Lions-on-Line (in print)
Fall Issue 2019
2
Table of Contents “Ode to a Ball of Metallic Yarn,” Poem by Penelope Epple……...4 “Queen of Flowers,” Fiction by Richard Simon…………………..6 Photograph by Elizabeth Salmons……………………………….12 “Silence,” Poem by Ariana Spencer……………………………..13 “do i?” Poem by Ashley Bell…………………………………….14 “Arrest Me,” Essay by Emmanuel Hillstrom…………………….16 “Holy Oil and Human Flesh,” Poem by Penelope Epple………...18 Old Soul, Artwork by Grace Oppihle……………………………19 “Spirit of the Wind,” Fiction by Chloe-Rose Ramsey…………...20 “The Apprentice’s Dream,” Fiction by Skyler Houser…………..21 “Fragments in the Garden,” Poem by E. Phillips………………...25 Share the Light, Artwork by Grace Oppihle……………………..26 “Is This How Saints Are Made,” Poem by Penelope Epple……..27 Submission Details………………………………………………29
3
Ode to a Ball of Metallic Yarn; or, For All Those Still in the Closet Poem by Penelope Epple I know how it feels to be tightly wrapped in this unnatural form that you are expected to take. I know how easy this form comes unravelled and how terrifying that thought is. Don’t worry. One day, you will be able to relax and take on the form you were always meant to take. Remember, you still shine. You are an important part of the fabric of our community. You will make great things. I know this to be true, even if no one else thinks so. And if that never happens, I promise, even in this form that you were forced to take, 4
you are still loved.
5
Queen of Flowers Fiction by Richard Simon Part I He couldn’t risk moving his body much in the position he was in. Frank stared out into the endless horizon from the face of the cliff, and for a brief moment he forgot about the pain searing up like lightning from his leg. Hair full of mud, brow full of sweat, and blood cascading from his wounded leg onto the rock below, Frank’s eye was temporarily drawn to a flock of geese that he could see in the distance, making their way back north for summer’s warmer temperatures. The sun was setting behind the cliff’s southeastern face, and had emblazed the incoming twilight in hues of fire and lava. Set against that spectacular backdrop, barely more than dim specks in the iridescent twilight, were the geese, slowly and silently making their way across the expanse of sky. Frank looked down at his leg; he was bleeding out. He shifted his weight in order to apply more pressure to his leg, though nothing he did seemed to stem the flow of blood from the wound. An artery certainly, and probably with a .38 or .44. What difference did it make now? the distant whir of an engine running and the soft popping of gravel under rubber became audible in the distance. He was running out of time. Frank closed his eyes and thought of Maria. Her deep jet hair made her brown eyes appear even bigger than they were, and those eyes could have coaxed Frank grinning into the pits of hell. He thought of that strapless yellow dress with the red fringe she would wear when she needed him vulnerable. She thought she was putting him on, but really it was Frank who was getting what he wanted. The thought of that brought a regretful smile. He could hear the whir of the engine drawing closer. As the blood poured over his fingers, he felt a tinge of satisfaction before the world went dark. 6
************************************************************ She maneuvered her car into the parking lot of the Rusty Nail. The lot was mostly empty, save the white Cadillac parked in the spot nearest the door. There was another car as well, one Maria did not recognize. It was a black sedan with tinted windows, and parked at the far side of the lot, nearest the Canal Street exit. Seeing the unfamiliar and unexpected vehicle gave her pause, but she trusted Finch. Maria pulled her car into the spot next to the white Cadillac, and turned the key toward her to kill the engine. First giving a quick glance about to ensure she was indeed alone, she pulled the handle on the door and slowly exited the car. The Rusty Nail was an old sinkhole that catered to the yellow-vested road construction workers who were a mainstay in that part of town. From sunup to sunset, the endless stream of commuters would curse the yellowvests for making their long commutes even longer. After hours of whizzing cars and middle fingers and dirty puddles of rainwater sprayed onto them, the construction workers would gather at the Rusty Nail to take communion from whichever bartender happened to be there that night. On this night, however, there were no yellowvests, no bartenders, no communion to dispense. There was only Maria, Finch, and whomever that black sedan belonged to. After another glance over her shoulder to confirm she was alone, Maria steeled herself and grasped the handle of the oversized wooden door that made the entrance to the Rusty Nail. The door was as heavy as she remembered it to be, and the bells situated above gave a jingle to announce the presence of a patron. The barroom projected an eerie silence as she entered. Most nights, there was the smell of whisky and cigarettes to greet her, and a thousand drunken jeers of yellowvests in their reverie. On this night, the bar was empty but for Finch at the far corner, alone, seated at small round table. The faint glow of a fluorescent light above him comingled with the blue and gold neon light of a Corona fixture that hung on the wall behind him, 7
giving the appearance of a halo emanating from some fallen alehouse seraph. Finch sat with his head down as Maria approached, as if unaware of her presence, the glow of a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips below his thick dark mustache, slowly flipping cards from a deck into a game of solitaire. She stopped about three feet from the table and awaited his acknowledgement. “I love that dress,” Finch finally said, never looking up from his game. “Yellow is very nice on you. I’m pleased you decided to come. Sit.” Maria pulled a chair from an adjacent table, and did as she was told. The chair was hard and heavy, made of ancient oak, and compelled her to sit upright with her chest bent slightly forward. Of all the nights she had spent serving drunkards in these chairs, she realized that she had never actually sat in one of them before, and surmised that one needed to be shitfaced to do so comfortably. She quickly cast another glance around the room, which was empty, save for her, Finch, and the usual trappings of a dive bar after hours. “Of course I came. Why wouldn’t I?” Now Finch looked up from his cards, and for a brief moment their eyes met before he shifted backward, took a last drag from the cigarette, exhaled it slowly through his nostrils, and extinguished it in the tray beside him. She could see now that he was wearing a magenta shirt with a thin black tie beneath his black sport jacket. The blue-gold light of the Corona fixture behind him seemed to glow more intensely now, casting a strange penumbra of his outline on the table before her. “Por supuesto que lo harías, eres mi flor.” He twisted a subtle grin as he said the words. Finch positioned both of his elbows onto the table, spoiling his game of solitaire, and extended his hands, indicating that he wished for Maria to do the same, so that she might embrace them. Maria silently complied. As always, his hands were soft and welcoming. For a moment, Maria forgot about the neon shadows, the ancient oak chair, the 8
black car parked in the lot outside, and allowed herself to dissolve into the feeling that shot through every time that Finch touched her. “I need you for something.” “Okay.” Maria paused briefly, and tried to anticipate what Finch might be asking of her. “You know I always …” “I know, mi flor, but this is different.” Finch cast his eyes away from her, as if to buy time to work up the courage to tell her something. Just then, a crashing noise from beyond the double-doors to the kitchen broke their momentary silence. Maria wriggled from Finch’s grip, placed the palms of her hands firmly on the table, and pivoted slightly in the direction of the sound. She thought she could faintly hear a man’s voice from beyond the double-doors, but she couldn’t be sure, and through the windows of those doors she could see only darkness. Maria removed her hands from the table and placed them in her lap. Then she turned back to Finch. The effervescent feeling she always had when Finch touched her had now evaporated. “Who’s in there?” He answered her question with a hard gaze, cold as stone. “No one,” he said flatly, “probably just a pile of dishes that must have fallen into the sink.” “Whose black sedan is that outside?” Finch took a deep breath, the kind which always indicated he was making a first pass at subduing his wrath. “Listen …” He exhaled slowly, and again extended his hand, inviting Maria’s. Now slightly hesitant, she nevertheless extended her own, allowing Finch to grasp it in both of his hands. “I need you right now. I have a shipment coming in next month. I need your help with distribution.” Maria peered at Finch skeptically. “I don’t understand. I thought the arrangement was working to your satisfaction. Are we changing the procedure or something?” 9
Finch’s eyes danced wildly amidst his blue-gold halo of neon light. “You might say that. A new product. I’m expanding into a new market. Listen, Maria, this is going to catapult me to an entirely new level, and I want you … I need you to be by my side, to be my reina de las flores. Something inside of Maria turned sour. She glanced back at the double-doors to the kitchen; its windows stared back at her, unwaveringly, black as night. She turned back to Finch. “You know I’d do anything for you. What do you need me to do?” Finch pulled his hands away from hers, smiling with satisfaction. “First we’re going to get you a new house. Probably out in the desert on the southwest side.” This piqued Maria’s curiosity. “What kind of a house?” Finch drew another cigarette from a nearly empty pack in his breast pocket, and lit it. “The kind with the biggest garage.” Once again Maria heard the jingle of the bells as she leaned into one of the heavy wooden doors, and made her way back into the parking lot of the Rusty Nail. The clack-clack of her low-heel pumps against the asphalt reverberated off the building behind her, and seemed unnaturally loud against the quiet of the city night. The traffic light at the Canal and Orchid intersection blinked red, illuminating the lot in alternating strobes of crimson. On the far side of Orchid Street, a row of orange and white construction barrels lined the road as far as the eye could see, cycloptic beasts blinking in syncopation, evidence that the yellowvests would soon return. As Maria clack-clacked across the parking lot, she observed the black sedan was still there, and briefly considered approaching the vehicle to peer into the tinted windows to search for … for what she wasn’t sure. However, she thought better of it, and approached her own red convertible instead. Maria retrieved her keys from her bag, clicked a button on the 10
black disc attached to her keychain, listened for the subtle thwap of the doors unlocking, pulled on the handle of the driver’s side door, and gently slid down into the driver’s seat. Maria was still trying to process what Finch had told her. She placed her bag on the passenger seat and opened it again, rummaging for a small black change purse she had packed before she left for the Rusty Nail. When she found it, she unclipped it and retrieved the baggie of cocaine, peeled apart the small ziplock seal, and deposited enough for nice fat rail on the center console, coaxing it gingerly into a straight line two inches long and an eighth of an inch think with her pinky finger. She dug down into the bottom of her bag once again to retrieve the dollar bill she kept for just such a purpose, and returned it to its cylindrical shape, just wide enough to fit into her nostril. Pressing her left nostril with the thumb on her left hand, she twisted her body and hunched her face over the center console, consuming half the rail in one breath. Maria tilted her head back to avoid the drip, inhaled sharply, and closed her eyes while the sweet relief washed over her. She could feel her heartrate increase as a penetrating numbness spread its tendrils throughout her body. Taking stock of her surroundings once more, she noticed that Finch had still not left the bar, as his white Cadillac remained parked near the entrance. Then, just as she inserted her key to rouse the engine of her Mustang, she spied at a distance down Canal street the silhouette of what appeared to be a young woman, alone, walking in her direction. Again she arched in the direction of the center console, devoured the remainder of the cocaine, and sped off out the Orchid street exit, foot pressed to the floor, ignoring the flashing red traffic signal, bound for her apartment on the east side.
11
Photograph by Elizabeth Salmons
12
Silence Poem by Ariana Spencer I’m drowning in my silence. The silence, like waterfalls of grief, Cascade down around me. I can’t seem to find the words To let someone know How this quiet hurts me so. Silence has never been so loud. It’s screaming in my ears. It haunts me at night. It keeps me awake. But deep breaths and peaceful thoughts Calm me down. Love is all around me, And this thought makes me Get up and feel like fighting the metaphorical Monsters under my bed. Now, instead of my heart feeling Weighted down by demons, It’s floating on sunshine, And I feel like myself againAnd I hope to never lose that Shine in my soul again.
13
do i? Poem by Ashley Bell there was a time when we were infinite a time when everything about you melded into the cracks of my heart, completing it completing me your words would lift me from the ground and resurrect my energy pulling me in close and taking in every breathe of my being but when the sun went away our warmth went with it your smile turned to concrete and my teeth shattered against your own skin that used to glow in the darkness under my fingertips retreated to a dull light far too subtle to see and my hands became woven into a blanket nothing more than a cover for your distant body to rest beneath as my bones ached and my lungs filled with fear i let myself accept that one day you would leave me your sunlight would stop pulling my lifeless leaves out of the ground and i would be trapped under that blanket far too big for one 14
the gaping hole next to me where you once laid slowly ripping its way into my chest making a home for itself replacing what you used to fill inside of me i will be broken i will be empty you will be the death of me and i would let you destroy what’s left of me as long as that would make you happy (do i still make you happy?)
15
Arrest Me Essay by Emmanuel Hillstrom We leaned against a barricade, smoking cigarettes and ruminating not only the day’s events but also on the theories we used to understand them, as we starred at the army of police protecting the holy sight of empire. The police were smarter than we were. “They know how to theorize too,” I thought. How could we possibly breach that wall of riot squads, metal, and capital? How could we really Occupy Wall Street? Shut it down? Overcome the power it wielded in multiplicitous ways—in riot squads, metal, and capital? Just as Foucault described so well, or perhaps Gramsci was more appropriate for this situation? Or was it Butler? Or Hardt & Negri? Or MLK? Jesus most certainly had something to offer, too. The scene was perplexing—from within and from without. What weird distinctions, within and without. Was I not having a sort of existential crises within precisely because of the material conditions without? Income inequality. Police brutality. Racism. Homophobia. Transphobia. Endless war. Murderous healthcare. Mindless consumerism. Mass incarceration. Transphobia. Toxic masculinity. Mass extinction. Global Warming…The abyss of immanence. To be self-reflexive one must engage that which constitutes the self, this abyss. As Butler says, to think about one’s self, one must become a social theorist. Yet, we cannot simply stop there, as if mere understanding and awareness were enough—the liberal mistake. One can describe power, but one must also feel it, feel the weight of power bearing down on our sense of power and eliminating that power. Direct confrontation!—I mean no less than marching collectively to the gates of wall street, directly confronting that mercenary army that protects power. Seeing the iron barricades, the mounted horses, the bodies between them, the bodies blocking the better world you envisage, protecting the power that is restricting you, producing you. 16
Only in this direct confrontation can the torpidity of the liberal class be overcome—those who speak about ‘policy’ and ‘rationality’ and say things like “people just need to be educated” while at brunch. Feel the existential weight of your failure and the impotence of your action. With this move we are then able to say ‘let them arrest me’ and ‘I am willing to be arrested’ which amounts to saying also ‘all the reasons you give me for not being arrested bear no weight.’ In that moment alone, that moment when you are being beaten, zip tied, and screaming, “I am not resisting arrest” is the very moment when power has been challenged. The mystical theologians knew something—the self is gained by forfeiting it; though in our postmodern condition this is not really a forfeiting, but a realization that it was never there in the first place. To this end, we gain a nothingness that alone might still have the power to change the world. Arrest me. Arrest this me that you have produced. Arrest this me that has too much too loose by being arrested. Arrest this me that is too cynical to be arrested. Arrest this me that does not believe in revolution. Arrest this meek liberal piece of shit me that is too fucking scared to be arrested. Arrest me so that I might become free. Arrest me, so that I can become a person beyond the pitiful consumer you have fucking created. Arrest me! Arrest us all! I fucking dare you to arrest me.
17
Holy Oil and Human Flesh Poem by Penelope Epple I gild my skin with gold dust hoping its perfection will hide my lack there of. But it immediatly washes away not leaving a single speck, like a tiny star, to comfort me. Instead I am left with who I am, a form left half finished by the Divine who waits for me to complete Their work. (Some days it seems like I never will.) I find a blister on my finger. It’s location and state of healing suggests that I got it back... (what can I even call the place where I was born, anymore?) I annoint myself with olive oil and the funerary fragrance of myrrh. I will make myself holy ‘though I may be damned for doing so.
18
Old Soul, Artwork by Grace Oppihle
19
Spirit of the Wind Fiction by Chloe-Rose Ramsey Moves so fast that to passersby it just seems like a breeze. A ripple on still water, the rustle of leaves blowing down the street. He has never had a family. Has always been alone, wandering the Earth like the winds he’s created. Winds that shift sand dunes. Making deserts unrecognizable day by day. Winds that carve into rocks standing alone . . .
20
The Apprentice’s Dream Fiction by Skyler Houser I awoke within a Dream to find myself in a vast tundra plain. The silence that filled my senses was peaceful, perfect in its simplicity. I looked around, eyes soaking in everything. Soaking in the short, amber grass; the small pools of water; the sloping hills dotted with small flowers that extended from my feet to the jagged mountains beyond. They reminded me of broken glass teeth, the mountains. Gray clouds staggered throughout the sky above allowed only the smallest strips of sunlight to push between them and briefly kiss the ground before swallowing them back up. A light wind stirred around me, tugging like the hands of small children at my clothes. There was a chill to it, but it wasn't unpleasant. There was something so utterly...perfect about everything that I couldn't even hope to describe it. It felt like the plains before me had punched a hole straight through my heart only to fill it in a way that made it better than before. "Beautiful, isn't she?" a voice spoke from behind. I turned, finding myself in front of a man. Earthen cloth hung from his lanky frame and a grizzled yet fine pelt embraced his shoulders. Graying, tangled locks were tied behind his head, extending down half the length of his back. A surprisingly well-kept beard surrounded the hint of what appeared to be an amused smile, the kind of smile that crinkled the eyes. His calloused hands clasped a wooden staff with a sun-shaped head, down from which spiraled thousands of tiny words. I wondered what sorts of things the words said. "Who?" I asked. "The World, the Dream, ourselves," he swept one free hand in an arc, the gesture somehow encompassing all the eye could see and beyond. "All of it is beautiful, isn't it? And since we are all fragments of the great Mother Earth, the womb from which all life comes, doesn't it seem fitting to refer to it all in a feminine manner?" 21
A small smile hitched the side of my mouth, but I remained silent as I stared at the man. My silence, however, seemed to hold all the answer he wanted—dare I say expected?—for he smiled to himself and chuckled. "Come," he said, his voice low and full of vibration like rolling thunder, "I know why you have visited me tonight." He guided me down the bluff towards a small tent crafted from bone and hide, opaque tendrils of smoke curling up from a hole in the top. The winds pushing the tan walls in and out made it seem as though it was a living, breathing thing, slumbering silently amongst the shaggy tundra grasses. He stopped briefly at the tent's entrance. "Are you sure this is what you want? Once your eyes have been opened, I cannot guarantee that they will ever be able to close." I took in a deep breath, my eyes first looking to the ground and then out to the world around me. The grass swayed in rolling bursts as the Earth blew her breath across the plains. The little flowers that scattered the ground resembled fairies in the way they flitted back and forth. Off in the distance, great mammoths tossed their hairy trunks at one another in greeting. I shifted my eyes back to the man, slowly pushing the used breath out my lungs, "Yes," I told him. "I am ready." For several nights after I returned to that Dream, every time to find my teacher sat outside his tent, hands clasped around his staff with the sun-shaped head and the thousands of words spiraling down its height. Every night there was something new to uncover, to learn. Every word he spoke to me felt like an epiphany, yet part of me felt as if I'd known these truths my whole life. Sometimes, he would pause and ask me if the topic was boring or if he went too fast, and every time I would fervently shake my head "no." I was so eager to continue absorbing his words, so mesmerized with how well it all Clicked that neither of those thoughts ever dared to cross my mind. To me, even the smallest of lessons had me gripped in an intense excitement I could hardly begin to explain in words. He taught me of numbers and their meanings, of divinity and humanity and what it means to be them. He taught me the balance of male and female with all their in-betweens, and how everything boils down to 22
four basic elements. He taught me of Man outside the Dream with their wondrous capacity for creativity, and the thread that winds through and connects us all. With the lessons of Man, however, came the lessons of their cruel ways, how they defiled each other and their planet. How they shunned one sex or philosophy over the other and how it has infiltrated the very basis of their speech. How the people in power, who are meant to guide them, only exploit them like every other numerous resource set at their feet. Sometimes, the things he told me were too much for me to bear and I found myself reduced to tears. I would hide my face in my hands, ashamed that I was so naĂŻve to be troubled by the ways of the Waking World. He never let my emotions go neglected, however. As waves of feelings and thoughts and ideologies crashed into my soul, he would gently take my hands in his own and pull them towards his heart. Then, looking me almost urgently in the eyes, he would say to me, "I'm sorry that I have ruined your view of the Waking World. But even so, please never stop laughing, smiling, and loving, for there are still plenty of reasons to do so. Do you promise?" "I promise," I'd say, and I meant it. We met many more times in the same fashion. Every night a new philosophy, every night a new channel of my mind opened. I didn't want it to end. All I wanted was for my teacher to tell me everything he knew and beyond, an endless fountain of knowledge that I could share in. One night, I awoke to find my teacher's tent packed away, his slender figure planted before a smoldering fire. "Ah, you have arrived," he said and turned to look at me. I made a puzzled gesture, "Where is everything?" "Tonight is going to be a little different, my apprentice," he said, smiling as he drummed the sun-shaped head of his staff. "Tonight is when you will be ready to join the Waking World." I was astonished. How could he think that I was ready for such an important step? There was still so much I had to learn from him about the truths of reality. He smiled, placing his hand on my shoulder and told me, 23
"You already have all the tools you need to do that for yourself. There is no reason to be so distraught, for I always have been and always will be right here." He tapped my forehead, right in the spot where the Third Eye would be. "You are more capable than you think." ... I awoke within the Waking World to find myself among a throng of people. They rushed about without so much as a brief glance in my direction. The sounds that filled my senses were rhythmic yet devoid of pattern or reason, an endless clamor speaking in its nonsense tongue. Skyscrapers soared above our heads and jabbed like spears into the great blue above. Flashing lights and advertisements battled for everyone's attention as they plowed on forward, remaining encased in their personal realities. I blinked, looking down at my feet to find them firmly grounded in this plain. Grounded in this Waking World. No longer did the soft grass tendrils twist about my ankles, now it was grimy shoelaces and thinning denim. With a steadying breath, I looked up. I looked at the skyscrapers and the way they were like mountains of broken glass teeth, to the people in the distance and how they moved in throngs like the great mammoth herds, to the flashing lights and how they dotted the scene like little white flowers on the hillside. I spun slowly in place, gaining speed with each rotation, as I took in the world around me, letting the atoms and light and laws of physics and social philosophies and all the words that spiraled down the wooden staff with the sun-shaped head flow through me. I stopped. I was so hyper-aware of the sensation as warm tears slipped down my face and dripped into the concrete below. I wasn't sad, however. No, I felt...present. Content. I stood still as the cars and the people and the lights and the sounds passed over my body like a stream does a rock. I was so a part of it all that I was separate. I was more capable than I knew. I found myself thinking, She really is beautiful, isn't she?
24
FRAGMENTS IN THE GARDEN Poem by E. Phillips something’s [...] here buried in the rich dark soil sprouts have grown [...] flowers begin to bloom the roses are sweet and sharp pressing into my flesh [...] like a kiss you said you loved me i, well [...] is what i said was it me who was the nightshade? or was it you? either way / we were poisoning one another. something's died here. i think it was us.
25
Share the Light, Artwork by Grace Oppihle
26
Is This How Saints are Made? Poem by Penelope Epple I learned to pray before I learned to read. Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Glory bes repeated over and over and over again until I was praying the Rosary for years before I understood a word of it. My childhood was spent talking to angels and saints, my throat blessed with candles, a cross of ash upon my head. I grew to feast on flesh and blood so that I might become a mirror of my food and drink: Human and Divine. Eventually, I learned what dust I was formed from. (For even dust can be holy ground.) My eyes had been opened and I could not stay in the ignorance of Eden anymore, (For the Church is only Paradise if you don’t mind that it’s filled with snakes.) and for that I was damned. My Church had grown comfortable on bread and wine, on twisting hate ‘til you could be convinced that it was love and truth. I was condemned for living, like so many before. What else could I do but demand, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” I miss the taste of flesh and blood, 27
the fragrance of incense burning into my soul, the balm of olive oil rubbed into my skin, and prayers to saints that rise on candle-smoke. I await the day when I can enter a church without seeing the words, “Abandon all hope you that enter here,� hanging over the doorway. I may never see that day, at least, not during my time here in this world. After all my Church is not known for confessing its sins.
28
Submission Details 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 Editor-in-Chief: Fiction Editor: Creative Nonfiction Editor: Poetry Editor: Art Editor: Treasurer: Assistant Editors:
Madison Axtell Skyler Houser Conner Bryson Austin Breiner Trevor Theurling Penelope Epple Chloe-Rose Ramsey Ariana Spencer Mark Steinriede Elizabeth Taryn Mason
Faculty Advisor 29
30