y AT S H AMRO CK , SK YLER RO BBINS

B R O W N F A I T H J E W E L ,

SERENE GLEAM, K ATELYN KINGCADE

s h e l b y

>

For Those Who Mean the Most A Journey of Appreciation When People or Things Are Taken f or Gr ante d

s c o t t l e a h e n d , j o u r n e y ’ s

THE BURDEN ELISA OF TIME CHAN I once heard of a princess who lived in a clock tower. Not at the top, like you might expect, but in the very bottom, for it was her job to turn the crank that powered the clock.

Every time the clock struck nine—after the nine chimes sang—the princess would hear the sweet, soft humming of her favorite song through a tiny, crumbly crack in the stone base of the tower.

One day, when the humming began, a thought occurred to her.

“I wonder if this tiny, crumbly crack in the wall is big enough that I could look through it to see who hums outside my tower?”

Kindled by curiosity, the princess wiggled about in her seat, trying to get her eye to the hole. She leaned in towards the wall but couldn’t bend low enough. So, she tried leaning away from the wall, as far back as she could go without toppling out of her seat, but still the crack was too low. It was no use! She just couldn’t see through the hole from her place in the little seat. The humming began to fade.

Without further thought, the princess sprang out of her seat, released the crank, and knelt beside the tiny, crumbly crack. Her dress puddled around her legs. Her fingertips pressed against the cold stone.

Suddenly, instead of the humming—which had stopped—she heard a sort of grumbling. The wall trembled against her touch. Fissures spread out from the crack. Then, the stones tumbled away, and the princess crouched before a crumbly, person-sized gap.

She slowly pulled herself to her full height and stepped out into the morning. The still, silent morning.

The princess looked around her. Several feet to her right, there stood a young man. No tune, no sound, left his pursed lips. He stood impossibly still. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, just stared ahead with a halfsmile on his face.

“Perhaps it’s some kind of odd statue?” the princess mused.

With a shrug, she turned and went on her way. The world awaited.

When the princess reached the town square, however, her smile sank.

As she’d hoped, people choked the square at this hour of the morning. There was a woman buying fish from a grumpy vender, kids eyeing candies behind their mom’s back, and a long-bearded man heckling over the price of a bag of walnuts the size of his hand.

The princess may as well have walked into the middle of a ghost town.

No one blinked.

No one breathed.

And no matter how many streets she turned down or how many buildings she peeped into, no one moved. It was as if she alone was awake in a terrible dream, and something inside her crumpled.

Convinced that all she had in this world was the shelter of the clock tower, the princess slowly dragged herself home, shoulders slumped, eyes watching her bare feet take each agonizing step back.

Soon, she climbed back through the gap in the tower wall, sat in her little seat, reached out with her empty hands, and resumed turning the crank.

A voice carved into her misery. “Princess? Is that really you?”

The princess looked up. There, in the crumbly, cracked doorway, stood the young man, looking more alive than she’d thought anyone could ever be. “Who are you?” she asked.

He bowed low. “I’m a knight of this kingdom. I was charged with finding and freeing the king’s daughter after she went missing, years ago, but I found out I couldn’t free her from her burden. And now you’ve done it yourself!”

“I’m sorry,” the princess said, “but I haven’t. If I ever stop turning this crank and get out of my seat, the whole world stops turning, and I have no place in it. I can’t stop, or nothing will ever work again!”

The knight rubbed his chin. “Maybe not. I’ll be back—the next time the clock strikes nine. Promise.”

With that, the knight marched off down the path.

“Could there still be hope?” the princess wondered. Her spirits were too crushed to believe it. “This is my life,” she conceded. Crank, crank, crank. But when the nine chimes sang, the knight returned—but this time he wasn’t alone. The bearded man from the market followed him.

“He’s here to turn the crank,” the knight explained to her. “All you’ve got to do is let go.”

The princess looked between the two men. Slowly, she stood up from her seat. The bearded man grabbed the crank with one hand, then two. Then, one finger at a time, the princess let go.

And so it happened that every few hours the job of turning the clock passed to a different member of the town. Of course, the princess still took her turn, too. Every Tuesday and Thursday from nine to noon.

And sometimes, when the princess sat in the base of the clock tower turning the crank, the knight would come and sit in the opening in the wall beside her and hum her favorite song while she worked.

And when the clock rang twelve, she rested.

Galeana Boomer

Aidan Stinson is an artist of many disciplines: graphic design, illustration, poetry, creative writing, filmmaking, and perhaps more. He is studying graphic design and illustration in order to be able to work in the marketing world and to produce graphic novels. Aidan comes from Texas and desires to travel and live all over the world. Aidan likes watching films, too.

Galeana Boomer is a photographer from Wisconsin currently attending John Brown University. She was given her first camera at the age of 13 and has been taking photos ever since. She loves the way photography can be used to evoke emotion in others and how it has been used to provide awareness to otherwise forgotten individuals.

ubmitter

Aidan Stinson

Ari Yam Ari Yam is from Mexico and is a sophomore majoring in computer science with a minor in art & illustration. Ari really enjoys expressing herself by drawing either digitally or traditionally, but she has mainly focused on doing digital art with rather unsettling creatures.

Ashlyn Rancudo Ashlyn Rancudo is a photographer with heart for capturing the uniqueness of God’s creation in people, places, and moments. Her hope in creating images is that there would be an intimacy between the viewer and subject. Ashlyn desires most of all to serve Christ with what she creates.

Bradley Burgin

Grace Francis Grace Francis is a senior at JBU with a degree in graphic design and a minor in illustration.

She loves making gothic art that is dark and beautiful.

Gwena Dye If Gwena Dye had to choose one word to describe herself, she would choose eclectic. She grew up overseas so she has a deep love for diversity. Her personal style, if she could say that she had one, is very mixed and orderly unorganized which she could also say for the rest of her life. She has ADHD so she is either all in or all out in every aspect of her life and her art is no exception. She believes that God presents a special responsibility for each of His children, and right now her responsibility is to make art.

James Yates

Bradley Burgin is sharing his artistic side. Years ago, he studied art and began a career in graphic design which sidelined much of any fine art that he loved doing. Art today is appreciated from afar, but he is slowly getting back into being a more creative participant. For him philosophically, art is not just for the young idealists out in the world. Art is for all people of all backgrounds and ages. He hopes people will see the emerging talent he might have and help him share and develop his skills for all to see.

James Yates, PhD is a professor of English and Director of the Associate of Arts at South Arkansas Community College. He is a 1979 graduate of Booneville High School, and holds a BA in Communication from Ouachita Baptist University (1983), an MA in English from Arkansas State University (1985), and a PhD in English from Oklahoma State University (1995). He has been teaching on the college level since 1985 in colleges and universities in Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Kansas. He has also been a Vice President of Academic Affairs and Dean of Arts and Sciences at Southark.

Brooke Baldwin

Jessica Thompson

Brooke Baldwin lives in Northwest Arkansas and is from Fort Worth, Texas. When she wants to go out, she often finds herself at the most aesthetic coffee shop she can find.

She loves to travel, and has traveled for her work as a photographer since she was 17 years old. Currently, she’s exploring abstract portraiture, pursing events and concert photography, and fashion/editorials!

Jessica Thompson typically does art and illustration, but occasionally dabbles in written art forms. She loves to create and is thankful for the ability to share the gifts God has given her with others to help them see how His hand works in all things.

Caroline House

Katelyn Kingcade, is a freelance photographer currently located in NWA. She practices most passionately in the darkroom photography medium in addition to advocating for the process and diligence that the environment holds. Her images explore concepts of time and the cultivation of our experiences, relationships, and struggles.

Caroline House is a junior biology major.

Cedahlia Manus Cedahlia has been making art from a very young age and hasn’t stopped since. Her family has always been supportive of her endeavors in creating art and are creatives themselves. She is currently pursuing a degree in graphic design. Cedahlia has a deep appreciation for all things spooky and fantastical. Whether it’s reading up on cryptids or making mini fairy houses in her backyard, she’s into it. Cedahlia’s hobbies are reading, watching 80s movies, painting, thrifting, and taking care of the neighborhood cats. She loves expressing herself through her outer appearance and enjoys when others do the same.

Faith Brown Faith loves working with animals of all types and loves that she gets to take pictures to remember those that she has worked with and learned so much about.

Katelyn Kingcade

Kyle Blair Kyle Blair is an illustrator, printmaker, and designer known for his bright colors, wild characters, and cheeky humor. Apart from his fine art and freelance illustration work, Kyle also works as a creative director in Northwest Arkansas, where he lives with his wife, son, and his pup named Goose.

Laina Ludwig Laina Ludwig is pursuing a career in filmmaking. She loves highlighting the stories of people who may not usually find themselves in mainstream media, and the emotional connection to the audience that comes with exploring new concepts and perspectives. She wants to capture emotion on a deeper level, wanting to bring the audience closer to someone they may not generally connect with. Her goal with nearly every project is to bring justice or awareness to a broken world through visual storytelling.

Leah Scott

Seth Sears

Leah Scott is a senior elementary education major and Spanish minor from Little Rock, Arkansas. She loves traveling, going on adventures, and creating.

Seth Sears is currently serving as the Walton International Scholarship director at JBU. Until June of 2022, he lived in Costa Rica where his wife and he started a Christian community development outreach in a marginalized community called La Carpio. He thinks if we are curious we will see beauty all around us.

Lizzie Good Lizzie Good would rather die than craft a bio (she’s a freshman English Major, with a creative writing emphasis and a journalism minor).

Mak Cofer Mak Cofer graduated from JBU with a B.S. in digital cinema. She currently lives in NYC and is pursuing a career in film. She loves all things art, poetry, and film!

Matthew Campbell

Shelby Brewer Shelby Brewer is studying art & illustration and photography at JBU. As she learns more about art and creativity, she desires to reflect the image of the ultimate Creator--God--and use art to become closer to Him and help others do the same. To her, art is a way to show beauty in the hardships, the mundane, and the darkness. Redemption plays a huge role in what and how she creates.

Skyler Robbins

Matthew Campbell is a 21 year old graphic designer, photographer, musician, and writer from Bella Vista, Arkansas. He is studying graphic design at John Brown University and will graduate in 2023.

Skyler Robbins is a photography major who loves many things, like traveling, taking pictures, eating food, and drinking coffee. She also really loves sleep, but she doesn’t get much because she likes hanging out and talking with people more. Her absolute favorite time of year is summer, and she loves going to the beach.. any beach... even Galveston, TX.

Megan Whitmore

Sofia Ettema

Megan Whitmore is a junior nursing student. She has always loved writing and reading. Art has always been a great outlet for her, but she has always been nervous about sharing her stuff with people. She is trying to better at that so here we are.

Sofia Ettema loves illustration and storytelling and has always felt drawn to artistic mediums from a young age. She grew up in Northern Virginia in the D.C. suburbs and has worked there in a local studio/gallery, had artwork accepted into several art shows, and have illustrated a published children’s book for a local author. She hopes to use her abilities for publishing or video game development as a career and to also publish her own stories and illustrations.

Nick Cox Nick Cox is a double major in graphic design and art & illustration and originates from Bentonville, Arkansas. He works in a variety of mediums from graphite, to wood working, to rug tufting and practically anything in between. His biggest overall goal with his art is to foster a connection of some sort. That may be between himself and the view, the viewer and an emotion, or just between himself and a thought. If he can accomplish that, he count his work as a success.

Tara Warden

Sam Patterson

Verity Callahan

Sam Patterson is a fine artist, exploring what it is to be human. He enjoys using the human figure to convey life as an image bearer of Christ.

Verity Callahan was born and raised in Conway, Arkansas, to two academics with far too many books. A child raised on Robert Heinlein and C.S. Lewis, she grew to love stories and aspired to one day develop a voice of her own. Currently in her senior year of a degree in English-literary studies at Hendrix College, she continues to pursue her passion of the arts through writing poetry, printmaking, and reading whenever, and wherever, she can.

Sarah Caspari Sarah Caspari was born and raised in Illinois. Currently, she is a junior at John Brown University and is double majoring in graphic design and photography. She likes to try to capture moments in a way that can inspire others to look at something from a different point of view.

She enjoys the outdoors, reading, and going to concerts with her friends.

Savannah Green Being homeschooled in a suburb of Dallas, TX, Savannah Green was given a lot of opportunities to try different things growing up, and photography was what always stuck with her.

She always aspires to bring out the beauty that God has created in this world through all of my photographic work. She has been growing and developing her personal style into something, dare I say, cinematic by playing with lighting, different angles, and composition.

Tara Warden is a fine artist, and she loves working with color and subject matter that is close to her. She is inspired by the objects and people around her most often, although sometimes she likes to branch out into other subject matter. She paints largely with oil paints, and you can find her through her website, taracuda.art.

Victoria Blount Victoria Blount is from Nixa, Missouri. She finds inspiration in creating images that really bring out her personality. Driven by emotion, she wants to be able to speak through her photos. To express exactly what she is trying to say is her ultimate goal.

Shards of Light seeks to celebrate exemplary original creative work from the Arkansas undergraduate community and John Brown University alumni in a legitimate literature and art journal to foster a creative community throughout JBU and Arkansas.