Lions-on-Line Spring Issue 2019

Lions-on-Line (in print)

Spring Issue 2019

Table of Contents Hanging, Artwork by Trevor Theuerling “Hydraulic,” Poem by Skyler Houser “One Sentence,” Fiction by Katie Schmelz “On Being Biracial,” Essay by Sasha Feldmann Nevermore, Artwork by Grace Oppihle “The Car,” Essay by Anthony Faris “Snowy,” Fiction by Brett Weaver “The Event,” Fiction by Conner Bryson “She, Thought He,” Poem by Sasha Feldmann Hand Edit, Artwork by Trevor Theuerling “The Message,” Poem by Mark Steinriede “To My String-of-Pearls Plant,” Poem by Penelope Epple “Marshmallows,” Fiction by London Bishop “The Wounded Soldier,” Poem by Tavon Robertson “The Bedroom Floor,” Poem by Caitlin Seiler “The Land of Creativity,” Poem by London Bishop Serenity, Artwork by Grace Oppihle “29 Weeks,” Essay by Chrissy May “Taxi,” Fiction by William Sack “The Winter Concert,” Poem by London Bishop Vibe Sky, Artwork by Trevor Theuerling “Hello Art,” Poem by Grace Oppihle Submission Details

Cover 3 4 6 8 9 14 17 19 21 22 23 24 27 28 29 30 31 42 55 56 57 59

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Hydraulic Poem by Skyler Houser I have a strange concept with my reflection Because it's something that I hate and yet Am so completely enamored with Twisting myself to view my torso from the side My hands are hydraulic presses on my chest Everything is just so strange I can feel the tight embrace that constantly occupies That vulnerable space around my heart The place I hate to think about And yet can't seem to get off my mind My thoughts are an ungreased cog in my skull Everything is just so tense I run my hands down my chest, they glide The journey down is smooth but not as much as it should be Shoulders hunch forward to hide what's left, my body aches It's crazy what you end up doing to survive My soul is tires spinning out in the mud Everything is just so...

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One Sentence Fiction by Katie Schmelz “All you have to do is write one sentence. Write one sentence that is the truest thing you know,” my teacher challenged. I hate high school. I hate English.

I hate my life. My pen stayed lifeless in my hand, writing none of the sentences down. As much as I wanted to write those things, I knew the minute I turned that paper in, I would have handed myself a one-way ticket to the guidance counselor and I was not in the mood for another pointless pep talk. It is not that my life is horrible, but it is at the same time. Mother hasn’t been home in five years and I just saw another disconnection notice tucked under my dad’s “planner”. It was the third one we have gotten in the past week. The others were for frivolous things like the internet or cable; this one was for the power. I am afraid of the dark.

I knew I should have gone out and gotten that job. Money had always been tight, but Dad insisted that we would be fine and that he was going to get that big promotion within the next month. Granted that was over a year ago, but he still held onto hope. I, on the other hand, was ready to give up on that wasted dream. I knew the reality of my life and that promotion was nothing but a far-off fantasy. I want to run away. Another sentence I can’t use. I don’t even bother writing it down. I bet when Mrs. Nat challenged us with this writing prompt, she didn’t think that we would take a week to write it. I mean it hasn’t been a week, but it sure has felt like it. It amazes me how ten minutes can feel like a week, or even a year. A year turns into a decade and a decade turns into a century. Time sucks.

The bell rang and I stared down at my neatly lined paper with nothing more than my name and the date, not even a smudge from an eraser or anything else. A sentence should be on there, but I can’t tell the truth. Everyone around me began to gather everything up around them and slump off to yet another boring class that they will likely not pay attention to. They handed in their papers with their sentence and laugh with their friend. I miss that. I miss my old life. It hadn’t taken long after my mom left for my few good friends to leave as well. I was no longer the girl with the fun family or the girl who was up for anything. I became the one they pitied and the one who had that “thing” happen. It was like they couldn’t even say that she left. She left us because she was selfish. I felt like Voldemort in Harry Potter. I imagined this is how he felt. Maybe that’s why he turned all evil and stuff. At least he never had to worry about if there was going to be enough money for groceries or if the electricity was going to turn off and not come back on.

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Mrs. Nat looked up from her desk and saw the empty classroom, well except for me still in the seat in the corner.

“Are you ok?” she asks. I am about to fall apart.

“Ya, I’m fine. Just zoned out for a minute.” My mother doesn’t love me.

“Well go ahead and give me your sentence and go to your next class. There is probably only about three more minutes left to the passing period.” I want to run away.

“Thank you. I’ll be up in just a sec.”

The white paper mocked me. I pulled at the loose thread on my jeans, making the already giant hole even bigger. I wrote down a sentence and grab my bag. She held her hand out and I placed it in her hand. She didn’t even look at it before she threw it on the pile with everyone else’s. I don’t matter. The hall was already crowded with hungry teenagers making their way to lunch. I had “B” lunch, so I pushed past everyone heading for my next class. Even as I sat down, the sentence I scribbled down followed me. I’m done. I almost wrote that one. And it was true. I was done doing things that I shouldn’t have to be doing. I was done having my life controlled by debt collectors and the struggle with knowing that the person who loved me most left me when I needed her the most. Most teenagers were having the best years of their life and I wanted nothing else than to be with them just like I was supposed to.

As class was about to start, I thought back to the sentence that I actually did write. The more I thought about it the truer I realized it was.

“I am a fighter and survivor” I muttered under me breath, echoing the image in my mind of the paper in my hand just before I gave it to Mrs. Nat.

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On Being Biracial Essay by Sasha Feldmann I am sometimes asked what my race is, and I will happily answer that I am biracial, half black and half white. I am asked relatively little how that affects my life and my philosophies, because people tend to form answers to such questions on my behalf. The joke has been made a hundred times over that I look Hispanic or Latina, and I have become comfortable enough to make the joke myself. Others have guessed that I am Middle Eastern, a Pacific Islander, Eastern European, and so on. I am only externally affected based on my ethnicity when someone bothers to ask what it is. People tend to feel it rude to ask, but we all know how inimical assumptions can be. However, in today’s political climate, I understand the apprehension, and I would like to give my musings on some of the questions that people have posed, misguided as they might be. I write this with the understanding that my race is biracial, and it is my ethnicities that are black and white. On the subject of semantics, I intentionally say “black” and not “African-American”, because it is simply not true that every black American’s ancestry is African.

Furthermore, race is, conceptually, nothing more than a color.

I. Do you consider yourself more black or more white?

If this is in reference to the color of my skin, I am closer to white than black. As a person, I would be lying if I said neither had any impact whatsoever. There are cultural differences attached to ethnicities, and whether we acknowledge it or not, some stereotypes ring true for popular white American culture and popular black American culture. Therefore, some of my habits and patterns are something one might consider stereotypically black or white. I do not consider one’s customs superior to the other, and I would never refer to myself as “more white than black”, regardless of common classifications. Each is essential to my character, albeit in different ways. I am not racist, nor am I “colorblind”.

II. Do you find acceptance from both communities?

In my experience, I have never felt excluded from the black or white community (as far as I know), but that welcome does, at times, seem contingent on the people in question being aware of my ethnicities. Once again, I do not align myself more strongly with one or the other. I also do not accept, will not entertain, the notion that 6

interacting with both communities freely is “cheating”. If being born biracial signifies a dichotomy, or requires a choice, then we have gone backward in time. In summary, I connect with both communities, both ethnicities, without hesitation, but I will also not pretend that I am subject to the same societal privileges and disadvantages that either race is with remotely the same frequency.

III. How does it affect your worldview and the world’s view of you?

I cannot speak for the world, but some of the reactions I have received are thus: That’s interesting; You must be so annoyed when people assume you’re something else; Your mom’s white and your dad’s black, right?; So you don’t really know what it is like to be either one; You’re only half black/white. To respond briefly – It can be; I am not; No, vice versa; Not necessarily; “Only” implies that one is less significant to my spiritual and mental constitution. I contemplate the last two the most, because they can be so damaging insofar as they encourage inequality.

Simply put, it is not a human’s right to invalidate another. It is that kind of thinking that divides us, reduces one’s personhood to fractions and ratios. As for my own view, I believe I was gifted with the opportunity to witness solidarity and a rejection of racism every day since birth, and it is the foundation of my principal idea on how to weaken racism: Continue to create a world of acceptance and inclusion in the media, schools, communities, literature, etc. until our children are surrounded. They are the future, and impressionable. Immersion into a diverse and loving culture has the potential to stamp out any hateful thought their circle may try to impose upon them

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Nevermore, Artwork by Grace Oppihle

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The Car Essay by Anthony Faris It’s weird coming home from college during winter break and seeing how everything has changed from when you left. Things just are not the same from how they used to be. Locations change their layouts, friends and family act differently, new stores and restaurants open, old stores close, and everything just feels different from the past. This clearly evident in the car I used to drive. This car is basically a hand-me-down that has been driven by my sister, Kali, me, and currently my twin brother, Ronnie.

I still remember the day we bought the car off this weird looking dude who gave my dad a really good deal on it. My dad woke up my brother, my sister, Kali and me around 7 o’clock that morning to pick up the new car that Kali would be driving until she graduated. Kali was senior at Los Osos High school and had just received her driver’s license. Not having a car, my father scavenged around the internet looking for a car that would befit her need. He ended up finding this used maroon 1989 Ford Mustang GT 5.0 Hatchback that was in Van Nuys (a small town in Los Angeles County) and was selling for 7,000. This was weird because my dad already owned 2 other Mustangs at the time, which was a white 1984 5.0 convertible, and a white 1986 5.0 tee top. He just a big fan of the fox body mustang design I guess. My dad called up the owner and let him know that he was interested in my buying the car. After a while of talking, he told the man that he would buy the car and would be able to pick it up Saturday morning.

The drive to the owner’s house was only like an hour from my home in Rancho Cucamonga but, I fell asleep for most of it. I remember that my dad wanted Ronnie, and me to be there with them, so when he and Kali were driving home they would be able to use the carpool lane. When we arrived at the owner’s house, we walked up to the front and my dad knocked on the door. As we waited for the owner to answer the door, I examined the owner’s neighborhood. The neighborhood the owner lived in looked nice, but fairly ghetto at the same time. His house was by far was the nicest house on the block. The door opened and this weird looking dude that probably still lived with his mother came out. He asked my dad if he was here to check out the car and my dad answered him. He told us that the car was in the garage and he would go back inside to open the door garage for us see it. When I first saw the car, I wasn’t very impressed. The car definitely looked like it was used, the inside smelled like cigarettes, the interior was damaged, the radio could only play CDs, and just didn’t look as good as the for-sale picture online did. Although 9

the car had all these problems my dad still bought the car. The weird dude that we bought the car from wanted a picture in front of the car with dad which was pretty odd.

My sister drove the car first. She really liked the car, but, I think she just liked driving. Kali kept the car pretty dirty she had CDs everywhere, the backseat always had backpacks and this liquid anti-freeze bottle because the car was breaking down, and stuff cluttered most of the floor. Ronnie and I were freshmen and this meant that we always in the car when Kali was driving. When Kali drove the car I usually sat in the front seat, so I was basically the DJ. As I said before, the radio could only play CDs so that meant we had to burn a lot of CDs. Even though I was the DJ I still couldn’t play the music I wanted to listen to because my sister just told me to play the music she wanted to hear. The way Kali drove was reckless. We got into a wreck this one time because of the problem.

The day was very rainy. A day of school was over and Kali was driving Ronnie and me home. There was this notorious 90-degree turn that got a lot of people in wrecks. So, Kali was not paying attention and the turn was approaching.

We were probably going 40 around the turn and started to spin out. We did about two spins and ended perfectly on the other side of the road with the car slamming into the curb. During the accident, I really didn’t think about anything and I wasn’t scared either. Nobody got hurt, which was good. It really sucked being out in the rain to wait for the tow truck, but the car was not able to move. Apparently, the axle of the car was tweaked so the car was pretty messed up for a while.

It was a while before anyone could drive the “Stang” due to the wreck. Kali graduated from high school, which meant that it was my turn to drive. The Mustang was fixed right after I got my license so I drove that beast everywhere. I kept the car really clean most of the times, and I was always bumping my music. I remember right when I got my license the newest rap album came out which was “Still Brazy”

by YG. My homies and I would blare that album everywhere we went. It probably one of the best times of my life. I was so free. However, this all changed again when the car was constantly breaking down.

One time, I was going on a date with this one girl, Remy. It was right after Christmas so I had gotten a Christmas gift for her. This date was very important to me because Remy and I had just gone through a rough patch and I knew I had to wow her. I arrived at her house to pick her up and I could always her remember which house was Remy’s because she had these two humongous palm trees in the front of her house. So, I went up to the door and knocked on and her father answered. Remy’s father hated me, I don’t know why, but he just did. He was a 10

very intimidating person because he looked exactly like the Oakland Raiders logo and he always reeked of marijuana. So, I told him I was there to pick up his daughter and he called for Remy. Remy’s dad didn’t invite me in, which was very rude of him but I didn’t really care. I remember that Remy walked to over to the front door and she just looked so gorgeous. She was wearing this pink little sundress, had her hair down and she was wearing this perfume that just drove me mad. She gave me a kiss right in front of her father and I could just see that it enraged him. Then next thing you know Remy and I were in the Mustang on our way to dinner.

Apparently, the restaurant that we were going to was way too pack so we went back to the car to open the Christmas gifts that we have gotten each other and come with an idea where we wanted to go next.

“You are going to love the stuff I got you,” Remy said to me.

“I probably will if you picked it out,” I said as I flirted with her.

“Anthony you are opening the gifts I got you first.” She said as she grabbed the gifts she got me that were in the back seat. I opened the first gift which was like 50 burnable CDs and one personal “mixtape” that Remy made me. The next one was this badass yellow long sleeve shirt that had this panther on it. The last gift was a pair of Ohio State tube socks, which was cool because it showed she actually listened to me when I told her my favorite football team was Ohio State. Then Remy opened up the gifts that I got her. I don’t really remember all the gifts that I got her but I do remember the one because she loved it so much. I got her that same perfume that she was always wearing. She absolutely loved it and asked me, “How did you know that I wear this exacted one and I was running low on it.”

“I just knew,” I said to her in a slick way. After, opening the gifts we came up with the game plan on what we were going to do. So, I started up the car and we were on our way to the next restaurant. While I was driving Remy looked at me and said, “Anthony you look very handsome tonight.”

I said, “Thank you, but you still look better.” Then she leaned over on me and started kissing up and down on my neck. I could smell that perfume on her I was going crazy. She then put her hand on my leg and I was like woah however, once she did that I heard a clunking noise.

“What was that?” Remy said.

“I don’t know,” I said as I put my foot on the gas pedal to hear the same noise.

Then the car would not move. I put on the hazards, pop the hood, and walked out of the car. I went over to the hood not knowing anything about cars to try to fix the 11

problem. There wasn’t anything I could do so I had to call up my dad. My dad was pissed because he was doing something else at the time and now had to help me out.

So, Remy and I had to push the car out of the middle of the road and into a mall parking lot in order to wait for my dad there. Remy was also pissed off at me for the reason that I didn’t have the car checked out before taking her out on a date.

Basically, we sat in that parking lot in silence for like an hour until my dad showed up. My dad pulled up in his car and my sister driving another car. Kali hopped out of the car she was driving and began to talk all the crap she could to me. Then my dad told me to take Remy back home in the car that Kali drove. So, I did. All the way back to her house, Remy was still angry at me because of that stupid car. I dropped her back off at her house and she didn’t say anything to me as she hopped out of my car. I was just glad the night was over. The reason why the Mustang was acting up was that the transmission was messed up. My dad ended up getting a new transmission put into the car making it work again.

My friends and I were always going to the beach during the summer. It was a very chill place to relax all day and it was just an enjoyable place to go. Well, this one time it wasn’t as very fun. So that day I woke up pretty early and told my friends, Max and Mutter, to meet me at my house at like 7:30. I told them we had to leave around 8 to beat the traffic. So, one by one my friends started to show up. We packed up the car and we were on our way. The drive the beach was very exciting I was blaring my music, all my friends were cooped up in the back, and the smell of sunscreen filled the air. We arrived at the beach probably around 10. The beach was packed and it took us about 20 minutes to find a parking space. We ended up finding a space right next to the beach, but it cost us 15 dollars which was not too bad. Well, we unpacked the car and found a pretty nice beach spot. The day at the beach was pretty relaxing until we had to leave. So, we packed up all the stuff we brought in the car and we were ready to leave. But, when I went to start up the car, wouldn’t start. Apparently, my friend, Max, left his car charger plugged into the car the whole time we were at the beach which drained the car battery. I called up my dad and told him about our predicament and he told me the car needed a jump. “The car has jumper cables in the back all you need is to find somebody who can jump it.” He told me. Because of the car always breaking down I already knew how to jump it, however, sometimes it still wouldn’t work. My friends found this one dude in the parking lot that tried to help jump the car but it still wasn’t working. I was getting very nervous about the fact that I would have called my dad and tell him that the car didn’t work, which meant he would have to drive two hours down there in order to get the car towed which would also cost him a lot of money. We found 12

another person in the parking lot who was generous to help us out. The Lady that helped us had this big truck, which we connected to the Mustang via jumper cables.

Unlike the first time, the car actually started. I gave a great sigh of relief, for I would not have to call my dad and the problem finally resolved.

Now that I am in college far from home, I do not drive the Mustang anymore.

Ronnie was driving it for a little bit until completely broken down and is now sitting on the side of the house. It is crazy to see how the car has changed over time. I had some of the greatest memories of my life in that car which very thankful have gotten the opportunity to drive the car even though it was always breaking down.

It’s really too sad to see the condition the car is in today, but knowing that I spent quality time in it with friends and family really makes me reflect upon the time in the car. Although it was a crappy car it was my crappy car.

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Snowy Fiction by Brett Weaver I was laying in my bed one night catching up on some research I was doing for my latest ad campaign when my phone began to buzz with a new text message.

My wife had called me about a half hour ago to make sure that Billy was in bed and the house was in a moderately habitable condition (referencing the last time that she came home from a business trip to find the sink overflowing with dishes and a stack of paper plates sitting on the counter), so it seemed unlikely that it would be her.

And, seeing as how it was after midnight on a Tuesday, it struck me as being strange that I was getting a text on my personal cell, as opposed to the one I kept for business matters. So, ears perked up in anticipation, I opened the messenger app.

There was one new message waiting for me.

You are in danger, Alexander.

My initial reaction was that it was spam mail, albeit very specific spam mail. I almost completely put the phone down and banished the text from my mind before it hit me that it could be a serious threat. I remembered hearing stories of people getting messages like this to get them out of the house before they robbed them, or worse, kidnapped them. My heart beginning to bash against my ribs, sweat pouring off of my skin, I got up from the bed, hurrying to the door with the intent on grabbing Billy and barricading ourselves in the bathroom before calling the police.

Then the phone buzzed in my hand again.

I don’t fully know why I stopped to check it again, when all logic pointed to it being another threat. Looking back, though, I know good and well that my hesitation is what kept me alive. Because what the message said was this: It’s outside. Listen at the door.

The pressure in my head suddenly became unbearable. I couldn’t figure out what sort of sick scheme was being played out inside my home, or if there even really was one, but if someone was already in the second-floor landing outside my door then I wouldn’t have a chance to run for my son. Nervously, reluctantly, I put my ear to the door.

The change wasn’t immediately noticeable, and for a moment I almost thought the whole thing was a prank, as there was no sound of any kind at the door.

But after a minute or so of listening, I noticed it. There was a faint buzzing noise right outside, quiet but unmistakably making vibrations on the surface. The more I thought about it, the more it began to sound like static coming from a television, mixed in with the sound of faint breathing. I had stood there for about a minute 14

when I noticed that the noise had stopped, leaving me with a frog in my throat that was getting bigger every second. Standing back up, I looked around the room, searching for anything that might be useful to defend myself from this intruder.

Fortunately, the box cutter that I had used to open a package earlier was still sitting on my bedside table. If this intruder had a gun then it wouldn’t be much use to me, but it was better than nothing. I had no sooner armed myself when another faint vibration caught my ear. I looked back at my phone.

Leave the box cutter. It won’t help you now.

Scared and more than a little bit annoyed, I decided to text back.

What do you mean? What’s going on here? Who are you?

I didn’t have to wait more than a second for a reply.

The thing prowling around your house right now is much worse than a petty criminal. And right now, it’s skulking around your house looking for something to kill: that would be you. Furthermore, I’m the one who is going to get you through this ordeal, so long as you listen to my instructions.

I need to get to my son. He’s down the hall from me. Can you help me?

It’s not interested in your son. It’s already decided that it wants you, so it won’t touch him. You need to get out of the house and wait for the help I’ve sent your way.

I’m not leaving without him.

The messages stopped for a few seconds. Then…

You won’t leave at all, then.

That last message gave me a pause. As disgusting as it felt, I figured that it would be better to trust in this anonymous figure, at least until I could get a better idea of what was going on or what was in my house. I just had to hope that I wouldn’t regret it.

Alright, what do you want me to do?

It doesn’t know you are in your room, so it is looking for you downstairs in the kitchen. You just need to walk quietly downstairs and out the front door.

It’s bound to your T.V., so it shouldn’t be able to follow you outside.

What do you mean “bound to my T.V.?”

Once you are outside, walk down the street and wait in the Kroger parking lot. That is where my contact is set to pick you up. Once you are safe we will contain the creature and retrieve your son. Good luck.

That seemed to be the end of that. Seeing as how I had no other choice, I quietly opened the door and slipped out into the hall.

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Things were as quiet as I would have expected, the noise from before having disappeared downstairs. As I slipped straight across the second-story landing and down the stairs, however, I could faintly hear the same television static drifting in from the kitchen a few doors down the hall. There was something different about it, though. It sounded jittery, like whatever was making it was moving around quite a bit. Whatever it was doing, it wasn’t bumping into anything or making a sound other than the static. Deciding that it was still looking around in the kitchen for me, I decided to make my move, quietly sprinting towards the front door in front of me.

At first I didn’t even realize that I had tripped, just saw the world spin around in front of me before landing hard on the tiled floor. The floor quickly became wet, blood leaking out of some unknown crack in my skull. Though the sound wasn’t that loud, to me it might as well have been a bomb going off. This was apparently not in my imagination, as the next moment the static got much louder as the creature glided into the hallway.

It was…difficult to look at. There really wasn’t a proper form to look at, just a mass of constantly shifting, floating flesh, like someone had hung up a sleeping bag and filled it with water. What really made the creature surreal, though, was its skin, or rather it’s lack of it. Where there should have been something resembling flesh or muscle there was only snowy television static, moving along independently of the writing mass of the body. The end result looked like some kind of bad digital texture. My head swam as I looked at the thing, and my head was filled with a variety of meaningless symbols and text that I knew was coming from the creature.

It was trying to communicate, and while I couldn’t understand, the violent intent came though all too well as it started slowly floating towards me.

Fighting off the pain, I reached for the doorknob and managed to push open the door. I had never crawled so fast in my life, nearly reaching the other side of the street before I stopped to look back. The thing was floating in the doorway, but it did not seem to be following me. Had I been breathing at all, I might have breathed a sigh of relief. Then my phone started to vibrate.

Well, maybe next time then.

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The Event Fiction by Conner Bryson The Event happened on a rainy February Tuesday in the state of Ohio in the United States of America. We do not know the year, nor do we know the hour, but the minute stood at either a quarter ‘til (by some accounts) or five after (by others).

We do know the area code of the places affected: Five One Three. Affected communities included Cincinnati, Forest Park, Hamilton, Lebanon, West Chester, Mason, Maineville, Middletown, Norwood, Oxford, Harrison, Cleves, Miamitown, Trenton, and St. Paris. They are no longer affected—the Event was both instantaneous and brief.

The Event itself was widely-reported at the time, but most of the records were lost in subsequent, unrelated events occurring at both the local and national levels.

These subsequent events are known in varying degrees as to their natures (Electromagnetic Pulses, Floods, Riots) and in their causes (Solar Flares, Changing Climates, Rowdy Tailgaters). Still, the Event was widely-witnessed and its witnesses bear witness to this day. None remained unaffected and thus none ought to go unrecorded. That was the thinking, but it turns out that not many were willing to speak on the Event. They were amicable people—all very friendly—but most wouldn’t glance back to the peculiarities of that rainy February Tuesday. Of course, that didn’t stop us from asking.

The politicians were the first to speak up, and—while they talked a lot—they didn’t say much. What they did say was very much self-concerned and left little room for the casting of blame after the fact. The Mayor of Cincinnati called the Event, “A tremendous challenge in the history of the city of Cincinnati,” but the Cleves Village Administrator decried the Event as “a political sideshow of ridiculous proportion” and “a distraction from the real issues.” No elaboration was provided on the nature of “the real issues.” The Hamilton City Council had quite a lot to say on the matter, but they fell out when they moved to make an official record and the recently christened Event Commission descended into bloodshed.

On the topic of bloodshed, the Fraternal Order of Police had quite a lot to say.

The official stance of the Order is that during the Event the policemen of the affected areas, “Maintained order and fulfilled their duties to protect and serve with honor and diligence.” In spite of this, the Cincinnati Coroner’s Office reported a seventy-seven-fold increase in firearms murders over the course of the Event and the week after its conclusion. Most of these involved 9mm caliber weaponry. The issue of the University of Cincinnati’s The News Record immediately following the 17

Event reported that UCPD performed no less than twenty extrajudicial executions through the duration of the Event, none of which occurred on university property.

All these records have since been destroyed, of course.

Next in line for their testimony were the Teamsters. The union had staged a strike over the course of the Event and it had been rather successful. A statement from the union reads, “We look forward to future Events and the chance to reassert our collective bargaining power in the moving forward.”

The scientists were in disarray over the whole thing—none of their predictions for the Event had held up and none of their readings from the Event matched afterthe-fact. On top of all that, they were under some scrutiny for their failure to adequately report the Event as predicted. They maintained; however, that they were all very loud about the whole mess and that the blame for the lack of general understanding should be put on the newspapers (if not the politicians).

The newspapers placed the blame on the declining readership and the ascent of social media. Eyes turned to Silicon Valley and several class-action lawsuits were filed against Zuckerberg (for misinformation), Bezos (for consumerization), and Musk (for general distraction) regarding the Event. All of these were settled out of court for sums exceeding four million dollars, but none of those affected by the Event claim to have benefitted.

The Tri-state Freethinkers announced that, “The Event is clear evidence against the existence of a higher power.” Conversely, the Archdiocese of Cincinnati stated that “The Church makes no comment on allegations of sexual impropriety on the part of the clergy.” In Hamilton, the Notre Dame Tabernacle Society recorded a theft of sixty-eight vestments and a multitude of other religious articles from their headquarters on Sir Edward Drive; however, there was some doubt as to whether the theft was Event-related or only coincidental.

Overall, we garnered little information about the Event itself and little information of worth about anything else. We can say, definitively, that the Event occurred as it did, where it did, when it did, and it did so with some great effect upon the area in which it did. This may seem sparse, but the phenomenologists tell us that this Event is already in excess of most of the events throughout history. We may simply have to trust them. This is recorded in the hope that some memory of the Event may be maintained so that, in the case of future events, our inheritors may not be so dissonant after the fact.

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She, Thought He Poem by Sasha Feldmann She was baptized “Darling” for 37 years, 10 months, 7 days He prayed for her by name He missed her before he knew her and so they joined in holy matrimony Why not?

They could She played the artist when she didn’t play the martyr He had liked her because she looked harder than the others She saw more than they did She created more than they asked for She could call an angel a demon and suddenly it was so She confessed it wasn’t the life she painted She’d had dreams from a theater She dreamed of a life of that bright lights, concrete mattress, one-fuck-for-50-dollars-life They put them away in the attic with the photo albums Still, she sketched Still she showed him books and films Most of all she showed him ideas 19

But soon he figured it out She began to slip She was honest (failed) There were no new verses the same, again And he learned on his own She wasn’t an inventor or even a dilettante And now when he looked at her her eyes were hollow her mind was bare Israelites roamed her imagination for 40 years and counting He watched her sleep not so soundly He didn’t know what to think of her now His wife His first love His false idol

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Hand Edit, Artwork by Trevor Theuerling

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The Message Poem by Mark Steinriede I have a dream You just don’t get it Dr. Martin Luther King Jr Dr. Harry Edwards Tommie Smith and John Carlos Colin Kaepernick 1968 Motel Balcony Memphis Tennessee Mexico City Olympics I have a dream You just don’t get it NFL sidelines University of California at Berkeley San Jose State University Unarmed black men Shot by police Destination morgue 71% more likely than Unarmed white men Destination jail I have a dream You just don’t get it

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To My String-of-Pearls Plant Poem by Penelope Epple You are like Icarus.

You reach high to the sun only to fall to the earth.

But at least, you are still alive.

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Marshmallows Fiction by London Bishop Hello, traveler. What brings you all the way out to the mountains in the middle of the night? I understand that you saw my campfire, the glow is hard to miss, but I must admit, it takes some gumption to scale the Rockies in the dark, my friend. You could’ve gotten hurt. You could have been wandering over a stretch of rock, turned your ankle on a stone, tumbled down a ravine, broken several bones, and landed in six inches of running streamwater. You might be concussed, facedown and drowning, your body found the next day by a helicopter and brought back to your grieving family after the crawdads decide to make a home in your nose.

But none of that will happen, of course, because you made it here. I’d ask you what you want or what I can do for you, dear traveler, but I already know. You want a story. You must want a story, why else would you approach me on my mountainside next to my campfire? Everyone knows campfires are for sitting around and telling stories, and that is exactly what I shall do. Come, come – oh, and watch your step between those two bushes. There’s a bear trap hiding in the leaves that would probably chop your tibia in half. You might die of gangrene if that happens, and we don’t want that. Here, sit down.

Would you like a marshmallow…? What, why are you giving me that look?

Of course I have marshmallows; I’m not a barbarian. Here, pull over that log to give you something to sit on. I’ve sharpened a few sticks. I made a few just in case a guest came across my camp this evening, and I’m glad to see it wasn’t pointless to make them. I do hate pointless things.

I loved marshmallows as a kid, you know. They’re good any way you like, but nothing beats a perfectly toasted marshmallow. One time, I met a man in much the same way as I met you, dear traveler, who found me at my campfire at night. He was a young man, with easy eyes and a smile that might remind one of a kitten in a basket of laundry. He told me he was absolutely famished – just starving. He had walked all night, walked all the previous day over the Rockies, and only had a fistful of jerky and a teacup of water to eat and drink. And as he came up to me, he gave me a hearty greeting and said, “You know what I’d kill for right now?” He says, “I’d kill someone just for a good marshmallow.”

Well, of course, then I had to say to him, “You don’t take saying something like that lightly, sir. I really hope you mean that.” And he said, “’Course I mean it.

I’m so hungry. I walked all night, all the previous day over the Rockies and I only 24

had a fistful of jerky and a teacup of water to eat and drink. A marshmallow would be just the thing to make the ache in my boots and the crick in my back go right away.”

“Well, sir,” I said. “If you insist.” I had been sitting with my back against an old oak tree. It had a good solid trunk, and the leaves had given me a pleasant shade from the closeness of the Rockies sun. It was a shame to get up, but rise I did, and I held my arms out and pulled aside my coat, so that the only thing between him and my beating heart was my shirt and my own skin. “If you’re going to say things like that, my friend,” I said to him, “Prove it to me. Prove you’d kill a man for a marshmallow.”

The boy’s face went slack. He grew pale, fear taking hold of him. He stammered, “Sir, I didn’t mean nothing by that, it’s just a figure of speech. There’s no way I’d kill you.”

“My friend, you can’t say you’d kill a man and go back on your word,” I said.

“There wasn’t nothing behind it. It was empty. I’m just so, so hungry. That’s all I really meant by it, no more than that.”

“But that’s not what you said, dear friend. If you don’t stand by your words, it implies that saying them was pointless. And I do hate pointless things.”

“But sir, it would be pointless to kill you!”

“Maybe so, but that way, we’ll know you have the courage to stand by your words.”

The young man was defeated. He looked around, as if for an escape, but no amount of wide-open space can free a man from his mind. And as he looked back at me, I could see him summoning his resolve. He took a Bowie knife from his belt. A good tool for survival, that kind of knife. He set his jaw, conjured steel into his eyes, and I was almost proud. There are few on this earth who would stand by their words. And as he rushed towards me, brandishing his knife, I knew he would do it.

There was murder in his eyes.

So I pulled out my .44 and shot him.

What? How did you think this story was going to end? Obviously, I made it out, because I’m sitting here telling you about it. You think I’d let a kid knife me over something as dumb as a marshmallow? Hahaha, oh no. No, I laid that poor kid to rest at the base of that oak tree, so he’d forever be protected from that close Rockies sun by the oak’s canopy of leaves. I must admit, he was a courageous boy, but there was a wisdom he did not know, that your words have meaning when you say them, whether you intend it or not. And you, dear traveler, who have said nothing this entire time…maybe you understand this. Maybe this wisdom has 25

already been imparted to you, or perhaps you cannot talk back to me at all. I truly hope that you are wise, for the world is in need of ones wise enough to know their own words, and courageous enough to scale the mountains in the dark. Be one such person, dear traveler, so that my words that I have imparted to you may have meaning.

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The Wounded Soldier Poem by Tavon Robertson God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers...

We’ve all heard that before.

February 18th, 2018. “The Battle of Brotherhood” I can’t do this on my own But I’ve been left with no choice.

A beautiful rose with no thorns, Life unprotected…

With it’s guard down the rose is stripped of its petals One by one they fall where you lay.

I can’t do this on my own But I’ve been left with no choice.

Time Passes…

Wounds turn to Scars.

God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers But now, there are signs of war…

January 2nd, 2019. “The Battle of Friendship” The Fire-bird, it burns Brighter than any flame lit by man.

It is said to burn for over a thousand years.

Well, time is up…

I’ve been destined to watch the flame turn to ash.

Not dead but reborn. I wait, A light so bright will one day find me again.

God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers But this, this is war…

As each battle ends, I feel a sense that another one awaits.

Once my wounds heal it will be time, Time to fight again…

-A soldier trapped at war 27

The Bedroom Floor Poem by Caitlin Seiler A lavender blanket after a restless night's sleep a cluttered cedar corner desk beige fuzz from the carpet a box full of ancient memories a disheveled pile of last night's clothes countless pairs of colorful shoes a sturdy oak night stand my dog's jet black hair from the day before a gray chair a shelf full of classic books my dog's favorite raggedy bone a timid spider hiding in the corner a dresser spilling over with clothes a periwinkle backpack full of assignments frustrations from earlier that afternoon tears from a never ending night full of stress the crumbled hope of tomorrow and a girl drowning in anxiety wondering how much more she can take.

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The Land of Creativity Poem by London Bishop The trees picked clean of green unripened fruit The leaves are stripped and flowers’ blooms all plucked Next the bark peeled off likewise in suit The branches’ scaffold next to deconstruct The trunk is cut, the stump is left to rot The roots pulled up and gathered for the fire The wasteland ground picked clean of original thought No drop to sate a young artist’s desire With life oasis turned to desert ash The Muses left, and took with them the Graces And now that art is king who lusts for cash And we come back to same old words and phrases But though I loathe them, judge can I no more Because it’s all been said and done before

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Serenity, Artwork by Grace Oppihle

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29 Weeks Essay by Chrissy May Work was very busy on that Friday, July 12, 2013. That wasn’t abnormal for the physical therapy clinic I had been employed with for eight years. I finally got a restroom break at little after 1:00 pm, something felt a little strange as I entered the small bathroom, almost clinical looking, bright white walls, floor and porcelain.

The fluorescent lighting enhancing the lack of color made the small look appear slightly larger than it was. But this day, the walls seemed very close to each other, the bathroom was extremely small. I entered slowly, almost already knowing that something is not going to be right. I stood inside the door and it clicked as it closed behind me. Took a deep breath and locked the door. I turned back and stared at the wall, hoping not to see what I knew was inevitable. When I checked I saw the red blood, burgundy red and I froze. I’m not sure how much time passed, seconds or minutes, I didn’t know what to do. I cleaned myself up as much as I could, washed my hands and splashed cold water on my face to try to hide the red skin forming from fighting back tears. I exited the restroom only to find my manager walking up to me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, “Are you okay?” The tears started streaming, he followed me as I walked towards the desk where I worked, near the exit door. I grabbed my things as I said to him “I have to go”, and ran out the door. I called my doctor on the way to her office and asked for a nurse. “Can I help you?” she asked when she picked up the line. “Something’s wrong”, I managed to get out in between my sobs, “I’m losing blood and I’m 29 weeks pregnant.”

My husband and I had been dating for three years when I was diagnosis with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is a hormonal imbalance that can by caused by cysts in the reproductive organs of a woman, but not all cases have cysts but can still have the symptoms. The hormone imbalance can cause irregular levels of estrogen, and androgen which are the male and female hormones in the body.

(What is PCOS?) I had undergone a series of different tests, scans and ultrasounds to find out why my body was not working the same way as normal women. I wasn’t a typical candidate of PCOS, so that was the last test. An invasive procedure to see if my ovulation cycle was normal. Following the ovulation test came an ultrasound. I remember looking at the computer screen during an ultrasound of my ovaries. “Those little white dots, those are cysts,” the doctor explained the grainy black and white image with transparent bubbles over what she said was my ovaries.

“Now since we know that, we just have to get all of your parts working together.”

Many women with PCOS are prescribed different medications, among them is 31

Metformin. Metformin is typically prescribed to diabetes patients, to stabilize insulin sensitivity (Cuhna, John). This is usually an indicator of PCOS, hypoglycemia, and the medication assists with the side effects of the disorder.

After a year of taking the medications, my symptoms calmed down and I finally felt normal. When I had my final visit with the specialist doctor who had helped me she said, “This is all I can do for you now. If you want to have children, you might want to start trying within the next year.” I bought her gifts of chocolate to show my appreciation for what she had done for me but after hearing that, I left with a sense of urgency. My husband, who was my boyfriend at the time, and I had been dating for four years, we hadn’t talked about marriage. We both really enjoyed the lives we had and didn’t need to discuss changes. I was nervous to have the conversation with him. He used to work out of state, usually for a few weeks at a time and then come home for a week or so before leaving again. After his roommate moved out, we lived together, I moved in to help take care of the house and dog while he was working away. He came home that weekend.

The best way to communicate with my husband is to be blunt and direct, I knew that, so that was exactly how I talked to him about the doctor’s advice. “Do you want to have kids?” I just came out and asked after he showered and settled from a two week work trip. “Someday.” he replied, not seemingly interested. “Do you want to get married?” I asked. “Maybe someday,” he replied again. Then something lit in his head, “Does this have something to do with your appointment earlier this week?” “Yes,” finally he was starting to focus. “Here is the deal, the doctor said if I want to be a mother I have to start trying for a baby within a year. If you want to get married, I’ll make an appointment with your priest. If you don’t, I will never marry you and the baby will have my last name.” He could tell I was serious. “Okay, call the priest.” he said. He left to work out of town again the following Monday, so my dad met the priest with me. Father David Fischer of St. Anthony of Padua explained to my dad and me about the process for marriage in the Maronite church. I picked a date. Ten months away, that is plenty of time. My husband’s job ended mid-week a few weeks after I met the priest so he was already home before I came home from work. When I walked up to our front door, a large marquise diamond engagement ring set in yellow gold surrounded by smaller cut round diamonds was taped to the glass. I knew we had made the right decision.

The ten months leading up to the wedding flew by and before we knew it, we were saying “I do.” By the time we were back from our honeymoon, we were set up for “Operation Baby May” as we called it. Every morning I had to take my temperature, document any changes in my body, and track everything we tried.

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After a few months, we were given medication to assist with “Operation Baby May” but when our year anniversary came, we still did had not had a positive test.

We decided to go back to Cancun, Mexico, where we celebrated our honeymoon and visit the Isla Mujeres. Isla Mujeres is an ancient island of the Mayans, the island is not far from Cancun, and tourists can take a ferry to visit and stay. The island was known in ancient times as sacred land to the Maya goddess of childbirth and medicine (Isla Mujeres, Wikipedia). The “Island of Fertility”, as the locals would tell my husband and I. Two months after our one year anniversary, I decided to take a test. I was sitting in the living room with our dog, waiting the three minutes recommended in the directions. My husband was sleeping, I didn’t want to take it with him in case it came back negative. After two minutes, I couldn’t wait! I picked the white stick up from the table and saw two dark blue bold lines, pregnant! I almost screamed with excitement. I decided to wait to tell my husband. The next day I went to the store and bought a plain onesie and three more boxes of pregnancy tests (just to be sure).

While he was in the shower, I took the other tests. They all three came back positive. So I wrote “World’s Greatest Dad” with a black sharpie on the onesie and hung it on the wall. I left one test sitting on the table in front of me. When he was finished in the shower, dressed, he walked into the living room and saw the onesie.

I was staring at his face the entire time. He had no expression when he looked at me and saw the test sitting in front of me. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I wasn’t,” I replied, “So I took these too.” And I held up the other three positive pregnancy tests hiding behind my back. He didn’t say another word, just picked me up, gave me the best hug he had ever given me and buried his face in my shoulder while he cried.

My husband still worked out of town so daily life had to carry on no matter how tired I was. It was February and cold, I carried fifty pound bags of wood pellets daily up the basement stairs to keep our pellet stove running since the furnace costs so much to heat our little house. My mom used to scold me for it, maybe it contributed to what happened at 29 weeks, nobody knows. I still worked every day, I never experienced sickness, my cravings where only for fluids, mostly Gatorade. A friend I worked with found out two months after me that she was pregnant too. We talked about being on our maternity break together, our kids growing up as best friends, had the entire future planned. She used to be upset when the physical therapy patients she treated asked if she was having twins because of her size and then mention they didn’t know I was pregnant because of 33

mine. It bothered me too. Is my baby not growing at the needed rate? I would think.

Twenty weeks gestation and my husband and I dressed for our first ultrasound to tell us the baby measurements. We were so nervous. I dressed in a blue plaid flannel, accentuating my small bump to try to look like an expecting mom. He walked out of our bedroom in a blue plaid flannel too. “What are you wearing?” I asked in a stern tone. “The same as you,” his sarcastic tone. “We can’t both wear blue, what if it’s a girl and she’ll think we are disappointed that she is not a boy?”, I was clearly upset.

“Chrissy, the baby will never know.”

“Well I will!” so I went into the bedroom and changed into a pink sweater that did not enhance my little baby bump, but at least it was pink.

When we arrived to the office, we had decided not to find out the sex. I had already started a jungle nursery, so we agreed that we wanted to be surprised. No matter what we were having, we were happy. So we saw our little baby on a large screen, the same grainy black and white image as my ultrasound of my ovaries.

The technician explained every little detail to us, you could clearly see the baby’s head, nose, fingers and toes. The doctor came into the room, she was a little concerned that I had not been able to feel the baby move yet, which should have started at sixteen weeks at the latest. But after seeing the baby’s measurements, she confirmed there was no concern, just weird placement of the placenta.

At twenty six weeks, my husband took a week off work to help finish the nursery. We put the crib, dresser and a few small things given to us. My shower wasn’t scheduled until the end of July so we didn’t want to buy much until after that. Unfortunately, that day would not come never come.

I turned 29 weeks in July. The summer was hot, even in early July. But since I wasn’t gaining much weight from the pregnancy, it didn’t seem to bother me. I was just very thirsty, all of the time. I was so excited that Friday, July 12, 2013.

My husband had been working all week out of town and I was so anxious to see him.

After seeing the blood and leaving work in a frenzy, I finally reached the doctor’s office. I was still crying. I’m losing our baby, I thought. The receptionist had me wait for a minute or two but seemed like an eternity. The other patient’s in the waiting room stared at me, obviously there was not good news coming from my visit, I’m sure they were thinking. But since I still did not have my baby belly, it was probably confusing to them why. One of the doctor’s in the practice came to retrieve me from the waiting room, taking me straight into the ultrasound room. I 34

cannot explain the relief I felt when the first monitor put on my belly starting playing the sweet sound of a heartbeat. The baby’s alive! I screamed inside my head. I was finally able to calm down and stop the tears. The doctor had me lay down, put the ultrasound gel on my stomach. There wasn’t time to warm it so I flinched at the cold gel when it touched my skin. “The baby is fine,” she said, staring at the screen, trying to find an answer to the blood loss. “Everything looks fine, let’s do a fern test.”, she explained as she removed her exam gloves and walked to the phone for a nurse to assist. A fern test is a swab taken from a woman’s cervix to determine if there is a presence of amniotic fluid. Under a microscope the presence of amniotic fluid feathers out, creating a “fern-like” effect (UCSF Medical Center Lab Manual). “There is too much blood, we can’t get an accurate reading”, the doctor saying in a calm voice. “Go home, get some rest and if the bleeding is gets worse, we have to get you to the hospital.” Not the answer I was looking for, since it wasn’t an answer to what is happening at all, but I did as she said.

I called my husband earlier from the waiting room of the doctor’s office to let him know what happened. Unknown to me, he had left work to start the three hour drive home. I never asked him what he was thinking, or his worry during this drive.

He leaving to come home said it all. By the time I got home from the doctor, he was only an hour and half away. I called him when I got home, told him about the events in the office and learned he would be home soon. I felt relieved. I decided to get a shower to clean the ultrasound gel off my stomach. Even though the doctor wipes it off, it still feels sticky afterward. My husband built our shower, it was tile floor, walls and ceiling. It had two shower heads and a bench, one shower head would massage your back while sitting on the bench. That's what I did, but I didn’t rest long. While I was staring at the water draining, thinking about what happened, replaying the sound of the baby’s heartbeat in my mind, the color of the water trickling down the drain started turning from clear, to pink, to red and then deep red. I hopped out and called my husband, “How far are you? I need to go to the hospital!” I asked and yelled in a frantic. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, just put your feet up and wait for me, I’ll be there!” he kept trying to calm me and reassure he would be with me. As soon as he pulled up, I ran from the porch where I was waiting and we went to the hospital.

I felt like I said it a thousand times “I’m 29 weeks. I just started bleeding.”

“Yes, I’m 29 weeks.” Every time a nurse asked how far I was, most times more than once or twice, started to irritate me more and more. “Why hey there,” came Dr. Egner’s sweet voice through the door, finally. My doctor was on call, lucky 35

me! “What’s going on?” she asked, even though she already knew from reading my chart. I explained to her about work, the fern test earlier in the office, and the increase in blood loss in the shower. “Well, let’s see what is going on here so we can get you home.” her voice is so soft, calming. She decided to swab some of the blood and then do another fern test. When she put the specimen on the slide, inserted the slide in the magnifier, she couldn’t even look at me to tell me. She looked around the room, trying to find the words. “Is the baby okay?” I finally asked. “Yes the baby is fine,” now her voice is shaky, “but you have a ruptured membrane.” “What does not mean?” my husband asked, not knowing it is a medical term for saying my water broke. “It means you have to go get a car seat, we are going to have a baby!” I cry out, nervous laughing because I honestly didn’t know what was happening next. Dr. Egner stopped our discussions of what to do to inform us that it could be very damaging for the baby’s brain and lung development to deliver at 29 weeks. So, the only choice we had was for me to become a resident of the hospital.

Our goal was to get the pregnancy to 34 weeks. Twenty-four hours into my hospital admittance, I pulled the emergency cord from the bathroom. When the nurse, Laura, came rushing in, there was dark red blood puddles under my feet. I was crying, “What do I do?” looking from her face to the tile covered blood around me. She pulled out her phone, “I need Mag, we’ve got burgundy blood here. She’s in labor.” By the time Laura helped me to my bed, two other nurses were in the room with a new IV bag. Laura explained everything they were doing, as they were doing it, no time to spare. Magnesium, the word still makes me cringe. Magnesium sulfate is given intravenously to women to stop contractions by lowering calcium specifically for uterine muscles (Treatment of Pre-Term Labor: Magnesium Sulfate). The substance is given at two to three times the normal dose for the first 30 minutes and then lowered to normal dosages every hour. I was on magnesium for two days. Magnesium can give flu-like symptoms when used at high doses (Treatment of Pre-Term Labor: Magnesium Sulfate). I laid in bed for two days, my body aching, unable to think clearly and sometimes hard to breathe. I called my husband in the middle of night, crying that I wanted my mind back. My ability to think and communicate was gone, I was scared. After two days, Laura came in with a scissors. “You made it through the worst, we are taking you off the mag. Do you want to do the honors?”, she asked with a smile. I sure did, I cut the cord pushing magnesium into my body. Laura was right, everything else that happened in the following weeks were not nearly as bad as the magnesium.

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Three weeks into my hospital stay, I started to lose momentum as to why I was there. The nurses, who I had gotten to know from my extended stay, could see the light of hope I once had start to dim from when I first arrived in the hospital.

One day, my husband was visiting and a nurse walked in, “Have you toured the NICU yet?” “No,” I replied, “We had too many close calls and then I guess it was forgotten about.” She immediately called and had a transporter escort us to the NICU. When we arrived they showed us a baby born at 29 weeks, the gestation age when my water broke. The baby was so tiny, the size of a twelve inch doll, probably weighed no more than a pound or two. There were monitors, tubes, masks and soft helmets, it was difficult to look past the equipment to see the actual baby.

29 weeks, that could have been my baby, in the dark, in the quiet, needing assistance to breathe and eat. Padded goggles to protect the underdeveloped eyes from the UV light trying to remove the jaundice. I had to look away, I couldn’t bear to think about my baby, alone, fighting to live.

Next we saw a baby at 32 weeks, my current gestation age. The baby was much healthier. It had a feeding tube, and some other heart monitors and a cannula to give extra oxygen. The lights were a little brighter around this baby, it was stronger and not a concern of whether or not the baby would survive.

Then we saw the last baby, 34 weeks, my goal. Only two more weeks in the hospital and this is what my baby could be experiencing. The baby was healthy, extremely healthy and only a few days old. The nurse told us she didn’t anticipate the baby staying more than a week total. Only one week and the parents would be able to bring their baby home. This was my pinnacle moment, my purpose. I was going to make it to 34 weeks, I was going to have a healthy child, I was going to keep him or her safe and do everything I could to give the best life possible. I wasn’t going to be a mother, I already was. And my first task in motherhood, stay pregnant for two more weeks.

I delivered my sweet baby girl at 33 weeks, 6 days. One day short of my 34 week goal.

The last week before delivering had been rough, with one hurdle after another to jump over. The fluid loss was increasing, making it difficult for me to keep up with my required intake. The ultrasounds started to become more frequent to check the baby, from twice a week to every other day. Emotionally, the ultrasounds were the hardest part of the entire experience. Not knowing what was going to pop up on that grainy black and white screen, sometimes I would find myself holding my breath. The hospital had a clinic which was open to patients other than expecting 37

mothers admitted. I would be wheeled down in a chair, wearing socks, an old pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt, sometimes I wore my husband’s shirt, to keep his smell near me. I would have to watch expecting women come in from the outside world, sporting cute maternity dresses in the hot summer, big baby bellies and huge smiles. I would have to look away to stop myself from tearing up. Why I didn’t get that experience? I would ask myself.

The last day, I had an infection. My doctor came in after I was up all night from pain and said “Pack your things, you’re moving out today. We are going to have a baby!” I could hear her telling the nurses to come and say goodbye to me since I was going to leave the Special Care floor. They came in, one by one, helped me packed my belongings. Almost six weeks of clothes, books, cards, flowers, puzzles and other things that kept me entertained. It took a few boxes. I called my husband and told him that I was moving to labor and delivery, and to meet me there. He must have called my mom, who told my sisters. Before I could finish packing my room, they were all there. Almost six weeks of anticipation for them to meet our baby. They were more excited than I was, I was worried about the unknown. I’m still too early, the baby is too small. He or she will not be ready.

When I made it to labor and delivery I was put in a small room in the High Risk Unit. It had secret back doors to the NICU and operating room. My husband, mom and two of my sisters all filed in, keeping each other entertained while we waited, and waited and waited.

It was 11:00 am August 11th, when I was told today was the day to meet our baby. My contractions didn’t start until well into dinner time. My doctor had gone home a little earlier, telling the nurse to call her when I was ready. My nurse, not a very friendly woman, was irritated with my family crowding the room. When the contractions started to increase in pain and frequency, I asked for an epidural. The nurse refused, telling me the monitors did not show the contractions, so I must not have been having pain from that. After hours of arguing, my doctor came in to check on me, seeing me hunched over in pain, she immediately instructed the nurse to administer the epidural. “It’s our job to keep my patient comfortable, give her anything she asks for. She has been through enough!” she sternly told the nurse.

After the epidural, the doctor ordered in internal monitor to measure the contractions and better monitor the baby. An internal monitor has two parts, one is the intrauterine catheter, placed inside the uterus to accurately measure contractions. The second, the internal fetal monitor, an electrode screwed into the scalp of the baby to monitor heart rate or any kind of distress the baby might have during delivery (Weiss, Robin). It was late, after midnight, August 12th. My mom 38

had left, my husband and sisters stayed, still wanting to see this through. They were in the room when the monitor was set in place, I don’t remember when they were told to leave. The nurse flushed the line of the monitor, everything was a blur after that. I remember the alarms sounding, I remember being pushed on my side, at some point an oxygen mask was placed on my face. My body kept being moved from left side to right. “Stay with me, stay with me,” I could hear from someone in the room, but my vision was too blurred to see by whom. When I finally was able to focus, and think, I looked around to see many nurses and doctors standing around me. “I know you,” I said, in a groggy voice, pointing at some of the nurses and doctors who had looked after me and the baby in the previous weeks. Some of them laughed, “We heard you were delivering, we just came by to visit,” joking with me to calm adrenaline in the room. After a few minutes, they left to look after their patients and my husband and sisters were able to return. I was still recovering from whatever had happened, asking questions to find answers. I wanted to know who was being told “stay with me” was it me or the baby? I either never received the answer, or I couldn’t remember it.

Within two hours of the epidural and the monitors, my doctor was called in, I was finally ready to deliver. My husband was allowed to stay, but my sisters had to leave. The room was very tiny and two teams were coming in, one for me and one for the baby. “Okay Chrissy, are you ready?” Dr. Egner asked with excitement.

“Yes,” I replied but honestly I was not ready, I was scared. Three pushes, that was it. Three pushes and that tiny baby was on my chest. “It’s a girl!” my doctor exclaimed. I could hear my sisters cheering from the hall, they must have heard too. Two nurses kept flicking her feet to keep her crying and her lungs open while we had our sixty seconds before she was taken away to the NICU. “I need a new gun,” my husband’s first thought hearing he now has a daughter. The nurses and doctors chuckled at this reaction. My husband and I were both crying, our emotions completely taking over. Sixty seconds seemed like a blink of an eye, my little girl was picked up off my chest and carted away, my husband following. I wouldn’t hold her again until she was four days old.

The following two days flew by, I was being released from the hospital and my baby was not. My water broke at 29 weeks, I sat in the hospital for over five weeks, and now I have to leave my baby? Driving away from the hospital after being discharged was the hardest thing I ever did. I felt like I was abandoning her, that I would never see her again. The next morning, and every morning after, my husband would drop me off at the NICU on his way to work. I spent every minute by her side, from the time visiting hours started, until the nurses told me I had to 39

leave. I called throughout the night, checked her feeding schedule, checked on how much milk she was taking in through her feeding tube, talked about her first bath and eventually her first bottle. Twelve days later, I heard the words I waited each day to hear, “We are going to release her today.” My baby girl finally came home.

Our daughter was born at the beginning of flu season but newborns cannot receive a flu shot until they are six months old. I was her advocate, her protector to make sure she was safe from contracting any illness that could put us back in the hospital. Visitors had to wait outside our home and confirm if they had been vaccinated before entering. If not, they were politely asked to leave. She was barely four pounds, so tiny my husband could hold her with one hand but so fragile he always used both hands to hold her. Two weeks after our daughter coming home, he went back to work out of town. We would video chat, it was hard for him to leave us. But he knew I would do everything to protect her and keep her safe until his return.

I researched preterm labor after the nerves of having a preemie newborn started to settle. A culture was performed on my placenta, but there was not a determining factor to explain the 29 week ruptured membrane, I tried to find some answers myself. I read about the gray zone. The gray zone is the 23rd and 24th week of gestation where if a child is born, it is at the discretion of the health care provider to determine if neonatal interventions can assist in saving the baby’s life.

Before 23 weeks gestation, all babies are on a do not resuscitate order. The chance of survival is so minimal for a child born in the gray zone, most physicians require a baby to take a single breath before administering intervention (Suresh, Gautham).

Even though I spent almost six weeks of my pregnancy in a hospital room, I’m very lucky. If these events occurred just a couple weeks earlier, the baby might not have survived. It was scary enough with my water breaking at 29 weeks, I can’t imagine what would have happened if it occurred sooner. I stopped looking for an answer for why this happened and instead just appreciated the outcome.

I have the most amazing little girl in my life every day today. Samara, which comes from a Hebrew and Arabic descent, means “protected by God” (www.babynamewizard.com). Her name suits her well, and her life is going to be as amazing as she is, now at the age of 5. Strong, smart, healthy and happy. She loves to hear the story of her birth, maybe because it is a long one. Every year on the anniversary of my 29 week ruptured membrane, her and I go to the hospital to bring treats to the nurses in the Special Care Unit. We tell a brief story of my admittance and stay, share laughter and tears. Samara always says “thank you” to 40

the nurses we visit and one day she will realize what she is thanking them for, the same thing I thank them for every day. My little girl.

Works Cited Treatment for Pre-Term Labor: Magnesium Sulfate, retrieved from https://www.healthline.com/health/pregnancy/preterm-labor-magnesiumsulfate What is PCOS?, (n.d.) retrieved from www.girlshealth.gov In The ‘Gray Zone,’ A Doctor Faces Tough Decisions On Infant Resuscitation, Suresh, Gautham (October, 2013) retrieved from www.healthaffairs.org Samara, (n.d.) retrieved from http://www.babynamewizard.com/babyname/girl/samara Fern Test Examination of Amniotic Fluid by Microscopy, (June, 2013) UCSF Medical Center, Point of Care Testing lab manual, retrieved via [internet] http://labmed.ucsf.edu Cuhna, John M.D., Metformin, (n.d.) Medical and Pharmacy Editor retrieved from [internet] www.rxlist.com Wiess, Robin, An In Depth Look at Internal Fetal Monitoring, (September 23, 2018) retrieved from [internet] www.verywellfamily.com

41

Taxi Fiction by William Sack When the night has come And the land is dark And the moon is the only light we’ll see No I won’t be afraid No I won’t be afraid Just as long as you stand, stand by me.

Ben E. King I The smell of the street bothered him. It always had. The crowds of people produced asmell almost putrid to him. They reeked of outdated foods, unwashed bodies, alcohol. They allwalked along, nonchalantly, seeming to have gained a tolerance to the odorous atmosphere. And the sounds, which were abundant, forcefully rang throughout the air, exploding in his ears, in hismind. He heard the frantic beeping noises of traffic, the occasional scream of some drunk or wild man, and often casual conversations of passersby. Many discussed business, others considered visiting particular tourist attractions, while some planned out various crimes they would find pleasure in committing. There were so many people, each walking or driving or striving for some destination, for some reason. Lights bounced and danced on their heads, as the sky grew dark. Large screens that featured advertisements began lighting the air around themselves, making the buildings shine like radiant deities.

He watched as the city around him grew to life in the darkness. The glow of the city expanded and brightened. The lights were like some liquid poison, spreading across the once-blank expanse of the night. He rubbed his eyes in agitation. He hated it. All of it. The fact that something as repulsive as the city, as revolting as the drunks and the hobos, as noxious as the large screens―the fact that they could all attain the transformation they had―it bothered him. It confused him, too. Infused in him a sense of bewilderment. In so many bizarre ways, the lights affected him. They filled him with feelings of some sort of hope, some kind of strange uplifting atmosphere, as if he wished for something. Something he couldn’t exactly identify. Something he wasn’t even sure if he was conscious of.

He breathed. A sudden rush of thoughts flashed in his mind. He hated them.

Yet he loved them. He wished they would disappear. But he wished they would 42

stay. They scared him, relieved him. Tears welled up in his eyes just for moment, burning him, freeing him…He saw someone in the darkness. The driver wiped his eyes. Sniffed. Breathed . Established a sense of sobriety for himself so he could drive.

The lights, the sounds, the smells, all simultaneously filled the taxi with greater force, further stimulating even more feelings of repugnance within him. A man, quite old and weathered by years of earthly suffering, had opened the door and bent his body somewhat awkwardly in an attempt to position himself correctly on the seat, in which he rested upon with an audible and lengthy sigh of relief. The driver relaxed, a little relieved himself that he hadn't picked up some young drunk moron who forgot his wallet. The old man exhaled again, extremely grateful for a chance to rest.

“The Faerwald Luxury Apartment building please,” a croaky voice reverberated throughout the inside of the vehicle. The driver, being familiar with this location, immediately shifted the car and began to head in the requested direction, just as stars began to penetrate the dark surface of the sky.

“Seems to get more and more crowded out there everyday, doesn't it?” the driver said jokingly, trying to spark conversation with the aged man.

“Oh yeah,” the husky voice reappeared, “it seems the crowds are getting more violent too. I almost had to deck a few guys.” He laughed raucously. “But lucky for them, those punks haven't tried me. Probably because they're too afraid of me.”

The driver chuckled along with the friendly comic, establishing a general liking to the man already. “Yeah, you do seem pretty intimidating,” the driver remarked, in an attempt to match the humorous aura the man conveyed, who released another hoarse laugh.

“You remind me of my son,” the old man breathed, “what's your name?”

“John. You?” “Lucas.”

“It's nice to meet you, Lucas.” John waited patiently for a red light to turn, as a car in the traffic perpendicular to him sped wildly through the road.

“Likewise.”

The driver accelerated the taxi quite ardently when the light turned green in slight agitation of the stupidity of dangerous drivers. He looked in the mirror to notice Lucas viewing the city lights through the window, seeming to have not noticed or just simply ignored John’s sudden fit of feverish anger.

“So do you live here or are you just a tourist, Lucas?”

43

“My wife and I moved here―uh let's see―about seven years ago,” the man said, visibly surprised by the remembrance of the amount of time he has resided in the city.

“Where did you live before moving here?”

“It was one of those smaller, quieter towns, you know like the ones with farms and such.”

John looked to the rearview mirror again, noticing a discernible change in the old man’s countenance. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“We were both born and raised there, lived there for most of our lives.”

“Why’d you move?”

Lucas paused for a moment. “Someone close passed away, and it just...it devastated us.”

“Oh...my condolences.”

“We moved here to get our minds off of it, you know. To just forget everything. To just allow the lights to blind us, rather than help us see.” Lucas’s voice fell into a deep, monotone pitch.

John looked at him through the mirror again, a little surprised at the poetic accuracy of his statement. “I’m sorry for your loss.” John noticed a small flash of light fall from Lucas’s face.

The old man took another breath, exhaling shakily. “I just wish we could’ve helped him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I...I don’t understand, John. In all of my years and experiences and tragedies and blessings, why can’t I understand? That’s all I want. I just want to be able to know why. Why these things have to happen. Why they have to hurt so much.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sometimes...I just don’t know what to do.”

“I know how you feel.”

The cab filled with a dismal glow as the moon rose higher into the sky. John felt increasingly sympathetic for the elderly man as his whimpers subsided to a series of lengthy exhalations.

“These things, Lucas,” John spoke, “these things we go through...they hurt, I know. But that’s life, you know. Life is painful. It’s hard. I don’t know why, either, but that’s just the way it is. I mean, does anyone really know why? You know what I’m saying? Does any person really know why life is like this? I mean―” “I hate this,” Lucas interrupted.

“What?”

44

“I hate this. I hate it.”

“You hate what? Cabs?”

Lucas sniffed. “No. Of course not. I hate pain.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Lucas let out a long exhale.

“I don’t know. Listen John, I’m sorry for getting all weepy in your cab,” Lucas said apologetically after a moment.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I just...I don’t know. I don’t really talk about this often.”

“Yeah, I understand. You know, you’re a very thoughtful man, Lucas,” the driver tried to change the subject, “you seem like a songwriter or something.”

The old man wiped his face with a trembling hand, adjusted his white hair.

“I’m a writer, actually,” Lucas responded after a few seconds, realizing the driver’s intentions. He inhaled. Exhaled slowly.

“Really? What do you write?”

“I’ve written a few poems, short stories, things like that.”

“How long have you been a writer?”

“For quite some time. Years and years. I don’t write as much as I used to though. Gettin’ too old.” Lucas smiled, wiping his eyes once more. “What about you, John? What did you aspire to be?”

“I wanted to be a superhero actually, you know,” he looked at Lucas in the mirror with a smile, “so I could fly around and save people in trouble.”

The old man chuckled. “Sounds fun.” Lucas looked at John in the mirror, his smile fading to a solemn complexion. “But seriously, what have you always dreamed of becoming?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know what I wanted to be. I didn’t have a big passion for anything.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I really didn’t, I still don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

John smiled at the man’s seemingly comedic assertions and crinkled his eyebrows in confusion as he arrived at the desired destination. “Really? What are they then?” he inquired sarcastically as Lucas noticed the familiar surroundings, paid his driver, opened the door of the cab, and let his shoes touch the pavement.

“You’ve already reached them,” the old man said as he completely exited the cab and stood with a great deal of effort, “you’re a taxi driver.”

45

II John noticed the old man gave him almost double the amount on the meter.

He smiled.

He missed Lucas already.

He cried.

He wasn’t entirely sure why.

John pulled away from the apartment building as the moon began to shine through his windshield, brightening the inside of the taxi. The driver pulled up to a stoplight. He looked up at the celestial body in the night sky. The light flooded everything. His eyes. His mind. It was beautiful.

The moon, completely full and radiant, rose into the sky, drifting across the stars and the darkness. John smiled, accepting what surfaced, accepting the passage of the things that surfaced. It was beautiful.

The stoplight turned green as rain began to pour. He accelerated through the intersection.

He looked at the moon again. It continued to rise, the stars illuminating existence behind it, the rain washing life ahead of it. So beautiful.

He saw a couple standing in the rain. They stood under a light on the side of the road. He could see them waving frantically to get out of the weather.

He stopped the taxi next to the strangers, prompting them to rush into the vehicle. A young man and woman crawled in, allowing a gust of brisk air to fill the cab. They sat and hurriedly shut the door behind them. Water dripped from their hair and clothes, soaking the seats. They exhaled gratefully as they acknowledged the new-found refuge.

“Wow,” he heard the man say vehemently, as he wiped the water from his face. “It’s really pouring out there.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” the driver replied, looking out his window. “I hate freak rainstorms.”

The couple chuckled a little as they let a few more exhales. “112 Barde Avenue, please,” the woman spoke as she began to relax in the warmth of her friend. John accelerated the vehicle again, directing it to the requested destination.

The rain began to fall even harder as the taxi moved along. On the sidewalks umbrellas danced around under the moonlight as people began rushing to find dry areas. Some of them continued in their caper alone while others traveled in groups of two or three. Rain drops filled up the windshield as John activated the wipers. He watched carefully as the water began to streak down the glass, blurring everything outside of the taxi, just to be abruptly swept off onto the street. He could hear the 46

drops of water continuously pound on the top of the car, as if to illustrate their desire for entry. John imagined the water raining down with such force so as to penetrate the taxi, so that it could fill up the cab and wash away all the things that tore at him. He felt a familiar pressure. Another feeling of loss. He breathed deeply.

With a sudden rush of embarrassment, John looked in the mirror, thinking his exhalation was way too audible.

The couple didn’t seem to notice. Instead, they sat holding each other, as if they were protecting each other from something. They kissed. They loved each other. They, together, formed a bond greater than themselves. Streetlights illuminated the pair. Brightened them. As if something intentionally emphasized them so as to torture John. Darkness fell on them. Then light. They dimmed. Then they irradiated. Concealed. Then embellished. These things all happened as the car passed under the numerous lights. Spheres of life that lit the road ahead of John.

Spheres that stretched almost infinitely ahead.

Another feeling surfaced in him. Joy. Yes, that’s it. Joy. No. Glee. Yes, that’s what it was. He was cheerful. He could feel it. He was happy. Tears rolled down his face. A creeping feeling grasped him. Clawed at him. But he was happy. He felt it.

He felt as everything outside of his eye blurred. He felt as it tickled him. Tore a path for itself in his face. The stream continued to roll down, wetting what was dry.

What was once dry. What will be dry again. The stream stopped at his jaw. Flowed into a ball. Became too heavy to maintain its adhesive properties. Fell. He could feel it strike his lap. It was warm. Hot. It burned through him. Through his leg.

Through the taxi. Through the ground. It horrified him. But he was happy.

Happy...happy...

He hoped they didn’t notice. He wished they ignored everything, or that they were just temporarily unable to utilize their senses to distinguish what had transpired.

He looked in the mirror once more. They didn’t move. The woman watched the cars and the people as they passed by in the rain. The man held her. As if to keep her from floating away.

Or to keep her from becoming a part of the lights and rain.

He drove along through the harsh weather, watching the rain bounce off of the hood of the taxi, giving the entire vehicle an almost supernatural and even ethereal glow. The road became a glossy night sky. A mirror. A piece of art painted by some metaphysical being.

Why did it pain him? What is the purpose? Of pain? Of suffering? Is there a purpose?

47

Why is it painful? Why is it so difficult? John screamed in his mind. Flashes.

Of anger. Of light.

Why? Another tear fell. Another one. Another. He didn’t know what to do.

He inhaled. Exhaled. He watched the road. Inhaled. Exhaled. Watched.

Breathed. In. Out. Everything outside―the water, the painting, the paint itself―moved. The tears and the rain and the lights had created a place where all things in existence came together to form something unimaginably surreal. Everything, the essence of everything, fused into a state of infinity. An immeasurable transcendence.

“Sir?” A deep voice rang out in the air, shattering the abstract fixation.

“Yes?” John replied in an unbelievably clear voice.

“Could you drop us off here?”

“What do you mean?”

“We want to walk the rest of the way.”

John looked in the mirror at the couple confusedly. “We’re only a couple blocks away, though.”

“Yeah but the storm looks like it let up a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Plus it’d be fun to enjoy the last bit of the rain anyway.”

“Okay.” John pulled the car to the side of the road next to a fountain.

“Thanks,” the woman responded as they paid and then entered the abating storm.

John watched for a moment as the couple got out of the taxi. They walked for a moment in the rain, getting soaked once more. They began treading in the puddles that had formed, causing the small pools to explode into an array of water droplets that seemed to surround the couple, as if to join the humans in celebration. The day faded into complete darkness as they laughed and twirled in the harsh rain. Being only lighted by the streetlights, the couple continued to frolic in the direction of their destination.

III John pulled the cab away from the fountain, with newly surfaced feelings he didn’t fully understand. The couple found even more joy in the rain. The storm.

Something that destroys and drowns.

The rain continued to fall. However, as each drop struck the pavement, the storm softened. The darkness that had completely obscured the stars began to 48

dissipate, revealing a decorative network of lights that had been placed meticulously across the expanse. Lights that constantly burned, continuously scorching the night sky. Lights that branded the expanse, to keep it from growing too dark, from surrounding all that is living. There existed a fire that never burned out. Multiple fires. No. Infinite fires. A never-ending amount of fires that are never extinguished.

John pulled his taxi over on a dark road. No people were there. No cars passed. The road was lit by a single streetlight. He waited on the side of the street.

Staring at the streetlight a few feet in front of the taxi. He breathed. Inhaled. Ex― No. No. No. No. He struck the steering wheel. With both of his palms, he struck the steering wheel. Over and over again. He yelled. He pleaded. Struck the steering wheel again. He punched the dashboard. Again. Again. He rubbed his eyes with his palms. He screamed again.

Struck the door beside him with his elbow. It hurt. His knuckles bled. He let his head fall on the steering wheel. Let the hard plastic and leather leave a mark on his forehead. He swore. Again.

Again. Tears fell from his face once more. He shouted. Struck the dashboard again. The wheel.

The dashboard. The door. Wheel. Door. Dashboard. Dashboard.

More tears.

He held his face in his hands. He could feel the wetness. It seeped through his hands. It struck his legs. His skin was hot. Burning. Scorching. Charring. He adjusted the mirror. Watched himself as he continued to breathe violently and hastily. His face was red. Tears streamed down relentlessly.

Why? What? How? He cried. Each tear continued along the paved and worn path. All the way to the end where it is liberated. No. Abandoned. Left to be evaporated into nothingness.

Why? Suddenly a door was flung open ahead of him. Light spilled out of a building ahead, lighting up the street. The door was opened so harshly that it hit the wall of the building. A young woman ran out into the darkness. Stumbling about slightly. A man, seeming to hold part of his face as if from an injury, began to pursue her. He stopped for a moment to balance himself on the wall, acknowledging the pain he was evidently in.

The girl noticed John and began to run toward the taxi. He sat quietly in the driver’s seat as tears still rolled down his face. He watched as the girl came closer to 49

the passenger door of the car. She had red marks all across her face. Dark bruises decorated her arm. A small black purse dangled on her forearm. John noticed these things as she reached for the handle. She sat down in the passenger seat of the car.

The man, having noticed the taxi as well, began to run toward the door the girl slammed shut.

“Drive. Please.”

John felt as his heart began to race. He wiped the tears off of his face. He could see the man now, who was quite rough-looking and was bleeding from a large, ugly gash in his cheek.

Having left the taxi running, John accelerated the vehicle onto the street and sped away from the man who continued to pursue them.

The girl watched as she sped away from the man. Breathing heavily, she watched the lighted room she had just ran out of as the taxi passed it. John turned the cab to the right to get back to a lighted street, ensuring the prevention of the seemingly violent incident. A scent began bleeding into the air. A nice perfume smell permeated the cab. He looked over a moment at the girl.

She seemed to be in her early twenties. Her dark hair was messy and frazzled.

She wore black shorts and her shirt was torn on the side. Her eyes were dark, not only from the crudely applied mascara, but seemingly from lack of sleep or from some injury as well. He could see tears running down her face. She wiped them.

Again and again. Every time she wiped them another tear filled the place of the previous one. Her face dropped into her hands. She began to cry uncontrollably.

He felt pain again. That pang of sorrow. That desire.

He continued to drive. Unsure what to do exactly. The lights of the city filled the cab once more. The rain, now completely gone, had left the painting to dry on the street. The lights continually bouncing off of it.

John felt his heart as it began to slow and return to its normal pace. He exhaled once.

“Are you okay?” he asked the girl softly.

“No. I don’t know. No. I’m not.” Her voice was faint and increasingly choppy with every tear.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No.” “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Can I ask what’s wrong? Or what happened?”

“I don’t...I don’t know.”

50

John turned the taxi again, allowing a bridge to appear ahead.

“Could...could you stop up here?” The girl gasped a little, seeming to choke up on her tears. The hand she used to point with was shaking.

“But this is the bridge.”

“I know. Could you stop here? Right here. Right here.”

John looked at her face as he pulled the taxi to the side of the bridge. Tears streamed down her face. A river seemed to flow from her eyes.

Her eyes. They were wide. She stopped wiping them. Black eye-liner had been smeared down her face. There was a familiarity about her complexion.

“What are you doing?” John questioned the girl, feeling his heart race again.

He could feel something. Sense something. Something horrible. “What are you doing?” The familiar sting in his eyes. “Please.” He tried to grab at her arm as she opened the door.

She evaded his grasp. She reached in her pocket and threw a couple hundred dollar bills on the seat where her purse sat.

“Wait.”

She stepped out of the car.

“Wait.”

She slammed the door.

“Wait.”

John watched the girl as she walked around the front of the taxi. The headlights lighting her. He felt it. His heart beat. He felt as it raced faster and faster.

His eyes flitted around. His hands began shaking. He breathed heavily.

“Please.” He didn’t know who he was saying it to. “Please. Don’t let her.”

He felt afraid. He felt courage.

He opened the door.

He felt pain. He felt comfort.

He stepped onto the wet pavement.

He felt weakness. He felt strength.

He got out of the taxi.

He felt death. He felt life.

He stepped toward the girl.

He felt the end. He felt the beginning.

He began to run to her.

He was burning. He was freezing.

He got closer to her.

He felt everything. He felt nothing.

51

He reached out to her.

No. No. No. Please. No. He grabbed her hand.

Please.

Everything was there. Existing in their hands. Everything. Everything that mattered.

Everything that made sense. Everything that didn’t.

Please. No. He pulled her down from the edge of the bridge.

She cried.

He cried.

He held her. “Please.”

She cried. She cried more.

He cried. “Please. Don’t.” He cried. He sat against the wall of the side of the bridge, holding her. He cried. “Please.”

Everything that he had hated and loved. The city. The rain. The moon. The lights. The people. Everything that had pained him. Everything that he was afraid of. Everything he wished for. Everything he questioned. It was there.

It was all clear to him. The purpose. The point. The fear. The pain. The suffering.

She cried. He cried. He loved the tears. They elevated him. They were a release. They didn’t burn him. They never did. They warmed him. The abstract quality of the tears and the night became clear to him. Everything mattered. The tears. The anguish. The rain. The taxi. The night and the day. The pain and the suffering. The past and the future. Her. Himself. He picked himself up. He held onto her. He picked her up. He started walking. Each step strengthening him.

Helping her. Every step empowered both of them. They stepped off of the sidewalk.

Onto the wet street. They stepped in front of the headlights of the taxi. Both of them lit up like radiant deities. Everything physical seemed to fade away. It all disintegrated into nothingness. Everything metaphysical appeared more illuminated than ever. A world where the pained are carried to rest and purpose. A world where everything existed together with one purpose. A world of light. Not a heaven. Not a hell. An earth. They transcended to this reality.

They walked around the taxi. He opened the door. Allowed her to sit. He walked back around and sat in the driver’s seat. He let the tears stay. Drying already on his face.

52

“Now,” John felt his voice suffuse with ardor, potence, life, existence, even time itself as he looked at the girl, “where to?”

Epilogue John drove his taxi into the city. The lights still so beautiful. The moon just beginning to rise over the horizon again. The people that passed him continued to strive for their destinations.

Each person having his or her own story. Every one of them.

The city lit up. A breathtaking conglomeration of lights bled into the sky. As one entity, the lights rose to such a point in the sky so as to join the infinitely brilliant fires that burned forever in an expanse not of nothingness, but of darkness.

Not an oppressive or a terrifying darkness. But an eternal darkness that exists despite the creation of anything else. A darkness that exists as a union of everything in existence. A darkness that is shaped by the lights and the arrangement of lights.

A darkness that exists as either something so transcendentally beautiful or something so severely destructive. But still one that is shaped by the lights and their arrangement.

He saw someone in the darkness. He breathed. He pulled the taxi over to the side of the road. The door opened. A familiar grunt sounded as a man attempted to position himself correctly on the seat. An elderly man appeared in the mirror that John was watching intently.

“Lucas!” John exclaimed excitedly.

“Huh?” The old man was suddenly startled. “John? Is that you?”

“Yeah. How’s it going?”

“It’s going pretty good, John. How are you?”

“I’m feeling good. Real good. Same place as yesterday?” John asked him as he began to drive back onto the road.

“No actually. The airport, please.”

The driver noticed Lucas holding a single bag of luggage. “The airport?

Where are you flying to?”

“Back to my old town.”

“And your wife?”

“She, uh...she passed away a few years ago.”

With a sudden shock of confusion, John’s eyes flicked to the reflection of the weathered man. “I thought―” 53

“My son died. Our son has been dead, for many years. Then we moved here.

A couple years after that, my wife passed. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle it, so I refused to accept it. I couldn’t accept it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lucas.”

“I loved them. And I’m pretty sure they loved me. But I guess it’s time for me to accept the fact that they’re gone. I need to ‘move on’. It’s something they would’ve wanted, huh?”

“It’s difficult, I know,” John responded with a sympathetic air, “but it’s all a part of this life we live.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I don’t think most do.”

Lucas let out that familiar sigh. “What are we searching for, John?”

The driver of the taxi paused. The cab stopped at a red light. He turned around for a moment to look into Lucas’s eyes. A frosty blue color with a reflective red glow. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like what purpose are we expecting to find? We’re always trying to discover some kind of point. I mean, biologically, I guess we are wired to learn and adapt and progress until we reach some kind of cognitive or technological nirvana. But, on a deeper level, I feel like we were meant for something more. John, what is it we’re truly trying to achieve? In the expanse of reality, in the tribulation of life, in the unshakable apprehension of death, in the inconspicuous beauty of existence, in the infinity of Truth...what is it that we’re looking for?”

John hesitated for a moment. Allowing the old man’s words to register in his mind. The point. Of living. Of being alive. Of existing.

John turned back around, watching another taxi in front of his as the light turned green. He continued along the road. He watched as the cab turned down another street, to reach aseparate destination for a separate passenger. “We’re all just passengers in a taxi, aren’t we?”

“What?”

“We all only care about the destination. The end of it all. We all believe we are creators of our own destinies, but we are simply bystanders of the journey fate takes us on. We all care about the insignificant things. About being drivers or passengers. We always miss the important part.”

Lucas looked into John’s eyes in the mirror. “Which is?”

“The only thing we have ever truly found,” the driver replied, “the only purpose we can really create for ourselves, and the very thing humanity consistently overlooks. The only thing we should really hold onto...is each other.”

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The Winter Concert Poem by London Bishop The blue lights dance over silvery rims And the beat pounds time on the plastic skins And the spider’s limbs move in all directions And the band all plays together.

The army of flutes whistle shrill, shrill shrieks And the timpani booms eight booming beats And the trombones blow, puffing out their cheeks And the band all plays together.

The conductor stately waves his arms As the audience soothes in the melodic charms As the theater protects us from winter’s harms And the band all plays together.

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Vibe Sky, Artwork by Trevor Theuerling

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Hello Art Poem by Grace Oppihle Hello Art, Are you there?

It's been a long time since we last spoke.

We use to be inseparable, You and I But now it seems that thought’s a joke Creation has run dry.

I find myself in a gilded cage, Unable to inspire.

Where is that spark?

That once red fire?

Hello Art, It’s me again.

I still haven’t heard from you.

I’m not sure what to do.

My nails painstakingly ache from trying to create.

This is beginning to fill my mind with unwanted hate.

Hello Art, This is starting to get a little old and stale.

I feel like I will never prevail.

Why haven’t you answered me?

Is it something I did?

Come on, get real.

Don’t kid.

Hello Art, I’m sorry about what I said before.

I spoke in agitation.

Please, come back End this frustration.

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Hello Art, This magnitude of true loss, Feels me with grief.

Will there be no relief?

I thought you would always care!

Instead, I am filled with emptiness and despair.

Hello Art, What is this?

My mind is reconstructing.

My hands are now conducting.

I can see more clearly now.

The veil is gone.

The muse is here This is something I can build on.

Hello Art, My old friend.

It's nice to see you once again!

The wrenching pain is now gone However, this is something I will have to look back and reflect upon.

The unfillable void.

The unshrinkable grief.

What was that?

I don’t know.

I am filled with remarkable belief.

And I continue to grow.

And it continues to show.

If you leave again, I’ll understand.

I’m ready.

I’m steady.

Here I go.

Hello art, Thank you.

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Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literally collection of works by the students and alumni of Mount St. Joseph University published online with the cooperation of the Liberal Arts Department.

Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters. When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”. We take submissions during all twelve months of the year.

If you are currently 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 artwork to LOL@msj.edu. For full submission guidelines, consult our website.

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

Editors and Staff President: Vice President/Treasurer: Secretary: SGA Club Rep: Assistant Editors:

Leila Jaafari Penelope Epple London Bishop Madison Axtell Noah Borgdorff Elycia Edwards Samuel Garrity Skyler Houser Amber Reinert Ariana Spencer Mark Steinriede 59

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