Lions-on-Line Fall 2023/Spring 2024

Lions-on-Line

Fall 2023/Spring 2024

tsunami

Poem by Katelyn Rieder

we saw the tide disappear from our sun chairs. you pointed it out first. “look how close the water is getting!” my eyes moved with your finger, and an atlantic horizon reared its head back at me. tanzanite waves grew angrier and angrier as you noticed them. ruined their element of surprise, their shining moment. “we should move our chairs,” i said to you, liquid sapphire bit at my feet. but you stayed a statue. mystified by those lapis crashes on sand. i nudged you, it’s over. we have to go. we can’t stay here. it’s not sustainable. i’m not happy. please just do it, just let me go. don’t make me. but you had already submerged into the abyss of my heart.

Strike That Line: Debate Between Diction LEFT and Poetry RIGHT

Poem by Nate Sweeney

Writing. Writing. Writing. I spend all day thinking of other people’s words. Phrases they will hardly use correctly, If they use the elegant ones at all.

Prescribing. Manufacturing. Dictating. You hardly leave that cramped study of yours. Yet you wonder why they pick my phrases, When yours are far too tedious and boring. A parent forcing a profession.

Precise. Accurate. To the point. So one person can understand another.

“I will toss this ball to you in a moment”

It has such a precise meaning.

How can I speak when you have nothing to hear?

The lines are so subtle for just one ear. I see the red tension chasing after me, A lifetime of regret stretching endlessly. It means so many things I cannot comprehend. In just one moment, may this be the end?

Why must you be a pain?

I do not like to talk to fools, Even if I must say this fool is my twin. Now shush, before I get a headache.

My own reflection hates at me, Making it hard to look in the mirror. Fractured glass. How can I possibly find the expression I need to wipe away?

Make me walk across that room.

Make me take a literal dozen steps.

Make me try and decipher one more word.

And I swear it will not be pleasant.

She says she’ll meet me across the room, Two lonesome hearts nearly colliding in a void, But still an infinity is left between them before we realize The number one is just a number. Why such a sad occurrence?

It doesn’t feel real. One met two.

With long strides I fulfilled my threat (Which I had spoken in sincerely aggressive tones) And found her across the room putting on her jacket (It USED to be mine but was properly GIFTED to her last Dec.)

Perhaps I used more force than necessary. For I plunged my arm through her chest.

She…bleeds. Onto the floor.

Where once her heart kept pace with the beat of her footsteps. Where once we ran, and ran, and ran, till out of breath we collapsed outside.

Onto a bed of leaves painted orange by the Season. Time’s daughter. I wonder if she is still…outside?

I’m…sorry.

(I see her growing pale)

I…want to go outside now. Would it make more sense for the outside to come to me?

*COUGH*

Likewise…I can paint fall colors on the ground. Give your tired study a dash of fall…as I fall into your…

I watched her collapse to the ground. Collapse is an adequate word.

Precise.

She had no effort whatsoever, as though her grace just gave up. My own sister, a living poem.

I knelt down and brushed her hair out of her face (With the hand that didn’t hold her heart of course).

“One last stanza before you close your eyes

Or would you leave it all unfinished?”

The

Genesis of Terrus (and the Seeds of Sedition)

Fiction by Noah Douglas

In the beginning, the foundation of Terrus was imbued with great hope, life, prosperity, and grace. The Divine found it to be good, but in order to be good it was not perfect; for all true things must find their own way to perfection in time. The realm rejoiced in the immaculate logic that permeated all things, but all too quickly forgot the intelligence that begot the great logic. As could be surmised, faith in the Divine ebbed and flowed across Terrus as each soul found its own path.

Darkness is, was, and always will be something that finds its way into the world's crevices until the realm's sundering. It is not always a self-pronounced entity, it is often manifested under the guise of benevolence that corrupts from deep within. At times, it is a perversion grown and consequentially neutralized within a moment’s thought. Other times, it may be a subtle perversion so faint that even the most vigilant are blind to it. Yet, there are times, as few as they may be, when a great evil has proclaimed itself as such, in open defiance of the Divine, with a will to dominate the world.

For one such instance, it began in the prehistory of the first era. Such a betrayal came from a seat upon the highest counsel of all time and space. An entity of unimaginable malice and power, known now as the Deceiver, lashed out at the Divine. From where such darkness may have manifested in its origins, there is only speculation! Yet, no mortal could have foreseen that the Deceiver itself would be betrayed by a simple protégé, the greatest of the Ældar. It was this very mortal who would throw the realm into a millennia of chaos and misery. This accursed being, the Invisible Emperor, Moraig, the Master of Shadows, and Lord of the Ældar.

As the cunning entity, Moraig, was enveloped in the inherited powers of his former master, he was rebuked by the Divine. For he had not acted in defense of the Divine, but rather to siphon his master’s power and make it his own. He laughed in opposition to grace, seeking to become such as the Divine itself. Yet, still, he fell short of such heights.

“Do you not know that an Ældar obtaining such knowledge is forbidden?” asked the Divine. Yet, those words fell upon deaf ears. Moraig rejected the words of the Divine and would only listen to his own perverted musings. For it was the very knowledge which he had obtained that twisted his mind further from what was right.

Moraig desired to separate himself from the divine and relish in his own newfound power and knowledge. Yet, more than that, he desired to reshape Terrus

in his own image, which he deemed to be greater than what the Divine had created. Through the illusion of liberty, he would become a great oppressor. It was so that much of the world would desire illusion over truth, and a long age of night would be pulled over the light of the Divine.

At this time, the Divine cast Moraig, in his rebellion, out of the heavens in a fireball that would sail from the stars on high, deep into the world below. In truth, woefully little is known about the entirety of what had occurred within the realm of the Divine. However, it is known that the evil, knowledge, and power that Moraig had consumed was not vanquished forever, but rather it multiplied and sought its own vile machinations.

Despite the wicked Moraig’s determination to hold onto the power which he obtained from the Deceiver, it was too much for even the greatest of the Ældar. A hail of shards of the Deceiver's soul, bright as the Sun itself, erupted from the Ældar master as he fell from the heavens and departed from him at great distances, never to return.

The shards sailed wide, each seeking their own independence. One fell into the land of the Azleci, a primitive race of man and creature in one. Yet another struck a monastery of the noble Sancterrans and was said to be vanquished on the same day. A shard slipped through the sky and met land, sundering the deserts of Khesothus into two and warping the very land. Surely, others made their way into lands and waters unrecorded.

Moraig, alone, with those fragments of the Deceiver that he could maintain, fell into the lands of his own people. With a vile drive to reject the Divine and reshape the world, one soul at a time, the Ældar, now more of a demon than a moral, conquered from sea to sea. With malice, he put his fellow Ældar into unending labor and forced all other races into chains by way of the sword.

Yet, not all hope was lost. Torn apart by the power that he could never fully control, Moraig withered away and became but a spirit, searching the realm for a host. Meanwhile, his empire was crippled and drifted into stagnation for long cold periods between his return and reign. Such periods gave servants of the Divine time to reconvene and retake the vast lands of Terrus. So have they done until now, and so shall they do until the end of time.

BODY

Poem by Sebastian Isaacs

YOUR BODY HAS ABANDONED YOU.

WHEN YOUR SHADOW STOPS FOLLOWING YOU ON THE PAVEMENT AND YOUR HANDS HAVE BECOME A SYSTEM THAT YOU CAN NOT RESIST ALL BY YOURSELF,

WHAT WILL YOU DO TO KEEP MOVING ON?

YOUR EYES CAN NOT CONTINUE TO LINGER ON THE PIECES OF YOU THAT WERE NEVER YOURS TO BEGIN WITH.

YOUR SKIN CAN NOT OBJECT TO THE MOVEMENT

OF YOUR HANDS, SWIFT AS A FOX,

NOR THE THREAT OF BLOOD, THICK AND DARK

AS THE LABYRINTH YOU FIND IN THE HOLLOW OF YOUR RIBS.

YOU CAN NOT REMOVE THE PARTS OF YOUR BODY THAT YOU NO LONGER CONTROL,

NOR CAN YOU CLEANSE YOURSELF OF THE STAIN OF BETRAYAL THAT YOU FEEL EVERY WAKING MOMENT

WHEN YOUR BONES CREAK UNDER THE HEAVY BURDEN OF YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES.

AND YOU HAVE TO KEEP GOING, YOU HAVE TO KEEP UP, YOU CAN NOT LET THIS BODY LEAVE YOU WHEN THERE IS NO OTHER BODY FOR YOU.

I Hated the Color Orange, Artwork by Tricia Harmon

Paralysis

Poem by Ethan Geiger

Just close your eyes.

The sun will be up before you know it.

It's a lot easier said than done.

Most people don’t open their eyes to a pitch black room

Most people can close their eyes again

Most people can shift their head.

Just ignore it

It isn’t real.

I am aware of the flickering blue spiral of light just beyond my door

I am aware of the loud ringing bells

I am aware of the heavy footsteps heading down the stairs.

Just move

Just yell

Just move

Just yell

And it's over.

The pitch black room isn’t as dark.

I can close my eyes again

I can shift my view

The light isn’t there anymore

I can’t hear the bells

I can’t hear the footsteps

It’s over .

And then your eyes open again.

And it’s dark

And it's loud

And you can feel the pressure on your chest

And you can feel scratching on your arms

And you can feel your heart pound

And you can feel another presence

And it's over.

How Galactosemia Affects My Life

Essay by Aidan Christy

I was born on July 27, 2004. What we had no way of knowing was that I was born with Galactosemia, a pretty rare genetic disorder that affects 1 in every 40,000 to 1 in 60,000 newborns around the world in 2023. Galactosemia affects the body’s ability to convert galactose to glucose, and restricts the body’s ability to digest milk or dairy products. Attempting to consume any major dairy product can result in a fatal end for the patient. 1% of North Americans are carriers of this awful disease. Galactosemia affects anyone who inherits the mutated genes. They inherit one from each parent. If both parents are carriers of the disease, the child has a 25% chance of inheriting Galactosemia.

Growing up, I had to get used to substituting foods, like soy milk or almond milk, instead of real dairy milk. I had to adjust to new foods and different lifestyles. While my family went out for pizza, we had to get me something completely different. I also learned to be very wary and vigilant of the products I was consuming. It was not rare for me to go to a restaurant and be given a cheeseburger instead of a hamburger. I have learned to speak up and advocate for myself and my allergy. I had to be so careful because Galactosemia can be dangerous, to the point of killing the patient. When I was born, we learned this.

Very late at night, on July 27th, 2004, I was unknowingly born with a genetic curse. My family had no idea Galactosemia even existed at the time, so when we got home from the hospital, we were in for an evil surprise. When we arrived home, it eventually became apparent that something was wrong. My mom noticed how sick I was. I couldn’t keep baby formula down, and she had that motherly instinct. She looks back on this time saying, “I didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but I knew something was wrong.”

The same night we came home from the hospital, my mom was clearly very concerned, and expressed these concerns with my dad, who reasoned with her. I was a newborn, after all. No newborn is silent all the time. So even though she knew something was wrong, she figured that things would be normal the next day. But the next day, things were more or less the same. I still couldn’t keep anything down, and was still very sick. At this point, my mom decided to call the hospital, and when she did, the nurse receptionist on call told her that I needed sunlight, so my mom brought me on a walk outside, but when this didn’t change anything, we returned home. My mom was convinced there was something wrong. My symptoms weren’t improving. Things were worsening. I was slowly getting sicker. My mom

continued to periodically call the doctor over and over, desperate to get confirmation that everything was fine. The doctor kept giving her false solutions, hoping that that could fix the situation. It didn’t. My mom continued to give me formula, unaware that it was slowly killing me.

The next morning, when my mom went to check on me, she noticed something was different. It was my skin. It was hard to see, but she thought it looked yellowish. It was hard to see and she wasn’t sure if it was just the lighting of the room, but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions, and she decided that the best idea would be to get a second and maybe even a third opinion. I think the cause for her hesitancy was because she didn’t want to be incorrect, and she didn’t know what was going on, and she didn’t know how bad it was. Regardless, she had my dad check on me to see what he thought, and when he told her that they should visit her brother and sister in law, who had both been parents for much longer than they had. So they got into their car, got me into the front of the car with them, and we got on our way.

Q: When did the first known case of Galactosemia take place?

A: “1908 was the year the first known description dates back to.”

Once we made it to my aunt and uncle’s house, they all promptly checked on me and discussed what they thought could be happening to me, though they couldn’t think of much. “We had never seen anything like this,” my mother recalls. My family was lost as to what was going on, and my aunt became worried, which only made my mom even more worried. This resulted in us once again being on the road, this time to the hospital. I’m so lucky they went back on the road. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have made it, as again, Galactosemia has a 75% death rate without treatment. Before too long, we arrived at the hospital, and were booked into an emergency room. Sometime later a doctor was in the room running tests, and attempting to discover the problem. Soon they realized what the problem was, and just in time. The slight discoloration of my skin that gave it that yellowish color was like that because my liver was failing. It was destroying my liver, slowly. Soon after they finally diagnosed me with Galactosemia.

That night, I was put under a medical light for over 24 hours. Additionally, a tube and pump was inserted into my stomach, and the milk I had already digested was pumped out of my body. It was a long process. After five days, the treatment was completed, and finally we could go home.

Although it took a long time to get accustomed to the genetic curse I was born with, over the years, I’ve gotten better and more knowledgeable about it. I’ve learned to advocate for myself. Galactosemia still has physical and mental effects

on my body. It affects my visual spatial skills. But it also has other effects. According to Galactosemia.com, “People with Galactosemia experience anxiety and depression more than their peers.” I’ve experienced this personally my entire life. I’ve learned to live with Galactosemia.

Fulfillment of Belonging, Artwork by Ryan Bach

Friends

Poem by Abby Crim

Late nights, laughter till you cry, Talking for hours, feeling free

Surrounding yourself with the people that Keep you afloat without even knowing it

A small gesture of a smile that Makes your day

A simple, but genuine “how are you?” That makes you grin from ear to ear

A platonic love that makes you so joyful You could scream to the mountains

People who bring you happiness by Just being there for you

They are the ones who do not judge When you are in a not so happy place

The ones who will be there right when you call

The ones who are considered your friends, but Are actually your family

Ginger’s House Was Too Cluttered for an Old Bag of Bones Poem by

Samantha Munyon

The smell of ginger was sunken. She reminded me of something.

For the ground was where she derived from. After a cold rainy day, Left wet and alone

As the paper she holds is molded and mildewed, The paper house had crumbled around her. The fire does not keep her dry, But oh, how her hair held that smoke. There is no breeze where she lies. She just stays there, enclosed in her old paper house, Crumbling, toppling.

Over her, the sun beams on her baked skin. But no sun can pierce through the stench of the potent mildew.

Poem by Katelyn Rieder

fresh rain, drizzle down on us and wash our sin.

we desecrate the corpses of leaves, and tarnish the loves we had. into an unfamiliar bedroom, with you who wants to give me the world.

your snores are different and lull me a little longer, but i still curl into you.

everything that i wished for and more.

everything that i want back and cannot have.

but you carried me in your arms that night, and crafted the concoction of our illicit affair.

Valerie Poem by Kayla Hess

A vision in velvet.

Her every move was a glide.

Skin as white as a corpse’s bride.

Dweller of the shade.

Demon of the night.

The musk of men enticed her.

She would lure them into her lair.

With her scarlet lips and long raven hair.

Seducing fools was her flair.

A man’s hope would quickly sour.

Euphoria morphing into fright.

They expected a kiss.

Instead, her fangs sank into their neck.

The bite would leave them reeling.

Blood gushing from the wound.

Valerie cackled and shrieked with glee.

Her victims were gone before the break of dawn.

Little Fella, Artwork by Tori Orbegozo

Dissection

Poem by Ethan Geiger

I can feel your gaze carving a hole into my back Ripping and tearing out my organs

Dissecting me and removing every last piece

You start with my lungs

Then you disembowel me

My stomach leaves with butterflies

Your eyes move to my liver

And my kidneys

And my pancreas

You concaved a gentle hole for my heart, you carefully extract it too

And now it lies

Blood strewn across the floor

My heart is yours

The iron taste in my mouth

And belongs to only you

Means nothing with your lips against mine

My body may be empty

But your love fills me up

I surrender my heart, body, and soul

I love you, I love you, I love you

God, I love you

The Dragon’s Nest

Fiction by Nate Sweeney

Coming from a family of changelings, it is hard to explain sometimes how we tell each other apart from wild animals and imposters. I was, and still am, by far the most creative and deceptive of my brood, yet it annoys me to this day how easily my mother picks me out of a crowd. She smothers me as though her chest was the suffocating cushion grabbed by a burglar. It never mattered whether I became a snake, seal, dragon, or even a wasp. She, and sometimes my siblings, but always she, would pick me from my agitated stance and cradle me as though I were still a young and recent addition to the world. I have always wondered how she does it, and I suppose it would help to examine how she handled her other kin to start. My younger brother Axion had a propensity for turning himself into a scorpion of different sizes for his various misdeeds and pranks. My father’s office often kept at least one patient or two who claimed to have been snipped by a rather aggressive pest. However, as only us would be aware, he had the sharpest left hook as though a natural boxer. This instinctively came out when he was a scorpion, so perhaps the clue was a consistent jab with the dominant pincher of his left side.

Then there was Cletta, two years older than Axion yet slightly younger than myself, who preferred on the rarity, whenever she decided to try a transformation, to become a tall bright bird with many colors. There were countless similar species who frequented the island, and father had the habit of bringing us with him aboard the cruise ships. This made it so she often had many flocks to choose from, and hence I would think this would confuse our mother. But as I am just starting to realize in my later years, we all have a give: she tended to reside among a very specific grove during her private moments (I eventually followed her as a grey pigeon to prove my hypothesis). Based on previous observations, I can now assume that my mother knew her shape because Cletta chose the spot with the same flowers she scented herself with at home. It is then natural to guess that any bird or mongrel with that unique hint could be outright determined as my younger sister. That mystery solved, I narrow down the line…

Kendos admired crocodiles, but he hated blood and often ate only vegetables; wouldn’t be hard for a passive crocodile to stand out.

Phuros knew tortoises. However, I will give her credit for having a talent almost as extreme as mine. Almost. It is not fully possible for every shapeshifter to not only become a certain animal but ALSO to create the very pattern they desire onto their skin. Phuros, my elder by a full seven years, would grow a shell with

grooves and lines that ever so subtly displayed the very words of Homer’s great epic. She knew what way to arrange her pigments and minerals that, should she wish, she could have reflected a full portrait of another onto her back. I distinctly remember there was a close call when a cult found her this way and thought she was meant to be the next sacrifice on their altar (Jordana and Axion clawed at them as eagles while I practically had to maul them as a lion to make them give up the pursuit). I sigh, having to admit I owe some small part of my expansive knowledge to Phuros’ own lecture. She was a great teacher who guided me for many months when I struggled to draw a single cross on my butterfly wings…perhaps she was my favorite.

Maltessa was always quiet, and her awkward nature disturbed if not frightened me at times. She believed the gods favored her to look much as stones and boulders do. It gave her time to think. Unfortunately, she regularly reached such stages of reflection that her deepest thoughts, whether she knew it herself or not, would express themselves when she turned. How maddening it was for the islanders to walk the wood, night or day, and find a crying stone watching them from a ledge. How she would freeze upon the rocks a howling gape which made us all fear she drank the souls of those unfortunate enough to come upon her. When she woke we would say nothing, but mother had always prepared for Maltessa a blanket or a shawl to warm her after her evenings in the cold. I sometimes suspected mother, on the hours we didn’t see her, had watched her daughter among the fellow stones.

But how…how would she EVER have known it was me?! I am not at all like my siblings. I share no privy to certain habits or particular forms. When the moment strikes me I will terrify a nearby village in the guise of an acid spitting hydra, or just as suddenly disappear amongst the colony of ants beneath our front porch. I do not have particular haunts, or trails I would always wonder no matter the weather. My feet have changed the landscape with how often I wear out each part.

Mother herself I never knew to take a different form, which was extremely odd considering the craft came from her very genes.

On one of four occasions when I met my grandmother, an old crone living in her temple who never seemed to grow older, I asked about this choice. She, never denying me to be among her most cherished confidants, mentioned there had been an accident in my mother’s teenage years which shied her away from the practice. When I pushed further, all grandmother would add was that an entire city wanted to cast her out…but nobody was brave enough to say anything. Mother, apparently the keen observer even then, knew her impact. She left of her own accord, leaving

behind the cousins and extensions of her family. A year later she had met our father on some other continent.

Speaking of that wise old gentleman who helped bring up so many wild children, I decided to question him next. It was always a lengthy ordeal to get an answer out of father. Soon as he would see me at his doorstep he would clap a sturdy hand on my shoulder and assist I join him and mother for the evening so I could dine with them. Not wanting to mention my query with the woman in question, I asked father if we could speak alone. Immediately, he led me into our family library and poured me a glass of his private wine as though I was one of his close associates he tried to impress for some deal or another. Then, he proceeded to talk with me for nearly an hour or two, if not more, about all manner of subjects regarding politics, philosophy, and oddly…the best way to cook Venicia snails? He seemed to have forgotten that I had wanted to ask a question of my own, so I waited until he paused to take a drink before I blurted out:

“How does Mother always know what shape we are?”

He coughed a little, some of his drink might have been swallowed down the wrong pipe. Once he composed himself, however, his humorful tone showed and he began to laugh. His answer surprised and annoyed me.

“HA! My dear, dear, Susecily…have she really NEVER told you? My goodness, that is such a delight to hear she can keep a secret that long, which between you and me I never would have thought with the way she talks of my affairs around the townsfolk. But anyhow, have you ever noticed the color of your eyes? She certainly has, because you and your siblings all have the same as hers! I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t noticed, she changes the color of them ever so subtly when she doesn’t want others to notice them.”

Here my father’s voice got softer, and he smirked as though the next line was a more reflective note just for his recollection:

“You know, I knew she loved me all those years ago, even after we had our little scuffle…because I was the only one she’d ever let see her real eyes. They’re rather beautiful, like finely aged tears, and I was so tremendously glad to see that every one of my children had that same effect. You all changed your shape and had me chase you around the island. Frustrated the hell out of me sometimes with how many of you there were. Each of you so talented and tricky at the same time. But it was always worth it when your mother, seeing how tired I got, changed her eyes and found the reflections on your own.”

What Changed?

Poem by Sebastian Isaacs

There is so much between us that has been left unsaid, and I used to feel it settling at the surface like oil over water. I could only forget the words I kept in my mouth if I let the smallest touch shake me enough that the separation between what you knew and what you didn’t ceased to exist. I never know what you’ll do when I put myself in your hands like that I never know if I’ll float, or sink under the terrifying thought that you might know me better than I would care to admit. I’m sure that you’ve felt the same sometimes, I know I’m anything but consistent and strong, I can’t handle the way my feelings bury me but now I don’t feel it anymore and I want to ask you what changed for me to know the things that I could never say and let them be when there is still so much I can not say to you I don’t worry about it like I used to. What changed?

What changed what changed what changed what changed what changed what changed, Mom, when will we stop changing? When will I stop being scared, when will I start saying what I mean, and when will it stop hurting for me to be alive and for you to watch me living?

Submission Guidelines

Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literally collection of works by the students and alumni of Mount St. Joseph University published online with the cooperation of the Liberal Arts Department. Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters. When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”. We take submissions during all twelve months of the year.

If you are currently affiliated with Mount St. Joseph and you would like to see your work published, you may submit your work to LOL simply by emailing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction or artwork to LOL@msj.edu.

For full submission guidelines, consult our website.

Lions-on-Line is always looking for new staff members. If you’re interested in joining LOL, please contact faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth.mason@msj.edu.

Editors and Staff

Editors:

Abby Crim

Ethan Geiger

Tricia Harmon

Kayla Hess

Sebastian Isaacs

Eve’Lynn Jackson

Zoe Nienaber

Katelyn Rieder

Nate Sweeney

Faculty Advisor: Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D.