Issuu

Lions-on-Line

Tree of Knowledge Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender

Spring Issue 2016

A Note from the Faculty Advisor The Spring Issue of Lions-on-Line is always a particularly special edition of our magazine, because in it we feature the work of our youngest contributors, the winners of the 10th Grade High School Writing Contest, sponsored by the Department of English and Modern Languages at Mount St. Joseph University. This year, we celebrated a milestone anniversaryâ€”20 years of celebrating young writers in the genres of personal essay, fiction and poetry. In this issue, we welcome the following amazing talents: Kendall Young of Walnut Hills High School, First Place winner in Personal Essay; Audrey Stevenson of Mount Notre Dame High School, Honorable Mention in Personal Essay; Ming Waih Wong Burgess of Notre Dame Academy, Honorable Mention in Personal Essay; Lauren Timmins of Loveland High School, First Place in Fiction; Sarah Crable of Anderson High School, Honorable Mention in Fiction; Delaney Dunster of Loveland High School, Honorable Mention in Fiction; Taylor Eiting of Notre Dame Academy, First Place in Poetry; Maribeth Stafford of Notre Dame Academy, Honorable Mention in Poetry; and Lauren Lautermilch of The Summit Country Day School, Honorable Mention in Poetry. The English Department received over 150 entries and Mount St. Joseph student judges: Tyler Potter, Rosemary Plunkett, Kevin Polking, Molly Ehrnschwender, Sidney Trasser, Andi Saylor, and Andrea Elchynski, along with their Faculty Coordinators: Karl Zuelke, Drew Shannon and Liz Mason, sifted through the submissions to select the best of the best for recognition. Entries came from the following high schools: Anderson High School, Clermont Northeastern High School, Covington Catholic High School, East Central High School, Glen Este High School, Goshen High School, Lebanon High School, Moeller High School, Mount Notre Dame High School, Norwood High School, Notre Dame Academy, Oak Hills High School, Seton High School, Simon Kenton High School, South Dearborn High School, St. Bernard-Elmwood Place High School, St. Xavier High School, The Summit Country Day School, Ursuline Academy, Walnut Hills High School and Westerville North High School. We also pause to recognize the hard work that our graduating seniors have put into this special publication of ours. Molly Ehrnschwender, Megan Moore, and Timothy Schrenk thank you for serving our publication with such integrity, for making the commitment to creativity and for all of the hard work youâ€™ve put into this magazine we all love so much. You will be missed.

Table of Contents Tree of Knowledge, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender……………………….Cover How People Fall in Love in Ohio, Poem by Natalie Puening………………………5 Mandala Contemplation, Artwork by Wm. Patrick Zopff………………………….6 Sand Mandala, Essay by Wm. Patrick Zopff………………………………………..7 A Sense of Security, Essay by Audrey Stevenson, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest………………………………………………………..9 Last Meal, Fiction by Carolyn Kesterman…………………………………………11 Sing Me a Song, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender………………………………15 A Shadow’s Recount of the Life of Anne Wickett, Fiction by Lauren Timmins, First Place, High School Writing Contest……………………………………16 Through the Looking Glass, Essay by Kendall Young, First Place, High School Writing Contest………………………………………………………………23 Movie Night, Fiction by Joshua Zeller…………………………………………….25 And Now I Weight, Essay by Craig Helton………………………………………..28 Hungering Mute, Poem by Andrea Elchynski……………………………………..32 What Kind of Asian Am I?, Essay by Ming Waih Wong Burgess, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest……………………………………...34 Where I Can Never Return, Fiction by Sarah Crable, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest………………………………………………………36 Palette of the Sky, Poem by Taylor Eiting, First Place, High School Writing Contest…………………………………………….…………………………40 Deer Crossing, Fiction by Joshua Zeller…………………………………………...41 Moving into a Dead Man’s House, Fiction by Megan Moore……………………..43 Circles, Poem by Andrea Elchynski……………………………………………….45 Peregrine and Ariana, Fiction by Delaney Dunster, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest………………………………………………………46 The Battle of Dear I, Essay by Christina Lackey…………………………………..54 My Thoughts Live on My Floor, Poem by Lauren Lautermilch, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest……………………………………...56

How People Fall in Love in Ohio Poem by Natalie Puening We lie in fields lulled into slumber by the constant whines of sirens. Sitting on archaic curbs, burning scraps of paper and the unlucky lottery ticket near the soles of our shoes. Heavy Jazz music rolling down the river as misplaced Christmas lights line the sky, balconies littered with our kind as we blow notes in our smoke. Crashing lips and electrified bodies dancing in the front-seat while an abandoned Speedy-Freeze crunches below our boots. The freest of roaring winds blasting our hair back as we ride hand in hand on bikes through the aisles of some dumpy grocery store. Come-get-me eyes as naked feet kick up rocky sand in a race towards the murky river ahead. Some of us clothed, some of us bare as the Earth had made us. Between the constant fear of authority, the addictive freedom of streetlights and the never-ending itch to run...this is how we fall in love in Ohio.

Mandala Contemplation Artwork by Wm. Patrick Zopff

Sand Mandala Essay by Wm. Patrick Zopff Throughout human history, the creation of art and imagery has been a used as a process of worship, honor, and devotion. Sculptures, icons, furniture, paintings, and many other objects have been crafted with an aim raised above the horizon. Meanings and sentiments beyond the immediate and practical uses of these objects have given immeasurable value to already beautiful items. Is creation a form of offering or worship? When man makes something, does it automatically command the viewer to give it a moment of respect? Is the act of looking a type of worship? A mandala is a meaningful symbol created in the tradition of Tibetan Buddhism. The word, â€˜mandalaâ€™, is a Sanskrit word meaning cosmogram. The Mandala made by the monks who visited MSJ was constructed in sand, the traditional medium for mandala formation. The monks from Drepung Gomang Monastery were so gracious to come to visit us this year. Monks act as artists when they craft the Mandala. They have several sacks filled with dyed sands that they use to fill small Tupperware cups. From the cups, they fit the sand needed into a long thin metal cone tool. Carefully, a monk will hold the cone over a space they want to decorate and rub the cone tool with another object of their choosing. The vibrations of the rubbing will agitate the sand so that it falls onto the mandala in a design. Typically a sand mandala consists of wide, sweeping geometric designs imbued with Tibetan spiritual imagery. Mostly simple, standard seeming colors, reds, yellow, blue, green, black, and white are used in the creation of the Mandala, perhaps to avoid losing meaning in the color choices. The limited, sort of instinctive palette gives the artwork a certain sense of sophistication. It isnâ€™t trying to prove anything with extremely decisive colors. The mandala has several different purposes. As I understand it, the mandala is constructed to form a sort of spiritual resting place for heavenly beings. There are many different styles of mandala, devoted to different deities and concepts. In the case of the Mandala constructed here on campus, a sort of figurative mansion was built for Chenrezig, the Lord of Compassion. When the construction of the Mandala is witnessed, compassion finds rest in the hearts of those witnesses and the monks crafting it. An image was once used to explain to me the nature of this spirit. I was asked to think of my traits, my innate skills and attributes, as seeds within my spirit, sown in the soil of my heart. As time passes and as a person grows, these seeds are fed with nourishment and experience to grow into more dominant parts of our lives. As we gaze upon the Mandala constructed for Chenrezig, we give strength to the seed of compassion in each of us. We are enabled and encouraged by the

compassion we witness in the monks, their tradition, and the people we enjoy the mandala with. As an artist myself, itâ€™s a very humbling experience to see such a dramatic display of patience and understanding. When I look at a mandala, I like to imagine that it has some sort of multi dimensional quality. I try to make art that can capture a presence in such a way, and Iâ€™m always impressed by the fashion in which the mandala projects its energy. I like to imagine that there is something going on in and around the mandala that we are incapable of perceiving: some sort of grand presence that we are blessed by. The mandala certainly gives that impression and similar ones to a lot of people. Sand mandalas are destroyed upon their completion. The sand is wiped away, swept into a vase, and spread around the world as a blessing. This ritual destruction, immediately following laborious creation, is puzzling to the Western eye/mind/heart. So often, we are used to witnessing creation that feels like it will last forever. Skyscrapers and digital files that will outlive us into oblivion. The mandala, a tradition as old if not older than Buddhism, which dates back to the fifth century BCE, is a constant reminder of the impermanence of all things. The wiping away of sand shows us that itâ€™s okay to let things go, to give in to something greater. TIn our lives, every experience can be likened to a process of laying sand in a special design. We choose our colors, our own patterns. But in the end, everything is wiped away and we become the dust of the world that fed us.

A Sense of Security Essay by Audrey Stevenson, Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Mount Notre Dame High School I remember the day very clearly. The air still warmed my skin, but patches of shade cooled me down like ice. Gentle breezes blew the scent of fall into my nose, setting off a tingling sensation while I waited in anticipation for my favorite season. The cloudless sky, as blue as the sea, watched from above. Horses stomped and sneezed while people talked, but I drowned out the sounds, stuck inside of my head. The animal underneath me felt like the wind, powerful enough to move me any way she liked, but instead letting me hold my own. We worked as a team and accomplished more than I could ever imagine. Her heavy breathing matched mine and our bodies moved as one, flying over the obstacles in our way. Colors flew past like tropical birds in flight. My eyes focused straight ahead and I only caught glimpses of blurred faces, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared in my thoughts. Determination and adrenaline coursed through my veins, shooting up my legs like electricity, my horse acting as the spark. Sweat dripped from my whole body but I didnâ€™t have room in my focused brain to account for it. I pressed my hands into her dark grey hair and a sense of security rushed through me. We finished, the danger of injury almost gone. My world stopped moving and I couldnâ€™t see anything else, like a black hole had eaten all of my surroundings. I reached down and gently patted her sweaty neck, thanking her. I focused on my teammate who could not communicate with words, only with silent touches. In my brain, I could not be doing anything more dangerous, but in my heart, I had never felt safer. Francie, sitting on the fire escape while reading, wrapped herself into her own little world, her own security blanket, much like I had wrapped myself in mine.

Sheet Marks Poem by Maribeth Stafford Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Notre Dame Academy Memories from last night cling to my skin, and leave an imprint like that of a clammy contorted sheet wrapped tight for too long. Their presence shown by the rolling trenches now embedded in my flesh and only revealed in the dusty light of dawn. In the reverence of the morning there is silence, and the cradle of my bed, there is only peace. Yet when the entangled covers are peeled away from a mess of sweat and grimy tears, traumas from my deepest dark bubble up. The recollection of inconsolable delirium and hysterics, the glistening rage and words that fell agonizingly from my mouth. These memories macerate my mind like a hand shriveling in the bath. They undo, untie and unnerve me, all within the first few seconds of the day.

Last Meal Fiction by Carolyn Kesterman They had just announced a thirty minute delay for the 10:20 am flight to Paris when I noticed the man standing ahead of me in line press his fist to his mouth and mutter an American swear word. I wanted to roll my eyes at his impatience at first, but when he turned and I saw the look in his eyes, I felt unexplainably hollow. The feeling passed as soon as he turned the other way again, and I followed suit with the other boarders to find a seat and wait. The man stayed put, though, turning this way and that like a lost child in a store. I sighed as I watched him from my seat. There was no use crying about something beyond our control, I thought. If it snows, it snows. The man finally ran his hands over his face and looked for a seat. It so happened that the only one left in that area was next to mine. He straightened his suit jacket and walked over. I was content to continue checking emails on my phone, but I got a sense of that hollow feeling once more as he bounced a leg in a nervous manner and clasped his hands tightly together. “It’s a pity about the snow, isn’t it?” I said, and he looked at me with redrimmed eyes. He nodded. “Yes, it is.” His voice surprised me. Underneath the panicky sound was a far more assertive tone than I would have expected given his anxious behavior. He looked ahead for a second before turning back to me. “You’re from France?” he asked, gesturing to his own throat, his accent. I smiled. “Oui, je vis à Paris.” He chuckled, still a nervous sound there, though. “I understood Paris,” he said. “Are you saying you live there?” I nodded. “Yes. It is a beautiful city. You will enjoy it, I am sure.” “Yes, I’m sure I will,” he said, and his voice trailed off. He looked off into the distance. I was just wondering if he were under some sort of influence when my phone dinged. I looked down to see a text from my husband with a selfie of him and my two daughters, the French equivalent of “see you soon” written below. I smiled and responded with a heart and a quick message saying that my flight had been delayed. I was almost finished typing when the anxious and possibly drugged-up business man looked down. “Ton famille sont belles,” he said, his French clipped and incorrect, but I smiled.

“Thank you,” I said. I enlarged the photo. “That is Lucie, she is five. And that is Emma, she is three.” I exited the photo and looked up at him. “Do you have any kids?” He averted my eyes and gave a nervous chuckle. “No. No, unfortunately I never got to start a family.” I looked him up and down. He had to be in his forties, but despite his red eyes and anxiousness, he seemed to be plenty handsome. And he must have been wellsettled, for his suit was clearly tailored. I smiled. “You are married to your work?” I said. “I guess you could say that.” I smiled. “Don’t be worried. Maybe you will meet the right person in Paris. Even if no, you will still meet them someday.” He smiled back, but it was a sad, listless sort of smile. “Yes, I’m sure I will.” He looked ahead again, and I turned back to my text message to finish it. A minute later, another voice over the intercom announced that due to weather conditions, the flight would be delayed until further notice. The room was filled with grumbles, but the man next to me shouted out once before bending forward with his elbows on his knees, his breath coming in short gasps. “Monsieur, are you alright?” I asked, putting a hand on his back. He flinched at my touch and darted his eyes to me. I couldn’t believe how upset he looked. “Are you having a, how do you say, a panic? A panic attack?” “I’m sorry. I’m not myself.” “It is alright. Can I get you a drink of water?” “No, no. I’m just… The day’s not really going how I had hoped.” “I’m sorry,” I said. I looked around and saw some tables and chairs by the frosty windows. “Would you like to sit over there? You’ll have more room. Feel less, eh, suffocated.” He stared the longest time at the chairs. He finally shrugged and nodded, and I led him to the table closest to the large windows, thinking it might help to clear his mind of whatever troubles he had. It seemed to work; he immediately stared out at the falling snow when he sat down, and after a few deep, shaky breaths, he seemed to have calmed down. I waited for him to speak. By and by, he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, and I heard some more of the business man assertive voice that I assumed was his normal tone. “You are fine,” I said. “I sometimes get like that, too. It helps to have a friend with you, no?” He smiled sadly and looked back out at the snow again. I bit my lip for a second before adopting a more casual expression.

“Where are you from?” I asked. “Here. New York,” he said. I nodded. “And you are going to Paris on business, I assume?” He looked down and crossed his arms in front of himself. “No, actually. Not this time.” “You’ve been there before?” “Many times,” he said, nodding. He paused for a second before adding, “It’s my favorite place in the whole world.” I smiled. “It is my favorite, too. Where are you planning on staying?” “The Plaza Athénée.” My eyebrows went up. “Oh. That’s expensive. Are you a CEO?” He laughed. “Yes, actually.” “What company do you run?” “Bonnlander Energy.” “I’ve heard of that. Your company invented a new type of hydroélectricité, no? He smiled genuinely this time. I had complimented something he was proud of, I could tell. “Were you CEO when it was invented?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. He looked away, then back with a shy smile. “I guess I should tell you that I started the company. I’m Robert Bonnlander.” I smiled and extended my hand. “Oh, It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Christine Du Pont.” He paused for a second before taking my hand with a surprised grin. “What?” I asked. I sometimes didn’t understand American humor. “Nothing, it’s just that I realized you didn’t know who I was when you helped me back there.” I narrowed my eyes. “Not everybody is out after something, Mr. Bonnlander.” “Clearly.” I was just noticing that he had seemed to relax a great deal when he suddenly looked worried again and checked his watch. “Are you late for something?” I asked, and I could see his jaw visibly flex. He brought his gaze back to my eyes for just a second before looking back down at the table again, but he must have gained some trust in that glance judging by what he said next. “My last meal,” he said in a quiet and vulnerable voice.

I thought that perhaps there was a language barrier problem. I didn’t know what that expression meant. But when he looked up, straight at me, I could see in his eyes that it wasn’t something good. “Pardonne?” He gulped and looked out the window again. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “A month ago, I was diagnosed with an inoperable disease. Nothing much I could do. As I’ve kind of said, I don’t really have any family or friends. Most people say that when they’re dying, they just want to spend time with their loved ones; trouble is, I don’t have any. Few days ago, Saturday, doctor said I shouldn’t expect to see another Saturday. I’d already made up my mind the day they told me. So I left sufficient notes with my attorney and bought a one-way ticket to the one place where I remembered ever being truly happy.” My eyes were glassy. “Paris.” He nodded. “Right after the hydroelectric thing shot off here, I went to Europe to pitch the idea there. I had always been about saving money in the early days, but I acted on impulse when I got to Paris and booked a night at the Plaza. And my favorite memory was sitting on the balcony, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, eating the best meal I had ever eaten in my life.” He got a little faraway smile on his face. “And you want to eat your last meal there,” I said. He nodded. After a minute, he looked at me. “I don’t know when it will be,” he said, “But I’ve racked up a lot of money in these years here, and I plan on leaving the world in peace. Or whatever sort of peace I can find.” He looked up at the sky outside. “I’ve come to grips with it, on my own. Lawyer’s the only one I told, except for you.” “I am honored,” I said, my voice quiet. His jaw flexed again. “Thank you.” We were both quiet for a moment. I wasn’t sure what to say. I wondered what I would do if I were dying. Like he had said, my loved ones would be on my mind. But this man had none, save for one. “Do you like chocolate?” I asked. He looked back at me, puzzled but intrigued. He nodded. I looked through my purse and pulled out a box of assorted chocolates that I had been given at the conference I had been to. I opened it and set it between us. “It may not be Michelin star worthy,” I said, “But chocolate is my favorite food.” He looked straight into my eyes and smiled. Then we both took chocolates and he leaned back with a look of newfound contentment.

Sing Me a Song Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender

A Shadow's Recount of the Life of Anne Wickett Fiction by Lauren Timmins First Place, High School Writing Contest Loveland High School

For the duration of my existence, I trailed behind her, and learned the human songs of love and death. She was light, brighter than the very star whose absence cast me. She loved the sun and summer days, she loved candlelit nights and starlight, and from her love of luminescence I was allowed to live longer than most shadows. Her name was Anne Wickett, and there was a time where I was the only darkness in her life. When she first came into the light her eyes were the color of the hills and her hair dripped with the beams of the harvest moon. Her mother was a soft rain; quiet, gentle, a fragile giver of life. Her father was lightning, a blazing and regal man who commanded the Rain with reverence. Together they showed her the simple things: how to be good, how to think, how to live carefully and love selflessly. When Anne was old enough to manage on her own for a while she was allowed to leave the house and roam the fields. She and I would scamper about the farm, tending to all the creatures, stopping every now and then to help hang the laundry or to sweep the house. I spent most of my time on the barn wall with the horses, where she would pretend to spill the water bucket or the oats at dusk in order to spend just one more moment with the towering creatures. This carried on for a while, long enough for her to learn to walk, to read, and to ride the horses she held so dear to her heart. My time was divided between the floor under her desk chair, the armchair near the fire, and beside horse hooves. Then came a time where I was lost in the darkness. I lived in flickering flashes, and in those flashes I saw a bed, a pale hand, a doctor, a slab of rock in the hillside. The house was kept in artificial night for the Lightning, who had fallen ill. I awoke one morning slumped on the bedroom wall, the girl cowering in her chair, a picture of her father in her hands. We were shaking and water poured from her eyes as the sun rose behind her. I had never seen a human cry before, and then I did not understand why they would rid themselves of the substance that keeps them alive. I remained on the wall for a few days, and the Rain would come to make sure Anne ate, then the two of them would return to their respective states of isolation. The water in her eyes dried up, and she looked out the window again. She was fixed, and went to see the horses. The light had returned. The Rain did not recover as fast as the girl, but the girl gave her a reason to breathe. She became the Wind, a soft push, encouraging motion. The Wind stirred

the Rain, the Rain healed the Wind, and the two became whole again. The harvest moon passed three times, then the girl was sixteen. Her mother baked a chocolate cake and gave her a calico dress she made herself long after the sun had set. I looked on from the windowsill as she twirled, the red and oranges encompassing her willowy frame, making the wind look afire. “Mama,” she said, throwing her arms around the rain, “thank you for the dress. It's beautiful.” Some of the rain fell from the mother’s eyes, and she answered, “You are welcome my dear, but I have a second gift for you.” The two went forth in the twilight, forcing me to live between the clouds. The barn door slid open, blinding me for a moment, then the light poured atop us and together we saw the trunk. “Mama, what is this?” Anne inquired, pacing around the black box. “A trunk, and a ticket. My dearest Anne, you deserve to see more of this world than the hills and fields. You deserve to see the cities, to see people from all over. The world is much more than this. I'm sending you to New York, and you will stay there with your Aunt Sarah.” “Am I to go alone?” “Yes, I am too old, and besides, I need to look after the farm.” I was jerked off of the wall and onto the floor. “You can't manage the farm all alone, I must stay.” Anne insisted, taking her mother's hands. “You silly child,” her mother said, “I managed your father for twelve years. I can manage the farm just fine, and besides, I won't be alone. Your cousin Ned is coming to earn a living helping me.” The Wind trembled in the arms of the Rain. “Then I will go.” In the morning there was a general excitement drifting in the world. The sun burned white, falling about the hills and through the windows. I was free to go wherever I pleased, and decided on the ceiling, as it was a place I rarely visited. A spider joined me, and for some reason Anne took a great dislike to it. She screamed when she saw him and ran into her mother, who laughed and got the spider out. “What are you going to do if you see a spider when you go?” Anne wrinkled her nose and folded the calico dress. “I will avoid it, and if I absolutely need to, I will find a way to move it.” “Is that the last one?” her mother asked with a small frown, laying her hand on the dress. “It is. There are eight all together.” “Only eight?” “Eight dresses are more than enough to bring for a few weeks.”

Her mother sighed and picked at her apron. “I wish I could let you go properly, in a buggy of some sort.” “Father thought they were unnecessary, and I agree. I'd rather ride on the horse than in a buggy to my own wedding.” “It isn’t ladylike.” “It’s only to the train station, and then I can behave like a proper lady.” Anne smiled at her mother, a look of mischief in her eyes. It was a rare look, but when it passed it meant adventure. Excitement. The look was an unspoken vow, a vow to make blood roar and hearts pound, if only for a second. And did she uphold it! The goodbye was bitter but the departure was sweet as lark song. We galloped across the hills, her hair billowing red behind her. Down, down the road we flew, and the entire world Anne knew passed behind her. Hills and fields gave way to beaten roads and dusty houses. Civilization grew like chokevines, they strangled the beauty of the landscape with rotten wood and crumbling stone until it died. “Miss Wickett?” “Pardon?” A man stood before her, and if he were a woman the two could easily be mistaken as sisters; the shadows of their bones, the rust color in their hair, and the shared glow of the emerald isle in their eyes. “Anne.” He said, and rolled his eyes. “Much better.” she said, and hugged him. “It’s good to see you, cousin.” He gently tugged away and took her hand. “I’m here to lead…” “Splinter. His name is Splinter.” she said, dismounting, and I attached myself to her feet. The man called Ned smiled and took the reins from her. “I’m here to lead Splinter back home. I’ll take good care of him, and your mother. Enjoy your trip.” “I shall. Tell her I’ll write when I arrive.” She inquired where the station was, and proceeded to walk into the shadow of a large building, extinguishing me. All around was darkness, then the two of us emerged, surrounded by smoke and discordant voices. Anne ceased to move, and I believe she forgot how to breathe for a moment. She had read about the trains, the great iron engines, the thundering cars. But in that moment she saw through sound, touch, and smell. Through the haze of smoke and stench of coal she saw fragments of the past, all stitched together to form the future. “Miss, you might want to board now.” The voice was low and rough, the eyes were blue, and the hand was strong. The Wind turned and found herself lost in a hurricane.

“Wh-what?” “The train, to Boston, it’s leaving.” he explained. Anne shook her head. “Oh, no, I’m going to New York.” The man stood close, but his shadow strayed far from him. “I heard when you asked a friend of mine where the station was. We take a train to Boston, then to another two cities, then we arrive in New York.” He paused, and looked at the ground. “Forgive me if I’m being rude, but I am going to New York as well, and I would be grateful if you accompanied me.” He was about twenty years of age, and his eyes pulled Anne to him as sirens pull ships into rocks. The Wind was too innocent, and, too young to be cautious, she threw herself into the Hurricane. “I would love to accompany you.” She allowed him to take her bag and her hand, and the three of us stepped onto the train. The doors shut behind us, and we were carried away forever. Anne only looked out the window once, for a fragment of a moment. The hurricane sat beside her, allowing his hand to brush hers by intentional accident, and each time he would smile and apologize without being sorry for it. The wind paid no mind to it, and began to play games of her own, letting her hair fall on his shoulder and dropping her book so she could look at him when he stooped to fetch it for her. “Have you ever been to New York?” he asked, after Anne had dropped her novel for the third time in an hour. “Never,” she answered, “but I have read about it in the newspapers.” “Have you seen drawings or sketches?” “Of other cities, but not New York.” “Why, then I must try to describe it to you. It will help you appreciate it when you see it.” The hurricane told the wind stories of sprawling buildings, of people rushing to and fro, the veil of smoke about the city, and the kinetic quality of life. He told her his story, of growing up near the Catskills before moving into the heart of the city to start a newspaper. His brother had been lost in a factory accident, leaving the hurricane to take care of his two nephews. And oh, how he wished they had a motherly figure, but no woman seemed to want him. Anne, in her innocence, only saw a kind and gentle man, and let herself begin to fall for the stranger. She told him, in turn, about her life in the countryside, about the smell of horses, woody smoke, and petrichor. She described the death of her father and the illness that took

him, and how she lost herself in books afterwards. This revelation seemed to stupefy the hurricane, who turned to the window and thought for a while. “You read?” he inquired. “Oh yes, I love reading. Doesn’t everybody read?” The hurricane shook his head. “Only the educated, of whom there are few.” The train shuddered to a halt, and the two alighted. The station was much larger and smelled of coal dust. Shadows hung about like tapestries and people passed one another without recognition. Anne shuddered and pushed herself against the man. She was but a single speck of life in a deadened world. “Is this New York?” she asked, having lost track of the stops they had made. “Yes, it is. Is there someone here for you?” “I believe my Aunt is here to collect me.” The Hurricane turned her to face him, and placed his hands on her shoulders. His gaze met hers, paralyzing her. “I don’t even know your name.” he breathed, his voice sending sparks down Anne’s spine. “Anne Wickett. And yours?” “William Carpenter.” He was breaking every rule, his hands drifting towards her hips. She was blinded by the intensity of the moment, a slave to the scourge of passion. Only the shadows watched as he kissed her, and I felt her heart fall into his hands. The world rushed about them, and they were invisible. Somewhere in the station, a woman with faded red hair gazed at a train schedule and decided her niece was delayed. Somewhere in the hills, the Rain rose, feeling something was very wrong with the world, and decided to check on Ned. Anne began to cry, and laid her head on William’s chest. “I don’t want to leave you.” I watched as William smiled, and feigned sympathy. “I don’t want you to go. Is your Aunt here?” Anne bit her lip, stopping her shuddering. “I think she said she would meet me by the entrance. I should go.” “Allow me to walk with you, before we part.” “All right.” I trailed behind them, staying close to Anne, for there were many dark spaces in the station. William’s shadow, however, seemed to throw itself into the blackness. The two looked around for a quarter of an hour, and not a moment passed where they weren’t touching. Anne began to cry again, and William hushed her, assuring her that they could find her aunt together in the morning, but for now

she could stay with him. He led her through the fading city streets, and took a streetcar to the outskirts of town, where he ran his newspaper. “I live above the press.” he explained, then turned the key. He stepped inside, and Anne followed him into the dim light. The floorboards were cracked, and moaned under their weight. A few rolls of paper stood in a corner, veiled by spider webs. A carpet of dust stood upon the press, rust coating its right side. Ink was congealed along the edges, having spilled years ago. “I’ve been away for a few weeks, I apologize for the dirt.” “I understand, if you want, I can help you clean it.” “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” the Hurricane answered, taking off his gloves and jacket. He then turned and locked the heavy wood door behind him, and bolted it for good measure. “Where are your nephews?” “They are staying with a friend of mine. Follow me upstairs.” “What do you keep in the closet, over there?” The Hurricane faltered, and grew short. “Old coats and such, now, please, follow me upstairs.” he said, his gaze cool. So she followed him up the creaking staircase, into a room blacker than pitch. My vision hazed, then I was extinguished by the darkness. Something happened inside the room, I know not what. The Hurricane must have engulfed the Wind and choked the life out of her, for when she stepped into the sun, her eyes were faded, her clothes were tattered, and her skin was bruised. There was a vacant look about her; she was a walking corpse. Those who passed her simply regarded her as Irish scum, come to take their jobs and homes. They did not know they were passing an American girl of only sixteen, who came to the city with a few dresses and a heart full of hope, only to have it wrenched from her body and replaced with shards of glass. She wandered, farther and farther from the outskirts, until she reached the wild world again. The wind simply drifted, and down, down she drifted, until she found a river. There she sat and muttered incoherent things, pausing every now and then to touch her reflection. She would call out softly for the Rain, then sit in silence, waiting patiently for an answer. Each time she called she grew more frantic, until she was calling the long dead Lightning’s name as well. It was during this time when I finally understood why humans cry. The Wind, Anne Wickett, called out for the only things she knew until she wasted away entirely, her spirit walking away from the world with the setting sun. No one in the city remembered the girl with fire in her hair and the hills in her eyes. No one disturbed the body on the riverbank. No one took the time to search for the

young woman, for the authorities assumed she had become enamored with the city and decided to remain there. Years passed in the hills, and the Rain, without the wind to warm her, turned to snow. I, a lowly shard of nature, am left to remember what she was. She was innocent, pure, a gentle and beautiful thing that belonged in the hills under the yellow sun. I believe she could have become someone whom the entire world would know, but the world is not meant for perfect things. It saw her, and it shattered her. I choose to remember her with hair dripping with the beams of the harvest moon, running in the fields with the horses, the Lightning and the Rain beside her. I will keep this memory alive until the last of her bones turn to dust, so she can be forgotten in the place that made her happiest, where the darkness can never find her.

Through the Looking Glass Essay by Kendall Young First Place, High School Writing Contest Walnut Hills High School I see it. It is me. I stare at my almond shaped eyes in my smudged, fingerprinted glass mirror. As I look into the mirror, I notice the physical aspects of myself. My focus changes to the glass that defines the mirror. I intensely concentrate on the glass. I wish I could travel through my mirror to a mystical parallel universe to escape all of my struggles. I imagine pointing my index finger through the glass and escaping, defying the expectations and possibility of the existence of another world. I point my finger to touch the glass, and reality hits. It is just a mirror. I lean against the light brown painted wall once new and freshly painted now consisting of a few scrapes and dents. The smell of Lysol air freshener is clogging my senses, but I do not mind. Leaning against the wall, I continue to look into the mirror. I start to think of the numerous times I have watched myself cry while looking in the mirror. I like to watch myself cry; it is fascinating. I study myself. I always force myself to remember how natural it is for my tears to flow and how my breathing is inconsistent and unsteady. My mind soars; I imagine myself in a dramatic movie that would probably link me to my first Oscar. I imagine the Academy playing the clips from the movies of the nominees. On a wide screen, I see myself from my seatâ€”second row seat closest to the aisle. A young teen looking through her mirror is crying as she questions her place in the world. She is flustered, her heart and sense of happiness stolen before her eyes. The girl just stares into her own glistening eyes full of tears. Immediately, her mother calls for her. The girl wipes her face quickly, clears her throat, and calls back to her mother. She takes deep breaths before leaving the bathroom. I win an Oscar. Amused, I laugh at myself. My imagination takes a simply experience such as crying and transforms it into an Oscar win for best actress in a leading role. This is probably the biographical story of my life and how I am easily discouraged and often question my place in the world along with my existence. I can never find a legitimate and solid answer to this question. Unfortunately, no one can. My mom says I am here because I am special. This is a vague answer. Everyone in this world is special in their own way. I look back into my mirror. If only it was magical and could answer all my life questions and reveal my prophecy. I want to know my place in this world.

I realize I am not the only one who wants to know their purpose and destiny. Therefore, I know it is going to be a lifelong journey to unravel the mystery. Maybe that is the magic of life: we may not always know our purpose, but as we grow and prosper, different aspects of our personal aspirations and values begin to unfold. Life is a journey of self-discovery. The magic is found amongst the unknown. This makes for a beautiful future. So, no, I do not have a magic mirror that reveals my life prophecy and answers all of my questions. It does not speak in riddles nor tell me I am the fairest of them all. There is not a parallel universe that I can go to and escape my struggles. It is only a mirror hanging on a light brown tattered wall. It is the starting path of my journey of self-discovery by revealing my present circumstance. I look in the mirror and my mind imagines another possible movie scene. A onceconfused adolescent, now an enlightened adult, walks into her childhood home. The house reeks of sweet nostalgia. She walks into her old bathroom. The camera captures her leaning against the wall. The girl lifts her head and sees herself in the mirror. She begins to point her index finger out to touch the mirror, but she pulls it back and smiles at herself. She opens the door and exits the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. The camera shoots from the end of the hallway as she is walking out of the bathroom, the sound of her shoes narrating the dialogue until the end of the movie.

Movie Night Fiction by Joshua Zeller Anne, the co-director of the Yatesville Community Center, looked at the banner hanging above the projector screen, strung carefully from the high ceiling by the maintenance team. It could not be seen very well in the darkness of the room, but she knew that it read: “The Yatesville Community Center Presents a Showing of Titanic / April 15, 2012.” She could see many of the almost one hundred heads present looking up at it now, restlessly waiting for the facility’s elderly tech person to hit play, eager to move past the DVD menu that scrolled continually through the same six or seven dramatic scenes. Never had there been such a turnout at one of their events—it was a record, and thanks to the generosity of the donors, admission was completely free. Anne looked over at the facility’s other director, Vern—a man she had worked with for about a year now, and with whom she had just given a joint speech. They had hoped the audience would read through the salmon pink sheet they had been given at the door (which listed a calendar of the facility’s events), and that they would also take some time to peruse the mint green sheet that had a list of facts about the Titanic (they could learn how there were 2,340 passengers aboard, or how, once the ship sunk, the 745 survivors were picked up by a ship called The Carpathia). The community center’s staff was eternally grateful for the community’s (the wealthy donors’) support of the center, which made smooth operation of the facility possible. Still buzzing with the adrenaline of public speaking, Anne leaned in to whisper breathlessly to Vern, “I’m going to text Mike and tell him to play the movie already. What’s he waiting for? I’m afraid all of these people will get bored and leave before he remembers to press play.” “It’ll be alright Anne—see, there, he’s just started it,” Vern replied with a smile of what Anne judged to be an almost irresponsible nonchalance. How he could be so calm, she didn’t know. She had planned her part of today’s speech a month in advance, then had practiced it at least twenty times in the last two weeks, and today he had told her that he had come up with his bit only this morning, before work. She closed her eyes and then listened as the film’s score flowed boomingly and majestically from the speakers, and people settled in their seats. Surround sound, and a state-of-the-art projector, Anne noted with pride. This fact calmed her as she and the rest of the room offered up their full attention to the screen before them. *

As he watched Leonardo DiCaprio meet Kate Winslet for the first time aboard the monstrous Titanic, Justin felt the familiar cynicism creep up within him. He had seen the movie for the first time seven years previously when sixteen years old, and had not been very taken with what he had seen. Even then he had thought the love story to be commonplace—it was only the stunning visuals that made it different from any other romance. But also, the final scene between the two lovers—he had a theory that many others had: the piece of refuse onto which Rose clung in the freezing ocean was clearly big enough for Jack, too. Even if it wasn’t, surely Jack didn’t have to just float there, casting dying romantic looks at his more fortunate lover without trying to save his skin. Justin had expected much from the film, and had been sorely disappointed. The nude drawing scene, which he had eagerly been anticipating, had just barely, in his teenaged opinion, justified his sitting through all three hours of the film. Now Justin was twenty-three years old, and a journalist for The Yatesville Newsyard. He had been filled with horror when he was assigned to cover the event for community center, but as a rookie he had little choice but to go where he was told. In the dim light of the large room, he was taking some reluctant notes between resentful glances up at Jack’s latest defiance of social convention. He wrote about the large turnout, taking brief notes on the surrounding scene, but refraining from noting anything down about the movie itself. It was made clear to him that he was not the newspaper’s film critic (oh, if only). He couldn’t wait to go talk to the two directors of the center after the showing was over, and then go home. He saw people now and then going over to a concessions table to pick up buttery popcorn piled into old-time paper buckets (purchased at the local party store; the popcorn was microwave-grade) and plastic cups filled with fruit punch, and felt his stomach growl. The people onscreen were now eating an elegant dinner, and he only felt hungrier, and wished he had a different job. But he couldn’t deny that the movie had class, had style. It established atmosphere far better than many of the films he had seen over the years. He started to watch more closely now, and put his notepad and pen under his chair, knowing it was useless to take anymore notes until the showing was over. After a few minutes, he finally gave in and tiptoed over to pick up some concessions. He turned around with drink and popcorn in hand and watched the screen for a time before making his way back to his seat. He supposed it wasn’t the worst way he had spent a Sunday night. * Onscreen the two lovers were steaming up the back of a Model-T Ford, and April suppressed a yawn. It had been months since she had really gotten out, since her third child—another boy—had been born. Her sister Anne, who was co-director

of the facility, had begged her to come, fearing that no one would show up, and that the whole community center would suddenly collapse into a heap of mournful rubble as a result. Jake had agreed to watch the kids for a night (he had offered plenty of times before, but she had not accepted until now), and she had been excited about leaving the house for a just a little while. But this precious time to herself did not change the fact that she had gotten home from working the late shift at four in the morning and had been awakened promptly at 4:16 by her young childâ€™s cries. She had spent the day with little Thomas until Jake had gotten home from work, and had found them both sound asleep on the couch. Needless to say she was exhausted, and she could barely keep her eyes open. April had never seen the movie, but until now, as the ship was beginning to enter its chaotic final hour, it seemed like the kind of light romance that she would watch while preparing formula or completing some other mundane task of childcare. She started to wake up a little bit more now though, nervously eating popcorn and sipping punch as the ship fell apart, observing the close shaves the hero and heroine endured, knowing that it must end happily, that they would escape together, though barely, and go live a Bohemian existence in Greenwich Village together. Somehow, news of the ending had never reached her ears. When the ending did come, and she watched Jack descend into the murky depths of the Atlantic, she was a little shocked, and tears became a possibility. But then the credits were rolling, and people were talking and laughing, and the distraction dried her eyes. She thought again of home with a half-weary, half-happy sigh as she went to go discard her concessions. Now, she had to go over to her sister (who was already standing up and talking with Vern about next weekâ€™s programs) and tell her what a success the night had been.

And Now I Weight Essay by Craig Helton For all of my young life, I’ve been overweight. What’s funny is that when I was born, I was a skinny baby and when my cousin was born (1 year apart), he was the fat baby. As we’ve grown, we’ve swapped spots. But don’t mistake me for the excuse type, I know who’s behind my problems: me. That’s never alluded me. To go on though, in middle school is where my weight and its side effects took a toll on me. Elementary school was fine, getting picked last for things wasn’t a big deal because I still played. That was a much easier time. But when you go to middle school, as a kid, you start to develop socially at rapid speed and for some that means being mean to others. I was picked on for my weight and often enough jokes were made, even by friends at times. When that happens you start to question those friends and I did. However, at the same time, I was too friendly then and that led me to do nothing and just ignore it. My way of dealing with it then was to be funny. Today, I consider myself a funny guy too but I don’t rely on that now to deal with problems. But back then, I did. It was my only source of relief at school and I ended up playing a balancing act between comedy and pain to make my life normal for me. I wanted to fit in and I knew I had a physical trait that made me a little inferior at the time. So I made up for that with being a class clown. However, while I found my fragile niche after some time, it did leave some lasting negative effects on my life but fortunately for me, it did leave positive ones too. It’s a pretty standard thing now-a-days to feel the aftermath of a childhood trauma of some sort. While I know my trauma may not be as severe as extreme cases usually publicized, it does affect me and hurt me in my daily life. The major way it has affected me is with social anxiety. I feel judged by everybody and while that seems normal and probably accurate, my problem is I always believe they are judging me negatively and looking at me as inadequate in whatever I do. It’s made me lose confidence in doing things that I know I’m not knowledgeable about. When I first started dating my girlfriend, we were polar opposites. She’s outgoing and I’m an introvert. She’s okay with being the center of attention and I hate it and at times, that made for some delicate situations. One time I remember being at a school dance and it was going great. The crowd was all smooshed together and having a good time. Then all of a sudden, the DJ plays a bad song and almost all the kids on the dance floor left, leaving only a few rows of kids left. At first, we left the dancefloor too but it wasn’t long that another song came on and my girlfriend wanted to go back out. We did and we

were in the front of the crowd and everybody not dancing could see me. I immediately felt panic and just couldn’t shake the thought that they were all watching me, every single eye ball on me and I just felt uncomfortable and angry because she wanted to dance and I wanted to get out of there and I did and she danced by herself. I felt horrible after that. That particular moment spurred from being made fun of so much that I developed social anxiety and it put me in a bad situation and my actions made it worse. Now, I do think it’s important to note that while almost all times where attention is on me, it can turn bad quickly and as I said, it stems from me not being confident in my abilities. One thing though, I’ve found, throws all that anxiety out the door: baseball. I’ve played since I was two and still play a form of it today in softball. I’ve been on a diamond my whole life and with that comes a crowd. When you play higher baseball, like select, it draws bigger crowds. More eyes and more attention on one singularity. Astonishingly though, that is where I’m most comfortable in life, on that diamond. I’ve spent my life working to perfect my craft of the sport and it’s made me know that no matter who watches me or if I make a mistake, I know how to do it and I know how to fix it. I’m confident in my ability to make plays and to fill the role I’m given. It’s one of the best feelings in the world knowing I’m safe there from my own mind. I don’t feel fear in baseball and I’m grateful for that. As I’ve said earlier, just because I’ve had negative consequences from my developed anxiety, it doesn’t mean I haven’t experienced good ones. Going into high school didn’t really change anything for me in terms of jokes, even though high school can be less brutal at times. It wasn’t until the end of my sophomore year that I had felt the need to make a change and help myself out. I knew I needed it. I weighed in at 266 pounds and I felt horrible about myself. It was one of the lowest points in my life when the scale tipped that high. However, at the end of the summer, a couple friends and I found a program called P90X. They wanted me to try it. We didn’t have jobs then so it was easy to stick to a routine daily and not have the excuse that we’re too busy. I can just remember that first day of working out. I was in my room and I pressed play on the remote and I really didn’t know what lied ahead of me. However, I found out something that day. I was scared to fail in front of them. My anxiety told me that if I quit on a rep, I was quitting in front of them and they would judge me. That motivated me to finish every rep and after that first day, I was sweating and panting but I felt great. I made it through one and it just kept happening every day, over and over. At the end of that summer, I weighed in at 195 pounds and I felt the best I have felt in a really long time. I loved it and I couldn’t wait to show my friends.

Before school started for my junior year, there was a festival being held in my community. It was called the Taste of Colerain and at that time, we all went to hangout. That was the first time anybody, other than my two friends I worked out with, had seen me. It’s hard to describe the feeling of seeing all of those people for the first time after my transformation. It was like they were meeting a completely new person and all I could do was smile cheek to cheek the whole night. It was truly amazing for them to look at me and see something new and improved and I was proud of myself. I worked really hard and it paid off. That is, until college came rolling around and things changed again. But it was in that moment, I felt the best about myself and I realized that I can change, no matter how hard it may seem. As I alluded to, things did change when I entered college. What I soon realized was that I had lost all that weight due to abnormal healthy eating patterns. To clarify, I ate really healthy when I lost all the weight, but it wasn’t my normal diet so as you can guess, once you go back to the normal diet, you start to gain some weight back and I did. Unfortunately, it was all of it. I’m not really sure what happened but my routine changed, stress took over with college, and my experiences were altered. I was in a new world. I saw the pounds creeping up and up every day and I remember telling myself that when it gets to a certain amount, I’ll get better but it was just talk. Just hot air out of my mouth. I let it go back up all the way to 263 over a period of a few years. I became lazy and found myself back at square one as I had been 3 years earlier. It’s been heartbreaking and at times depressing knowing I lost everything I worked for. It’s truly been a horrible to great and back to horrible experience. I always wish I had a fast metabolism and that running would be fun but it’s not. And that’s not even what hurts me. It’s the food. It’s my diet and how poorly I manage what I eat. What’s worse is that after I lost all the weight, I learned to count calories every single day, even when I gained it all back. I use that tactic still and it sometimes doesn’t faze me. However, I know I have the skills and the motivation deep inside me to get back to where I was a few years ago. It’s just a matter of finding it. One thing I’ve done the past few years is I decided to challenge myself physically. No matter what my weight has been at the time, I’ve run the Redlegs 5k race and just recently, I did the 10k race. It was so hard but I did it. I wanted to push myself and I’m glad I did because it felt good. I felt accomplished. Since I went back up all the way to 263, I’ve dropped down to 247. It’s not much but it’s been a good start. I downloaded a calorie tracker app that gives me a certain number of calories a day I can have and I have to allocate carefully per meal. It has helped me so much to stay organized and aware of what I eat and how much to eat of it. It’s interesting when you find out just how many calories certain foods have. It doesn’t

take much to rack them up, that’s for sure. It has definitely taught me to respect what I put in my body because I know it can have lasting effects. As I write this, I hope to stay on my path and I hope to stay disciplined and motivated and conscious of my body. My family has a history of diabetes and I know very well that if I don’t try and correct myself now, I’ll regret it the rest of my life. So I stay aware every day, just for the sake of that. And even if I don’t do well certain days, I’m still aware and that’s better than being totally ignorant to the truth. I hope one day I can add another chapter to this story of how I lost then gained and then lost again and finally maintained. I can’t take my health for granted because I know I value my life too much to gamble. I do know deep down that I am proud of what I have accomplished and I am proud of how I’ve gotten better with my social anxiety. I just have to keep striving in the future to make a better and healthier me. I plan too. But in the meantime, I weight.

Hungering Mute Poem by Andrea Elchynski It’s 1:00 and time to visit her you were supposed to be there at 12:30 but she doesn’t mind that you’re late or that you needed that last cup of coffee She lies on her bed with her silvery hair sprawled across her pillow softly in solitude almost dead but not quit there her pulse is still beating you can feel it plodding from the inside of her wrist her heart hasn’t given up yet It may be hidden behind the rust and erosion of her previous life but she hasn’t let it stifle her Even if she wanted to, she still wouldn’t she has her children, and she has you She’s not like the rest of them She’s different not the different that makes you want to turn the other way when it walks in your direction but the different that makes you want to take it in your arms and keep it close The different that you know will get buried behind the indistinguishable routine you have created if you lose her But you won’t Even though drool may trickle down her shirt The bleached violet shirt she’s worn the last three days, full of stains and splatters of yesterday’s dinner and today’s breakfast she’s still her

she’s not lost or broken her soul is still intact it hasn’t been torn out and left out to dry like the rest of them it’s still there she’s still here even though she’s danced with death allowed him to whisper in her ear brush against her cheek spit in her eyes fogging them of the clarity of today’s hope and yesterday’s peace she’s still here and she’s still her she is not astray or shattered but taped together by the smell of your lingering coffee breath and raspy voice that comforts her every afternoon

What Kind of Asian Am I? Essay by Ming Waih Wong Burgess Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Notre Dame Academy “What kind of Asian are you?” Those were the first words I heard on my first day of high school. The puzzled look on my face must have been obvious because the upperclassman quickly followed with, “Oh, sorry, are – you – a – foreign – exchange – student?” I didn’t respond. The friendly senior was distracted with more incoming students and ran off to greet them. I was standing in the middle of the bustling hallway. “What kind of Asian am I?” I tucked the question in the back of my brain and trudged on, trying my best to navigate the over-stimulating, crowded foyer of my new school. I grew up in a Chinese American family. My mother’s family immigrated from Hong Kong, China and my father’s family is from Southern Alabama. The two worlds couldn’t be more different, but somehow it works. My hometown is a small Midwestern suburb with little diversity. In my house, Chinese and English conversations were fired back and forth, but when you’re a kid, it’s no big deal. My classmates thought I was a genius when they heard me speak Chinese. The language seemed exotic and different. When friends came over for dinner, my family cooked some very different dishes. Fish head soup, beef tendon stew, chicken and dumplings, and collard greens got along deliciously at the dinner table. My American classmates thought our kitchen pantry was an exotic market of strange culinary concoctions, so in America, I was very Asian-Chinese to my classmates. My family had a special summer trip planned for a Chinese sister city exchange. I was about to discover that my ideas about ethnic identity were to take an interesting turn. After a long 14-hour flight to the capital city of Beijing, China, I was excited to meet our hosts in the East. As the plane landed, I could see hints of the diverse landscape of this ancient country. We arrived at the Beijing airport and we were welcomed by the officials of the Chinese foreign affairs office. They immediately commented on how Caucasian I appeared and assumed I could not speak Chinese. They greeted me in their best English. They were shocked when I could respond in Chinese. The reactions were much the same throughout the trip. On many tours of small Chinese cities, the locals reacted in a similar fashion. They were reluctant to speak to me in Chinese assuming I could not communicate. They murmured to each other, “Oh, this girl is obviously white and can’t understand us.”

There was always surprise and disbelief when I replied in their native language. How interesting to be considered very Chinese in America and yet, in China, I was viewed as a very Caucasian American. Perception in everything. I attended school in China for a few weeks during my visit. It was great to make friends with the local kids and get a peek into their lives. They, in turn, were fascinated with my American life in the United States. I tried my best to show them baseball and cornhole. They taught me Chinese checkers and table tennis. We both learned a great deal from each other in a short time. It was a magnificent journey. I experienced the diversity of Chinese culture in many different aspects. I shared my life in America with my new Chinese friends. My three-week adventure came to an end and I had a long flight back. I had many times zones to reflect on that question tucked away many months ago: “What kind of Asian am I?” I am the most fortunate kind – the unlikely yet lucky blend of two vastly different cultures. I intend to embrace the very best from my ethnicity. I am Chinese-American.

Where I Can Never Return Fiction by Sarah Crable Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Anderson High School My childhood was pale blue: the color of my parent’s bed skirts, back when we had beds; the color of the blameless skies; the color of my baby brother’s eyes, when I had a baby brother. Most notably, pale blue was the color of our departure. It was the chipped paint on that beat-up sailboat that withstood storms that I almost could not. I never thought very much of the rusted old thing until it became my home. Then, I only thought about how much longer I would be battling seasickness, or whether the boat could stay afloat another week, or what shore we would wash up onto. I never truly thought about the color- until it changed. I remember the day we left vividly, because it was in my dreams every night. All I could hear was the sound of thunder, exploding from guns. The shots made the dusty ground shake, but I wasn’t afraid. It was just routine. I sat quietly on my momma’s lap in the humid summer air, playing happily with an old doll, completely unwitting of what might happen next. The gunshots stopped. Everyone on the block, mothers, fathers, and children alike, put down their chores or amusements, quit their chatter, and froze. The very street held its breath. I counted to ten. Eleven. Twelve... On the thirteenth second, the Earth shook. A fire erupted a couple blocks away, burning like the devil. Chaos burst out all around us, and the streets were full of shrieking parents picking up crying children, terrified young adults calling relatives on their cell phones, and more confusion than I could register. My momma lifted me off her lap and set me on the ground, grabbing my hand. “Pick up the baby,” she commanded my father, “Now.” She tugged me along to the beach, where our decrepit boat was waiting for us. The baby squealed cheerfully the whole way to the shore. “What’s happening?” I shouted. Momma crouched down next to me while Papa untied the boat. She ruffled my hair. “We’re just going fishing,” she told me coolly. “You like fishing, don’t you, Meira?” I nodded, readily believing. Afterall, when you’re six, adults don’t lie.

I boarded the boat gleefully, not even concerned by the fact that no one was actually fishing. The skepticism didn’t hit until nightfall. It was then that my parents delivered the worst news I would ever receive in my life: we could never go back. My parents had a good reason for lying to me. I never would have gotten on that splintery, poorly maintained outhouse of a boat if they told me the truth. That didn’t curb my anger, though, and certainly not my devastation. The volatile ocean became my house for the next four months. It would lull me to sleep and frighten me awake. It fed us and starved us. It would either promise us a new life, or certain death. Nothing was assured. During the second month at sea, we learned that lesson in the cruelest way fate possibly could have designed. As the first light of day was stretching across the horizon, I watched the last light leave my baby brother’s eyes- his wonderful, pale blue eyes. The ocean had proved itself to be too violent for the frailty of a tiny infant, especially after so long. He went silently, perhaps wearied by his struggle, but watching the once giggly and excitable baby grow still, I was not so quiet. I shrieked and shrilled, and for the first time, I noticed that the fair paint of the boat had worn away to reveal the dismal, grayish color underneath. With wet cheeks, I woke my parents. My father wept like I had never seen a grown man weep before. He cursed the war, saying that even kilometers away, it had murdered his baby. And my momma, oh, my poor momma. She was paralyzed in her grief. A flood rushed down her face for several days and nights without sleep, her heartache all-consuming. Something inside her broke. A mother should never have to outlive her baby. That night, when we held our makeshift funeral, all the stars were concealed by clouds. The sky cried with us all night, dampening my hair, and all I could smell was salt water; whether it was the seawater or tears, I do not know. I stood speechlessly as the water swallowed my baby brother whole. In the blink of a tear-stained eye, the ocean had become his eternal cradle. He was gone. And so was my hope. After a few weeks or so, we vigorously endeavored (in vain) not to think of him, because we couldn’t afford to mourn. Papa always said we had to keep moving. “No matter what happens,” he would say when the world collapsed, “you cannot sink. Even though it’s easy. Even though it’s tempting. Even if you don’t care. Even if the sun burns out and there’s nothing but chaos and the ocean, and you’re tired of swimming. You can move forward. Promise me, Meira, that you won’t let yourself sink.” And so I promised him. Easier said than done.

When the ocean and the storm turned against us once more, I kept my promise. When I hadn’t slept in seventy-nine hours for fear of dying, I kept my promise. When we finally found the shore again, but it was full of strange people who asked strange questions and told us that our home was gone, I took a deep breath... and kept my promise. I barely even felt relieved to be on hard land again; I was only numb. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. I didn’t have my home. I didn’t have my baby brother. I didn’t have my childhood. I didn’t have anything. The world was no longer pale blue. Instead, it was the dullest, most lifeless gray color of the streets and the cold buildings. of the endlessly sunless sky and my parents’ hair. I didn’t understand the language of the people all around me, but I could read their expressions perfectly well. Imposter, every sideways glance seemed to snarl. You don’t belong here. And I agreed. I belonged a sea away, where terror and hatred took the form of gunfire that prevailed over our neighbors. Where bullets fell upon our houses like rain. Where I could never return. So why did these people look at me like I could? Months passed uneventfully. Momma got a job as a waitress and Papa worked as a craftsman. We didn’t make very much money, but it was enough. My seventh birthday passed unremarkably. I was sent to school about three months after arriving in this foreign land (Momma said it was very difficult to get me admitted), but I agonized. The language was difficult and making friends was even more so. For the first five months or so of school, I struggled on in this manner with a complete absence of effort. I refused to talk to anyone, and was quiet even when the teacher asked me questions. I did my work poorly. I learned a few phrase of English. Then, I went home and thought about my country for hours on end. I daydreamed about the endless azure sky, and of my once-playful classmates. There used to be stars in the sky every night, but here, it seemed there were only rainclouds. I missed the beautiful beach, the market where momma sometimes let me tag along, my old school where everyone spoke my language, and my bedroom stocked with toys. None of that was there anymore, I reminded myself constantly. My home was an unrecognizable warzone, and there was no use in being nostalgic. Oh, but I was nostalgic. I knew I made Momma and Papa worry. Until I finally made a friend. I didn’t intend to encourage friendship, believe me. I was committed to suffering clandestinely. My new friend, however, would not allow it. It was lunchtime in the pristine but hectic cafeteria. I sat by myself in the corner, as far away from the babble and chaos as I could get. I wanted no part of it.

Instead of talking and joking, I ate my lunch in stubborn silence. Unexpectedly, one of my classmates, a girl with lovely, aureate hair, plopped down next to me. I was a little startled when this near-stranger joined me, but I said nothing. “My friends are being mean,” she divulged, “Can I just sit with you from now on?” By this time, I had picked up enough English to understand the gist of what the girl had asked. I decided it didn’t matter and nodded. “Thanks,” she said cheerfully. She began to empty her lunch bag and made a revolted face when she saw the carrots packed for her. “Ug, I hate these,” she snarled. “Me too,” I answered, forgetting my unofficial oath of solitude. She threw the bag of carrots over her shoulder blindly. The vegetables spun through the air until they thumped our teacher on the back of the head. As Ms. Daucus turned around with a sneer and examined the lunchroom with intense displeasure, we put our heads down and giggled. It was the budding of my most enduring friendship. The same week, it finally stopped raining. The clouds seemed to be an omnipresent force since we came ashore, so I had actually grown accustomed to the overcast skies. I had forgotten what it was to have weather so clear I could see the stars again. My new home was so full of city lights and smog, that I had wondered if I would ever see them again. I began counting the stars that night, those vibrant lights in the darkness. They were brighter than I remembered; they actually flickered. They were something alive. They twinkled and morphed from yellow to orange to purple, all working to convince me that I could survive anything. It must have been divine intervention, because that week, when I made my first friend and the stars reappeared, hope snuck back into my heart. I thought to myself that if those stars could outshine all the city lights, then maybe- just maybeI could cut through all the haze too. Somehow, the world had taken on a new, golden tint.

Palette of the Sky Poem by Taylor Eiting First Place, High School Writing Contest Notre Dame Academy The world is covered In a gouache of lavender. The street that was bustling just hours before is now empty. I lie down on the road Taking in every inch of the colorful twilight. Wondering… Hoping… Dreaming… I raise my hand, Stretching my fingers to try and touch the freshly painted sky. Just as my fingertips graze the wet surface, The colors change. Lavender fades to navy Then to black And I can see nothing. The bleak nothingness washes over me And I am left feeling like the street on which I lieempty and alone. A light emerges from inside of the darkness Hand in hand with the stars My whole being becomes a fresco of the luminous moon. I am once again at peace.

Deer Crossing Fiction by Joshua Zeller As he left the suburban house of his friend—“Drive safely, and watch out for deer!” called the friend in joking farewell—Oscar braced himself for the long drive home on an intensely frigid winter night. The snow that crunched under him had by now ceased to be pretty, and had become an icy slush, colored by an unappealing mixture of car exhaust and mud. The wind continually struck him with its cruel fingers, and Oscar felt as if his heart would stop before he reached his car. Though there was a slick layer of ice that coated the sidewalk, Oscar doubled his pace, and quickly unlocked the frozen box his vehicle had become; the blast of heat that hit him as he turned the ignition was a vast relief. As he drove off, he again waved goodbye, and felt a twist of nervousness grip him in his stomach, and then spiral up and off; he would have to leave this cheerily lit street behind for the dark country roads that in an hour’s time would bring him home. The thing about the nocturnal country road is that it godforsaken—no effort has been made to keep up the road itself (the sides appear chewed by savage teeth; the yellow line is faded; the chipped reflectors tracing its path just barely make the road navigable by the headlights of one’s car), and the twisting path is devoid of illumination, except for the occasional carriage light, or solar garden orb. This late, no windows are lit, and every night, the houses offer themselves up to the darkness, and are swallowed until the sun emerges, making the landscape open and free again. Oscar had now come to a stretch of road populated by no houses whatsoever; there were only the silent trees. He was nervously eyeing the car that had been following behind him for a little while now. His imagination was fanciful, and often possessed his thoughts—so he wondered if the driver didn’t have some darker motive than driving homeward. Some maniac, surely, who would ram into him for no reason at all, and then, as Oscar sat there bleeding and incapacitated, the driver would emerge unscathed from the twisting wreck in order to finish the job. But just as the driver was wrapping its fingers around Oscar’s throat, the GPS intervened with a new direction, and he was brought back into the present. The car behind him was gone. Oscar was about thirty minutes into the drive, and wished desperately that he could turn on the radio, but he didn’t want to miss a direction from the GPS; getting lost was unimaginably horrifying to him. The only signs of civilization at this point were the cars that passed very occasionally on the opposite side of the road; most often they had the intense, whitish-blue halogen headlights which blinded him as he

passed the latest curve in the road, setting off in him a brief surge of adrenaline. He could only grip the steering wheel firmly and think of the bed that was waiting for him ahead. About ten minutes or so from home, as he was finally nearing the state route which was better-lit and familiar, he saw an indeterminable shape. As he got closer, he could plainly see that it was a person. Oscar couldn’t be sure if the person was walking towards or away from him, but he could just barely see that the figure had stopped right near the upcoming stop sign. Again he was afraid. When he was close enough to illumine the stranger with his headlights, he saw that the stranger was a man, and he was holding out his hand for a ride. And then the man walked right out into the middle of the street, so that Oscar had to slam on his brakes, slowing down as his heart raced on, faster and faster. The man was not some deformed monster, but was in fact a man in a business suit. But the man was not motioning for help. He only stood there and stared directly at Oscar, who ludicrously wished that the man was deformed—all twisted, gnarled, and gray—because somehow that seemed more natural, more logical. After nearly a full minute, the man came forward and leaned over the car’s hood, and then tapped on the glass of the windshield. Oscar found he couldn’t utter a word as the man’s staring facial expression remained as a sociopath’s—blank and unchanging. It was a nightmare realized. The man began to walk over to the driver’s side, but then there was a sound as of thunder, which made the man’s blank face jerk to the right—his eyes widened in alarm, and he suddenly began to run away from the car. What had drove him away soon became apparent: an elegant buck—gigantic with antlers like tree branches, its presence so magnificent that it seemed to glow in spite of the darkness—bounded forward and then stopped in front of the car, pawing and looking fiercely at Oscar, dense clouds of stream pouring from its nostrils. Its six children darted past him, their mother close behind, and then, as quickly as the buck appeared, it was gone, bounding to get ahead of his family once more. Oscar only remained frozen for a short time before he had the wits about him to speed off with a sense joyous reprieve. Drive home safely, and watch out for deer, he thought.

Moving in to a Dead Man’s House Fiction by Megan Moore You drop a cardboard box at your feet on his blue carpet. You make eye contact with yourself in the mirrored wall. You would dance in front of that huge mirror, your sundress twirling, your arms flying through space and time just to reappear in your own reflection. You think about that as if it were forever ago, but you remember last summer when you danced in this living room, admiring yourself in the mirror, twenty one years old with nothing but a cotton dress draped over your sun-kissed body. Just one year later, the mirror is not magical anymore. Now it is a kitschy decoration in dead man’s house and a reminder of how old you’ve gotten. There are dark circles under your eyes and sweat stains under your t-shirt. You are ugly and tired and you miss the girl in the sundress almost as much as you miss the dead man. You walk away from the mirrored wall to the kitchen. For twenty two years, you have visited this house at least once a week and every time you would sneak into his room where he had set a chocolate bar and a twenty dollar bill out for you to grab and hide from your parents. When you were little he would let you jump on his bed when no one else would. For your twenty first birthday he gave you a flask full of vodka, excited that you were finally old enough to drink with him. He knew how to treat you like an adult, even though you would always be a little girl in his eyes. He would remind you often that daughters have responsibilities, granddaughters have fun. The family began to gather at his bedside when he started to die and you realized that no one stood next to you in the hospital. No one spoke to you at his funeral. No one held your hand or let you cry on their shoulder. He was the only one who would. He was the only one who accepted you for what you were, the black sheep, the girl who drank vodka from a flask in your flowing sundress and danced in the living room. And now he is gone. And now you are alone. You lived here once before. When you and your parents were living in an apartment and the ceiling fell through. You were ten and aware that only poor people lived in apartments where the ceiling caved in. You understood that moving in with your grandparents made you one of the kids at school whose parents couldn’t afford a place of their own. Before you could even form the words to complain, he told you what you didn’t know that you needed to hear: “The world does not revolve around you. It revolves around your smile.” That was when the man wasn’t dead. He liked having you in the same house.

You look through the kitchen to see the door to his room closed. He doesn’t sleep there anymore but it is hard to think of the room as anything other than his. He doesn’t live here anymore, but the only thing that has changed is that it is now a dead man’s house. You live here now to take care of the wife he left behind, your mother’s mother. You climb the stairs to what is now your part of his house. The long hallway, the two bedrooms, walk-in closet, bathroom, they’re yours now. You can stay up here, write your stories, and listen for your grandmother to fall one story below. You run the scenario through your head a hundred times: you’ll hear a crash, you’ll run down the stairs and you’ll… Save her. Like you did not save him. You realize you’ve forgotten the cardboard box downstairs so you walk back down to the living room and pick the box up and start to leave towards the stairs but something stops you. The truth is, you’ve mistaken his death for your own. No one will accept you with your dress and flask, but he did and that is what matters. You look in the mirrored wall of the living room where you would dance, and you drop the cardboard box onto the floor with one satisfying thump and you start to move. Whatever has been trapped inside of you since he died pushes through the flood gates and rushes out. No movement is forced, it all comes naturally and you look stupid, twenty-two years old dancing like a child, but you do not feel stupid. You do not feel ugly. You are alone, but you are alive. You admit to yourself what you have been keeping a secret inside of you since the day you walked out of that hospice, aware that would be the last time you would see him: this is not his house anymore, it is yours, and you are alive.

Circles Poem by Andrea Elchynski Flips and turns your mind Will burn seeping into your Own shining defeat

Peregrine and Aviana Fiction by Delaney Dunster Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Loveland High School The school day lasted forever. As soon as the bell rang, I was out of the classroom and down the concrete stairs in the front of the building. My bookbag banged against my legs as I raced down two blocks, barely glancing at the passing houses and the Werner’s barking dog. I turned left at the corner of 5th and Moonbeam, and continued running. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but I was too busy thinking of all the games my friends and I could play when I got home. The houses thinned as I neared the end of the road. Our mailbox was rusting around the edges, but “Marcus” was still clear in the bright blue paint on the side. The gravel driveway was soggy beneath my feet, but I wasn’t worried about getting my feet wet or my shoes muddy, that wasn’t important. The green grass needed the rain, that’s what made our English countryside so beautiful. I smiled, my feet weren’t alone on the ground anymore. Other feet were now running alongside mine. They had caught up to me. I waved to Peregrine and Aviana on either side of me. We came to a stop at the top of the driveway. “How was your day, Sterling?” Aviana asked, a little out of breath. Her voice was as light as the breeze. “Well, it’s school, so I guess as good as school can be. I have to put my bag inside, then we can talk about what we want play this afternoon.” “Okay,” Peregrine nodded. I raced inside and found my mother seated at the kitchen table. “Hello, mother.” She looked at me, her eyes were faraway, in the middle of some inner storm. It was almost as if she could see that I saw this storm in her too, and looked quickly away from my gaze. “Hello, Sterling, darling.” She appeared sad about something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I decided it was best for her to be alone and for her to figure things out. I sat my bag next to the chair and pivoted back toward her. “I’m going outside to play with Peregrine and Aviana, if you need me Mother.” She didn’t even glance in my direction. “Have fun,” She said quietly, as I marched out the door. Aviana and Peregrine stood from the bench on the front porch when they saw me, their eyes expectant. “Mother seems sort of sad, today.” “Would you like us to help you try to cheer her up?” Aviana asked kindly.

“That’s nice of you to ask, but I think she just needs some alone time. What would you like to play?” “Well, tag’s always fun,” Peregrine said enthusiastically. “We play tag every day. How about something different?” Aviana suggested. “Like... hide and go seek!” “That’s fine with me. Is that okay with you, Pere?” “Yeah, that’s good with me! As long as you both promise me one round of tag.” “I promise,” Aviana and I said sincerely together. “Who wants to seek first?” “I will. Then you can seek next,” I challenged. “Alright, I’m going to start counting. One... two...” Aviana and Peregrine took off in separate directions.”Three... four... five... six... seven.. eight... nine... ten! Ready or not, here I come!” I was about to take off when I heard a car come up the driveway over the gravel. I angled toward the oncoming car and waved. Father waved back from behind the wheel. Finally, he rolled to a stop a few feet in front of me, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out of the car. “How was school today, Sterling?” “Eh... I prefer it here,” I answered honestly. “What about your brother?” “He’s taking a bath.” No envy there. “And what are you doing now?” He asked curiously. “Playing hide and go seek with Peregrine and Aviana.” “You better go find them then, or they may think you tricked them. Tell Pere and Av hello from me.” I grinned at him, then took off running, away from the back of the house. I spotted Aviana immediately. She sat perched in the apple tree right before the woods began. She hadn’t seen me yet though, so I planned to use it to my advantage. I crept closer, avoiding twigs to prevent her from turning to see me. I wanted to scare her before I tagged her to say she was found. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as careful as I needed to be when it came to avoiding the sticks. One crunched and her head snapped rapidly in my direction. “You were trying to scare me?” She shrugged. “Well, better luck next time, I guess. Have you found Peregrine yet?” “No. He would be with me if I had.” “I think I know what direction he went in.” She leapt out of the tree with a grace that seemed impossible. “Come on, follow me.” We sprinted past my father’s

parked car and suddenly amidst the corn. The dead stalks towered over us, making me slightly uncomfortable. “I figure he won’t be far, I can’t imagine Pere wandering around in here,” Aviana stated. Of course, she was right, as we suddenly stumbled upon him. “That’s one round done. Who wants to seek this time?” Peregrine asked. “Actually, I’m not really in the mood to play anymore. Can we just sit in the backyard?” “That’s fine with me. Maybe I could teach you a new handshake I learned,” Aviana announced excitedly. We left the rows of corn behind us, and proceeded to the back of the house. “Oh, I forgot. Father says hello.” “Why couldn’t he come play with us?” Peregrine asked. “He used to all the time when we were younger.” “He probably has work to do.” We sat in the grass, outside the window to the kitchen. “Look, there’s one flower left blooming in the box!” Aviana sprung up and ran to the flower box at the kitchen window. Peregrine and I followed shortly after. She swiftly pulled it out of the soil and held it in her hands. It was white and lovely. “One of you can have it, if you’d like it,” She offered, extending her hand with the flower toward us. “No, you saw it, you can keep it.” I grabbed the white flower from her and tucked it behind her ear. It made her light brown hair strangely darker. She laughed, pulled it out, then stuck it behind my ear. “It doesn’t really match his blonde hair,” Peregrine stated simply. I held the flower and handed it back to her. She looked at it thoughtfully. Abruptly, the murmurs in the kitchen grew louder. “What are we going to do? We can’t just allow him to stay that way.” My mother told my father. “What’s the harm? It hasn’t hurt him yet, why would it now?” “And the other children? What will they think? What will they go home and tell their mothers?” “I don’t think we should be this concerned. It’ll go away.” My father’s voice was gentle. “Will it?” “Are you really this worried?” “Yes. I’m dreadfully worried. I want to take him to a doctor. See if they can diagnose a problem.” “Tomorrow?”

“Why are we waiting? We should go now, and have this all finished with.” “If you feel that absolutely about it, then I will support you. But I’m not sure if I’m willing to let them try shots or strange pills.” “I’m willing to do anything to make it stop,” My mother answered severely. Their mutterings became quiet again and I looked back at Aviana and Peregrine. “What was that about?” Peregrine asked. “Well, my brother did have a cough when we were on our way home from school. They probably just want to make sure it’s not serious. I suppose I’ll go with them to take him to the doctor.” “Your mother said they plan to go tonight, so you should go back inside to get ready to leave,” Aviana stated. “I’m sorry that we didn’t get to play very much today,” I apologized. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll see you tomorrow after school.” I waved goodbye to the both of them, then walked around to the front. My father was pulling on his jacket as I opened the door. “We’re about to go out. Will you go get your brother for me?” I nodded, left the hallway, then entered the room my brother and I shared. “We’re leaving to go see the doctor. Aren’t you coming with us?” His curious green eyes glanced up at me from his book when I approached. “Yeah, I just need to put my shoes on.” He swung his legs out off of the bed, then stood. I left to go talk to father in the hallway. “Let’s get in the car, Sterling,” He said as he saw me. I opened the front door and marched out with my father right behind. We went and sat in his car, waiting for Mother and my brother. Mother came out, approached the car, and slid in the passenger side. “Where’s Hayden?” I asked, surprised. Weren’t we taking him to the doctor? “I decided he should stay here.” “Well, then can Peregrine and Aviana come?” Mother flinched, then gave my father a significant look. “No, they probably need to be at home, tonight,” He replied cautiously, looking at my mother out of the corner of his eye. I was a little bummed out, but I figured I would see them tomorrow. The drive was longer than I expected. The doctor wasn’t in our town, he was far outside of town, in a big gray building in the countryside. I noticed that Father glanced at Mother with uncertainty as we pulled up the drive and parked. We all got out and walked the rest of the way to the front of the building. My Father raised his hand to knock on the big oak door, but Mother noticed his hesitation and knocked instead. A woman I assumed to be a nurse opened the door and invited us in.

“Hello. My name’s Charlotte. Do you have an appointment?” Her dark hair bounced as she turned her head to us. “No,” my mother answered flatly. “That’s no trouble at all. There’s no one in at this time, so I can take you right to him.” Her heels clicked as we walked on the hard tile floor. We followed her silently through the bland building. No colors splashed out at us. Just gray, forever gray. A door seemed to appear out of nowhere, because I had no idea that it was there until Charlotte knocked on it. The door opened suddenly, and a tall man stood at its entrance. “Hello, Dr. Carter. I have some people in search of your treatments.” Charlotte stepped to the side. The handsome Dr. Carter extended his hand toward my mother and father. “Hello, Dr. Carter. Nice to meet you,” He had an American accent, giving him a bolder look. He smiled as he shook my mother’s hand. “And you too.” She answered with an almost flirty smile. “Dr. Carter.” He shook my father’s hand. “Mr. Marcus.” My father replied, sternly. “And who might you be?” He asked, now looking down at me. “I’m Sterling, pleasure to meet you, sir.” I offered my hand. Mother would have my head if I forgot my manners. With his eyebrows raised, he shook it, very firmly. “Do you mind if we talk to you in your office?” My mother asked quietly. “Yes, of course.” He turned to go in, obviously expecting us to follow. “Sterling, wait out here for us,” My father rested his hand on my white-blonde hair before he walked in. “Okay,” I answered, but they were already in the office, with the door shut before the answer left my lips. I slid down the wall and sat outside the office for what felt like an hour. What was I there for? Wasn’t Hayden the one that was sick? I could still be at home playing with Peregrine and Aviana. Why had my mother been acting weird? I considered these questions until the doorknob turned and my parents returned to the hallway. “Can I talk to you now, Sterling?” Dr. Carter asked me in the doorway. I nodded, still confused, but I pushed myself up and followed him into the office. My father looked a little nervous when I caught a glimpse of him as I entered the office. They were walking back toward the front door of the building. Did they forget something in the car? I wasn’t too disturbed by it, so I turned my attention back to the room. The office was spacious, but still gray. The desk was a startling white, but

still no color to be seen. The pens on his desk were black and his paper was white. No blues, oranges, or greens. “Sit down, Sterling.” I followed his order and sat down in the white chair. “Tell me about yourself. You can talk about school, friends, or whatever else you like.” It seemed simple enough. “Well, I go to Churchill Elementary School, I’m in 4th grade. My brother, Hayden, is in 1st grade. My best friends are Aviana and Peregrine. They are the same age I am. We play tag together after school. School’s okay, but I prefer being at home.” “Do you have any friends in your classes?” “I guess, but I don’t know them as well. Pere and Aviana have been my friends for as long as I can remember.” “When did you meet Peregrine and Aviana?” He asked curiously. “At school, I think. I know we played together at recess all the time, but now I don’t have recess anymore, so we just play after school.” “Are they in your classes?” “No, they have a different teacher.” Why was he bombarding me with questions about my friends? “Do they ever tell you about their classes?” “No, we don’t really talk about school.” He became silent, and leaned back in his chair, his hand on his chin. I could tell he was thinking, but what about? “How often do you see them?” “Everyday, I think.” He was quiet for a couple minutes, then stood up and went to the door. “Can you follow me?” He asked, grabbing the knob. “Sure.” I got out of the white chair and followed him out of the room. We continued down the hall to a room on the left. He pulled out a massive key ring and unlocked the door with one of the million on there. He held it open for me and I stepped inside. As soon as I was a foot in the door, he shut it behind me. I heard him stroll back down the hall, whistling a haunted tune. I started to knock on the door, then I began pounding with both fists, trying to get someone’s, anyone’s attention. “Dr. Carter? Dr. Carter?” I called. Where were my parents? Why had he put me in here? I needed to go home, it was late and I had school tomorrow. I don’t know how long I stood at the door, but no one came. My hands hurt from my constant knocking, so I gave up and finally started to take a look around. Still gray (why was everything gray?), but there was a bed with white sheets. I went

and laid back on the bed. I was more exhausted than I realized and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke to a blinding white light overhead. My eyes cried out. I couldn’t see anything. Unexpectedly, there was a sharp pain in my arm. I tried to pull it away, but my arm was stuck. I couldn’t move it anywhere or escape from the pain. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the calm did not last long. A hot, searing pain in my forehead had just begun. My breathing became uneven, then I was unconscious again. The room was dark, but someone was there. I shifted my eyes and saw Dr. Carter standing in the corner of the room. “Sterling, good, you’re awake. How do you feel?” How did I feel? Tired, but there was something else there... not quite loneliness, more like... emptiness. “Weird. Different.” That was the simplest way I could answer it. “Are you ready to go back to school?” That seemed random. “What about seeing your friends Peregrine and Aviana?” Yes, I wanted to see them again, school, not so much. “Yes, can I go home now?” My voice was strained. “Yes, Sterling, you can. Your parents are right outside.” He reached down and grabbed my small hand, pulling me up. My head swirled and I felt slightly dizzy. He didn’t seem to notice how unsteady I was, and continued to pull me out of the room and down the hallway toward the entrance. I had to blink a couple times as soon as I walked out because it was so bright outside. My parents sat in the car, and waved nervously when I approached. Dr. Carter opened the car door and sat me down inside. He nodded to my parents, then shut the door. My father turned in his seat to look at me and gave me a weak smile. My mother didn’t even look at me. My father started the car and we left the building and started driving home. “What time is it?” “Four o’clock.” That means I had missed a day of school. I couldn’t wait to get home now that I knew I would see Aviana and Peregrine soon, knowing that they would wait for me at the house until I arrived. The drive was shorter than I remembered, and we arrived home in no time. I hopped out of the car, my dizziness gone, now replaced with the excitement to see my two best friends. I jogged to the backyard looking for them. Where were they? I checked by the corn stalks, in the clear grass of the backyard, and the trees. Why was I unable to find them? “Aviana!!!! Peregrine!!! Where are you??” I ran to the end of the driveway and started down the street, but only to the end of the block. Where else could they be? They were always here, no matter what. What had become different now? I went around to the back of the house to check outside the kitchen window. I saw the

flower that Aviana had pulled yesterday. It had already become brown and withered. How could it have died so quickly? I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket. I sprinted back to the front of the house and in the door. “Father, have you seen Aviana or Peregrine?” He didn’t meet my eyes. “No, son, sorry, I haven’t,” His voice was distant. I walked toward the stairs and yelled up to my mother. “Mother have you seen Aviana or Peregrine?” There was no response, so I assumed that meant no. I knew my brother hadn’t seen them anywhere, he was still at school playing soccer with his friends. I raced back outside and circled the house, in hopes of seeing one of them. After a couple rounds, I darted into the trees. It continued to grow thicker, but I had to find them. I hadn’t even noticed that I had tears on my cheeks. I tripped, suddenly, on a root and fell to the ground. I remained there, and something inside of me was finally released. I sobbed, my body in the dirt and all alone.Where had my friends gone? I didn’t even get to hug them goodbye. Why had they abandoned me?

The Battle of Dear I, Essay by Christina Lackey Dear I, You made it, thanks for achieving peace, earning redemption and obtaining happiness. You were honest about your desire to be ravished in appreciation. You looked towards the future, stopped the past and stayed with me. The unavoidable was an obstacle that had infinite possibilities, now you hold tight to this tragedy because you are the one strong enough. Strong enough that you painted with the spirit in laughs, you did it right. Your voice was a melody within a laugh, you did it right. Powerful enough that you painted, remembering you were an undeveloped hand that played the harp of my heart, reach for the porch light, turn the knob and embrace truth because you were an artist with an angel possessed teddy bear. Compassionate enough that you were forgiveness in the face of Judas, betrayed by a kiss only you supplied the soul with great holiness, released the dishonesty from the tips of your fingers, climb the steps to the alter because you were a wounded kitten bound before teddy’s truth. Dear I, I’ve thanked you for making peace with your situation but I realized you gave up on a better you. You lied, you promised that these shreds of me would still be the one strong enough, but this couldn’t happen and I guess you couldn’t predict my swollen lips but you didn’t stop. Because you, Dear I are the inevitable causing the impossible to cave in on the future. You are the naïve with an ear for manipulation. Patience is a virtue so you’ve been told but how are you supposed to be patient when the voices holding your shoulders screams as the blood trailing between your legs… you are doing it wrong. Because you, Dear I weren’t supposed to paint with bloody yells, you did it wrong. When you are yells dripping betrayal from hammer cracked teeth, walk away from the swings and block out reality because you’re not you anymore, you are a warrior with a demon compelling teddy bear. Because you, dear I weren’t supposed to write songs with red words, you did it wrong. When you write, you forget you are fury gnawing through your veins reach for the knife, stalk the stairs and crawl away from reality because you’re not sanctified anymore, you are vengeance dragging leftovers back from a hunt Time to come back, time to stop and forgive, let the past go and move on but you can’t out run reality. You can’t kill your enemies without consequence, you can’t fix the past because you, dear I can only keep fighting for you are a champion that

angels applaud. Remember you are a painted smile smeared along your cheeks because you won the fight let the angel backs in.

My Thoughts Live on My Floor Poetry by Lauren Lautermilch Honorable Mention, High School Writing Contest Summit Country Day She told me to clean my room, Because across my floor laid all The clothes I had worn for the past week. She told me to clean my room, But what she didn’t know was that I was in the midst of writing a poem, A lovely poem about the darkness of humanity, Championing the downtrodden and Scolding the mighty; As if my words Were the glorious trumpets of revolution, Which sprang forth in a glorious fanfare. Yet my mother’s instructions were A single, sour note, which disrupted the chord, Bringing my sublime fanfare to a strident halt. She told me clean my room, But she didn’t understand that The mess was metaphor. When my room is messy, I am creating. I am writing, I am thinking, It is an epiphany, an outpouring of the soul, Which engrosses me to the point of neglecting The organization of the sanctuary I call my room. Only when I cease my imagination And come back to the monotony of reality, Do I have time to worry about such Lesser things as the tee shirt on my chair, Or the pile of socks in the corner. She told me to clean my room; Her eyes see only a mound, A mound of wrinkled, disheveled disorder

Yet, this mess molds around my person; It is my own slovenly wilderness. These clothes are but empty shells. What are they without me to fill them? Are they just to sit on their basket next to My bed? These clothes are my thoughts Which clutter my room â€“ They are To be displayed to all, defining who I am. My thoughts, too, swim and swirl, around My brain, without a place to be, lacking Any coordination, like snow that flutters peacefully Through the air, or a leaf that travels down The gushing current of a river; My thoughts Search for a way to be free, to realize Themselves on a piece of paper. She told me to clean my room and I have Yet to do so and will not for quite some time. Oneâ€™s thoughts are not meant to be Organized in neat, compact rows in a drawer Or hung next to each other, one by one In a closet. They are meant to be tossed Around and around, nestling in whatever Crevice they find. Yet, until I Pull myself away from my poetic escapades, My thoughts live on my floor.

Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literary collection of works by the students and alumni of Mount St. Joseph University published online with the cooperation of the English 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 a student or a graduate of 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 digital 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 Lions-on-Line, please contact the faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth.mason@msj.edu.

Editors and Staff Poetry Editor:

Megan Moore

Fiction Editor/Club Rep:

Joshua Zeller

Creative Nonfiction Editor/Treasurer:

Megan Simmermeyer

Art Editor:

Molly Ehrnschwender

Assistant Editors:

Andrea Elchynski, Penelope Epple, Brittany Hein, Timothy Schrenk, Kathryn Vanden Oever

Faculty Advisor:

Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D.