Lions-on-Line Fall Issue 2022

Lions-on-Line

(in Print)

Lookin’ Up, Photograph by Sarah Haverbusch

Table of Contents

Is Anyone There, Photograph by Patricia Harmon………………………...4

“Voicemail,” Poem by Braxton Young…………………………………...5

“The Short Blacktop Path,” Fiction by Noah Douglas……………………6

“Seven-Eyed Raven,” Poem by Hailey Barnes……………………………8

Sunset Over the Forest, Photograph by Ryan Bach……………………...10

“Apples,” Poem by William Sack………………………………………..11

“The Golden,” Poem by Noah Douglas………………………………….13

“The Faery Kingdom of Falias,” Poem by Chloe Rose Ramsey………...14

All the Way Up to Heaven, Photograph by Patricia Harmon…………….16

“The Flower in the Tower,” Poem by Errol Richardson………………...17

“Groundless Execution,” Poem by Hailey Barnes……………………….18

“In a Bed of Roses,” Fiction by Kayla Hess……………………………..19 Childhood, Photograph by Alyssa McRoberts…………………………...28

“Chasing Dandelions,” Fiction by Kelsey Lloyd………………………...29

“Runner,” Poem by Errol Richardson……………………………………38

“Truth in Happiness,” Poem by Ethan Geiger…………………………...39

A Lot on Our Plates, Photograph by Patricia Harmon…………………...41

“Cold Burgers,” Fiction by Eve’Lynn Jackson…………………………..42

Sun and the Sea, Artwork by Alexa Theuerling…………………………43

“Never Ending Noise,” Poem by Abby Crim……………………………44

They Thought So, Artwork by Emma Garner……………………………45

Is Anyone There? Photograph by

Patricia Harmon

Poem by Braxton Young

I wonder if the moon and sun be having conversations

What I would do to hear the gossip of the constellation Fly Around the stars and mars for my infatuation

I heard space really feels like the ocean

Addicted to your love never needed a potion you and I could take off right now.

The feelings I have is too much for me to write down

You get me high as a plane

I wonder if the feelings you have are the same But all I can do is wonder

We don’t speak as often as I want

Or as often as I need

You’re a breath of fresh air

But I’m as green as a tree Another hopeless voicemail

When I wish you were here with me

The Short Blacktop Path

Fiction by Noah Douglas

The short blacktop path. I have walked it a great many times. It is not a lengthy path, nor does it possess any monumental scenery, and it has never once proven itself noteworthy of any bypasser. However, I have learned to appreciate the mildly fresh air that blows in from miles of growing fields. Life seems to thrive, if only for a moment, in this small sanctuary. It has long served as a temporary reprieve from the foul stench of drugs, decadence, and decay that plagues the world around me.

Each step I took brought me a foot closer in my mental journey. I have long since failed to think clearly while boxed up in my dark room like a withered husk waiting to accept a fate devised from the scheming minds of others. It may seem that I am not permitted freedom of choice in terms of how I live my life, in how my voice is heard, and what I may believe. If I may not choose my path, like a great many others as the world falls into ruination, then the only freedom that exists is within my mind’s eye. This power is one which no box may contain, no class may tame, and no foul spirit can conquer.

Another step. The dimensional veil was pulled back before me, and above I witnessed a great host about me. Below my feet, formed the fires of perdition and a multitude of forces from the depths of the earth. I found myself within the midst of these two great tides. My heart became a conduit by which I could choose to channel either one of these.

As my path crumbled away, I found myself thrown about in a struggle between light and dark. I summoned all my strength in some effort to shield myself from the pressure which so easily moved me. Yet the strength of men is nothing compared to the storms which are the forces beyond our grasp. Likewise, the fortitude of the heart alone is little more than a meek facade in the face of such powers.

My body felt as though it were stretched like a band of rubber, further and further, thinner and thinner, nearly about to snap. I soon came to realize, surely this is no path which I can walk alone. I had to choose a side. While my mind may have been freed of the worldly machine, and I received the power to make choices within my heart, I also became aware of the forces beyond the veil, and found myself forced to choose where my next steps lie.

Whatever choice I made, it would have to be quick. Such beauty, grace, and majesty revealed itself to me from above, but with that came a sense of sacrifice and selflessness which inspired a sensation of fear within me. From below, I felt power which would see my ambitions met and my desires satisfied. Yet, upon looking deeper I found that there was also a loneliness of the spirit, a suffering brought on by decadence, and a great emptiness for those who were near to this abyss.

For but a moment, I reached my hand downward in an effort to take hold of the depths. However, my hand quickly recoiled as I saw within the deep, the same world from which I sought earlier to escape. So I grasped the light, and pulled away from the darkness which released me like broken shackles and retreated into the earth.

Suddenly, I found myself back on that short blacktop path, and I gladly walked with company towards my final destination. As I walked, I passed another whom, like myself, walked the short blacktop path. For a mere second, I saw a glimpse of the same forces which beckoned me to both the heavens above and the earth below. In their eyes, there was the same uncertainty and turmoil that plagued me. I offered them a simple smile which revealed the light in my eyes, and they were quickly aware of the choice that I made, and where I ended up.

Seven-Eyed Raven Poem by Hailey Barnes

The world was barren and brown And there were many bodies on the ground

A single dead tree

There I fell to my knees

The big black raven I have seen Looked like that from an Edgar Poe scene And it was quite obscene When it started talking to me I had to confess And let everything come off my chest

It then grew seven eyes And told me to look to the sky "Do not cry and weep

For the wound is not that deep Bloodied skies is what they will reap They will be taken down below And thrown about, to and fro"

I asked, "Will I find what I seek?"

The seven-eyed raven said, "It is very bleak. When you come home, You will be alone" "Why?!"

I asked desperately The seven eyed raven said frantically "Because it is so!"

It then swooped down And took my silver crown And left me to waste

So I would come face to face With my own demise With

no goodbyes

Sunset Over the Forest, Photograph by Ryan Bach

Apples

Poem by William Sack

The sun polishes The ruby luminescence And water droplets Bevel the surface Blushing and basking In ultimate juvenescence Until picked And pulled from the light

The hungry go scratching Peeling away at the skin And the scarlet goes Plummeting to the ground

Underneath, solidity The color of a distant star Or sand or cream or flesh Or the pages of a book

The flesh is taken too Solidity dismantled Everything returned To dust But it is sweet And the juice follows The curvature of the jaw

Caressing the cliffside

From which it is pushed

Whittled into obscurity Utterly devoured

To the core Which is tossed away And the hungry Go on searching Not knowing The core contained The seeds From which trees Keep growing

The Golden Poem by Noah Douglas

Though ages come and go, men live and pass, famine and war rage, and the world mourns, there still lies a beauty old.

It burns like fire in the night, and reflects the sun of light.

It rises out of abyssal darkness, and touches heavenly splendor to bless us with golden dreams.

Despite the envious claws of sublunary indignity, golden hope burns like Sirius in the shadow.

It was here when my eyes opened. It will be here when they dim and I am lowered into the ground.

It persists forever, until the dark has been swallowed, and all that’s vile has lost

The Faery Kingdom of Falias Poem by Chloe-Rose Ramsey

From His palace of gold and rosy light perched above the valley of clouds and precipices of hazy blue I descended … to The Faery Kingdom of Falias

In death I have become part Faery as I wished in life, when the ghost of gossamer wings hovered over my back and I could only hear Him in my head.

To earn my wings I offered to make great sacrifices, but He shook His head, ‘no’, smiled at me in endearment, and wings, luminous as the sun setting through a rose window, unfurled like flowers from my shoulder blades. ‘only travel to the four faery kingdoms,’ He said, ‘so you may learn about your new heritage,’

So here I descend in a sunbeam, particles of dust, glittering like stars or infinite grains of sand, dance like the cosmic harmonies round me as I float down to Falias, The Faery Kingdom of Earth and the North.

What did I find there? You are living, and I am dead, so I’ve been forbidden to share this with you,

There are many secrets I must keep from you.

But you know this one, you don’t know you know, but you do!

This is the place where the magic known as life first sprang, Your soul remembers.

Up

All the Way

to Heaven, Photograph by Patricia Harmon

The Flower in The Tower Poem by Errol Richardson

I have a flower

It seems all alone

Since I give it such tone I’ve locked it in a tower I give it everything it needs I give it water, soil, and air But it never seems fair

Since it will never produce seeds It whispers how to fly It whispers my defeat It whispers around my feet But it lies

Groundless Execution Poem by Hailey Barnes

I can hear the jeers of the crowd, Because they know I am bound.

With my hands balled into fists And rope tied around my wrists, I struggle to break free From the two tracks before me. The crowd is anxious for my demise, And now I know these people I despise. I shouted in defiance But then I knew No one would aid me Not even those closest With my knees bleeding in the gravel, I know this is betrayal, And all I can smell is diesel.

The Earth has begun to rumble, And the dirt and rocks shake. The crowd cheered in delight And I was ready to receive my fate Then something in me still wanted fight But it was too late

Those murderous, emotionless eyes watched While I screamed and the train roared.

In a Bed of Roses Fiction

by Kayla Hess

It was a beautiful funeral. If I am even allowed to call a funeral “beautiful” in the first place. I was surrounded by people I barely even knew. I felt like I was a stranger in a sea of familial grief. I did not mind it though. I had already rode my own tidal wave of sadness a year ago. This time however, I felt like I was in control. Whatever being “in control” really means.

Still, it was painful for me to let go of this woman. She was more than just another old person slowly dying in a nursing home. More than just someone’s aging mother, grandmother for that matter. She was a person I grew to care for, and if I had not stopped to get to know her, then I would not have grown to care for her much at all. But I did.

Her daughter asked that I give a speech. What could I say to sum up this woman I had only known for several months? After everyone had filed into the church, I walked up to the podium with my wrinkled document in hand and pulled the microphone towards my lips. Unsettled eyes from the black clad crowd bore into me as they waited for me to say something, anything. Unable to wait any longer, I said, “Hi, my name is Kara Steiner. Dorinda Pryor was not your average friend for an eighteen-year-old like me...”

Several months ago, I thought that this was the last place I wanted to be as I sat hunched over on a toilet in the dingy bathroom of the local funeral home. I shifted from the extreme of wanting to sob to forcing myself to stay calm and collected. It was no use though since the calm had already cascaded out of me when I walked in the door. Nothing about this was calming, the air reeked of death and dying. I felt defeated and forced to deal with the reality of the situation, one which I couldn’t comprehend. Couldn’t accept. She’s dead, I’ll never see her again, never see her again while I’m still alive. How morbid is that? This was much easier the first time around. I was only a child when my grandpa passed. Being an adult now means I know more than I used to, innocence can only last so long. I might as well cry.

After retreating from the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom, I waded my way towards the casket through small groups of my family and family friends as they talked in hushed tones. The red and white roses draped across her casket paid homage to her name Rosalyn and her nickname “Rosie”. My grandma looked so

familiar as she rested in her final place. She wore her trademark polo shirt and black dress pants. Pink lipstick and slight blush. A small red bag of Doritos smuggled in beside her. They were her favorite.

As I gazed at my grandma in awe I was struck by a startling revelation, “She’s a mannequin. My grandma looks like a mannequin.” These words penetrated my mind. It was undeniable to me at this point that she was firmly gone. I know she would want me to be happy and to keep living my life to the fullest, but happiness was the furthest thing from me.

“Are you sure about this? You’ll be working in the same place that grandma lived. I’m just worried that it will remind you too much of her,” my mom told me anxiously.

“Yes, mom, this is something that I want to do. I know this is something she wanted me to do too. It’s been two months since she passed away, plus, I know you want me to have a job for the summer,” I reassuringly replied.

“It’s a good idea for you to make money, you know, to save up for college. I’m glad you’re going to work at The Grove, I think you’ll really like it. I know how much you like to help other people. Despite my worry, I know that grandma would be very proud of you. She always was.”

“Whenever I came to visit her, I told her that I was going to work at The Grove. I want to keep my word on that promise Mom,” I said with a smile.

“When do you start? Do you know where you’ll be working or what you’re going to do?”

“I begin on Monday. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing exactly, I guess I’ll know when I get there. ”

That following Monday, I pulled into The Grove’s parking lot and parked in one of the empty spaces. I walked into the entrance wearing my new uniform; a black t-shirt emblazoned with “I Love The Grove” and black pants. After getting my temperature checked at the kiosk, I sanitized my hands and put on one of the disposable masks. Before heading upstairs, I clocked in with my badge. Once upstairs I was met by one of the supervisors in charge of the food service.

“Hi Kara! It’s nice to meet you, thank you for deciding to work here at The Grove. You’ll get used to where everything is the more you work here, so ask questions if you are ever confused. Today, you’ll be down in Orchards; it’s on the ground floor. It is typically a floor for residents who are in rehabilitation, so unlike another wing here, the residents in Orchards typically come and go based on when

they recover. You can go into the dry pantry and grab one of those carts and take it with you to Orchards,” the supervisor instructed me carefully.

Fortunately, from coming to visit my grandma every weekend, I was able to locate where most things were in the building with relative ease, including Orchards. Once I arrived at Orchards, I was surprised to find the other person I was working with was someone I knew from high school.

“Hi Liz! You work here too?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Hey Kara! Yeah, I work here, I’ve worked here for a couple years. It’s great to see you again. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too! I’ve got one of the carts from upstairs and the breakfast tickets for tomorrow.” I replied motioning to the cart.

“Great! You can just put them on the table over there and put the cart over by the kitchen door. I’ll show you what you need to do.”

While Liz dished out the food, I got the drinks for the orders and placed the trays of food on a metal cart nearby. Soon, the cart was filled and there was no more space.

“You can take those to the residents in the 40’s rooms. If you go outside the kitchen the 40’s rooms are to your left,” she told me, while pointing to the entrance of the kitchen.

“Okay,” I replied. I pushed the creaky cart out into the hallway and began to deliver the trays. The process went by quickly as I looked at the room number on each of their meal tickets and went to the corresponding rooms. Soon enough, I had delivered all the dinner trays to the 40’s and 50’s rooms. All I had left to do was deliver the last dinner tray to the final 60’s room, Dorinda Pryor. I knocked lightly on the wooden door.

“Who’s there?” the woman inside inquired.

“Hi, I’m here to bring you your dinner,” I said while bringing the tray into the room. When I entered, I saw a frail and skinny woman with dark and curly short hair sitting on a sofa near her television. She had wire framed glasses and was wearing a light blue dress and sensible shoes.

“Hello, hun! You can just set it on my side table over here.” Dorinda said. I placed the tray down on the table and was about to walk out the door when she called out to me again.

“Excuse me, what is your name?” she asked.

“My name is Kara.” I stated.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kara. Thank you for bringing me my dinner,” Dorinda told me with a smile.

“You’re welcome, it’s no problem.” I said, returning her smile. As I was getting ready to go back to the kitchen, Dorinda spoke once more.

“If you aren’t too busy, I have some brownies and other snacks. I’m sure you get hungry on the job, and I’d be happy to share some with you.” she spoke pleasantly.

I was conflicted. I shot a quick glance at my watch at the time and bit my lip. I had to get back to work, and I wasn’t sure if I should stop to chat with this woman since there were dishes to be done. However, since she had asked so kindly, I decided to spend at least five minutes.

“Sure, I’d love a brownie, thank you,” I replied, taking a seat next to her on the sofa.

“Here you go,” Dorinda said, handing me a paper plate with a brownie on it along with a small bottle of water. It was deliciously fudgy with plenty of chocolate.

“This tastes great, thank you Mrs. Pryor. I like the middle pieces the best when it comes to brownies.”

“Me too!” she commented with a glint in her eye, “You’re welcome, but you can call me Dorinda. How long have you worked here for?”

“Today’s my first day. I started working here because my grandma used to be a resident here, but she passed two months ago unfortunately. I’ve always liked helping people though, so I just wanted to give back,” I explained.

“You’re doing a great job for it being your first day. I’m sorry to hear your grandma passed away. That must be hard. What was her name?”

“Rosalyn Hosbrook.”

“Rosalyn... hmm... that name sounds familiar. Oh my gosh, I remember now! I used to live on London Drive. We were neighbors. Her house was across the street from mine.”

“Really? That is incredible that you two knew each other. I had no idea; my grandma had never mentioned you before, at least not to me.”

“Rosie and I would go out to lunch or shop together while our husbands were at work. I remember that I would bring over my daughter to her house so that she could play with her two daughters and vice versa. We were good friends I recall,

and she was one of my favorite neighbors. One thing about Rosie was that she was kind, never mean.”

“Do you have any favorite memories from that time you two were neighbors?” I spoke intently, captivated by this sudden connection between this woman and my grandma.

“We’d celebrate holidays together throughout the year. On Halloween, Rosie would always offer to take my daughter out for trick or treating with her kids while I handed out candy to the children that came around the neighborhood. Before the kids would head out, we’d take pictures of them in their little costumes and give them goody bags packed with sweets.”

“It sounds like you enjoy being a mother. I bet you have photo albums packed with snapshots. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see them just so I could get a glimpse into what my grandma looked like back then.”

“I do, I’ll definitely let you see them if you want to. It is different now that I’m older, but I will always be a mother. Gosh, I used to love handing out candy to the kids in the neighborhood on Halloween. They came up to my door with grins on their faces and without a care in the world. I always knew I wanted a child. Having one helped me to relive my childhood over again.”

“I don’t know if I can say the same, I’m not sure if I want kids. But I’m happy that you knew what you wanted. Do you have any other children besides your daughter?” I asked in return.

“Well, after I had my daughter, I eventually wanted to have another child”, Dorinda spoke with a slight exhale, “but my husband and I were racked with infertility complications. I was unable to conceive, and it was devastating. I felt like my body had betrayed me in a way.”

“That is terrible. I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I can’t imagine wanting something so badly, but it was physically impossible. Do you ever regret not being able to have more children now that you’re older?”

“In all honesty, Rosie’s children, your mom and aunt, became like the children I never had, in addition to my daughter of course. My husband and I would take all the girls on vacation if it was the summertime and on trips to the candy store or the mall in the neighborhood. Sure, it would have been nice to have another biological child, I mourned for a while, but Rosie’s family became my family too. They filled the place that I felt was empty and made my family whole again.” Dorinda recollected, smiling.

“I guess it is true that friends can be the family you choose.” I remarked. “Yes, I suppose so, for me, it meant everything.”

I took another glance at my watch, and saw that five minutes had passed, I had to leave to get back to work, although I would have gladly stayed with Dorinda and talked with her the rest of the night.

“I’m sorry but, I have to get back to work. I have to go around and pick up the empty trays from people’s rooms and do the dishes. It was lovely meeting you though and being able to talk. I’m happy that my grandma was in your life. It makes me happy to hear about how she gave you joy.” I exclaimed, excusing myself.

“It was wonderful meeting you as well, Kara. Your grandma truly was a special person, one of my closest friends. Knowing Rosie, I’m sure you are fabulous like she was. Come back any time. I have plenty of brownies and treats. If you ever have any free time, feel free to come back and visit.” Dorinda spoke as I stood by her door.

“Have a good night, Dorinda.”

“You do too, hun.”

The more I got into my job, the more capable I became, and soon I understood all the nooks and crannies of The Grove. Working there helped me to come to terms with my grandma’s passing, in a strange way, I felt comfortable being in the place where she had died. Being able to give back through service gave me a new sense of purpose. Whenever I saw light come through the windows, I knew that she was watching me with pride.

Although I didn’t get to work in Orchards for every shift, I kept visiting Dorinda. I’d go see her after a shift, or if I had a day off from work. Visiting Dorinda allowed me to learn more about my grandma when she was younger and gain a new friend in the process. When I’d come to visit, she would give me a snack and a drink, I’d take a seat on her sofa, and we’d catch up.

“What have you been up to lately, Kara?” Dorinda asked, handing me some chips. It was one of my days off, and I was visiting.

“I’ve been doing a lot of running this summer. I have to stay in shape because I start cross country season again in the fall.”

“It’s great that you run every day. I never played sports when I was your age, for women back then there weren’t as many opportunities as there are now. But I’m sure I would have liked it.”

“I like being able to run in college. It feels great to be a part of a team and achieving personal goals. Do you have any favorite hobbies?”

“Well, I do like to crochet. My mother taught me when I was young, and I kept practicing. At your age, I made business out of it. I used to make scarves, blankets, hats, animals, in all kinds of colors and sell them. My neighbors would come to my house and buy what I had at my stand, and I’d make some money.”

“Crochet was one of those art forms I just couldn’t do. You must have a lot of talent. You should have seen it, one time we were making crochet blankets for a volunteer project at school. I guarantee that no one would have wanted mine.”

“You’re being silly!” Dorinda waved off while laughing, “I don’t know about talent; it takes a lot of hard work to be able to make things. I still crochet for myself, and I make stuff for my grandchildren too. I’d say that it is one of my greatest joys, it makes me feel useful even as an 80 something year old.”

“That’s wonderful. I bet they just love getting what you make as a Christmas or birthday present. I don’t think you should worry about being useful though, becoming friends with you has been one of the best parts of working here,” I added Dorinda looked away for a moment as if absorbing my words, then she took my hands in hers. They were pale and warm, years of living etched into the lines of her palms. “You don’t know how much that means to me, thank you. You are a beautiful and sweet young woman, never forget that. Having you as my friend is the best part of my day.”

“Thanks Dorinda.” I said, squeezing her hands in return. Afterward, I took a sip of water and looked around her room. Except for some picture frames of family and friends, the walls of her room were bare. For a woman with such positivity, this seemed out of place.

Dorinda took a sip of her water and then spoke. “You know, I do wish I had more things to hang on my walls. Something more colorful for sure, I do get tired of looking at the same four walls every day. I’d like something new to change it up.”

“I think I can help you with that.” I suggested, an idea had popped into my mind.

I had just clocked out from my shift and was heading to my car. Carefully, I picked up and carried a piece of paper in a manila envelope from the back of my trunk into the building. She’s going to be thrilled, I thought in anticipation, as I made my way to her door. I was about to enter her door when I heard Dorinda’s

voice coming from inside. It sounded stern. I held back and stood outside the door, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“You never come to visit me. You don’t Delilah, I know you don’t!” Dorinda snapped into her phone. It was quiet for a few minutes before she angrily lashed out again. “I never get to see my grandchildren either, they don’t show up. No one ever comes to visit me and I’m sick of it!”

The last noise I heard was a loud slam of the phone back into its cradle. I stood breathless outside her door, slightly fearful. I was stunned, from all I’ve heard before, Dorinda loved her only daughter, so why was she so furious at her? She had raved in the past about her caring and doting family and how they visited her often. None of it made sense. I considered leaving, but I changed my mind when I thought of how Dorinda might perk up if she saw my surprise.

I hesitantly walked into her room, unsure of what I’d find. “Hi Dorinda, it’s Kara. I’m here to see you. If it’s not a good time, I can come back another day.”

“No, it’s no problem. Come in and sit with me.” Dorinda called out; she sounded weak, like her energy was depleted. Once I saw her, I knew something was wrong. She was slightly hunched over, and her face was flushed from tears. I quickly took a place beside her and grabbed a box of tissues. I handed her a couple and she took them gratefully and wiped her red eyes.

“I appreciate you being here, your friendship is important to me as you know, especially when I get in the middle of phone calls like that,” Dorinda spoke quietly while playing with the tissues in her hands.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why were you so angry at your daughter? Last week, I remembered you told me how Delilah had brought you a bouquet of tulips and took you out to lunch. Don’t you remember?” I asked.

Dorinda was silent for a few moments, her head bowed as if she was in deep thought and her hands were tightly clenched around the tissues. Whatever she was searching for, it didn’t seem to appear, and she looked at me with a confused gaze.

“I... I’m not sure. I don’t remember that at all. I do have a bouquet of tulips though, but I don’t know where they came from. I’m angry at Delilah because she never comes to visit me, and neither do my grandchildren, you think they’d know better, being grown adults. I raised them right; they should want to visit me, you know? So, why don’t they show up?”

I was stunned, none of what Dorinda was saying made any sense. Delilah had shown up earlier this week to visit her, and so did her grandchildren, they took her

to the zoo to see the animals. Dorinda had gushed all about it to her, went on and on about how majestic the lions were. Had she suffered a fall and was having memory loss?

“I’m so lonely, Kara, and so bored. I can stare at the television for hours and I start to feel like my only friends are the people I see on the screen. It feels like the walls are closing in on me and that I’m trapped in a cage. It sickens me, it really sickens me...” Dorinda muttered, growing slightly hysterical. She squeezed the life out of the tissues in her hands until they were crumpled bits.

I, growing increasingly frightened over Dorinda’s agitated state, reached out one of my hands and placed it on top of hers to soothe her. She stopped crying when I grasped her hand.

“Dorinda, I’m not sure what’s going on, but I want you to know that I’m here for you and that I’m not going anywhere. Okay? You are not alone, whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it, don’t be afraid to ask.” I instructed her calmly, keeping my voice steady and rational.

Dorinda loosened her tight grasp on the tissues and finally gave me a sincere smile.

“Oh, I know you’ll always be here for me, honey. One of the brightest spots of my day is being able to see you.” she said sweetly.

Childhood, Photograph by Alyssa McRoberts

Chasing Dandelions

Fiction by Kelsey Lloyd

Dear You, Do you remember dandelions? Not the yellow ones that littered every patch of green grass in the city. The white ones. The ones that you wish on. The ones where you pluck them out of the soil, scrunch your eyes closed, and think really hard about something you want. The ones where, after your wish has been fully formed, you suck in as much air as your lungs can muster, then blow with just as much effort.

When I was a kid, I used to wish for fireworks. Without fail. I would scrunch up my eyes, envision the explosions of light, blow, then fling my eyelids open. Also without fail, there were never any fireworks. I would chase those floating strands of fluff that I had severed from their stem with my breath. I would chase those dandelions, thinking that I didn’t wish strong enough, I didn’t blow hard enough, and that if I were given another chance, the fireworks would appear.

Every day, I would go out into my yard, pick as many dandelions as I had the time for, and wish for those fireworks I desired so much. Scrunch, wish, blow. No fireworks. Chase the dandelion wisps floating through the air. Scrunch, wish, blow. Still nothing. Chase the dandelions. Scrunch, wish, blow. Nothing. Chase. Then one day, my family moved. Packed up and left in what seemed like a blur. We moved into an apartment in the city “for Mom’s work”. All I cared about was that there were no more dandelions, and I was sure that my wish would never come true.

That is until I met you.

Coming from a different city, I had no friends. Living in a stuffy apartment with no dandelions left me hopeless. I started a new school, in the middle of the academic year. A complete outcast.

Then, one day, after an invisible two weeks in this new world, you saw me. You sat down next to me while I read on the playground. You asked me what my name was and where I was from. I was too stunned to respond; I thought for sure that you would get up and leave. But you stayed. You coaxed the answers out of me, stayed patient through my shyness, and became my best friend. That’s usually how it works in fourth grade, isn’t it? Every day, we would sit together at the blue table with holes in it that hid on the outskirts of the playground. We would stand on

the benches that were attached to the round table, taking advantage of the unsecured seat to pretend that we were “surfing in the USA”. I don’t remember where that phrase came from, but I remember that we loved it.

As we grew older, we also grew closer. We were each other’s only friends; outcasts together. We were lucky enough to live only a mile away from one another, so you were at my house every day. I wasn’t allowed to go to your house though. My parents told me that your dad liked Busch Light too much. At the time, I didn’t understand what that meant.

Fourth grade came and went. Then fifth grade, then sixth. With each passing year, we made more memories. Defeating pirate ships, discovering islands. I would be a princess and you would be my prince charming, saving me from dragons and werewolves. Then I would tire of being the damsel in distress, so I would rescue you instead. We rode bikes around town, wreaked havoc in the stores, and always, always ended our day by begging my parents to take us to the park. When they did, we would push each other on the swings, jump off the teeter-totters, and pick the very best dandelions to wish on. You would tell me what you wished for, usually something that dealt with you and your mom moving away from your dad. Then you’d ask to know my wish too, but I never told you. I felt that I was wiser than you because I knew that if you said a wish out loud, it wouldn’t come true.

One time, I asked you why you always wished to move away from your dad, but you said you didn’t want to talk about it, so I never brought it up again. Once we hit middle school, we weren’t allowed to spend the night together anymore. You know, boys and girls. We were getting older and all that mumbojumbo. Our parents didn’t understand that we had no intentions with one another. We were just friends. Along with this change, middle school brought on new adventures. The first signs of acne, which we made fun of each other for, and the Washington DC field trip, when we weren’t allowed to sit next to each other on the bus.

The summer after eighth grade came and went, and we saw very little of each other. Our summers consisted of vacations and reading homework. When we did see each other, it was as if a day hadn’t gone by, and we would jump back into the swing of things. They were for shorter periods of time though. Everyone seemed busy, and busy at different times. You would stay for dinner or we would get ice cream with my parents. We felt like we had to act more maturely around them because we were “becoming young adults”. But on the occasions that we were

alone, riding bikes or playing basketball at the park, our imaginations ran rampant. We were still kids, even if our parents had other ideas. Then high school started. We didn’t have any classes together, and you hit a growth spurt within the first two weeks of the semester. The football coach recruited you, and I joined cross country. We became our own people, separate from one another. We were no longer outcasts. The three elementary/middle schools had combined into one high school, so everyone was looking for friends. At first, we tried hanging out after school still, but our practice times were different and we both had lots of homework. We were parts of two different circles. You ate and practiced and partied with the football guys. I ate and practiced and had bonfires with the cross country team. We were our own people. You focused on football, then basketball, then baseball. Each passion had its own season, and I just wasn’t a part of that anymore. I focused on school. I took all advanced classes, joined nearly every club offered, played violin in the orchestra, and trained yearround for cross country and track. We went our separate ways.

You know, I think that was good for us. I think that before high school, we found our identities in one another. Before that fateful fourth grade day, I was a nobody. I only felt like I had become a person because you saw me as one, not because I did. Being forced to not center my days around you was hard at first. But it forced me to find confidence in myself. I had to make friends on my own. I had to get involved in things on my own. I had to spend my small amounts of free time with people who weren’t you. I had to learn to find myself worthy of other people before I was brave enough to treat myself as such.

But I did it. I made good friends and dropped the toxic ones. It wasn’t easy, but I knew what kind of friendships I wanted, what kind of friendships I deserved, because we had built such a great one back in the fourth grade.

I still remember the feeling that swelled in my chest junior year when I walked into Spanish 30 minutes early on the first day of school and you were already sitting in the classroom. I glanced at the seating chart and saw that you and I had been placed right next to each other. Our school was relatively large, and over the course of those three years, this was the first class we had been in together. We hadn’t spent time together, just us, in years. We’d exchanged friendly “hellos” and smiles in the hallways, but we may as well have been strangers. I remember forcing myself to walk toward you. I’m still not sure why it was so hard for me to put one foot in front of the other.

My heart was fluttering, whether from excitement or anxiety, I wasn’t sure. But I remember feeling hot and cold and sweaty and shivering all at the same time. You looked up at me as I sat at the desk directly next to you, and for the splittest of seconds I could have sworn I saw surprise flicker in your eyes. But composed as ever, you gave me that grin that I used to know so well, and after a few minutes of awkward small talk, it was just like old times. We caught up, you spinning wild tales of late night rides to Cry Baby Bridge, the bridge on the outskirts of town that everybody knew was haunted, narrowly escaping death, and me spilling all the juiciest gossip that I had heard from the girls on the cross country team who were more popular than me.

Spanish began and ended in a flash, and I knew it was going to be my favorite class that year. At first, we would purposely show up before the bell rang so we could talk, and then we would walk out together until our inevitable departure in the hallway. Then we started choosing each other for every partner-based in-class activity and group project. Eventually, I went to one of your football games specifically to watch you.

Since your games were on Friday nights and my meets were on Saturday mornings, I usually wasn’t allowed to go. If I did, it had to be a home game, and I had to leave at halftime. But one day, my cross country coach decided to sign us up for a night race. A Saturday night race. I begged my parents to let me go to the game. I told them I wanted to cheer you on, that we had become friends again. They always liked you, and the fact that it was a home game helped too. They eventually said yes, and I stood in the student section, half paying attention and half talking to my friends. It was a close game, only a two-point difference, and I remember the nail-biting end. We kicked a field goal. If the kicker got it, we would win. He missed though; probably crumbled under the pressure.

The other cross country girls and I hung around after the game, buying the last of the concession stand popcorn and hot chocolate. Eventually, we all had to leave. As I walked through the gate separating the football stadium and the parking lot, I heard my name. I spun around to see you emerging from the locker rooms. You were sweaty and smelly, so I made sure that you knew it. You grinned one of those classic grins and tried to shove your armpit toward my nose. Laughing, I pushed you away and said that I was leaving. You were too, so we walked out to the parking lot together. Our cars were only a few spots away from one another, so as I opened my driver’s side door, I could hear you ask if I still liked milkshakes. Of

course I did. So I texted my parents and we went to the 24-hour diner. This is the night that I credit for changing everything.

We both stayed up past midnight that fateful Friday, yet somehow I still managed to run the best race of my career on Saturday. A 15 second PR. And to make things even better, you were there, waiting for me at the finish. I didn’t know that you would be there. You claimed that it was to repay me for going to your game the night before, but what you really did was start a trend of us constantly “repaying” each other. I would convince my parents to let me go to the football games, even the away ones, as long as I left after I talked to you at halftime. In return, you would come to my meets, even the really early ones. Sometimes you would get there late and only see the last part of my race, but I didn’t care if you saw me run. I was just happy that you came.

Eventually, our seasons ended. You had gotten injured during your last game, a torn ACL. That meant that you couldn’t play basketball and we had to come up with new excuses to see each other. With every opportunity we saw, we would grab on tight with both hands. I would text you that I was going to the grocery to ask if you needed anything, I could drop it off after. You would figure that you may as well come with me, just to make sure you got what you wanted. You would text me after a holiday, remarking that the candy was probably on sale. I would suggest that it was imperative for us to go to the store and find out. You’d pick me up, or I’d pick you up, depending on whose idea it was. Then Spring came. We had eaten at Chipotle together, to support a school fundraiser, of course. You drove. We got back to my house, but before I got out of the car, you asked me out on a date. 7 A real date. I was so excited that all I could do was nod my head and muster out a feeble “Yeah.” I got out of your car and scurried inside, rushing to my bedroom and closing the door behind me. I FaceTimed my friends, group-chat-style. Practically squealing, I told them about the night’s endeavors. I had been keeping them updated on all of our random “adventures”, also known as grocery trips, speculating whether or not you would ever actually ask me out. Now that you had, they were the first people I wanted to tell. They weren’t exactly supportive though. They never really liked you. They thought that you were just a dumb jock who partied and toyed with girls, like all the other football guys. But they didn’t know you like I did. I knew better.

The next weekend, we went on our date. A Chinese restaurant. You paid, and I overate sesame chicken. Then we got ice cream. You paid again, and I got a

stomach ache from the large milkshake I had ordered. You laughed at my pain, but you also gave me some Tums that you had stored in your glovebox. On the drive home, you asked me to be your girlfriend. Of course I said yes.

Life was so amazing after that. Every second of free time we had, we spent together. Your house, my house, ice cream shop, hiking, picnicking, walking on the train tracks, we did it all, and we did it all together. I fell for you. I fell so hard. I plummeted into love.

Remember the dandelions? I hadn’t wished on one of those since I was a kid. Since we were kids together. Before, it was just because I had grown up. I had forgotten about them. But now? Now I didn’t need to. I didn’t need to chase after dandelions anymore because you had become my new dandelion. My new source of hope and child-like joy. After two weeks of dating, we had our first kiss and my dandelion wish was finally answered. Not only were you my new dandelion; you also provided my fireworks.

That first month flew by. Then the second, then the third. We were a package deal. My parents had always been stricter than your mom, and they were worried that if we spent too much time together, we would neglect our friends. We didn’t really care, but my parents didn’t take no for an answer. So we made sure to start carving out time for them each week. I don’t know what your friends thought of me, I never asked. But my friends still didn’t like you.

They had heard rumors. Rumors about bad things that you had done to past girlfriends, cheating and manipulating. Rumors about what you and “your boys” did when you were together on the weekends, drinking and smoking. Rumors about you taking after your dad. At first, I grew concerned. I confronted you about the rumors, but you assured me that they weren’t true. You opened up to me about mistakes you had made in your past and how much you regretted them. You were so vulnerable, you started crying, and my heart broke for the pain you felt, yet simultaneously swelled with a stronger love for who you had become. I told my friends that I appreciated their concern, but the rumors weren’t true. You had made mistakes, but they were things of the past that I shouldn’t hold against you. I had done things I regretted too, and I knew you better than them anyway. Even if you hadn’t been perfect before, you were perfect now, and more than anything I wanted to be perfect too. Perfect to you. Or at least good enough.

Yeah, there were a few times when I had to pick you up from a party, and you were completely plastered, and you would say some unfavorable things or get too

handsy. Yeah, there were some 9 times when I would pick you up from home after your parents had a big fight and you would take out your frustration by yelling at me. Yeah, there were times when you would push me further than I wanted to go, or take parts of me without asking, or punch a hole in the wall because you were mad. But it wasn’t your fault. You were perfect, and I just wanted to be good enough.

My friends liked you less and less and told me that I should dump you. They said I deserved more, but you were everything, and how could I deserve more than everything? You knew how they felt, so you didn’t like it when I chose to hang out with them instead of you, even though most of the time I was with them because you had canceled our dates to have a “boys’ night”. You said that my friends were trying to turn me against you. They were jealous, so I shouldn’t be with them. You were right, so I withdrew. When I asked why you kept canceling our dates, you told me that you needed to relax and get away from the stresses of life. How else were you supposed to do that except by drinking and smoking and breaking things on the weekends? That’s what everyone else did. When you said it, it made sense. And I had to focus on school anyway, I didn’t need distractions. You were just doing me a favor.

I have a confession to make: I believed these things for a long time. I had forgotten that lesson I learned so long ago: that I was a person outside of you and that I deserved to be treated like someone worthy of respect. I knew, deep down, that something was wrong in our relationship. I never dove into that feeling though. I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t like what I found, and I knew, no, I thought that the weight of missing you would be too much to bear. For the longest time, trying to see who you really were was like trying to walk through a concrete cloud. I wasn’t ready to let you go. You were my dandelion and you gave me my fireworks. But fireworks aren’t always a good thing. You brought passion into our relationship, that’s for sure. But most of the time, that passion showed itself through aggression. If I asked a stupid question, you would yell at me. When you had a bad day, you would punch the wall. If I was late to something, you would grab my arm and pull me out of others’ earshot to ask why I didn’t care about what was important to you. When your parents had a bad fight, you would hit the wall again. Then one day, it wasn’t the wall that you hit. It was me.

I was stunned, and you apologized. You cried in my arms. I forgave you. But then you hit me a second time. Then a third. I started acquiring bruises that reflected those I remember your mother trying to hide. Now I was the one layering on makeup and wearing long sleeves, even when the weather didn’t call for it. You stopped apologizing. You stopped crying. Instead, you made me believe that I was to blame. That it was my fault. Again, I believed you. You were perfect, and I was trying to be good enough. Then it was the day after graduation. The rain was pouring and the wind was howling and your mood reflected the weather. Your parents had been fighting again so you’d left home and picked me up to spend time together before boys’ night started. You were letting out your frustrations, hitting the steering wheel and cursing about your dad. I asked why your mom didn’t just leave him, and all of a sudden you were cursing at me instead for suggesting that. I apologized and you told me to forget it. We stopped at CVS on the way back to my house, per my request. I ran in while you waited in the car, making sure to be fast. I didn’t need you to get any angrier. Apparently, I had taken too long anyway. I got back to the car and you yelled at me for not respecting your time. I kept apologizing but you kept yelling and I felt sick. When you dropped me off, you didn’t even say goodbye before you went careening out of my driveway. I walked inside, grateful that both of my parents were at work so I could have the house to myself. My stomachache got significantly worse and I ran to the bathroom, just able to lift the toilet seat before throwing up. I still had my bag from CVS with me. I took out the pink box and took a deep breath before opening it up to pull out the pregnancy test. I followed the instructions and after 5 minutes, looked at the stick. Two lines. I was pregnant. And now I’m writing this letter. When I saw that positive test, it was like I had suddenly reached the end of a road and was staring down the edge of a cliff, deciding whether or not to jump. I knew how you would react to this. We had had scares in the past. I knew you would tell me to abort the baby. You would accuse me of sleeping around. I didn’t know what to do.

It was really hard to keep this secret from you over the next few days as I thought about what future actions to take. I almost let the news slip more than once, especially during our good moments. Our time together would always begin well, overflowing with love and laughter. But then they would end equally badly, with you yelling at me or hitting me again.

Last night I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at the bruises I had been hiding, and I felt like your mother was the one staring back at me in the mirror. I remembered her also trying to conceal her bruises. I remembered you being sad and missing school sometimes when we were children. I didn’t want my baby to grow up that way too. I remembered myself asking you why your mom doesn’t just leave your dad. Maybe I should ask myself the same thing.

Do you remember the dandelions? I do. I remember when dandelions represented a dream. When they brought me joy and hope. I remember when you became the sensational embodiment of what I had once chased the dandelions for. I remember when you became too much. You gave me my fireworks, but I had stopped wishing for them long ago. I knew the risks I would be taking if I did leave you and the fear I would feel. You, who had been my whole world for so long. You, who had once brought me the brightest of joys and, also, the darkest of despairs. I didn’t know if I could do it. You were perfect, and I just wasn’t good enough. Right?

I told my parents. I told them everything. I told them how you treated me. I told them what happened with my friends. I told them I was pregnant. I told them I wanted to keep and raise the child. They were not happy about any of it and it was all I could do to keep my dad from marching over to your house. But in the end, they’re supporting me, and we’re moving away.

By the time you get this letter, I’ll be gone. I’ll be raising our baby in a loving household, somewhere where there are dandelions. And I’ll be healing too. This is hard. I’m scared to leave you. I’m scared of what my life will look like without you. But it’s not just about me anymore; now it’s about my baby too. I know what kind of life I want my child to have, and I just don’t think you can be a part of that anymore. I need to relearn that lesson I had mastered so long ago: that I’m a person outside of you. That I deserve to be treated with respect, and that our relationship no longer reflected that. I want my future baby to grow up knowing that, and to see it in me. And now, when I scrunch up my eyes and blow the whisps off a dandelion, I have something new to wish for. Something better.

Love, Me

Poem by Errol Richardson

As you awake with the light

You die at night

Knowing while the light was bright You dimmed...

At its delight

In fear of those unlike Who looks with big eyes For someone to spite Wary of what they might think Remember as you wake With the next light You lived for the night

Truth in Happiness Poem by Ethan Geiger

We all know those happy feelings, romanticized in every novel, flashed in Front of your face with every movie.

What’s happiness? Personally, I think I know. But that’s the thing?

What is happiness?

I know what it feels like not to be sad, I understand the idea of happiness. But am I just love struck and the concept of overwhelming joy? Or is the Lack of sadness truly the same rush of dopamine that makes me feel. You just feel.

Existing.

I am trapped in an inescapable prison of simply just existing. I just don’t understand

Maybe I’m suffering from some illness that makes me feel empty, but I feel fine. I feel fine. I’m not sad, or angry, about it. I just don’t remember ever

experiencing that child-like joy that I only sometimes get when nostalgia rushes back to me. Yet that remembrance of joy makes me then feel bad like I’m missing out on the very joy my life was built on. I now find myself asking, did it ever exist in the first place?

Or is nostalgia just a blinding flash that makes me long for a feeling that never once existed?

I cannot say, I am unsure. Maybe I’m just thinking about it all too hard. Maybe that immense emotion: happiness, sits on its throne and remains unnoticed, maybe it is such a great joy that you only experience it at the moment, that it dissipates without acknowledgment. Even without having become aware of the joy I wish to feel: I am content. I am perfectly fine with everything how it is. I don’t wish for change.

Nowadays, I don’t often find myself wishing for that same child like joy the same way I used to.

I have come to terms with having lost that feeling, and since I feel fine- I am fine- I am content. And if I were to die in some freak accident today, I would die without regret, for I am happy with where I am, and I am happy with life- that’s not a death plea. I want to live, but I think I’ve done enough for my life to have been worth something. So maybe, within the most obscure use of the word.

I am happy.

A Lot on Our Plates, Photograph by

Patricia Harmon

Cold Burgers

Fiction by Eve’Lynn Jackson

"They do this to me every time I come here!" my Grandma shouted as I drove off from the drive-thru window. I laughed. "They do what?" I questioned, knowing what she was about to say to me. "They always give me a cold burger," she said as she began to eat the burger anyway. I smiled to stop myself from laughing. "So, you're telling me that they see you and say let's give her a cold burger," I said as I kept my eyes on the road. "Yes," she responded. The seriousness in her voice caused laughter to explode from me. "How would they see you, from the car," I questioned. She put the sandwich back in the McDonald's bag. "Evie, they have cameras in the drive thru," she said. I nodded. "I know that grandma but I don't think they can see that far in the car," I said as I turned into our driveway. Once up the driveway, I put the car in park. I exited the car and walked over to the passenger seat to help her out of the car. As I helped her out of the car, we continued our conversation. "That place always gives me a cold sandwich, so what am I supposed to think huh," Grandma said as I helped her to the kitchen. Once seated, I put her sandwich in the microwave. "I don't know grandma but they do not have x-ray vision cameras," I said. Once the sandwich was warm, I moved her sandwich onto a plate and sat it in front of her. "Well, thanks for the outing Evie, I needed the fresh air," Grandma said as she began to eat the now warm burger. "Anytime Grandma," I said before I left the kitchen. I would do anything for that woman because she would do the same for me.<3

Sun and the Sea, Artwork by Alexa Theuerling

Never Ending Noise Poem by Abby Crim

They do this to me every time they come in here. When I am reading, writing, cooking, or just craving some peace and quiet.

Every time they come in here my focus fades and the intrusive thoughts push their way in.

Every time they come in here all I can think about is pushing them away.

“Am I going crazy?”, I ask myself. Every time they come in here my mind races faster and faster. Every time they come in here my brain goes on and on until I don’t even remember how the story started.

Every time they come in here, I just want to shut down… and most times I do.

I succumb to the never-ending noise in my head. The never-ending chatter, worries, regrets, thoughts, until they fade hours later when they drown me into a dreamless sleep. Just to wake me hours later or if I am lucky, they hold off until the morning. Only to return the next day sending me into a never ending spiral. Again, I ask myself “Am I going crazy?”

The constant noise that goes on and on in my head always does that to me. They do this to me every time they come in here.

They Thought So, Artwork by Emma Garner

Memoir to One’s Inner Self Poem by Errol Richardson

I

Hey mama

How you been

I just want to let you know Life has been a whirlwind Never knowing which way to go My life is nothing but rain and snow Slippery days And roadblocks every day Whether it's my girlfriend, contemplating if she wants to stay Or me just watching life drift away I feel like I'm a passenger While God drives away

II

Hey mama what's the move today I feel like a stray Idk where life going to take me But I'm drifting away Mama, I need you My love has gone away She doesn't want me because I'm stuck in my ways

III

I'm just stressed I feel like everything is a test

I feel like I'm fighting to stay afloat

But they always want to sink my boat

I hit the rocks and my ship never seems to stay afloat It's like my life is one big joke

One day they hope I choke But it's no longer a joke I just want to change so she keeps hope Maybe I'm the one So, she keeps me afloat

IV

Hey mama I need your help I'm on my last life And I may have no hope Mama what do I do If she seems to not want me too Well look for a girl that's true to you

Everyone has one It's just up to you to find her But some just never do

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-onLine 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