Lions-on-Line Fall Issue 2024

Lions-on-Line

Fall Issue 2024

Table of Contents Photo Composite (1 of 3), Artwork by Sophia Motz………………...Cover Wide-Eyed Fella, Artwork by Shelby Lewish…………………………….1 “Winter Solstice,” Poem by Sebastian Isaacs……………………………..2 “Find Myself,” Poem by Ethan Geiger……………………………………3 Haunted, Artwork by Grace Miller………………………………………..4 “Seeing Red,” Fiction by Megan Thompson……………………………...5 Six Months, Artwork by Ella Kuhnell……………………………………13 “Two Minutes,” Fiction by Max Wehrle………………………………...14 The Final Admonishment, Artwork by Grace Miller…………………….15 “Hollow,” Poem by Ethan Geiger………………………………………..16 Among Foliage, Artwork by Shelby Lewis……………………………...17 “To Be Clean,” Poem by Maggie Utley…………………………………18 Barn Owl, Artwork by Ella Kuhnell……………………………………..19 “Girls Putting on Lipstick,” Poem by Sebastian Isaacs………………….20 “The Feeling of Living,” Fiction by Max Wehrle……………………….23 “A Squid’s Life Mission,” Poem by Tori Orbegozo…………………….24 New Home, Artwork by Tori Orbegozo…………………………………25 “Warm Glow,” Poem by Shelby Lewis………………………………….26 Battle of the Selves, Artwork by Shelby Lewis………………………….28 Excerpt from “Afterworld,” Fiction by Katelyn Rieder…………………29 Submission Guidelines…………………………………………………..38

Wide-Eyed Fella, Artwork by Shelby Lewis

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Winter Solstice Poem by Sebastian Isaacs On the darkest night of the year / you clearly see her everywhere / in every corner of the house / her face / her hands / her hair / God, she didn’t know any better / than to mirror everything around her / so why does it all linger? / How come the flame hasn’t died / six years later / like a star / the way your aunt talks about her / like breathing, a beating heart / the way your dad still believes that she’s there / she’s not here / she’s not you / how do you tell them that she never was? / It’s so simple, so why is it so hard? / Who are you to tell them that their grief is for nothing / when yours lies in every word spoken to you / every time her name is called upon you / like individual meteors creating craters inside of you / one day it will have taken too much from you / and even then, will they ever know / that she’s not here / but you are here / you brought the solstice with you / but stars still burst / on the darkest night of the year / standing in the kitchen / you are a spectacle / but not one to behold.

If you could set yourself alight / it wouldn’t change how you feel / but you know you can’t die like this / not until you know what name they would put on your headstone / nothing scares you more than dying before you can make anyone believe you / and you pray that things will change / but no prayer will change the way that you hurt / at the end of the night / you walk back outside / alone like you began / on the darkest night of the year, you are warm / but your body hurts / you are ready to burst / and you wish you could be / someday / maybe / you think you could be / a shooting star / bright / and you would burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / and burn / until you are unrecognizable / don’t you realize? / You already are.

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Find Myself Poem by Ethan Geiger I find myself hiding in the void just between the stars.

That total blackness taking cover behind shields of stellar lights.

And as the sun rises, I’m still there, out of view, distant.

“Do I want this?”

I ask myself again.

I find myself alone on a bench just between the creek and the bushes.

Staring up at the fractured boundary of eternity, the fault lines of the universe.

The end of everything, and the beginning of nothings.

This bench sits on the outside of the world.

A one-way mirror with me looking in.

I find myself associating with Isolation.

A back-and-forth conversation.

“I’m sorry, my dearest friend. Your company just isn’t enough for me” And she whispers back to me, “I’m sorry, I understand” And she rests her hand on my shoulder And she transforms into a ship And I sail back into the universe And I travel in between the stars And I look for solace in the nooks and crannies of the darkness

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Haunted, Artwork by Grace Miller 4

Seeing Red Fiction by Megan Thompson “I saw it again Tucker!” The stained oak door slammed behind her, rattling the small windows surrounding the door frame.

“Where?” Tucker asked from the couch, untying his dirt-stained cleats.

Callie walked into the living room.

“It drove by the field at the end of the game.”

“Baby, I was on the field. If there was a bright-red truck, I would have seen it.”

Callie’s hands flew up in desperation as she said, “Well, it was there!

You don’t believe me?”

He let out a quiet sigh.

“A bright red truck?”

“Yes.” “You’re sure? You know what that means,” Tucker said, picking at the creme-colored fringe on the pillow next to him.

“Why would I lie about this?”

“I don’t know, Cal!” With a frenzied sweeping gesture, Tucker knocked the fringe pillow to the floor.

Callie stared at him and said, “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Seems like it.”

“I’m not mad at you Callie. I’m just worried.”

Callie froze. “Do you really think it could be Jett?”

“He’s stalked us before, what’s stopping him from stalking us now?”

He stood, small bits of dirt falling out of the Nikes he now gripped in his hand. Tucker walked out of the living room, stepping over the accumulating dirt pile, to their bedroom.

“Don’t you dare get dirt in our bed, Tucker James!”

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Callie knew that wasn’t what she needed to be concerned about right now, but the dirt would send her over the edge today. How many times did she have to tell him to take his nasty shoes off in the garage? She can hear the distant shuffling of her husband in their closet, getting ready to take a shower. After a few moments of collecting herself, Callie finally walked into the bedroom.

Their bedroom was huge, way too big, too nice for just the two of them. Up to this point, they had lived in a shitty college apartment; the new house was definitely an upgrade. There was room for a king-sized bed, but Tucker insisted they stick with a queen so they could sleep closer together. Callie agreed, but only because that meant more room for a giant bookshelf next to her bay window seat. They had a built-in closet with shelving up to the ceiling, but neither of them cared much about clothes or shoes, so it became storage for Callie's ever-growing blanket collection.

From the ensuite bathroom, she heard Tucker start the shower.

“Tucker,” she called out. No response. She tried again, “Love, can we talk real quick?”

The water stopped. Tucker came around the corner in his old ‘Grand Union Baseball’ shorts. His usual caramel brown eyes were nearly black with stress. She reached up to cup his face, his slight stubble tickling her hand. His hand came up to rest on hers.

“I’ll check Instagram after I shower.” He leaned into her touch. “I’ll check to see if he found our new accounts.”

She tried to sound calm, “And if he did?”

“Then I’ll file another restraining order.”

“You think they’ll follow through on this one?”

“New county, so hopefully, yes.”

Tucker paused, noticing the stress in his wife’s eyes as she looked to the hardwood floor. Trying to calm her, he said, “He’s not gonna get anywhere near us baby, I promise. I handled him once; I’ll do it again.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes desperately trying to find the truth in his statement. Jax, the couple’s hound dog, began howling at the back door. Tucker spoke again, “Why don’t you let the dog back in, make 6

yourself some tea, and finish that book you were telling me about this morning? I’ll finish my shower and handle the rest, okay?”

“Fine, but if anything comes up, you’d better tell me.”

“I will.” With a sweet peck Tucker shut the bathroom door.

“Mrs. Callie, when’s recess?”

Noah looked up at her with hopeful green eyes. It’s been five minutes since the last time he asked.

Callie gave him the same reply, “Soon, bud. Now please go read quietly for a few more minutes.”

“Okay Mrs. C!” The little boy skipped off, his dinosaur sneakers flashing green with his excited steps back to his spot on the rug.

Normally Callie loved it when Noah asked her questions, but she was exhausted from walking to work, and she was still reeling from the weekend. Tucker hadn’t found anything in his social media search, and he didn’t want to talk about the truck anymore after that. She had done her own social media dig after that, going all the way back to Jett’s first Instagram post. Callie had half a mind to speak to the Fair Brooke police just as a precaution after that, even as a teenager Jett was vaguely threatening. Noah’s father was police chief and the family lived on her street. She looked at Noah lying on his stomach, pretending to read, but she saw him glancing up at the clock every four seconds. They had learned how to tell time earlier in the year and ever since, Noah has counted down the minutes until recess. When it finally hit twelve-thirty Noah was the first to spring up off the floor.

Callie smiled and stood up from her desk.

Addressing the whole class she called out, “Time for recess!”

The rest of her class followed Noah to the door, lining up in the order she had assigned at the beginning of the month. Ms. Foster was waiting in the hallway with the other 1st-grade class. The second the gates were opened to the school’s playset all the kids’ manners flew out the door with them. Callie sat down on a dilapidated bench a few feet from the busy 7

playset, careful to avoid the splinters forming in the center. She needed a small break from her student’s inquiries, so she welcomed this short moment of warm, April sunshine while her students played. Ms. Foster joined her, seeking the same momentary peace.

She was the first to speak, “How are you Cal?” Callie tried to smile at her friend.

“I’m alright Tiff, just a little distracted.”

“I can tell.”

Callie frowned.

“I didn’t think I’d be dealing with another stalker case so soon.”

Tiffany tilted her head and asked, “Who is this guy anyway?”

Callie sighed.

“Tucker and I went to high school with him. Tucker knew him well, but they had a falling out. Tucker didn’t talk to him for the last semester of senior year, and he didn’t react well.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t exactly know. Tucker won’t talk about it. Anyways, Tuck and I are from Grand Union, that’s where we went to high school. I moved to Eastwind for college, and coincidentally, Tucker moved there for his apprenticeship at Holtzmann Electric. We had some mutual friends and we ended up running into each other at The Black Dog, a shitty college bar, over fall break. He was super sweet and charming, you know, his usual.

We went on a couple dates, and that’s when Jett started following us around.”

Tiffany held up her hand to stop Callie’s next sentence.

“Hold up, the guy’s name is Jett?”

Callie laughed. “I know! What a douchebag!”

She glanced up to see if any of her students heard her. They both laughed and Callie continued, “He followed us on Instagram and messaged Tucker after one of our dates.”

Tiffany leaned closer, “What’d he say?”

“Something cryptic like ‘she doesn’t deserve you.’”

“Eww, why would he care? How did he even find you guys?”

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“No idea, but a year later Jett showed up at our apartment. I wasn’t home, but apparently, he and Tucker fought loud enough for our landlord to intervene.”

“I can’t imagine Tucker angry enough to fight someone.”

“He’s usually a big teddy bear, but something about Jett makes him extra uncomfortable.”

Callie paused. When Tucker had told her about the fight between him and Jett, she had the same reaction as Tiffany. Tucker, the same guy who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to pet a puppy, had shoved Jett out of their apartment and caused a civil dispute. Thinking back to her social media search, it made sense why Tucker wouldn’t talk to her about Jett.

She would have to make sure they talked about it tonight.

Callie continued, “We tried to file a restraining order after that, but Jett kept coming back. We were so excited to graduate and move away from all that nonsense.”

“Well Jett sounds like the worst, but I am glad that you ended up here,” Tiffany said, trying to reassure her friend. Callie cracked a genuine smile this time. Tiffany continued, “By the way, are you coming to the bar tonight?”

“Shi- shoot.” She looked up at the playset again. “I forgot that was tonight. Is it too late to say yes? I need a drink after the weekend I had.”

“Never too late! I’ll save you a seat next to me. If I have to listen to how Mr. Davidson’s pigs got out again, I might snap.”

Callie chuckled. Before she could utter a ‘thank you,’ Noah came running over to the bench where the two women sat. Tiffany took that as her leave and began to round up her class.

“Mrs. C! Guess what?” He had his hands cupped, pulled close to his chest.

She tried to sound interested, “What?”

Noah opened his hands gently to reveal a ruby red ladybug crawling around his palm. “I found a ladybug. Mama says they’re good luck!”

Callie smiles, thinking about the ladybug drawing he had given her first thing this morning. The picture sat in her tote bag with the promise that she’d hang it up on the fridge when she got home.

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“They are good luck, so be careful with her.”

“Okay!”

He scurried off toward the swing set where he had found the insect.

She watched him gently set the bug down into the mulch.

The yellow hue of the streetlamps was her only guiding light as she walked home from the bar. She had planned to leave the bar at 8:00, wanting to be home at a reasonable hour so she and Tucker could talk.

Then, Tiffany revealed new drama with her crazy ex, so Callie didn’t leave until 11:00. She scrolled past the three missed calls from her husband and texted Tucker, letting him know that she was on her way home. Tucker had offered to come pick her up, but that was when Callie had planned to be home at 8:00. Callie knew she shouldn’t be walking home alone this late, but her slightly inebriated state threw her reason out the window. She turned onto Sweetgrass Lane, the country road that led back to her house. Now the only light she had to rely on were the faint porch lights of the spaced-out houses.

The snap of a twig to her left made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Callie slowed her pace, eyes trying to find the source of the noise in the tall brush. Finding nothing, she kept walking. When she was further down the street, another snap, behind her this time. Callie glanced behind her, a tall figure walking towards her from the bottom of the street. She clutched her tote bag closer to her chest, the bright green pepper spray on her keychain suddenly not feeling like enough. Listening, she could tell the figure wasn’t running at her, the steps were slow, methodical. Callie knew one of her students lived on this street; Noah’s house was closer than hers. Callie picked up her pace, speed walking towards Noah’s sage-green front door. She couldn’t see the family’s black SUV in the driveway, but parked on the street in front of the Bradshaw’s house was a red pickup truck. Callie was now hyper-aware of the footsteps behind her, pounding the dirt now, rapidly getting closer.

She called out to the dark street, “Mr. Bradshaw!” “Mr. Bradsh-” 10

The assailant shoved her forward, but she didn’t hit the ground.

Stumbling, Callie spun around to face the man; he was probably a foot taller than her, with dark eyes, dark, stringy hair, and a shiny black leather jacket on top of a black hoodie.

“What the fuck do you want,” she said, fumbling for her pepper spray, but it had fallen to the bottom of her bag. The man said nothing, he just reached for his hoodie pocket. “What the fuck do you want from me!”

No response. “I know a cop on this street! Mr. Bradshaw!” Her voice echoed down the empty street, and the man's mouth stretched into a smirk.

Finally, he spoke, “Sorry Callie, but Officer Bradshaw is at his parents’ house tonight.”

She looked him up and down. “Jett?”

“Long time no see huh? You look good.”

She slowly backed away from the man.

“Not long enough! I though we left you in Eastwind.”

“You remember the guy that owned the building you used to live in?

He told me you guys left for Fair Brooke. Pretty rude to leave without telling me.”

“You’re psychotic!”

“Maybe a little. But I know what I want.”

He began to creep towards her.

“Whatever it is, Tucker’s not gonna give it to you. We made that pretty clear when we filed the restraining order.”

Callie continued to back up from the man.

“I don’t plan on asking him for anything, I’m simply going to take it.”

Callie spat out, “You stay the hell away from my husband.”

She grit her teeth, but Jett didn’t seem intimidated. Before she could use the pepper spray, he lunged forward. Callie hadn’t noticed the metal rod he pulled out of his pocket. He struck her across the jaw, the right side of her face lighting up with red-hot pain. She hit the ground, the impact stealing her breath. Her bag fell open, the pepper spray, her wallet, water bottle, and Noah’s drawing all spilling onto the dirt. Jett marched toward her and pinned her right hand beneath his boot. With her left hand, Callie 11

reached for the pepper spray that had rolled a few feet away from her.

Before she could reach it, Jett snatched her long blonde locks. She yelped at the sudden pain in her scalp. The much bigger man now kneeled on her back, any chance of grabbing the pepper spray now futile. She couldn’t move, she had nothing to defend herself, she didn’t know anyone else on the street.

“Help!”

All she could do was scream. Callie didn’t want to die here.

“Tucker!”

Their house was too far away, he wouldn’t hear her.

“Tuck-” Before she could finish her last plea, Jett pulled out a long, black, Buck knife. He leaned close to her ear.

“I told you I’d get my boyfriend back.”

Jett slid the blade across Callie’s throat.

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Six Months, Artwork by Ella Kuhnell

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Two Minutes Fiction by Max Wehrle Two minutes. I have two minutes before I die from this wound in my stomach. By my calculations, it’s already been 10 seconds since the cold steel left my body. A minute fifty, that's all the time I have left in this world. That is all the time I have to repent my sins, to beg for forgiveness, to remember my life, to live. Forgive me, God, for all the men I have killed, both my own and the enemies. Forgive me, God for all the things I have stolen no matter my intentions. Forgive me, God for not keeping Sabbath. And, forgive me, God for all other sins I have committed with or without malice. A minute thirty-five. I would have thought dying would be terrifying, but lying here staring up at the blue sky, it's really not all that bad besides the dull ache south of my heart and the deep cold setting into my bones. I have a minute left. I wonder how my wife will take the news; she'll cry and mourn. Will she tell the children? The older ones, but what about the baby? And I doubt she’ll ever recover, most definitely, will never re-marry. Will they take me back to England? It's unlikely. What with my low rank, it’s unlikely that they'll even mark my grave. Forty seconds. My abdomen is soaked and the cold is becoming welcoming. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the battle, the rebels retreating and the Union Jack flying; we must have won. I smile weakly. Ten seconds.

One more breath and my vision blurs, whether from dying or tears, I may never know. Five, four, three, two, one…

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The Final Admonishment, Artwork by Grace Miller 15

Hollow Poem by Ethan Geiger I am hollow.

Like a tree, something bore its way deep into me then abandoned it in the spring.

I am ripped apart, gushing blood everywhere Why am I so empty? I can shelter others.

Protect them with my beaten corpse.

Stand tall like an oak, arms stretched out. Free me.

Release me from this prison.

Let me bask in the crisp air.

Let me breathe. Please. the sun has been eaten by the clouds. the stars escape in fear. my body is all that’s left. there is nothing more. no sun no stars no sky just me just a husk just hollow.

The dew speckled morning grass probes my bare feet, like a field of tentacles. My flesh burning with a great sadness, my skin was eaten, ripped apart by bugs and parasites. My eyes concave, holes for everyone but me. Blinded I cannot see. No sun. No stars. No sky. My blood dripping down my naked body in lines of paint, my arms mangled into outstretched ropes by the winter. I am left to feel. Muted, and unable to speak because of that creature which burrowed itself into my chest. My beaten corpse sheltering the same monsters which have removed me from myself,

I am left hollow. A tree, howling in the wind, left to stand and wait.

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Among Foliage, Artwork by Shelby Lewis 17

To Be Clean Poem by Maggie Utley I want to be clean.

I want to shower and be clean. I want to gut my room and redesign it beyond the dimensions it allows for. I want to rewatch all of my favorite films about love. I want you to feel what I feel and read my mind. I want to kiss you so bad but I want you to do it first because I’m so scared to lose this 7-year bond with you. I want a new mattress that can fit the both of us. I want to be out of this house and in a new one with only us. I want the world to fall away and for us to fall in love. I want to feel your touch all over me all the time. I want to be happy and I want to be happy with you. I want a perfect life with you. I want to be perfect with you. I want to be showered in your love and I want to be clean.

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Barn Owl, Artwork by Ella Kuhnell 19

Girls, Putting on Chapstick Poem by Sebastian Isaacs Girls, playing hopscotch, jumping as they’re rambling faster than one another can speak, tripping over new vocabularies that spill from their lips as playground chalk writing love letters on the blacktop.

Minds learning the laws of language, in a whirl of swings and laughter, this playset will stay a place of proportion for girls, putting on chapstick, going through the motions enraptured in conversation.

Intricate threads of gossip spinning a web up in the air, black widow venom dripping from their lips like a sadist spits into the mouth of his victim, squirming beneath the exhilaration of degradation and praise.

It’s nothing like the words that come from girls, turning the radio volume down, shifting their vision from the road to their passenger, remaining driving 75 on the freeway with necks twitching like barn owls as the words pile up on the dashboard clouding the windshield vision, the debriefing is more important 20

than the events that define the breakage of a woman and her manicured hands that shake with bracelets clenching onto the steering wheel.

Girls, gathering in circles tighter than the ringlets of hair that drape down the back of her neck when she’s pushing a curl over her ear to better hear the breath pressed to her cheek and the lips, brushing the baby hairs on her jaw as the world burns down around the sound of a woman scorned, harsh and poisonous and never to be shared with other women, sitting at square tables sharing bottles over bottles, lean in closer now to each other.

Weaving inextricable patterns of jargon no one understands but them while hands weave Easter baskets for little girls, fed, playing in the yard, that will someday understand the hushed whisper of her mother crackling over wine pouring is the caressing hand of women, breathing into their own, growing into their bodies with the words that were raised imprinted into their hands.

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They have the power to rip their brands with their teeth or stamp other women with the same burning curse, in convolution, a revolution of women hating women, women scorning women, it’s happened since we were girls, putting on chapstick, driving through crashing waves of anxiety, gathering in pools of chlorine rising, sitting like a stone way beneath the surface, breathing the water into our lungs, hoping it’ll just drown us instead of waiting, withering, and gossiping just for the sake of keeping up with one another; we don’t know any better, we don’t know any other way.

Our mothers taught it to us when we were just little girls.

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The Feeling of Living Fiction by Max Wehrle The sharp snap of metal-plated shoes. Shiny leather shoes. That sharp click, the sound of heel plates on cobblestone, that is a comforting sound to me. The soft crunch of those same shoes, sometimes not so shiny, sometimes not leather, and sometimes without heel plates. The crunch…crunch…crunch of marching on gravel. The gentle swoosh of linen and the not-so-gentle sound of metal musket butts hitting the cobblestone, the gravel, the grass. Laughter, loud and sweet, the kind you hear and cannot help but smile because that laughter sounds like home.

Wind-whipping canvas on a good day is the sound of relief, and the pleased sighs and groans of thick wool Coatees coming off wash over you like the rushing water of the river below. The air is sweet with sweat, dirt, sulfur, smoke, and orders. Orders are being yelled, stories are being chuckled out, and secrets are being whispered. And you, you sit amongst this marvelous chaos, smiling and laughing and feeling that wonderful feeling, the feeling of belonging, the feeling of being home. There in the shade of the large oak tree (so affectionately named ‘the party tree’) under that canopy of protection, you stand with people so very different from you and yet exactly the same. Looking down through the grand battery, down the steep slope, through the undergrowth is the river. Though you are not nearly close enough to hear the rush of the muddy water, you can imagine that calming sound, then that oh-so-familiar voice calls out, and though it claims not to have an officer voice, there is no doubt in anyone's mind it was meant for a field commander. The soft shuffle of cotton and the click of muskets drown out the river, the worries, and the problems of the modern day.

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A Squid’s Life Mission Poem by Tori Orbegozo Deep in the ocean, a squid quickly swims around In the dark and cold, he moves without a sound He’s on a search for something, following its trace Looking for a mate, perhaps a warm embrace Longing to love another is not a new feeling Nearing his life’s end, it’s no longer worth concealing For years he’s been exploring through the great unknown So he continues to seek, for fear of living his life alone He’s following the scent of his one and only love Racing against time, a shadow shoots out from above Circling around him, in a mesmerizing trance She swims into the moonlight, offering him a dance The two souls swim in unison, such a magnificent sight A freeing dance of attraction in the depths of the night In a shimmering display, they finally meet eye-to-eye Two hearts in the darkness, underneath the starry sky

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New Home, Artwork by Tori Orbegozo

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Warm Glow Poem by Shelby Lewis A stag bedded down among the bush lifts his head, missing warmth again For last night a storm sent him with a rush to take refuge within his den Body chilled and enclosed by shadow he rises at last, stretching his limbs Air heavy with dew, smells the fallow Slow to start, his quest now begins Lush foliage clings to slender legs Hooves step delicately along dirt paths Forest creatures awaken and beg to feel warmth again, safe from the night’s wrath Following a familiar path, lifting his head At last, brown eyes settle on light ahead The tunnel of overgrown greenery comes to an end With a hurry, the stag rushes ‘round the bend Warmth.

Bright, dazzling, ever so welcoming Wrapping him in the gentlest embrace Dappled light on the meadow mimics his spotting Beams shine down radiantly on his face Damp fur dries, mind and body revitalized Fuzzy feelings surround him as he closes his eyes At ease, peace of mind, comfort, safety.

Finding a plush mound of grass, he beds down again Drifting off into slumber, knowing the sun watches over him 26

When the next storm comes, he knows what to do then He will seek out the sun.

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Battle of Selves, Artwork by Shelby Lewis

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Excerpt from Afterworld Fiction by Katelyn Rieder We camp on Lake Rescue every summer. Usually, it’s the first week of summer break for Layla and I, but this year it’s the week after.

Something about Dad's PTO. But that doesn't matter, as long as we're here now.

Mom says the lake feels farther away from home than it actually is because Dad always takes the “scenic route.” He drives all the way around the campgrounds before getting to our usual spot, pointing out some of the plants he finds cool along the way. Mom just sighs every time he slows down and makes that excited ooh sound. But I always listen to him talk. I think the plants are why he's lived in Vermont for so long. He tells us lots of stories about how many different places he lived when he was younger, long before Layla and I were born. Houston, Milwaukee, Atlanta…he loved the excitement of it all. Apparently, there's no cleaner, crisper air than here in Ludlow.

When we finally get to our usual spot, Mom and Dad unpack the car and set up our big tent while me and Layla clamber out of our swimsuit covers–we don't want to waste any time. We throw them towards Mom, who catches them haphazardly. “Be careful!” she says after us.

“We will!” Layla yells back, tossing her head in the direction of Mom's voice.

We don’t set up camp too far from the lake, but it’s far enough that we’re both winded by the time we hit the water, or rather, Layla hits the water. I stand on the shoreline for a bit, letting the cool water rush up onto my toes. It feels heavenly against the hot, thick May air.

My sister is already in the water up to her shoulders. “Are you gonna get in or what?” she says.

I slowly take a few more steps in, taking my time. I like to savor every moment of this first swim of the summer. The feeling of refreshing water wrapping around my body is my favorite…and a hot shower when it's snowing.

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Layla watches me the whole time, audibly sighing. She slips on the slick dirt floor, making her head go under. She pops back up instantly and laughs, brushing her soaked black hair out of her face.

“You shouldn’t be out that far,” I say. “Mom’s gonna kill you.”

“It’s not that deep. You both worry too much.” She makes a splash towards me and cool water lands on my stomach, turning my pastel blue one-piece a shade of navy. “Plus, I’m already ten times a better swimmer than last summer.”

Last summer. We both had just turned eleven. It was the first time Mom had let us swim in the lake without hovering over us. All was going well until a tall seaweed strand tangled Layla's foot up when she was under. She got out eventually, but she swallowed a lot of lake water that wasn't the cleanest. I don't think I'll ever forget that sight of her coughing and throwing up water on the shore. Dad drove her up to urgent care to get checked out while Mom (reluctantly) stayed back at the camp with me.

I remember when Mom and I were sitting across from each other at the campfire, silently throwing twigs into the pit. As she tossed a nearby stick in, she said, "You need to look out for her." I just stared at my purple Crocs in the dirt as she continued. "She gets so lost in that head of hers.

You don't." I felt her eyes on me as she sighed. "You need to look out for her when I can't, Imogen. You just have to." I just nodded and muttered that I would, although I wasn't really sure what she meant. I'm still confused about what she meant.

Now in the water up to my stomach, I ask, “How have you gotten any practice swimming since last summer?”

“It’s not about practice, it’s about your mindset.” Layla taps her pointer finger on her temple.

I scoff and give her a splash. …

“Are you girls excited to be seventh graders next year?” Dad says.

Layla groans, “Daaaaaad, don’t make us think about school so soon into the summer.” She slumps over on the log we’re sitting on.

“Yeah, we basically just escaped,” I say and rotate my marshmallow in the campfire. “But I guess I’m a little excited.”

30

Mom perks up at this. She's been an elementary school teacher since she was pregnant with Layla and me, but she took a few years off to raise us. She looks at me and says, "What parts are you excited about, Imogen?"

I shrug and take my marshmallow out of the flame and begin assembling my s’more. “I think Biology will be a cool class. I heard a big focus is on animals.”

“Well, that’s right up your alley!” Dad says, mouth full of s’mores.

He swallows hard and clears his throat. “I almost forgot; I picked you girls some plants.” He smiles and starts to dig in his fanny pack, or as I call it, his dad-purse.

Mom starts laughing. “Your father was in the woods nearly the whole time you girls were swimming!”

“Hey, there’s some really unique species around here! I gotta seize the opportunity.” Dad pulls out two Ziploc bags, handing one to me, and one towards Layla, but she’s not looking towards us and the conversation.

Her eyes are transfixed on the lake, like she’s somewhere else entirely. I give her a nudge, and she snaps out of it, taking the bag.

“So,” Dad says and clears his throat again. “The flowery one with the white petals and orange seed capsules is Clethra alnifolia, or summersweet. It might look familiar to you, there’s a few bushes growing down the street from home.”

I take the summersweet out of the bag and run my fingers through the petals. The seed capsules brush against my fingertips and send a tickly feeling through my hand. Dad continues to tell us all the “super cool” things about summersweet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my twin sister continuing to look toward the lake, utterly captivated.

I give her another nudge. “You okay?” I ask.

She turns to me. “I want to go swimming again,” she says in a whiny voice.

Mom hears her. “You shouldn’t go out on your own, sweetheart.”

She switches her gaze to me. “Imogen, you go out with her.”

I sigh a little too loud. I really just want to keep eating s’mores with Dad, but I know Mom will give me a talking-to if I don’t go with her.

“Hun, I think she’s old enough to go out on her own,” says Dad. 31

Mom shoots him a cold glare. Before she can say anything, he continues, “We can see the water just fine from here. Just don’t get out too far, Lays. And be careful of the seaweed, I think it’s grown a little high this year.”

My sister’s face turns bright with excitement as she jumps off the log.

She starts to run out to the water, not bothering to grab her damp towel.

“Be careful!” Mom yells after her, leaving the three of us sitting around the fire, the sun lowering on the horizon.

I watch Layla as she runs into the water, jumping around and splashing. There are a few other families out on the shore watching the sunset–she'll be fine.

Mom breaks the silence. “You really should go out there, Imogen.

You shouldn’t leave her alone.”

Dad puts a hand on Mom’s knee, which she swats off. I can’t bear to watch anymore and just look out to the water again. I see Layla splashing out in the water, yelling out to the world with happiness.

"Imogen, I'm excited for you to take biology next year, too," says Dad, smiling.

I turn towards him. “Really?”

“Well, as the daughter of a botanist, I think I can give you a few pointers.” He gives me a wink.

A marshmallow finds its way into my hands and I pop it into my mouth, laughing. “Hopefully I won’t need too much help. I think I’m already a plant wizard because of you.”

I look out to the water again, and a sound between a gasp and a shriek escapes my lips when I don’t see Layla.

She was just there. How could she have gone off so quickly? I stand and scan the water, trying to find her neon green two-piece standing out in the water. I hear Mom yelling her name as I start to run out to the water.

The dirt under my feet switches to thick sand as I run onto the shore. I yell her name, which makes a few people turn their heads.

Farther out than any of the other families, I see the tiniest, faintest of splashes. As if a big bass had just bolted towards a bluegill. I don’t bother to take off my cover-up before running into the water and quickly 32

transitioning into the swim stroke dad taught me. Big half-circles with your arms. Kick hard with your feet. She’s far out in the water. How did she get that far? How did she get that far that quickly? Can I even swim that far? If I can, am I strong enough to carry her back to the shore? I know Mom and Dad are behind me, but I can’t hear them. Tears mix with the lake water splashing up onto my face from my strokes. Please be okay.

My arms and thighs feel like stretched rubber bands about to break. Don’t slow down.

My arms collide with her body before I realize I’ve reached the spot where she was splashing. I squeeze my eyes shut and dive under, feeling for her arms. I give a pull on her wrists, but she doesn’t move much. She’s stuck on something. As much as my body resists it, I force my eyes open in the dark blue-green water.

And there she is.

My spitting image. My twin sister who is just a minute younger than me.

Her mouth is open. Her eyes are shut. Her arms are floating on either side of her. And thick, sludgy seaweed has entangled her left leg, almost all the way up her calf.

I pull at the weeds–some shrivel up in my hands, but the thick reed is still twirled around her. I can’t hold my breath much longer, so I start pulling the thick pieces apart like Laffy Taffy until it finally shreds enough to free her.

I wrap an arm around her waist and use every last bit of energy I have left to swim up with her. As soon as I pop out of the water, Dad is there and takes Layla’s body from me. He’s a better swimmer. I gather my strength again and swim just until I can stand again.

Dad meets Mom on the shore and starts pressing on Layla's chest, fast and hard. Mom leans over, caressing her baby girl's cheek and soaking her face even more with maternal tears.

I watch from the water as my dad gives one last push, slams his fists in the sand, and cries out a curse.

33

I watch from the water as my mom only looks up from her favorite daughter’s body to stare at me with something treading the line between sorrow and hate.

34

to jennah Poem by Sebastian Isaacs your coffee order only ever changes in october and i've known you long enough to know the things that you like and the things that deter you, how you come in on sundays with your coffee, late to pull up, still before the sun, and you tell me that you hate it here and you hate the way the store smells in the fall, you hate pumpkin spice unless you’re drinking it, you hate chocolate unless you’re eating it, you think brittle shouldn’t have seeds (and i agree), you think we should stop selling pumpernickel, and our rye should be darker, you want to work mornings every shift, you like to wake up before everyone else does, you want to open thirty minutes earlier, you play the same ten songs that you did four years ago, you don’t falter easily, 35

and you think i’m funnier when i’m tired. you want this semester to end, and you want to graduate and you have no idea what you want to do.

36

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:

SGA Club Rep: Treasurer: Faculty Advisor:

Abby Crim Avione DeVond Sophie Hirt Sebastian Isaacs Joseph Knizner Shelby Lewis Alyssa Meyer Tori Orbegozo Tess Stenger Maggie Utley Katelyn Rieder Maggie Utley Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. 38