Shards of Light - Vol. 2

volume 2

JOHN BROWN UNIVERSITY’S L I T E R AT U R E

volume 2

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A RT J O U R N A L

Table of Contents Literature

“Light Weight” Meriel Francis ‘18

pg 2

“It Was a Long Winter” Dr. Steve Beers

pg 28

“Rain Dancer” Jess Mains

pg 4

“Daniel the Watcher” Evyn McGraw

pg 30

“Maelstrom” Faith Smith

pg 9

“Prospero in the Cordgrass” Jack Tyler ‘18

pg 48

“August 19, 2014 ‫ ثلاثة وعشرون‬:٣٢” Jess Mains

pg 13

“Old Home in the Scrublands” Samuel Cross-Meredith ‘18

pg 51

“Dance of Death” Prof. Iván Iglesias

pg 15

“Morning in the City” Abigail Chorley ‘17

pg 52

“Nightfall” Abigail Chorley ‘17

pg 18

“Come” E. Njema DeJong

pg 53

“Penuel” Noah Hackendorf

pg 20

“bruises*” Katie Gage

pg 62

“Close” TaraJane House

pg 23

“UNITY IN DEATH” Rachel Barber ‘18

pg 64

“Osteogenesis” Joshua Galloway

pg 26

“In response to threats of par tial bir th abor tion” Dr. Jessica Hooten-Wilson

pg 65

a | S H A R D S of L I G H T volume two | b ii iii

Table of Contents Art “Kayak Queen” Jeannine Pringle “Flooded Atmosphere” Grace Horton “Bountiful Har vest” Rachel Barber ‘18 “Classicism” Caroline White

pg 2-3

pg 6

pg 10-11

pg 12

“Roadside Wonder” Rachel Barber ‘18

pg 28-29

“Serenity” Katie Mercer

pg 32-33

“LOL” CeCe Lindsey

pg 36-37

“Together” Catherine Horton

pg 42-43

“Theobald” Grace Horton

pg 46-47

“Daydreaming” Kezziah Clark

pg 16-17

“Mama & Me at Onapa” Bobby Martin

“A Cubist Dream” Colbie Coleman

pg 18-19

“Love Birds” Amber Yager

pg 50-51

pg 49

“Cooler Than Space” Jet Honderich

pg 21

“Legion in the Rain” Rachel Barber ‘18

pg 56-57

“LADS” Grace Horton

pg 22

“Just Another Br idge” Rachel Barber ‘18

pg 60-61

“The Little Guys” Grace Horton “Osteogenesis” Joshua Galloway

pg 24-25

pg 26

“Tiger Eyes” Amber Yager “Please” Kezziah Clark

pg 63

pg 66-67

a | S H A R D S of L I G H T volume two | b iv v

Editorial Staff Ma n a g i ng E dito r | Claire Johnson L iter a ture E dito r | Caleb Place Gr a p h ic s E dito r | Mikayla Pruett

The world of creative content can be an exceedingly dark place that promotes the estrangement of faith from

Asso c iate E dito rs Callie Huston Eden Pierce Caroline White

creativity, but, as Christians we should strive to bring light and hope to our readers and viewers. Our work has the potential to renew our culture and be part of a greater dialogue, ultimately fulfilling our God-given mandate to further the Kingdom of God. With the hope of the Gospel and the

Assistant E dito rs Gissel Alvarado

Evyn McGraw

Kialey Cochrane

Callie Owensby

McKinley Dirks

Spencer Patterson

Meriel Francis

Bailey Scott

Hannah Holland

Faith Smith

Jess Mains

vi a | S H A R D S of L I G H T

grace of God, we seek to bring redemption in our words, in our art, and in our lives.

We are Shards of Light.

Abbey Underwood

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Light Weight Me r ie l Franci s ‘18

I am a replica of the sun.

I sink into the sea and these light/weight waves pummel into my face and the heaviness wears on my skin. the light is not lightweight but a force correcting and altering this frame. the gleams beat beat beat on my bones and I only weep as I sink.

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v o l uPringle m e t w o || 3 “Kayak Queen” Jeanine

Rain Dancer Jess M ains

stringy and soaked and flattened against our foreheads? Who cared that we were all drenched and would remain that way until we finally decided to take refuge in the dry towels Momma put just inside the front door for us? We had more pressing matters in mind.

I pushed my way inside and shivered on the rug as Momma made her way in behind me.

“Do you want some paper?” She had already started toward the printer as she asked.

I nodded and danced in place, trying to minimize the puddle forming under me. I dried my hands on a towel by my feet and went to work, emerging from the house moments later with three paper boats. We chose our vessels and lined up behind the car. Two racers, one referee. My sister ran down the street to be the

The problem with the shampoo was that it always got in my eyes. I was seven years old, the perfect age for purple horses on white T-shirts, for bare feet and giggles and pink hairbands that never stayed in place. At the first sight of rain, my brother, sister, and I would tumble down the stairs and ask to go shower outside. Permission granted, we’d run into the yard, sometimes in our swimsuits but more often fully clothed, clutching a bottle of shampoo to wash our hair with the rainwater.

It was late March, the warm air soaked with the almost-musty scent of rain.

Our mouths hung open as we gaped at the sky, trying to swallow just a few drops of the water as it fell. The Texas version of catching snowflakes, maybe. We dashed to the curb, focusing our attention on the bubbling rapids built up near the tires of our old silver van. Prime splashing territory.

Momma ducked back inside to get the shampoo and we lathered up our hair, the bubbles running down our shirts and soaked skin. Showering in the rain was a special thing, like having sleepovers in each other’s rooms or agreeing on a movie.

“Let me get a picture,” Momma’s voice hollered from the shelter of the porch.

We looked back at her like she was crazy, but my little brother threw his fiveyear-old self against our sister and wrapped his arms around her, squishing his face against her soaked shirt. I followed behind him, grinning. Just one picture.

Who cared that my smile was a tooth or two short? Who cared that our hair was

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finish line.

“On your marks… Get set… Go!” We raced down the street alongside our vessels, splashing up water, shoving each other as we vied for first. My boat had been on the inside. It kept the leading edge, pushed by the stronger current. Almost… Almost… A well-timed splash from behind knocked it off course and out of the water stream. Sabotage. My brother gloated over his victory as I rescued my boat from where it had gone astray, mere inches from the finish.

“No fair!”

“Is too!”

“I call a redo!”

The three of us squabbled, reset, and re-raced until our boats were lost down the storm drain where we hoped they might entertain the sewer alligators we saw on TV. The problem with the shampoo, though, was that it always got in my eyes. It stung in a way that wasn’t unlike the way the sharp needles of water pricked my skin. Dilution didn’t help the slimy taste of stray soap bubbles. The wind was always cold and left me shivering after we finally went inside, usually because someone saw lightning. We’d sit inside then and dry off and I’d imagine that God

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was taking pictures of me, or even better, that dragons were fighting outside.

My brother rushed into my room one day, excited by the distant sound of thunder. He jumped onto my bed beside me.

“Do you want to go play outside?”

I hesitated, glancing past my red curtains at the downpour. “Not today.”

“Come on,” he urged, bouncing. “There’s not lightning yet, Momma said we can have thirty minutes.”

“I’m reading.” I gestured to the book splayed out beside me, where it had been laying for the past hour. “Go ask Ashleigh.”

“She’s busy too.”

“You could always go out by yourself.”

He climbed down from my bed, pouting. “It’s no fun on my own.”

He left the room and I went back to staring out the window, half-hoping for a tornado or at least a power outage. Danger meant adventure. Adventure meant excitement. I looked at my book, a muted green and black cover against the red and black background of my blankets. I imagined myself lost in its pages, fighting alongside the heroine, set on rescuing her little brother from his kidnapper. I could hear the Xbox starting up in the room next to mine, bellowing its intro so loudly it seemed to shake the walls as much as the thunder did.

“At least I’m dry,” I told Manasseh, my stuffed leopard. “And I have you, right?”

He tilted his head at me, then nodded. I held him to my chest as I picked up my book and leapt back into its pages.

Almost a decade later, I sat in a dark college classroom, dividing my attention between the list of things I had to do and the professor’s slideshow on typography.

“Alright, so I want you to have that ready for critique next week,” he concluded.

“Enjoy the rest of your night.”

I threw my backpack over my shoulder and slipped out the door, checking my watch. 8:48 PM. We’re out early again. I walked down the hallway, trying to figure out just how much homework I could afford to put off until the next morning. As I stepped outside, the cool air and gentle gurgle of the school fountain

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| “Flooded S H A R D SAtmosphere” of L I G H T Grace Horton

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interrupted my thoughts. I paused for a moment, savoring the almost earthy scent of an impending storm. The sky shattered into an array of vibrant purple and white energy, illuminating the fountain and the buildings in brilliant light. I smiled.

The rain hadn’t started to fall just yet. Lightning leapt again and again between the clouds above the dorms, followed occasionally by thunder so faint it was almost imaginary. The wind sounded like ocean waves pulsing through the half-

Maelstrom Faith Smith

leaved tree limbs. I ignored the cold, shielded partially by my sweatshirt, as I wandered across the quad and sat down just beyond the reach of the lamppost beams.

I stared at the sky in mixed wonder and longing, imagining that the lightning dancing in the clouds might be dragons fighting above me. For a moment, I was splashing around in the streets again, running through the grass, tripping, trying to avoid slipping into the tree in our front yard. I was lying in the mud, trying and failing to convince my brother to make angels with me. He and my sister and I were dancing in the rain, soaking wet and laughing out loud. The shampoo slipped through my hair and coursed down the street, left to trickle into the storm drain as company for the boats we’d lost. It didn’t matter that there was soap in my mouth or that the rain was cold or that the drops stung against my skin. We were pressed up against each other, all soaked and giggling and grinning into the camera’s lens.

I sat there for a while even after the chilly rain started to fall. When I finally stood up, it was a slow ascent, and I stood there in reverie as the thunder grew louder, nudging its way into my thoughts. I gathered up my backpack and walked back to my room. Maybe I’ll have some tea and read a little when I get there. I looked up to the sky again as its trickle became a steady pour. Lightning flashed again, brightening the path around me. I smiled, leaving my sweatshirt hood down. I needed a shower anyway.

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•

The wind had stilled and all was calm the eve of August nine Hopes were high and faith was firm, resolved to stand with pride Then one by one the trees drew breath and winds began to whine And all at once the woods collapsed, immersed amidst the tide Two currents sought to take their turns but each one cut in line The water crashed against itself then rushed to meet the sky In every lung there filled with sea, for breath the world did pine But air was nowhere to be found in fate now gone awry The whirl spun fast and warmed the waves and sailors clung to time When fog fell in and fought to win with volatile reply Then how concurrent waves of heat did counteract the rime To no avail, the fight was failed, and confidence had died

The pool bewitched the birds and they flew circling in to see

And hear the depths of darkest blue sing songs just out of key

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v o l u Barber m e t w o || 11 “Bountiful Harvest” Rachel

August 19, 2014 ‫ ثلاثة وعشرون‬:٣٢

Je s s M ai n s

I do not think of his name.

He is thalatha wa-’ishrun, under my command, unwanted by his country. I point.

He kneels at my side like a mongrel hound.

I do not think of his family.

He is not a son, like my son who loved the swingset, always the blue swing, and ran to me, grinning, smeared in dirt.

I do not think of his religion, although we both now serve Allah and he renamed himself Abu Hamza. We performed Salat at the same time, And bowed to the same qibla.

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| “Classicism” S H A R D S of Caroline L I G H T White

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I do not think of his chess set: scribbles on paper scraps pushed across the concrete floor. Or how he danced and gestured around the cell with others to re-enact scenes from memorized movies, some I’d seen.

Dance of Death D r. Iván Ig l e s i as

I do not think of his humanity, that he offered his blanket to another while they shivered in the winter dark or that he shared his meager teacup of food and begged with others for a flashlight.

I do not think of his choking as water flooded into his lungs or how he strained against his straps or the relief on his face when his cellmates returned only injured, covered in blood.

I do not think of his job, that he has photographed my land and lived among my people.

The camera rolls. He recites his lines.

I remove his head, and his blood pours out onto the burning sand.

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I have seen your evil figure by my side otra vez dancing around in circles and wearing your creepy dress your hunger craves for new souls with the chiming of the bells and I feel your chilly presence filling up the empty space.

I have seen your hollow mask and the silly look in your face every time you raise your arms in search of a new prey I cannot stand the irritating rattle of your bony legs as your large head wobbles to remain in place.

I have seen you, amiga, waving that rusty fork menacingly and I have felt very close the coldness of your moldy breath the frontal shield of your naked teeth has started to decay and I can only think of just one more thing to say: Regresa más tarde…

Come back después!!!

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“Daydreaming” Kezziah v o l u mClark e t w o || 17

Nightfall A b ig a il C h or ley

I was the first to run for the bleach bucket after blood flung from his fluttering body. He stippled the concrete red, Campagnola flopping on the floor.

Clean up the mess before anyone can see.

Snap on gloves.

Sanitize.

I expected scale but found fur. Strange how soft.

Matte black wings look brown up close. Eyes gripping me gripping him. Lungs pumping hard. He calmed down for a moment, like my hands were a place he recognized. Then I folded him into shiny black plastic.

Plastic between rock and air, between rock and rock.

After some flights, there is no other way forward but an unclean Kaddish. That was what I decided when he hit the ground.

18 || S“AHCubist Coleman A R D S Dream� of L I G HColbie T

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Penuel No a h Hac k e ndo r f

I saw the face of God last night.

His eyes were flat screen TVs. His ears were satellite dishes.

His mouth was an antenna, Twisted into the shape of a mouth.

His beard was copper wire, So was his hair.

His voice could be heard through the radio, Crystal clear, No static at all.

I saw the Son of God last night, Incarnate in light on my TV. Bright blue suit and blood red tie.

He offered me salvation, Toll free.

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o l u m e t w o || 21 “Cooler Than Space� Jet vHonderich

Close

Ta ra J a n e H o u s e

Sitting by a stranger squished Shoulders against the window, So tired I want to rest my head Inappropriately on his arm Instead of this cold glass.

Gates of Paradise and every piece, I must keep a distance from: “Do not touch the art” But I ache to feel its ebb and flow, The shifting breath of this Statue’s dress and oil paintings.

Instead I sit barred From the communion bread By painted doors and mocking icons And longing, haunted by the distance.

It’s been five years, and I still resent The 323 miles between us.

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| “LADS” S H A R D Grace S of L I Horton GHT

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v o l uHorton m e t w o || 25 “The Little Guy” Grace

And without witness, the conductors begin synthesis; Clean hands, willful precision of instruments guiding immortal engines of industry Instantly,

a cortical melody, laced into

formless guise, her paracrine voice, undenied; a meticulous exercise of grace unmet by the dystrophy of life.

Osteogenesis Jo shua Gallo way

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With every precipitate verse now

Every muscle takes its place.

rehearsed,

Each designation according to task,

she leads her procession, her finest

work:

last.

molds of structure, human courage,

Never again uttered unbroken.

cured

When your eyes and throat first open

to be interred in flesh, her

past that fateful moment, at

and the work is finished,

perfect vision attained.

you will, for an instant, be blameless -

The rhapsody ends, she surrenders

This divinity, limited to your unliving,

the stage;

lost with your exodus:

Organs and veins, woven over, given

The Beginning and Ending, and

names

again, a Christening your design will resent.

The intent of your creation, given over to blame,

a new kind of apoptosis,

the first breath of Shame.

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it was a long winter D r. St e ve B ee rs

We lost the magnolia tree.

One up at the house.

Cold took it.

Winter wouldn’t let up.

Froze in my joints.

Calendar says April’s here.

Yet, aches aint goin away.

Maybe, never will.

Forsythias are budding.

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Hope the crepe myrtle made it.

“Roadside Wonder” Rachel v o l u Barber m e t w o || 29

Daniel the Watcher

Ev y n McGr a w

like an old projector that whirs and cranks in the background with so much noise you wonder if the rickety thing will make it to the end of the movie. Every now and then, little dots of light and shadow will blotch the edges of the screen, enough to be annoying but not enough to make you shut off the movie. Because you very badly want to see the end of the movie, so you’re willing to suffer the breathless potentiality of the projector breaking at any moment.

Sometimes my vision flickers, and I’m terrified of the day it flickers out.

Daniel the Watcher tells me not to worry, but Daniel is a hypocrite. He isn’t very good at existing in the world.

But neither am I, really. I exist on the same strip of street every day, wandering back and forth on paper-strewn sidewalks by dim storefronts whose names I can’t read. My world is small—a series of blocky buildings the color of stained cinderblocks.

I am headed for a restaurant that lies hidden in a squat concrete building like

1

a bunker. The front is festooned with paper lanterns. It’s called Panda-monium, a

When Daniel the Watcher texts me one morning with the bold claim that he

name both unfortunate and deceptive; there are no pandas to be found, only a big

“knows what to do now”—which intrigues me—and when the light of my phone

red tiger that arches over the exit like a sentry, surveying the rows of plastic tables

against the dark of my apartment sends my eyes into spasms—which annoys

with its dumb painted eyes.

me—I make my way through the haze of a waking city.

The gold light of dawn settles like gauze over the crosswalks, where faceless people plod to work and I wonder at each of them as they stream past like shadows

I subsist on Social Security, there’s nowhere else to go. That’s how I met Daniel the Watcher.

without sparing a glance. The morning light sets the world glittering with a vio-

He’s standing behind the cash register, bored and dejected, drumming his fin-

lent chiaroscuro of gold and blue, and I can pretend this is what it’s like to actually

gers on the counter. He’s no more of a mess than usual, wearing his ball cap and

see the world. There, on my right, a gray lamppost becomes blue and gold; a

glasses that give him the air of a twelve-year-old boy. I don’t think he’s shaved

straight blue shadow shoots from its base into the street, where cars stampede it

recently.

without hesitation.

As I glance at the lamppost, it vanishes for a moment. There’s a lurch of vertigo in my stomach.

Sometimes my vision flickers. When I glance at something out of the corner of my eye, for an instant the world will flash gray and formless. My eyes will shudder

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I go here almost every day because it’s close and cheap. Since I can’t drive and

| S H A R D S of L I G H T

“Hey, Daniel,” I say.

He holds up a hand. “Three syllables.”

“What?”

“Like Gabriel or Azriel. My name has three syllables, just like any other self-respecting angel. Would it kill you to say it right for once?”

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v o l uMercer m e t w o || 33 “Serenity” Kate

Daniel the Watcher says he’s an angel, though he doesn’t look like one; there’s nothing blond or elfin or elegant about him. He’s a doughy-faced Jewish guy who

He’s rambling to avoid confrontation, but I let him talk. His rambles are comforting in a strange sort of way.

probably plays video games all day and never goes outside and only occasionally

“Angels are supposed to feel like that,” he continues. “Because we’re sort of

smokes pot. Obviously, he’s delusional, but it’s all real enough to him that I pre-

asleep on earth. Anyway, there’s an article I read recently about how when you’re

tend to take him at his word.

lucid dreaming, logic works different and you can, say, poke your finger through

I offer a nod of mock solemnity. “Very well, Dan-i-el of the Grigori, what is it you know to do?”

His lips purse amphibian-like, and he scratches his stubbled neck. Instead of answering, he mumbles, “Food first. I’m making honey chicken.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” I protest, though honey chicken has always been my usual food of choice.

“Food first,” he repeats like a chant as he wheels toward the kitchen.

If one can sing stubbornly, he’s managed it, like he’s chasing away my ques-

your palm. Ever tried that?”

He raises his hands in pantomime, but he doesn’t do anything as strange as stab himself with his pointer finger.

I do though, first touching my palm gently, then jabbing it harder just for the hell of it. It doesn’t go through, just thuds in my palm. Just the dull thump of the finite.

“Shame,” Daniel says as he pulls a sallow chicken from the freezer and slams the fridge door with his foot. “It’d be cool if you were dreaming too. I’m leaving

tions with a shamanic chant. He’s either ashamed about what he’s going to tell me,

tomorrow.”

or he’s embarrassed about giving me free food. Kindness embarrasses him, but so

“What?”

does confrontation.

“I’m leaving,” he repeats. “I’m going home.”

The kitchen is all grimy silver countertops, and it smells like seaweed. It’s

We are silent. The fridge hums.

the kitchen of a fast food place—nothing particularly Asian about it. Supposedly,

He doesn’t talk much about his past. I’m allowed to ask about when he roamed

Panda-monium is Chinese, but they also serve Thai food, and Daniel once told

as a white-robed principality in the glittering halls of heaven, but not about when

me the place is actually Cambodian. Basically, it serves a conglomeration of foods

he stood sweating on a baseball field as a pimply pre-teen before he realized he

both so vaguely and so gratuitously Asian that the place transcends all temporal

couldn’t play sports. I remember the latter, but we agree the former is real. It’s like

reference to culture and hovers in the liminal light of its own paper lanterns. It’s

our social contract. The blind girl and the crazy guy are the only people lonely

as if some New Age guru took the phrase “food for thought” too literally.

enough to put up with each other, and we’ve both agreed to throw conventions

Daniel likes both the food and the thought. He wears crystals on a string

like social propriety and truth out the window.

around his neck. As shuffles through the kitchen, they sway over his greasy

He’d sometimes tell me how he got here. “There was a gold chariot,” he would

t-shirt, glittering so egregiously even I can see them. He doesn’t wear them

say. “Kind of like a taxi. It was pulled by these wispy horses, not quite alive or

because he believes they have magical energy but because he likes the idea of them.

dead. Anyway, it took the demons down to hell one time. That happened after

He likes ideas.

we rebelled or whatever. I was with them, but I guess my problem is I wasn’t bad

While he rummages, I can’t ignore my damn eye floaters, which swarm like hornets and are generally a pain. Still, I squint and try to give him my full attention.

“Feels like I’m dreaming sometimes,” he mumbles. “Ever had a dream where you’re half way lucid and you’re kind of floating? Feels like that.”

enough to go all the way down. Wish I was better at sinning; maybe I wouldn’t be in this dump.”

He doesn’t even have the dignity of being a demon. He fell; that was it. And now he hovers here on earth, only hoping to get home. At least, that’s the story we’ve decided to be true.

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But apparently, he knows what to do now.

He’s slicing up big white pieces of chicken and slapping them on the grill. They hiss and he leans over the them, inspecting them as if his glare can save the meat from looking like pale, disease-ridden corpse flesh.

“I’m renting a car,” he said, “to drive off down the highway. Completely alone. If it’s just me, maybe the world won’t seem real eventually, and I’ll know for sure it’s all a dream and wake up.”

The room blinks out. The fluorescent lights on silver grime flash into a haze for a moment.

“It’s getting worse, you know,” I say.

“Your eyes?”

“Everything is blurrier.”

He shuffles his feet and stares at the ground. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s one of those earthly imperfections. I understand.”

Don’t you dare try and console me, I want to shout, before you run off and leave me here. “But you can actually see,” I snap.

“What good does that do me? Lets me get a better look at that stupid plastic tiger every day? Great.”

Again I say nothing.

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v o l uLindsey me two “LOL” CeCe

|

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“I just want to go home.” His voice grows quiet, strained.

“Then do it,” I say. “Guess I’m just part of the dream world.”

He doesn’t seem to hear—doesn’t see the way I’m gritting my teeth. He keeps grilling chicken. So much for seeking solace in a friend.

He shuffles his feet and stares at the ground. He is too facile to argue. We usually don’t argue about the actual problems of life. We’ll talk about the cosmic war between angels and demons, but as for those little wars that twist in the mind and the gut, those don’t matter; Daniel thinks they’re illusions of this dream world.

I want to tell him he’s delusional, but instead I turn and leave without saying goodbye. It’s a temperamental, immature reaction, but I’m annoyed and I don’t feel like confronting him anymore.

I once asked him if people look like trees in heaven and he said, “Maybe, but we don’t have bodies.”

He didn’t understand the question, didn’t know I was really asking, “Will people finally be real to me?” He isn’t given to poetics, which surprises me; he’s certainly floaty enough to be a poet.

As the sun goes down, the flashes start. Wheels of light coruscate around my periphery. But that’s just the usual economy of my haze—a swarm of blotches by day and a retinal aurora by night.

I imagine Daniel plodding toward me through the vignette of flashes, putting out a hand, probably to grab me by the arm. I’d push it away and tell him to save his apologies.

So the imaginary figure shuffles off down the garden path with his hands in

2 For weeks, I no longer see Daniel. When I go to Panda-monium, a hazy stranger stands in his place behind the register. A shadow person. Part of the non-being.

He never tries to talk to me, just brings honey chicken with a mumbled, “Have a nice day.”

Without Daniel, I am alone when my eyes give up, when the projector flickers out.

It happens the night I’m wandering to the park between the restaurant and my home. Its cast-iron gate looms in the middle of the street—the only street to ever cement itself in my mind and stay solid through the haze. My world is an island in a sea of non-being.

But at least it’s an island in this gold-blue glow. Everything is light and shadow— violent and indistinct like Impressionism. I walk on a garden path beneath the cool, scraggly shadows of oak trees. Their leaves are a flame of amber—positively illuminated.

I like trees because they feel more like people than people do. When light flashes through leaves and their dark wooden arms twist and splay, they are exaggerating their gestures, reaching toward me through my haze, larger than life so I can actually see and know them. They aren’t like people, who stand back and far away like mannequins. I don’t see them, so I don’t know them.

Maybe that’s why I liked Daniel the Watcher; he was weird the same way trees are weird.

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his pockets.

I plop myself down on a park bench and watch the grotesque twist of the treetops, those big black gnarls against the gold-white sky.

What will I do if I can’t see these trees? They are one of the few things I have to remind me of a world outside myself. People’s worlds are only as broad as their horizons, and since my horizon is progressively dissolving into the haze, I fear my world will vanish with it.

I’m on the precipice of some sort of Cartesian hell, and if my vision bids me enter against my will, I’ll be trapped forever.

I’ll be here, a lonely thinking mind, and the world will be there somewhere, way out there. I know it’ll be there because it has to be, but I won’t have any access to it. It’ll just be me, and the world, and a great big abyss between us that no amount of gnosis can cross. But I won’t have any other option except to search for gnosis because my thoughts won’t have anything else to grasp onto. I’ll be alone with a starving mind. Might as well be alone with a tiger, a great big ravenous tiger prowling with me in a cage. I can usually scare him to the shadows by being in the world, but if I’m not in the world anymore, it’ll just be me and him. Then he won’t hesitate to tear my face up with sleek claws. They’ll cut right through me on their way to slashing the veil of illusion.

Maybe I’ll start listening to music. I’ll latch onto every single note like rungs on a ladder, so no matter how far I fall I’ll be able to climb back up again, at least

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to the surface of things, even if I can never break through it again. I can picture

hovering in the amber light. I crouch in the corner of a quickly dimming room. It

it now; I’m sitting alone in my room. The blackness—no, not even blackness, but

is very empty, save for the awful swarming things. At last the gray haze is eating

absence, pure and simple non-being—is pressing down on me so hard I might as

up my world with absence.

well be buried alive. I’ll flip open my laptop, and the metallic voice of the screen

When I look down at my phone, it hardly shines through the haze. I hold it

recorder will lead me to my music. Tchaikovsky will start playing—probably that

to my face, but the light is murder, like staring into the sun. Fine. I don’t need to

one from the Sleeping Beauty ballet—and I’ll think something like, “Oh, thank

see it.

the Lord, it’s a piano.” I’ll catch every note like rain tinkling in a bucket. I’ll pic-

I open my texts by muscle memory and call the first person on the list.

ture that piano with veiny hands spider-ing their way along the shining keys. The

I haven’t talked to him since the park, but he answers with a despondent,

hands have crisp cufflinks, and there’ll be a sort of golden light in the background from chandeliers or candelabras, because this pianist is in a ritzy sort of place.

Then I’ll remember when I visited a fancy hotel as a child, where there was also a pianist behind the lobby’s lull of conversation. I sat with my parents on manila

“Hey, Daniel.”

“Three syllables,” he begins to mumble but cuts himself off with a hasty, “Actually, forget it. What’s up?”

couches—the color of cream and lace and grandparents’ houses. They bought me

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

hot chocolate because the lobby’s big bay windows rattled with rain. Outside was

I am silent for a long time, and when I speak, it takes profound effort to keep

a nighttime shade of navy, but inside was pale gold, with gauzy curtains and a tiled floor shining smooth like squares of honey and white chocolate.

I liked white chocolate, but I liked hot cocoa better, especially when it was so rich it clung to the side of the glass. I drank it with the stirring straw, either because I was stubborn or because I wanted to savor it.

This memory will uncoil a knot deep in my gut, and I’ll probably cry from relief because my mind will finally be grasping something real.

my voice steady. “Can you take me to the hospital?”

He doesn’t have to ask questions about the circumstances. When he reaches my apartment, he only asks if I need help finding anything. I say I don’t, so he grabs me by the arm and rushes me off through the city.

We sprint as fast as I’m able in the haze. Street lights surge all around, blooming prismatic like fireworks, like the northern lights, like a plunge into the arctic sky.

I’m reeling and unaware of the ground. I shiver, though not from cold.

But it’ll only be the briefest flash of consolation because the mind-tiger will

The streets roar with a many-engined breath—the breath of some metallic

bare his fangs and argue. Memories aren’t real either, he’ll roar. They’re just pro-

beast hovering in the high winds above the buildings. I imagine it beyond the

jections in our heads, and whenever we recall them, they become projections of

aurora—god of this haze, watching over us with painted eyes.

projections. They’ll continue slipping away from there, and in the end, I won’t be

We take the subway, and the acrid smell of steel and bodies makes me gag.

any closer to keeping hold of something real. This is the fate I’ve anticipated all

Daniel’s shoulder is pressed against mine. I’m shaking, but he remains still,

my life.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I am already losing what little I have.

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“What?”

which I appreciate. He smells like soy sauce and seaweed.

When we arrive, the hospital is stark white even in the haze. Daniel talks to

The projector flickers out later that night.

shadow-people, walks beside me through the hallways. I know they’re hallways

It happens when I’m lying in bed, unable to sleep, and I glance at my phone to

by their echo and the flow of sterile air. Then I’m taken away, and shadow-people

check the time. The bright square screen sears my eyes as usual, but the bright-

search my eyes with big bright wheeling balls of rainbow light. I don’t squint

ness swims and melts into the dark. Panic launches me from my bed. I flip on the

against the searing flash. At this point, the spasms behind my temples are the least

light to find that my bedroom is crawling with shadows, great big blotchy things

of my worries.

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42 || S“Together�

H A R D S ofCatherine L I G H T Horton

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Now I’m in darkness once again—in a waiting room, or maybe in purgatory, or

one stupid, flabby arm and sits me down on the scratchy carpet. His t-shirt stinks.

hell, or earth; it makes no difference to me. I only know I’m sitting in a pleather

“I didn’t call because I was scared, okay? You’re not the only one who’s scared,

chair with straight square armrests, and this chair is currently my entire world.

A door squeaks and the thump of tired feet brings the smell of seaweed. “You okay?” Daniel asks.

With a squeak of pleather, he sits beside me.

or not. “You don’t want to be alone. Fine. I get it. Me neither. Want to know how that went for me?

“I only had enough tip money to rent a van for a day, but I took it anyway

I don’t say anything, so he asks, “Anything I can do?”

and left. No sense looking back because I’m about to get home. So I drive, and

“Just talk,” I say.

everything’s completely barren. Nothing but grass and sky, and I’m thinking, yeah

I need to hear his voice. This room is very dark.

this is perfect. I keep going like that, and whenever I stop for gas I avoid people.

“About what?”

I’m set on ignoring everything. I shut it all out, right? But apparently whenever

“Where were you.”

you’re alone for a really goddamn long time, you start wanting to talk to anyone

“I left. Just like I said I would.” His fingers drum on his knees. I can picture him

and anything that moves, and if there’s no one there you have to talk to your own

staring at the floor.

“Why’d you come back?” My voice is small, but it reverberates in my head like I’m hearing it through earphones.

“It didn’t work. I drove off and it didn’t work. Simple as that. I got back a few days ago.”

mind. So I’m sitting there in this stupid van I can’t pay for, talking to myself, and the world is sort of folding in. I don’t know what else to call it. Like paper crumpling, except it’s the sky and the van and my own mind and everything. And this whole time I’m trying to picture heaven, right? But the more I try to think my way out of it, the more everything gets crumpled. It’s all crumpling right in my chest

“And you didn’t call until now?”

and I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit, if I don’t pull this car over right now I’ll have a panic

I am rising from my chair. He stands too. I feel the weight of his shadow before

attack.’ So I pull over, but I have a panic attack anyway.

me.

“At this point I decide I can’t do this anymore. I just wanted to go to home, but

“I was thinking if I saw you I’d have an even worse chance of waking up.”

now every time I think about heaven, all I can see is this white void where I’m

This is the wrong thing to say and he knows it. He makes a noise, maybe pre-

alone and scared, and I know if I don’t go back I’ll lose my mind.

paring an excuse, but I shove him before he speaks.

“So I went back. Took the van in. Got in huge trouble obviously. I was trying

I’ll wake him up, jolt him into the transcendence and freedom and eternity and

to avoid you because I couldn’t just go up to you and say, ‘Hey, sorry I sort of

all that facile pile of platitudes he always goes on and on about. I want nothing

abandoned you there.’ And there was also part of me that didn’t want to be, like,

better than to beat his doughy face till he floats off to heaven.

self-serving? I don’t know. It just seemed wrong to say, ‘So I get how being lonely

If he doesn’t want the world, he can leave it for all I care. The world in all its blue-gold mess, the world with its weird people and its weird trees.

I am crying. My arms are weak and shaky, but I hit him anyway. And I keep hitting him. My half-clenched fist slams into his chest with a sort of pathetic regularity. Just a thud, and a thud, and a thud each time I raise my arm.

44

you know,” he says. There is a catch in his voice, but I can’t tell whether he’s crying

really sucks. Can you make me not lonely now?’”

He is silent, and his final words hover in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

My sense of anger and betrayal rings silly and hollow when directed at someone just as scared and lonely as me.

Just the dull thump of the finite.

“Are you,” I ask quietly, “Are you staying for good then?”

He lets me hit him. And when I’m done I slump forward. He catches me with

I’m floating in a world completely eaten by haze, and only Daniel’s heat and

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his voice and the stupid smell of his seaweed breath remind me that there’s still a world out there at all.

“Yeah,” he says.

As he puts a hand on mine, he promises to stick around as best he’s able. I promise to do so as well, even as the dark looms and lowers before my eyes like a curtain after a play. And both of us, side by side on the floor of a waiting room, resolve to be bad at existing together. We will not be alone in this haze.

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•

“Theobald” Grace v o l uHorton m e t w o || 47

Prospero in the Cordgrass J a c k Ty ler

This was an ocean once, they say, drying to leave these salt flats, the last gasp of once high waves, where angels, wisely binding dinosaurs with limestone, leave way above for a sea of grass, islands of teepees, red men to wander the continent in equine fleets, schools of bison leading these hunters to dive into the prairie deeps. But I, exiled, kin to Europe’s heretics and dead Confederates, a late magician, thwarted work of old angels in oilsands, laid tracks through the grass, called you Caliban.

Casinos, cheap whiskey, hills scraped of pine— these things of darkness I’ll acknowledge mine.

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v o l uMartin me two “Mama & Me at Onapa” Bobby

|

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Old Home in the Scrublands Samue l Cross- Me redit h

The wind blew out most of these windows years ago.

Take some stones, finish the job, then come in and sit with me at this peeling old table on these stripped and sun-claimed chairs and talk.

It takes nothing to believe in infinity, but it takes everything to accept finitude.

You see, your bones in your skin know you as a vulture feasting on the finest golden meats.

Full of rotten rime and fetid flesh, you’ll find your own way down.

And you, too, will cycle, forever lifting birds’ wings.

H A RBirds” D S of LAmber I G H T Yager 50 || S“Love

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Morning in the City

Come

E . Nj e ma D eJo ng

A b i g a il C h or ley

There are street smells here: oil, fried food, sweat. Blisters on the backs of my heels.

Four hours in and I still want to walk, want the sandal strap to dig into my skin, let the bubbles bloom. The ditch is filled with fading wrappers, broken bottles and plastic scraps.

Cardboard signs someone else left say “Will Work,” “Hungry Vet” bold, black letters, but I only see the photo I want to forget: her face and yours. This sorrow is cigarette smoke in my lungs, but a friend is waiting. Her text is worry, dread. No one walks in this town unless they are choiceless or like me learning the impermanence of people: frosted glass when the sun rises.

“Hey, Njema, I just got the bill for interim this week from RVA. It looks like you’re going to have a really fun week,” my dad said to me as I walked through his office door.

“Yeah, it should be a lot of fun. I can’t wait to bungee jump,” I responded, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m not paying for that,” he said. *** I bought my senior banquet dress off of Amazon, praying that it would pass the Rift Valley Academy dress check. I needed motherly advice, but my mother was in the hospital. That night, Dad told us that her doctor said she could lose her leg.

I was the oldest sibling at home, so my dad expected me to hold my crap together so that my sisters wouldn’t worry. *** Jesus sent his disciples ahead of him on the Sea of Galilee. No storm clouds were visible in the distance, but most of his disciples were fishermen. Jesus thought they could handle a storm, even if it surprised them. *** I climbed up the 60-meter ladder with the grass plains and far-off peaks of Mount Kenya to my right. On my left was the rope bridge, scattered with people watching the first fearless jumper of the morning.

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I scanned the horizon as my partner, Sianna, climbed up the ladder below me.

Once you get to the top, the Savage Wilderness Adventure leaders make you wait

The Adventure leaders opened the gate with the reminder to “Bitch Less, Jump More.” I stood like a tree, rooted to the safety of the metal box.

in a dangling metal box for your partner. You just wait. For about five minutes, you wait and regret your decision to jump.

*** A couple days after her release from the hospital, my mother complained about

***

her knee hurting and being really hot. My little sister, who wanted to be a nurse,

Keeper and Royal sprinted down the stairs at the sound of another car at the

agreed that her leg seemed warmer than usual. My mother went into the emer-

gate. My little sister followed them after they had wedged their wet, black noses

gency room, but after the nurses examined her knee, they told her to go home.

under the gate. I stayed in my chair in the living room to hear the same familiar

***

words: “We are praying for your family” followed by “If you need anything just

Jesus set foot on the water.

call.” During this time, those were sentences I classified as “Christian encourage-

He began walking to his disciples across the Sea of Galilee. When the dis-

ment,” uttered by every person who entered our compound that week. At least the

ciples noticed him on the waves, they shouted that it was a ghost. Immediately,

women brought us dinner with enough leftovers for the next day.

Jesus responded by saying, “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

*** Jesus did not know what his Father had planned for him that night. After

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied skeptically, “tell me to come to you on the water.”

“Come,” Jesus responded.

everyone left, Jesus walked to the other side of the mountain to talk to his Father. *** Sianna and I stood shoulder to shoulder, too scared for our bodies to shake.

*** Standing behind me, Sianna said, “You can do it, Njema. Remember: twenty seconds of insane courage.”

We listened intently to how to protect our necks, backs, and spines. My conscience

I nodded, not entirely sure. One of the Adventure leaders put his hand on the

told me I lost that privilege when I signed the waiver and handed it to my trip

small of my back. He said, “Just keep your eyes on the horizon and lean forward.”

sponsors along with the five thousand shillings fee.

The brief suddenly over, I heard myself mumble, “I’m going first.”

My family and I drove home from RVA to Kisumu a few days after that visit

***

to the hospital. One morning around 4 am, I heard a knock on my door and my

Mom had knee surgery at the end of November in 2015. The doctor’s report

father’s voice calling my name. He handed me one of my mom’s dresses and told

showed that everything went as planned. He told her to find a physical therapist

me to get her ready to go to the hospital because her leg was extremely red and

to help regain strength in her knee. With a prescription for the necessary pain

hot.

meds, they released her from the hospital.

Before I reached the top of the stairs, I could hear my mother crying. I entered

***

her room, attempting to comfort her while pulling the blanket off her leg. I placed

Later that night, Jesus finished talking with his heavenly Father and walked

the palm of my hand on the area just above her knee. It felt like a hot rice bag that

down the mountain. By that time, the wind had picked up over the sea. From the

had been in the microwave for too long.

shore, Jesus saw the boat miles off, great swells tossing it up and down. The power

***

of the wind and waves prevented the disciples from reaching the shore. Jesus

Peter stepped over the edge of the boat onto the wild waves. After taking a few

knew he needed to get to them.

confident steps toward Jesus, he noticed the ferocity of the storm around him. He ***

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became afraid and began to sink. Peter cried out, “Lord, save me.”

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v o l u Barber m e t w o || 57 “Legion in the Rain” Rachel

Instantly by his side, Jesus lifted Peter out of the water and set him back on the surface, as if it was solid ground and replied, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” *** On the bus ride to Savage Wilderness, my interim group talked about how cussing releases toxins into your brain that helps you relax. It seemed far-fetched, but standing on the edge of the dangling box, I needed to relax.

Eyes on the horizon, I leaned forward as I said, “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

All the control I thought I had standing in the box was suddenly entrusted to the body harness, ropes, and the bungee cord attached to my feet. *** That night my dad stayed at the Aga Khan hospital till three o’clock the next afternoon. My mom was admitted to the hospital for extreme infection. Apparently, the nurses in Kijabe forgot to give my mom antibiotics to combat infection.

Her new doctor said that she would need three different surgeries to get the infection under control. If those surgeries failed, they would amputate.

During those three weeks before Christmas, my sisters, my dad, and I started a new routine. In the morning, he would go see my mom for a couple of hours, then come home for lunch and a nap. After my dad woke up, we would go back to visit my mom in the hospital.

plummet to my death, I opened my eyes to the upside-down world for less than a second before my perception was righted by another jolt.

After the last bounce, I hung upside down, twisting in a circle like a trapped animal. Once I was disentangled, the Adventure leaders made me lay down for a couple minutes to let my body adjust.

It was over. I did it. *** Prayer warriors, stateside and in Kenya, prayed that my mother would heal before Christmas. They also prayed that God would give our family enough faith to trust Him to guide the doctor’s hands in the third surgery.

My mother went into her third surgery late one night because nothing is ever on time in Kenya. My sisters and I stayed home and waited to hear news from my father. The next morning, my father came home and relayed the news that our prayers had been answered. The Father answered our cry for help.

My mom came home Sunday afternoon. One week before Christmas. *** Jesus and his disciples continued on their journey. The people heard about His power and desired to see it for themselves. Once people recognized Him, they brought their sick friends and family members to Him for divine healing.

•

*** Peter and Jesus climbed back into the boat. At once, the wind and waves calmed down. In that moment, the disciples believed that Jesus was truly the Son of God. Jesus and the disciples continued on their journey and those who saw him brought him their sick because they believed in his healing power. *** I fell through the air for more seconds than I care to know. I figured free falling would be the worst part, but it was anticipating the jolt of the bungee cord. Five times I was wrong about when the jolt would come. Completely out of control.

Even though, I didn’t have control of the jolts, I knew that the harness, ropes, and bungee cord controlled the speed and height of the bounce. My eyes were squeezed shut through the first three bounces. Once I knew I was not going to

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60 || S“Just Another HAR D S of L IBridge” G H T Rachel Barber

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bruises* Kat ie Gag e

two days after I asked you out I tripped down a step and landed on my knee and it blossomed into a grotesque dull carnation of yellow-green-purple and for the first day after everything hurt and I could barely bend it.

I hobbled down the hall, weight skewed higher to one side.

By day three, it only hurt when I touched it, pressing the pad of a finger into the center of the crushed rose.

I think that’s what this is like: today everything hurts but tomorrow it will only ache and in a few days it will only sting when I poke at the smashed-flower memory.

If we are better off as friends, That’s fine with me.

But for now, I’ll just coddle my bruised heart and hope that you are happy.

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“Tiger Eyes” Amber v o l u mYager e t w o || 63

UNITY IN DEATH Rac h e l B arb e r ‘18

In response to threats of partial birth abortion

D r. Je ss ica Ho o t e n -Wi l s o n

in a Sunday evening two paths conjoined one well-worn the other quickly mowed down in the intersect sat an upright piano worn fingers warm ivory keys coursing song through our overwhelmed veins it was that night when dance swirled with Baptist song that beauty hurt most a night I hate for its rearing loveliness

Pushed from my womb Pulled from my flesh What seconds before felt Part of me and now Stares soul-filled eyes In mine, meeting already known.

Her lips latch to my breast Expectantly, trustingly.

She never feared her mother Would not feed her, hold her— Never allow a doctor To kill her.

May God strike us barren and bereft Till we hold sacred every first breath.

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“Please” Kezziah v o l u mClark e t w o || 67