Lions-on-Line (in print)
Searchlight, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender
Fall Issue 2014
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Table of Contents Searchlight, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender Cover “The Candid Affair Between the Sun and the Moon,” Poem by Andrea Elchynski 4 “Roadkill,” Poem by Megan Moore 5 “Paper Crowns,” Fiction by Carolyn Kesterman 7 “No Such Thing as the Girl on the Train,” Poem by Megan Moore 9 “Without a Mom,” Essay by Mimi Daria 11 “Kickball,” Poem by Molly Ehrnschwender 13 Untitled and Self, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender 15 “One Night,” Poem by Hunter Little 16 “The Madonna’s Insurrection,” Fiction by Kathryn Vanden Oever 19 “Poem in Ancient Japanese Form” by Kathleen Boland 33 Reflection of Fall, Artwork by Emma Moore 34 “The Quiet Hours,” Fiction by Molly Ehrnschwender 35 “Begin Anew,” Fiction by Catherine Murray 36 The Phone Call, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender 38 “The Mall,” Essay by Elena Vonder Muelen 39 “Expressions of Complexions,” Poem by Deanna Wilbur 44 “36 Long,” Essay by Mimi Daria 46 “A Family’s Best Friend,” Essay by Megan Erdman 48 “Poems in Four Lines” by Josh Zeller 50 Worrisome Heart, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender Back Cover
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The Candid Affair Between the Sun and the Moon Poem by Andrea Elchynski The heart wants what it cannot have and what it will never receive The moon will always yearn for the sun and the sun will always frown upon its unsettling rays of rejection that the moon once spoke to Crystal sunshine roams down the night sky as the moon is lost from the lack of illumination of his foeful lover He loved how she murmured goodnight softly and gently While his heart drifted into the clouds of serenity The way she would brush ever so smoothly across his numb body Pulling all the heat he could absorb inside his soul when they passed at the mellow dewdrops of dawn The moon fell in love with the sun gracefully with every flaw and crater that he could carry But thus the heart wants what it cannot have and what it will never receive The world is full of obsolete emotions that intersperse in the tormenting torture of the floating rivulets that carry us on
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Roadkill Poem by Megan Moore on the drive back, there are already tears in my eyes at 2 am, still in my mess the street light falls on the yellow lines, bathes the roadkill in a flood of golden dust his neck broken, fur still blowing, in the chilled night air. i keep driving, because i need to be in bed there is no one on the road so i can drive as slowly as i am. and i am driving slowly because of that animal dead in the road. and i can still see in the rearview mirror the dead thing fall upward into the light, limbs limp, gracefully carried through whatever stardust chose to fall between the trees. that's what heaven has to be for every animal in the middle of the road.
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that's what I have to see because i need to sleep tonight and i've already decided to keep driving.
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Paper Crowns Fiction by Carolyn Kesterman Not long ago, my job required that I attend a meeting out of town, and instead of flying there and back in one day, I decided to take some time off and enjoy a few days’ drive to explore some places I would never have visited elsewise. It was at the end of the second day of my journey that I drove into a small fishing village that I would never forget. It was very similar to towns I had just passed through. The only reason I decided to stay there was the increasing volume of weights I felt lounging on my eyelids. Driving along the main road running parallel to the rocky shore, I soon spotted a quaint bed and breakfast with a bookstore adjacent to one side and a tackle shop adjacent to the other. I now remember smiling as I looked around at the town in the safety of my car but keeping a straight and solemn face as I walked into the bed and breakfast and requested a room. It’s funny how few adults feel comfortable showing emotions to strangers. Anyhow, the next morning, I walked downstairs to eat breakfast and continue my journey. As I descended the stairs, the middle-aged woman who owned the bed and breakfast nodded to me. We had barely spoken the night before, save her giving a simple greeting, telling me my room number, and wishing me a pleasant stay with barely a smile. Today was not much different; she asked if I wanted breakfast and went off to get me a plate. I thought she was friendly, then. I barely made eye contact with the others eating there – a couple fishermen and an elderly couple – and sat down at the window that looked out at the street. It was then that I met my greatest teacher. Before I could see her, I saw the change that she made in the people near my window. The pedestrians who had previously been passing each other with little eye contact and barely a nod became animated and warm, smiling and almost bowing to whoever was approaching out of my view. I tried not to look interested and curious as I craned my neck in an attempt to see the person. Then, a girl of about eight years old with a blanket cape and a paper crown came into view, toting a doll. She managed to seem regal as she walked with a skip in her step down the walk near the buildings. She was clearly well-known in the small town, and she waved and spoke to everyone. Her smile was contagious. She stopped at the door to the bed and breakfast and walked inside. “Hello! Hello! Hi!” she said to everyone at the tables. We all greeted her back. Just then, the owner walked out with my food and saw the little girl. She 7
smiled like the others and asked whether she could help. The girl asked if she could have some bacon, and the owner smiled and said that she would give her some right after she handed me my food and coffee. “Oh, I’ll do that.” the girl said, and, tucking her doll under her arm, reached up and took the plate and mug. I smiled as she walked over to me with her face concentrated as she was careful not to spill the coffee. “Is this for you?” she asked. I said that it was. “Okay. Here you go.” I smiled and thanked her, but she didn’t leave right away. “Are you on a trip?” she asked. I said that I was. She smiled widely, her eyes crinkling. “Welcome to the kingdom! Nice to meet you!” I laughed and thanked her, calling her “her majesty.” The owner came back out with a brown paper bag presumably containing bacon, and the girl walked away to take it from her. As she passed me again on her way out, she paused. “Are you all alone?” she asked. I nodded. She walked over and set her doll in the seat across from mine. “I’ll pick her up later. You can have her for a while.” I thanked her, trying to seem normal as my eyes desperately wanted to tear up. I couldn’t believe what I had realized because of this little girl. Though my reason for driving on my trip was to see the places I normally wouldn’t get to, my entire time in the town had been spent trying to keep to myself and not appear odd. The people who I had seen were not much different, either; everyone was content to go about their business pretending the others didn’t exist. But this little girl didn’t yet know the idea that showing warmth to practical strangers makes one seem too chummy or off. I wished I could still think like that. As the little girl smiled and walked out the door, the elderly woman at the table next to mine summed it up perfectly: “There are rarely better kings and queens than the little ones whose crowns are made of paper.”
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No Such Thing as the Girl on the Train Poem by Megan Moore I watched a girl vomit down her mother's back at Olive Garden. It was only me and two busboys who saw it. They stood looking at the people who trudged through the mess on their way to the bathroom unsure of how to clean it up. So they let it go and walked away. I pushed my bruschetta onto my father's plate. It was pouring outside and I thought if they could momentarily remove the roof, it would all be washed away. The rain may be more acidic than the vomit anyway. On an Amtrak to New York I was approached by a gap-toothed boy and I could recognize myself in his eyes as the girl on the train that you read poems about. The kind you can always love, without hesitation, because they leave to be forever a perfect memory, a mystery. A girl you saw once, and is perfect for you because that's all she can be. The whistle of the train is shrill and sweet. Enticing and sickening, and it reminds me of throwing up. Will I throw up on this train to that whistle in the dark and rumble on the tracks that make my stomach churn? He sat next me while I day dreamed I thought about telling him about the little girl and her vomit trailing down the blouse, feet away from plentiful breadsticks, –then I didn't. Then I wouldn't be the girl on the train, I'd be the girl who imagined vomit washed away by rain. Some people need girl-on-a-train poems to let them fall asleep more easily, and let them believe that some people do not vomit and are not vomited on, They need pretty girls to smile and flirt and disappear by dawn. But I can't write that. 9
My poetry is made of me, I am not made of poetry. I'm inspired by a girl’s vomit down her mother’s back at Olive Garden, I compare the acidity of vomit to that of rain, but you can pretend anything you need to when I walk off this train.
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Without a Mom Essay by Mimi Daria I was about four years old when I realized that I was different. It was when my step uncle, at the time, whispered in a derogatory tone to my stepmother, “What are those kids? Black? Mexican?” She laughed as she whispered, “Shhh, their mother is a Korean.” I think it was the first time that I felt shame surrounding my looks. And it made me wonder, “Who is my mother? And what’s wrong with how I look? ” I think I have a few memories of her from my early childhood. I am uncertain if they are memories or childhood fantasies that I conjured up. My dad was very generous about answering all of my questions concerning my mother. “Was she pretty? Was she nice? Do I look like her? “And when I got older the questions were, “Did she hate me because I’m a girl? Why does everyone say she liked my brother better?” Finally, when I became an adult the conversation became, “What was her diagnosis? I found her criminal record online.” Sometimes my friends and I would take the Metro downtown to look through the phone books at Cincinnati Bell to try and find her. We never did. I can’t say that I believed we would find her but I thought about her a lot. It wasn’t until my dad and stepmother divorced when I was eleven years old that it became an obsession. I just knew that if I tried hard enough, I would find her, bring her home, and we would be a REGULAR family. My dad gave me a few pictures of her and I thought she was beautiful. In my childhood mind, I was ready to make cookies, go shopping, and be hugged by a woman I would joyously call Mommy. It was the June before my fifteenth birthday when I got the news. I remember it vividly. My dad answered the phone, exchanged a few words, and hung up the phone. Looking back, he avoided eye contact when he said,” That was your grandma. Your mother called and left a number with her. You can call her if you want.” That was the beginning of a long journey of heartache. Eagerly, I called her. We must have talked for an hour. We cried. She apologized for leaving. We made plans to meet downtown on my fifteenth birthday. I told her about school, and my house, and my friends. The morning that I was going to meet her, I asked my brother to come with us. After all, she was his mother too. He replied, “No, I don’t want to see her and you shouldn’t either. She is crazy and violent. Don’t be alone with her.” I was boiling mad. How could he say that? She was nice. I talked to her. What did he mean that she was crazy? We met at the Fifth Street Market at the Westin Hotel. And she looked wonderful. She had thick, dark hair, smooth skin, and was beautifully dressed. We 11
spent the day together shopping, eating, and screaming. It was awful. The language barrier alone was too much for my fifteen year old mind, much less the mental illness, which quickly became evident. That was the last time I saw her. It’s been twenty nine years since that hot July day. Over the years we kept contact by phone. And once in a while I would send her a letter. As time passed I realized her mental illness was either untreated or had gotten worse or both. The last time I spoke to her, in her very broken English, she said, “Leave me alone. I am old, sick, and poor. I have not led a good life and have no interest in being your mom. Mourn me like I died and go on with your life. I cannot give you what you want.” I felt my heart break. Before then, I thought that was just an expression. Now I know it’s real. I have never experienced pain like that before or since. And I followed her advice, I mourned. To some people it may seem odd that I would mourn a woman who abandoned me, who rejected me. Many of my friends thought her words to be cruel. I think it was a gift. She knew her capabilities. And slowly, I began to heal. I don’t think it was only about her rejection. I was well into my thirties before I could speak about her without choking up. For many years, I was embarrassed about being abandoned. What kind of kid isn’t wanted by her mother? How can a motherless woman know how to raise children? What could I know about being a wife? Who could I turn to when I had questions about my femininity? I often wondered, is this what women do? I have since realized that because I was abandoned, I formed friendships with older women who were far more suited to teach me the ways of a woman than my own mother. I sought their wisdom many times in life and have come to believe that although I am not perfect, I am capable beyond my imagination. I am worthy of pursuing my dreams and accomplishing my goals. Most importantly, I now know that my mother’s choice to leave was not a reflection of my self-worth rather a symptom of the mental illness that controlled her life.
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Kick Ball Poem by Molly Ehrnschwender Dear Mr. Principal, Sir, a terrible burden has fallen upon me. Not only do I write to apologize for wrongs not of my doing, but to inform you of my remorse for certain events that quickly escalated into quite a mess. Sir, I would not even be here, nor you dealing with this if it had not been for those pink shoes clacking over the molten blacktop at recess thud thud thud suddenly skittering thud thud thud thud thud roll‌ as knees, palms, and eyelids all turned to red. Sir, when push comes to shove I hold my ground. Which is exactly what I did as little miss pink shoes came teetering over, thinking she is so much better than I it was my turn. Now I have scratched hands over scraped knees as I sit here before you and confess. Sir, a hush came over the playground as all looked on and there were some tears, but I was crying too. She shoved me first and called me mean names all I could see was those blurry pink shoes tapping fast against the blacktop that was all by then 13
way too hot as the ball rolled into a patch of prickly dry grass Sir, I cannot implore you enough to see that I am the victim here. Just because she might not see things the same way I see them does not give her the right to come traipsing through my recess time and ruin everything. Now you’re telling me that My recess time will be revoked until things can be sorted out, but misery must love company because I take comfort in the fact that there will be pink shoes on the yellow line next to mine as we recite together: I will not fight in school I will not fight in school I will not fight in school I will not fight in school I will not fight in school
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Untitled and Self, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender
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One Night Poem by Hunter Little I try to remember her. Who she is I’m not sure. The girl writing these words uses a stolen pen and smokes too many cigarettes. I try to remember before. If there were one at all. I try to remember a peaceful mind; but it’s gone – smothered under a million sleepless nights. Drunken nights. Nights when she was entirely out of her mind. Lost her soul. I don’t think she’ll ever not be restless inside, a perpetual poison rumbling through her like water on a stove. Conflict rules over every thought. She is burdened, ashamed of things she is and things she’s done, but part of her follows those thoughts with a smile. A smile at the idea of self-destruction – of breaking herself in two, or three, or four; of tearing herself off her hinges. I may not remember her, but I do remember the thrill she feels – the thrill she felt. So much adrenaline boiled and bubbled in her veins; blood hot under her yearning skin. I remember 16
the numb in her mind as the nicotine spiked, as the alcohol, a tidal wave of toxin, drowned her. It clouded her, blurred her, moved her, warmed her. Set her on fire. Shut. Her. Off. I remember her blank brain, the cable jump of a much needed touch. I remember her body, longing, leaning, hovering, shivering. Her tummy’s tingle at his touch. His hands, her mouth. She was gone, blurry, blank. I remember her thinking, “No, this isn’t me.” She shut it off. I remember the race, her heart beat, the bodies’ heat. Adrenaline. Blood rush. hush. I remember her regret, disgust. Can’t take back what she did. I remember her heart break, the shame – never thought she’d be this way: contaminated, unclean, prepared to be quarantined. sat solemnly in the shower soaking to the soul, drawing deep breaths ragged from a rain cold enough to congeal the venom in her veins. I try to remember her. Who she is I’m not sure; this girl is words written with a stolen pen a burnt out cigarette this girl is a fire 17
a perpetual poison tingling in the tummy of the Tortured trembling with temptation.
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The Madonna’s Insurrection Fiction by Kathryn Vanden Oever Part One: Sign of The Madonna Chapter One: Jacqueline Article from The Paris Exhibitioner, 2014 Murder in the Rue de Montparnasse: Curator Murdered, Priceless Artifact Stolen! Marie-Therese Durand, the Assistant Curator for the newly established National Museum of Egyptian Archaeology in Paris, France, was found dead in her office of the second floor of the museum on Friday, April 5th, 2014, in the early hour of six o’clock. Madame Durand was thirty-six years old, is survived by her husband, noted microbiologist Philippe Durand of the renowned Prasinus-Smaragdinus Biotech Industries, and two daughters, nine-year old Angelina and two-year old Isabelle. Madame Durand is noted most famously for her discovery of an unfinished pyramid two miles away from Giza, for the discovery of a warship, dating to the time of Tuthmosis III, on the bottom of the Nile River near Cairo, and for her startling new theory on the possible existence of the fabled Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, a fabled Hellenistic combination of the Greek god, Hermes, and the Egyptian god of wisdom, Thoth. Chief Inspector Roland Moreau of the Police Nationale has already released information to the press of an imminent arrest of the murderer, alongside the facts concerning the murder. As it is, Madame Durand’s body was found in a most peculiar way; her office had been thoroughly searched, her heavy oaken desk thrown up onto its side and moved to one side of the small space, and the cadaver had been laid out in a most strange way. Her throat had been slit violently, and her body was arranged, according to sources, in the shape of the Greek letter, Tau, a T, with her arms stretching to the sides and her legs straight and pointed towards the door. Carved, quite literally, carved into her chest, most likely with the murder weapon, was the most odd attribute to this heinous crime; the image of a hourglass, the bottom triangle was decorated with the symbol of a Masonic Square and Compass, alongside the crescent moon and stars of Islam on the right next to it. Accompanying these two well-known symbols was an unusual symbol not seen before, yet somehow familiar. To say it simply, it consists of three ancient symbols included together— a Staurogram, a Chi Ro image, and an IH Monogram. The three symbols were set in a circle, pointed towards the middle of the circle of which they comprised. The top triangle, on the other hand, contained the image of a Templar Cross smack dab in the middle of a circle that fits perfectly inside the triangle. In addition to this grisly sin, the Curator of the Museum, a Monsieur Maurice Rocher, has also reported the theft of a small clay tablet, dating to the Sixth Dynasty in Egypt, from the Museum’s new ‘Remnants of Egypt’ exhibit. “What has occurred here in the past few days,” Monsieur Rocher told the Exhibitioner on Tuesday, “is a complete and total travesty. Madame Durand was beloved and respected by all of her colleagues, myself included. She shall be sorely missed. And to add to this horrendous 19
tragedy, a priceless artifact, a piece of a history long since extinct, has been stolen. I demand that it be returned to the Museum as soon as possible.” Chief Inspector Moreau recorded in a press conference this past Sunday, “I promise that any and all resources available will be utilized to find the killer and to recover the lost artifact.” I read the article twice to make sure of what I had learned. Then I crumpled the copy of the Paris Exhibitioner, a newly established and now quite popular newspaper that I had taken a liking to, into a ball and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. As I did, I passed by a small boutique that I had never gone into and stared into the display window. Amidst the oddball fashions that I did not care for, I noticed my own reflection and smiled slightly. My dark, sky-blue eyes glimmered despite the torrential rain that pounded on the surface of my umbrella; my riotous auburn hair was tied back into a severe French twist, and my full heart-shaped lips were pursed together in serious thought. Despite my eternal endeavors to hide my figure underneath my favorite sand-colored woolen coat, a charcoal black turtle-neck sweater and a conservative pencil-thin skirt, I still gave off—what most people keep on telling me—some curves that some men, for some odd reason, found attractive. Which I found endearingly annoying. Unmoved by the somewhat colorful display, I walked on. I was heading towards the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris (the Cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris), its ageless Gothic architecture haunting the blue Parisian sky, eager to reach my lunch date. “Mademoiselle!” I heard someone call from behind me. It was a man, definitely, that much I could tell. I stopped, and turned, and found myself staring face-to-face with someone I did not know. “Are you Mademoiselle Labaroche?” He panted heavily. “Yes, I am, Monsieur.” One look at the man and I could tell that he was an American; by the way that he spoke and the slight shift in his eyes that mostly all Americans possessed. “What do you want?” “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle,” the American began unsteadily. He stood only a few inches taller than I, was well-built and had a lean figure; his short unruly hair was the color of burnt mahogany as was the makings of a beard on his face, and his eyes were a black contrast to my own sky-blue eyes. “My name is Paul Chambord, and I am a professor on loan to the University of Paris from the University of Chicago—” Oh God, he’s American but with a French surname! Must be the son of immigrants or something. “—and I believe that I’m in desperate need of your assistance,” Chambord kept on babbling like a moron. He paused, expecting me to ask what was up. “Go on,” I prodded, silently noting that I was about to become late for my luncheon. Paul Chambord seemed to relax, if but for a moment. “All-right. This morning I was approached by a Chief Inspector from the Police Nationale—“ “Let me guess: head like a jackal, body of a bull, and a complete jackass when it comes to rules and such?” I interrupted, noting a somewhat tense discomfort behind the man’s new calm demeanor. Chambord’s mouth dropped open in surprise; “Why, yes, but how did you—?” “His name is Roland Moreau, and he is, by far, the single most pompous, arrogant, chauvinistic man that I have ever known,” I explained casually, near nonchalantly. Chambord 20
and I were now approaching the breathtaking entrance of the cathedral, walking side by side. “Ah.” Chambord nodded, looking as confused as he did a minute ago. “Anyway, Inspector Moreau has enlisted my help in locating a certain lost artifact—” “I am going to assume that you’re talking about the tablet that was stolen during the murder of Marie-Therese Durand, yes?” “Of course. You see, the police were unable to find it in Monsieur de la Porte’s apartment—” “Wait,” I stopped instantly and turned to face him right in the face. “Moreau has a suspect already? I did not read that in the papers.” “Lord, you just enjoy interrupting me, don’t you?” He grumbled, but I heard him. “Yes. The night janitor, Remy de la Porte. He was the only one inside the museum around the time of death, so…” He shrugged. I frowned. As always, something about the quick resolve of the crime seemed bothersome. “So why did he recruit you, Monsieur Chambord?” “Actually, it’s Doctor Chambord, and he believes that I can locate the tablet according to its size, weight, and the type of clay that was used to make it. You see, he believes that de la Porte hid it among other similar artifacts that are stored in the basement of the museum, right after he killed poor Madame Durand.” “Of course, because you’re an Egyptologist and an expert on the Sixth Dynasty—a rare thing, apparently—you’re the obvious choice in such manners.” I smirked slightly. “Exactly—wait a minute. How on Earth did you guess that I was an Egyptologist?” Chambord stared at me as if I was crazy. Which I was, just a little. “You’ve got a really dark tone of skin, suggesting some time in the sun, but not recently. Because of that, I’d say that it’s been about three or four years since you’ve been in the field. And since Mubarak was thrown from power in 2011…” I smiled even more broadly and I couldn’t help myself. “My God! That’s right! But still…” “You’re also wearing the ID issued to you by the university,” I pointed out at the laminated piece of paper pinned to the lapel of his jacket. His eyes darted down to his chest as his hands flew up to the ID; his eyes then narrowed as he said, “That is not funny, Mademoiselle Labaroche. Not funny at all.” “If you think that’s funny, you should see what I’ve been reading lately.” I said as I pulled out a thick hardcover book from my handbag and showed it to him. The title was The Successors of Imhotep by Dr. Paul Chambord. His scowl deepened as I started laughing humbly. “Ms. Labaroche—” He started but didn’t get to finish. “Oh, please don’t call me that. It makes me feel so damn old and spinster-y. Call me Jacqueline, or even Jackie, okay?” It’s true—I really hate it when people call me that. “Um, okay, Jacqueline,” Chambord gave off a small smile. “Then you can call me Paul.” “So, Paul,” I sat calmly down on the bench, more than slightly frustrated at the obstacle to my luncheon, “why have you come to me? Surely you can find the tablet by yourself, hmm?” “Actually, that’s just it—I can’t. I tried to tell Inspector Moreau that I’m not the type of person for such a challenge, but he wouldn’t listen. You missed another thing about him—he’s a damn stubborn man.” Chambord said as he took a seat right next to me. 21
“He hired you so no one would come to me,” I snarled under my tongue. “Damn that Moreau!” I sensed Paul tensing right next to me because of my outburst, so I decided to calm down a little. “So why come to me?” I asked. “I received a golden recommendation of you from a gendarme who works for Moreau, a fellow who goes by the name of Emil Chevalier, says that you are the best in your field. That you are an expert of deduction. And frankly, I’m not.” He said. “So…what do you say? Will you do it? Will you help me find the tablet?” Hmm…what to do, what to do? “Fine, I’ll do it. Meet me at the museum tonight at six o’clock.” He stared at me, perplexed. “Why not now? I’m free right now.” “Because I have a previous engagement, Paul, and I cannot change it. I’ll see you at six.” He stared even more. “Just who are you meeting with that makes you so uptight about your schedule?” He asked me. “My sister,” I replied simply. And then I was gone. Chapter Two: Jacqueline The café was already bustling with activity when I arrived, much to my initial discomfort. “Jackie!” I heard someone call my name from all the way in the back of the café. “We’re over here!” I saw my brother-in-law standing next to a private booth, waving me over to the table. He was dressed ridiculously, like he was an Englishman preparing to go on safari in Africa; white garments, the straw hat, and the cane to go with it, all complimenting his short, thick, black hair, tanned skin and handsome features. But I had to admit; Charles Massarde did have a way of making a scene, if involuntary. “Charles,” I prompted as I pecked him on the cheek, “why the hell are you wearing that?” “Dear Jacqueline, ever the cynic,” Charles Massarde, AKA the Black Baron, sighed dramatically while smiling his usual glinting smile, making me feel like I was being subjugated to a tax audit for some odd reason. “Why is it that whenever I ask just what you’re up to that you call me a cynic?” I smirked as I sat down in the booth across from him. “Because you have no sense of imagination, Jackie. No sense at all.” Charles grinned as he sipped from a glass of what I guessed was Dom Perignon. I scowled at that. Sometimes the man didn’t care how much money he spent. Of course, that was probably because most of the money wasn’t even his. Charles Napoleon Massarde was known infamously throughout the world as the dashing and debonair art thief, the Black Baron. He was wanted worldwide by Interpol, the American Central Intelligence Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation, and France’s own beloved Police Nationale. Personally, I don’t think that they’ll ever catch him. He’s too damn smart for that, though I still don’t know what my sister sees in him. That’s the other reason he’ll never be caught: my sister, his wife, the fashion model of the family, Angelique won’t let him. Speaking of whom… At that moment, my sister appeared from out of nowhere and slid into the booth beside me, quickly enveloping me in a bear of a hug that nearly crushed my spine. 22
“Hello, dear sister,” Angelique purred as she released me from her iron embrace. “How are you today?” She was, in my opinion, so much more glamorous than me. Her long, curly hair was the color of a deep grape wine, with luminescent green eyes, like mine, and heart-shaped lips that were famous throughout France and the rest of Europe. You could tell that we were sisters, but no one could tell that we were twins. That’s the beauty of being a pair of fraternal twins. “Eh,” I shrugged. “Could be better. I was, um, offered a sort of consultation job earlier, though.” Charles raised an eyebrow at me in obvious questioning. “Oh? Again? Who is it for this time? That fat pig Moreau—” “No, not him.” I said as I took a sip of my own glass of wine. “At least not directly.” Angelique stared at me curiously with her beautiful wide eyes, “Then…who, exactly?” “An American named Paul Chambord, who’s working with the police to find that missing tablet.” I rationally explained. Then I leveled my eyes at Charles and asked, “That wasn’t you, per chance, was it, Charles?” Offense clouded his face and I grinned. “Of course not! I would never stoop as so low as to murder an innocent woman just to steal a measly tablet! What an absurd idea!” God, how I loved teasing that man. “I’m sorry, Charles,” I apologized curtly, silently enjoying the fact that he had gotten so worked up. I just hoped that no one in the restaurant had heard him. “So, this Paul Chambord,” my sister was smiling wistfully, “he is American, no?” “Definitely, but his name sounds French.” At that point, another question popped in my head. “By the way, where’s my little niece? I thought that you rarely let her out of your sight, Angie.” I loved calling her by her pet name; she despised it. Angelique scowled at the use of that name, but her eyes lit up at the mention of little daughter, Marguerite, or Margie as I liked to call her. “She’s at a play-date with one of her friends from her pre-school, Sebastian. I’ll be picking her up in about an hour.” “Good. Be sure to tell her that her Auntie Jackie says ‘hello’.” “Of course.” “Anyway, back to this Chambord fellow,” Charles started tapping the surface of the table, a rather annoying thing. “What exactly did he ask you to do?” “He wants me to help him locate the tablet that the Police Nationale thinks was the motive behind the murder of Madame Durand.” I explained. “Hmm…” Massarde was musing. “Who would want such a single, measly tablet? And just what made him pick you to help him?” “He got my name off the good advice of a certain gendarme named Chevalier.” Angelique laughed softly, “Good old Emil! He always did have crush on you, Jacqueline.” I smiled back, not knowing about the horrific hell that was about to completely envelop my life. That was also the last time that I saw my sister alive. Chapter Three: Jacqueline After my lunch with Angelique and her husband, I returned to my shop properly on 23
schedule. My bookshop was located only a couple of blocks from the Eiffel Tower, right by the Seine River. It’s small, reasonably popular, and is known for selling legally occupied, rare, antique books. My apartment sits right above it, and a nice spiral staircase bridges the two together. It reminds me of the setup of Cotton Malone’s shop in Copenhagen, a usual necessity in Steve Berry’s novels of suspense, which are always good reads. There was something that I needed to do that would better prepare me for that night. When I walked inside, however, I instantly knew that I wasn’t alone. In the center of the shop sits a comfortable black leather armchair, used by customers when they’ve found really good reads. This time, it wasn’t a customer sitting in it. It was a woman, and her very presence sent alarms bursting inside me. She looked to be about my age, or even a bit younger, and was watching me with the eagerness of a hawk stalking its prey from the skies. Her eyes were an ethereal, really inhuman, green-yellow color, and her skin was smooth and white, like porcelain. Her blood-red lips flashed a gleaming, unsettling smile, where her long golden tresses tumbled down to the small of her back. At first I’d thought that one of the Cullen kids had stepped right out of those Twilight movies, sadly enough. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Labaroche,” she greeted me in a mellifluous, musical voice, that seemed strangely familiar. “Did you have a nice lunch?” “How did you get in here?!” I demanded angrily. “The door was locked—“ “I have my ways, Mademoiselle Labaroche,” the woman stood up and walked over to me slowly, fondling a priceless copy of Dante’s Inferno in her hands. This woman, I’ll admit, was literally dressed to kill; a charcoal black pantsuit, a white satin blouse, and regular high-heels. “Who are you?” I asked, more worried about the book than my own life. “My acquaintances and my employers call me Fatima,” the woman said as she placed the book down carefully next to the aged cash register on the counter. “I represent a private venture that has a great interest in you, Mademoiselle Labaroche. They seem to think that you are the only one in Paris who can recover the missing tablet.” Her eyes glinted maliciously as she snarled in a whisper, “However, I do not think like my director. I think that you are a cretin, a charlatan. In other words, something that needs attention so that she—that is, you—can exist.” Danger! My mind screamed. Run! Get out of there! But for some sad reason, most likely it was my thirst for knowledge about mysterious things, my feet remained planted to the floor and I found myself saying, quite dumbly, “Your employers…?” “For now, Mademoiselle, they shall remain nameless to you.” Fatima grinned like a great white shark. Then she frowned, still smiling. “But for reasons unknown to me, they have decided to offer you a chance.” “A chance for what?” I asked, skeptical and alert. Her smile was more chilling than before. “Why, a chance to live, Mademoiselle Labaroche. A chance to live.” I gulped involuntarily; that did not sound good. “What’s the offer?” I kept on the conversation, stalling for time. “Once you and Professor Chambord have located the missing tablet, you will hand it over to me and my group. If not…” She shrugged, and I felt a shiver creep up my spine. 24
“Won’t I go to prison for theft of a recently recovered artifact?” “Who knows? All we care about is the tablet, and all you have to care about is your life,” Fatima glanced to the single grandfather clock that stood next to the front door of the shop, of which I was standing in front. “Well, this conversation has been most enlightening, Ms. Labaroche, but I’m afraid that I must be going. I have an appointment that mustn’t be ignored.” “Ooh, is it blackmail?” I guessed jokingly. “Extortion? Adultery?” The last one I just had to say. Fatima, of course, was not amused. She said so herself; “That isn’t amusing, Mademoiselle Labaroche. You will deliver the tablet in one piece to me underneath the Eiffel Tower once it is found.” “How will you know that it has been found?” An obvious question. Her smile, both enigmatic and malicious, was obvious too. “I have my sources.” Oh, joy. “Okay. Now will you please leave? I have something that I need to do.” Fatima’s cruel grin disappeared, and was quickly replaced by unabridged scorn and distaste. “Of course, Mademoiselle Labaroche. But don’t forget; we will know if you don’t plan on giving us that tablet. And if so…you’ll suffer, whether or not it is by my hand.” She pushed past me brusquely, and as she reached for the door handle, I asked, “One last question.” Fatimá stopped. “What?” “Was your group behind the murder of that poor Marie-Therese Durand?” She turned around, no smile, and rather cold. “That is for me to know and for you to find out.” She then smiled evilly. “Good afternoon, Jaq-Jaq.” The door opened and the woman called Fatima was gone. It was about five seconds after her rather casual use of my ages-old nickname that brought many uncomfortable memories back into my head, and recognition of that pasty beautiful face dominated my train of thought. “Oh my God…Emeraude?” Part Two: Traces of Fatima Chapter Four: Paul I watched Jacqueline Labaroche walk towards me, silently wondering just what on earth I was getting into. She was dressed as she was before, and she carried a heavy-looking Adidas backpack over one shoulder. Her face was deathly white under the street lamps, but she also looked like she had seen a ghost, her eyes almost unresponsive, as if from shock. “Jacqueline…” I said to her as she walked up to me, “…are you all-right?” “Yes…” She said. “I’m fine. I just…had an unwelcome friend visit me, that’s all.” I pushed no farther; it didn’t seem proper. We walked inside the doors of the Egyptology Museum, saying nothing—we’d have more to talk about once we reached the crime scene. The first thing that we saw, when we were inside, was a circular wall, made of limestone, with niches cradling empty glass cases. “The place hadn’t been opened yet when Durand was murdered,” I explained to Jacqueline, trying to start what could resemble a conversation. Then… “Ah, Monsieur Chambord!” A rather jolly and familiar voice called out. I looked to the left, and found the Curator bearing straight towards us. Maurice Rocher was shorter than both Jacqueline and I, at least five-foot-five, and was vaguely overweight. Rocher had a ruddy-red 25
face, a flat and bulbous nose, and a few strands of gray hair combed over a smooth, balding head. “Good evening, Dr. Rocher,” I greeted in return. I motioned to Jacqueline, “This is my associate, Jacqueline Labaroche. She will be working with me to locate the missing tablet.” “Ah, the infamous Mademoiselle Labaroche,” Rocher held his hand out for Jacqueline to shake, “it is an honor to meet you. I have read countless articles about your exploits. The way that you solved the Etienne murder case last year was c’est magnifique!” For the first time, I watched as Jacqueline blushed a deep beet red. For some reason it made me smirk. “Thank you very much, Dr. Rocher,” Jacqueline said, sounding embarrassed at the praise. “Now would you please take us to the crime scene? We do have a matter of urgency that needs to be met.” “Ah, yes,” Rocher nodded eagerly. We had started to walk around the marble wall and embark to the crime scene when Rocher turned to us and said, “I do hope that you were informed that Chief Inspector Moreau and some of his men will be joining us for tonight—” “What?!” I stopped alongside Jacqueline as she stopped walking and stared dumbfounded at Rocher. Her face was turning even more red than before, not with embarrassment, but with anger. “We—I mean, I was not informed of this.” “Neither was I,” I added. Rocher paled slightly as he muttered, “Oh, dear. Forgive me; I thought that you were told. Please…let’s go on.” As we walked through the dimmed and kind of spooky hallways to the late Madame Durand’s office, I heard Jacqueline ask of Rocher, “Will anyone else be joining us, Monsieur Rocher?” “Oh, my assistant, Jean-Paul Leroux, will be joining us. He’ll be aiding me in repairing and restoring the tablet, if need. I’m sorry if this troubles you…” “It doesn’t.” Jacqueline mumbled, but only I heard her. And I was the only one to see her smile rather deviously. The interior of the victim’s office had been kept exactly as it had been when the body had first been discovered, minus the cadaver itself, of course. Now only large, dark spots stained the floor, marking where the body had fallen. Jacqueline, after putting on thin plastic gloves, paced to the bookcase, in front of which laid the blood stains. I noted that the desk remained where the murderer had shoved it: I deducted that the man was strong, somewhat. Not the physical description of Remy de la Porte, I thought. Jacqueline bent down on one knee, and stared at a section of floor for some period of time; then she moved her eyes upward to the second-to-last shelf and kept them there for a few moments. I followed her gaze and noticed that some of the victim’s blood had splashed onto the spines of the books on the lower shelves. It made me nearly sick to my stomach that such a violent crime could ever be allowed to happen in a place of history and prestige. Then her attention shifted, from the books, themselves, to the very bottom of the bookshelf—in the corner, I could barely see the small smudge on the right hand, upper corner of the plank that reached from the bottom of the lower shelf to the floor itself. “Dr. Rocher, what on heaven and earth is this?!” I heard a gruff, somewhat furious voice appear out of nowhere. I turned and faced Chief Inspector Roland Moreau for the second time 26
in two days. Jacqueline was right—the man did have the face of a jackal and the body of a bull. His eyes, a deep blue that looked almost black, were small and beady in comparison to the length of his head, where his hair was a thick light brown tinged with specks of salt-and-pepper gray. Tonight he wore his profession: a gray pinstripe suit with a silk black tie and dark blue shirt. He noticed me and said sarcastically, “Ah, Dr. Chambord as well. May I ask just what the meaning of this is?” He pointed to Jacqueline, who was still examining the bookcase and the floor with the patience of a monk, for emphasis. I spoke up, “I needed help and I’ve heard that she is the best in the whole of Paris, so,” I said with a shrug. Moreau’s lips tightened in fury as he shot one of the gendarmes accompanying him a look. I nodded my hello to the flinching Emil Chevalier, as I waited for Moreau to say something acidly. But he said nothing. “Well, that’s it then,” she said simply as she stood up and faced us all. I saw a thin form behind the gendarmes, a nervous looking and pasty young man whom I assumed was Jean-Paul Leroux. I caught a hint of a tattoo hiding behind his bushy black hair that was too long to be a man’s style of choosing. “What’s what?” Moreau chirped. “The case, then. I’ve solved it.” Jacqueline said with a smug little grin on her face. Shock registered on everyone’s faces, including my own. “H-How? Wait, what?” I stammered. “What do you mean, Jacqueline?” Her smile turned explicitly devious. “The tablet, I know where it is. And I know the real identity of the killer and just how they framed poor Monsieur de la Porte.” Moreau, I watched with silent glee, burst out in anger, “How?! Remy de la Porte has already been arrested—“ “—but he does not have the tablet, is that so, Chief Inspector?” Jacqueline grinned. “You see, gentlemen, the tablet was never really stolen. It was hidden by Madame Durand only moments before her murder. She suspected someone would try to steal it for its hidden worth, so to protect it, she hid it.” She then bent down to the ground once more and placed a hand on the front of the base of the bookshelf, pressing into it slightly. I heard a sharp click, as did everyone else I presume, and watched in shocked silence as the front of the base popped outwards; the plank of wood fell discarded to the ground, revealing a small rectangular compartment. She reached inside the compartment, and seized a hold of something. As her hand came back out, the missing tablet was in her hand. Moreau paled visibly, muttering, “Nightmare…oh, Lord, what a nightmare.” Things like this must happen to him more than I first suspected, I guessed. Dr. Rocher, alongside the young Monsieur Leroux, called out in harmony, “How did you know?” “I think I’ll explain that later. First off…” She handed the tablet to me and then turned her attention back to Rocher and Leroux. “Monsieur Rocher, Monsieur Leroux. May I be as so bold as to ask you a question?” I watched in confusion as Rocher, quite comically and very much like a cartoon, gulpped hard, “Yes?” “Why did you carve that symbol into the chest of Madame Durand? And Monsieur 27
Leroux, exactly when were you going to slaughter Monsieur Rocher for the benefit of the Circle of the Black Madonna?” How did Jacqueline know that there was a secret panel? And how did she know that Rocher and Leroux were the murderers? And how did she know that Leroux was a member of this previously unknown factor? Read on to find out the shocking and ‘explosive’ conclusion! Part Three: Parisian Shadows Chapter Five: Jacqueline I really couldn’t help it when I started to smile as both Rocher and Leroux’s quizzical faces morphed into expressions of shock, anger, confusion, and defeat all thrown into a pot and mixed together. Moreau just clenched his fists while glaring viciously at me, then at Emil Chevalier for making the recommendation to Paul Chambord in the first place, and then to the professor himself, who just shook his head in shock. “W-What?” Jean-Paul Leroux stuttered as his eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean?” “Indeed,” Rocher growled furiously. And for some reason, I just kept on smiling. “What makes you think that Jean-Paul and I had anything to do with this godforsaken travesty, hmm?” “Of course, Jackie,” I heard Moreau say with a threatening and mocking lilt in his naturally gruff voice. God, I really loved showing off to that man. “You just can’t go around accusing—“ “Oh, I’m not accusing, Chief Inspector,” I said his title with an acid-like fire. “I know that they did it. Rocher committed the crime for the money that a simple tablet would sell on the black market. But Leroux?” I gave the assistant a knowing, and rather ‘you’re about to dwell in hellfire, kid’, look I usually reserved for those rare yet swarming lowlifes who took great pleasure in the death of others. “I have a theory…” I said nothing more, if only to further infuriate Moreau. I pointed to the bottom shelf of the bookcase: “Do you see these two books on the bottom shelf? The spines have small, if not miniscule, and slightly smudged bloody fingerprints on them, focused mainly on the author’s names.” I looked at Paul and beckoned for him to go to the bookcase, while I kept a close eye on Rocher, and most importantly, the young Monsieur Leroux. Paul did so, and he bent down on both knees until he was in a crouching position and studied the spines of the books on the lowest shelf. “She’s right. They’re small but they’re there. I assume that you know their owner?” He asked me. “Yes,” I replied proudly. “They belong to the late Madame Marie-Therese Durand.” I was greatly amused by the confused looks on everyone’s faces, so I continued. “You see, she was giving us the name, or should I say ‘names’, of her murderers.” Chambord looked closer at the spines, and found what he was looking for. “Ah! La Fantôme de Operà, The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston…L-Leroux.” He turned his head to look at me, and then to the stony-faced Jean-Paul Leroux. “Amazing,” Paul muttered. “Simply amazing.” “Yes, Madame Durand was a very clever woman, indeed.” I remarked truthfully. Rocher continued to grow more edgy. “And just how do I fit into this idiotic scenario?” “Paul, look for the other book the late Madame touched, if you please,” was my definite response. 28
He found it after a few seconds. “The other book is ‘City of God’ or Città di Dio by Augustine of Hippo. There’s another one here too; The Children of the Aten by Maurice—“ “—Augusté Rocher,” I finished for him. I turned to Rocher and found him hopping mad. “Yes, I had read somewhere that your parents had named you after a saint or something like that. It took me a while to find out who.” I stepped back as Rocher lunged for my throat, an infuriated scowl on his face; I watched mindlessly as Emil and his partner tackled him to the ground; I barely noticed—but only just barely—as Jean-Paul Leroux backed away cautiously and seemed to bite down on something in his mouth, a look of reservation and odd triumph. Cyanide was my first and initially correct thought as I moved towards him at lightning speed, grabbing him by the shoulders as his legs gave out from beneath him. I lowered him to the floor slowly. “Before you go,” I was saying despite the utter morbidity of what was about to happen in front of me, “could you please tell me why your group wanted the tablet in the first place?” Honestly, it was the first and most important question I had. Jean-Paul Leroux glared at me with so much contempt that I bet that stare would have melted anything in sight. Foam started bubbling in his mouth as he said, in his dying whispers of breath, “The Black Madonna will rise...when she bears the false god’s treasure!” Then the light in his eyes dimmed and Leroux was gone. Chapter Five: Paul It was about midnight by the time that I was permitted to leave the museum, only a few hours after the medical examiner had come and carted Jean-Paul Leroux’s body away for autopsy. I had just ducked underneath the bright yellow police tape cordoning off the area when I noticed Jacqueline start down a street not too far from the museum. I sped off after her, with too many questions on my mind. “Jackie, wait!” I called. She stopped and turned to face me as I screeched to a final stop. She looked vaguely annoyed. “What do you want?” She asked bluntly. “What you did back there...” I panted in both awe and exhaustion from my quick run, “...that was freaking incredible! Seriously, how did you know all of that?!” She smirked, “In the words of one of my favorite characters from the Victorian age, ‘it’s elementary, my dear Watson’. I happen to know a lot of usefull junk, and this time it paid off. You see, that specific bookcase was built in the mid-to-late nineteenth century by a family of Austrian carpenters who were known to be involved in inter-continental espionage. They were quite possibly employed by the Hapsburgs at one time, I believe. Anyway, that bookshelf is just one of their many creations. I figured it out when I saw the carpenters’ family crest lightly etched into the upper right-hand corner of the panel that hid the compartment. I know so because I happen to own a bookcase just like that one.” Flabbergasted and bewildered, I could only stare at the sleuth as we started to walk along together down the street. Why, I have no idea. We could see the upper part of the Eiffel Tower stretch to the heavens over the roofs of the buildings that we passed, their humongous shadows blanketing the streets. “Remarkable,” I remarked. “Simply remarkable.” 29
She looked extremely smug as she replied, “Why, thank you. Now you can see why Moreau doesn’t like me. I make him feel, oh, so obsolete.” “Oh, yes.” I chuckled lightly. “I can definitely see that.” The two of us continued along silently. Why I stayed with her, I still had no clue. We were walking along the Seine when she stopped. “My place is only a few blocks away. Thanks for walking me all the way here.” “No problem. Quick question though, before I run off.” She just stared at me, expecting. “How did you know that Leroux was going to kill Rocher? And what’s all this about the Black Madonna?” She answered the first one right away, “It’s obvious. Leroux was going to kill Rocher so there’d be no other witnesses to the crime.” I stared at her questioningly. “But what about Remy de la Porte? He had nothing to do with it.” “They probably would have had him killed in some sort of prison-gun-knife fight before the police realized their mistake, I assume. Which is why I’ve suggested to Moreau that he be placed under protective services for now on, to be sure.” There it was again, that ‘they’ she kept on mentioning. Must be that Circle she had talked about before. “And this Circle of the Black Madonna?” She didn’t answer at first. Then she calmly said, “Leroux had a tattoo on the back of his neck. You didn’t see all of it because his hair had grown over it. It was the image of an hourglass—“ “The same one carved into Durand’s body?” I was shocked, to be honest. “Yes. Leroux probably did that after Rocher had given up on the tablet being hidden in the office and had left the room. It was meant as a message...and a warning.” Her eyes glinted with seriousness as we steadily continued on, enveloped in her clarifications. “A warning?” I echoed. “A warning to what?” Part Four: Emerald Inferno Chapter Six: Paul And that was when the world exploded from out in front of us. The repercussions of the blast hurtled Jacqueline and I off of our feet and backwards onto the ground, showering us in ash, bits of debris, and fiery sparks that stung our skin. I heard several windows shatter as a result. “What the hell?” I cursed as we both struggled to our feet. Jacqueline was the first to get steadily on her feet, so she helped me up by my arm. I noticed that the sleeve of my jacket had been scorched by some of the sparks, and that Jacqueline’s face was covered in patches of soot. “What the hell was that?!” “My bookshop,” Jacqueline replied simply and stoically. What? I thought dumbly. “Do you have a cell phone, ‘cause we need to call the cops—” I looked around, seeing that several of the buildings around the flaming bookshop were swarming with flames. “Don’t worry about that. Those houses are rarely full this time of night. Everyone’s out drinking wine and all that. Trust me, because my landlady saw to that.” Jacqueline grinned 30
softly as she glanced around at the few stragglers running out of the burning buildings. “One of those guys is bound to call the cops.” I was befuddled by her innate ability to be calm at times of violence. “How can you not be scared witless?” I increduolously ran a hand through my dark hair. “Your bookshop and your home have just been blown up, for Pete’s sake!” “Yeah, well, at least I saved my priceless Dante’s Inferno, Paradise Lost, and other such perfect reads.” Jacqueline replied as she padded her backpack lovingly. I couldn’t help but stare: the woman was completely unfrazzled by the incineration of her business and home, but she took complete care in protecting simple, old books? With that, Jacqueline began walking towards the smoldered ruins of what she had probably once called ‘home’. She stepped over bits and pieces of the charred masonry, keeping a close eye on the burning windows and wooden frame of the building. She stopped suddenly when she spotted a red Volvo—or what was left of it—parked right outside her shop. I watched in confusion as her face paled until she was deathly white, and as a unrecognizable mask of complete and total horror overcame her. She mindlessly dropped the backpack and started running towards the growing inferno that was consuming the scorched skeleton of her home. Dear God, is she crazy?! I thought as I ran foward and grabbed her by the arm, keeping a firm grip as she started to struggle against me. She was screaming now, and trying very hard to escape my grasp. Wow, she really is a odd duck, now isn’t she? I thought as she started to literally drag me towards the fire. The level of her strength nearly took my breath away. “What are you doing?! Are you out of your flipping mind?! Do you want to get killed in there?!” I yelled with all of my breath. “No, dang it! Let me go! I have to help Angie!” Jacqueline screamed back at me, mostly out of anger, eyes ravingly red as she gave me a ‘death-to-you’ glare that was pretty much, well, terrifying. “Angie? Who the heck is Angie?” I asked as she struggled even harder, even trying to kick me and stomp my feelt. I started getting an uneasy, nauseating feeling in my body, just as when Leroux had committed suicide. Death was close and I could feel it down to my very bones. “My sister.” Jacqueline stopped struggling, her mouth wide open in defeat, shock, and utter disbelief, her green eyes brimming with tears. “She’s my younger twin sister.” She murmured incoherently. Her eyes were fixated completely upon the front door, hanging open and ajar from its post. I followed her gaze and then found myself fighting from becoming sick at the sight. A lone, still figure lay only a few feet from the door, like a corpse in a coffin awaiting burial. From the tiny, few trails of blood, I knew—much to my regret and my chagrin—that the form had been dragged from somewhere inside the burning building, and recently too. I looked around, if not to avoid whatever horrid state of burns the body had suffered from, but to try to find whoever had done so. “Hello?!” I called, though knowing that it was useless. I looked back to the body and moved a little closer. Jacqueline was kneeling at the still form’s side, eyes closed, fists clenched tightly on her lap, and a few stray tears streaming down her cheeks. I looked closer and saw that the body’s face and torso had been covered by Jacqueline’s woolen 31
coat, leaving her to shudder in the cold. Something told me that she didn’t mind it right now. And I couldn’t help but shudder at what kind of condition that the face was in. “I didn’t want you to see that,” Jacqueline said in a weakly soft voice. “Okay? Her face...its not pretty.” Her voice choked up and then she was silent, crying quietly. Completely understood. I looked down to the debris-ridden sidewalk and saw something of interest; a single white envelope, sealed with red wax. The image of the crest, I assumed, of the Circle of the Black Madonna had been pressed into the wax, sealing it effectively. I picked it up and broke the seal angrily, keeping the covered body in mind. I accidentally caught a glimpse of the hands—burned red and charred on the fingers, shriveled uselessly and revealing the no-longer beating veins of blood. Fighting off the urge to throw up, I opened the envelope and read what was inside. After reading it, I bent down next to Jacqueline silently. She had stopped crying and was now just staring at the body, like everything and everyone around her wasn’t real and it was all just a dream. No, a nightmare. I handed her the envelope and the letter, and said nothing. She read the letter with a cold exterior that I found unnervingly scary, her eyes redrimmed and swollen: Dear Jaq-Jaq, I found something worth much more to you than your life. Consider this another warning from the upper echelons of the Circle of the Black Madonna. Be grateful enough that it wasn’t your niece, Jaq-Jaq. Sincerely, The Countess Emeraude Brosseau d’Urbansville Levanté Schlesinger P.S. It was nice to see you again. It would be an understatement if I were to say that I was beyond floored by what information that the letter had provided. It was also safe to say that the mysterious agents and spies of this Circle were bloodthirsty, ruthless, sadistic, and above all, sociopathic. And that they were very, very rich. Go figure. I placed a comforting hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder, which she did nothing to shake off. “They’ll get them, Jackie,” I promised, using her nickname for the first time, but failed. As far as the mysterious Circle went, the police—including Moreau—were just a bunch of incompetents. No, this apparent Countess was long gone, even after dragging out the lifeless body of Jackie’s sister. “No, they won’t.” Apparently, Jacqueline Labaroche could read minds. I turned to look at her, and was stunned to find a determined, very dark ‘Hell-raiser’ smile on her lips, her eyes glinting malevolently under the crescent moon that had risen over our heads. I couldn’t help it when I shrank away, startled by the malice in her words. She snarled savagely, “Because I’m going to take them down so far, they’ll be in the deepest bowels of Tartarus long before you finish saying ‘hasta la vista’.” I sighed. Vengeance was an obvious path for her, and frankly, I couldn’t help but pity the poor, damn fools—or should I say ‘fool’—who had just brutally murdered her sister. Jacqueline Labaroche was about to open the gates of hell, and they weren’t going to close until either she or the Circle were left standing... The End...?! 32
Poem in Ancient Japanese Form By Kathleen Boland Sweet apple trees stand bursting with swelled, ripened fruit. Pluck me, I pray, love; my heart is flowing for you. The bite of love smells so sweet.
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Reflection of Fall, Artwork by Emma Moore
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The Quiet Hours Fiction by Molly Ehrnschwender 2 o’clock is when the neighbor’s rooster begins to crow. He exclaims into the air, only to be answered by the strings of the crickets and burps of the frogs. He might wonder why the first rays never greet his call. Being ignored is such a lonely business, but he is so persistent that perhaps he does not mind the dark. His crows draw me out from the pages resting on my pillow instead of my head. Surprised that it is already time, I consider getting some sleep before greeting the new day. Even so, the night holds a magic that beckons my attention in a way the day will never know. It is 3 o’clock, now going on 4. I turn the final page and reluctantly replace book with drowsy mind as I drift. By 5 the birds will begin to chirp.
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Begin Anew Fiction by Catherine Murray It was a cold and rainy morning, too early for even the birds. An umbrella and a suitcase were all she had in her hands. It was mid-September and school had only just begun. She stood at the bus stop ready to leave. Running seemed like the best way to leave the stress and worries behind. She did not want to make the more permanent, alternative decision. She only wanted to get away from it all. Begin anew. She hadn’t called to tell them she was coming. She didn’t want her parents to find out. Her grandparents lived two states south and the bus would only make two stops on the way. It would be easy and her grandparents wouldn’t mind, she hoped. Everything began to pile at once and nothing seemed to be going the right way. High school ended with plenty of joy-filled tears, having said goodbye to the past and hello to the future known as “college”. But once it started she couldn’t really stop it. The financial burdens on her and her family, the homework and extra-curricular activities, trying to keep her shifts at the restaurant and the fact that she hadn’t really made one true friend made her rethink the decisions that were made. How was she supposed to have fun in college when all she was doing was trying to study for the career that she would have for the rest of her life? She wanted to have fun but didn’t want to disappoint her parents. It was not like she was a bad student or lived for the next Friday night party but she wanted to have more freedom in the confining, vice grips that college had on her. Begin anew. That is what she told herself. With the little money she had in her pocket, she would lay low for a while at her grandparents’ house. She was going to leave the stress behind and find herself. Find herself. She was so young but she felt as though she was lost in the mindset of getting career ready and building a resume to be stuck in a job she wasn’t sure she really wanted. Whoever said that going to college at eighteen and being done by twenty-two made someone ready for the real world was out of their mind. The bus pulled up and with a hiss of exhaustion, lowered itself. The driver descended the steps to allow passengers on: The older woman who was all too eager and perhaps on her way to visit her grandchildren; The middle-aged man in a suit and trench coat, possibly on his way to an out of town conference for his downtown job; The homeless guy who was probably just getting on, looking for another place to sleep. When the driver saw her standing there he questioned at 36
whether or not she was coming on. She had been standing there with her eyes unfocused, not able to move her legs. What if she was making a mistake? What if she was just setting herself up for more disappointments? What if staying at her grandparents didn’t work out and she was truly on her own for her parents were too upset. Eventually the day would come where she would have to go back and face school and the money situation. Maybe being on her own for a while might help her come up with a better life plan. She was a smart person who always thought everything out but in that moment, she thought otherwise. The rain had stopped and the early morning sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. It was the dawn of a new day and she was ready to take the leap. She wanted to see what she could do on her own. Begin anew.
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The Phone Call, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender
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The Mall Essay by Elena Vonder Meulen A mall. A place where people go to interact. It’s a place where people go to enjoy time together. It’s a place filled with laughter, joy, and great selections. The mall is where a girl and boy go to spend time together. I enjoyed the feeling the mall brought me until I was ten. When I was ten nothing was the same. Not my mind, feelings, beliefs, or mental status. When I was 10, I was scared of the mall and never wanted to go to one ever again. What I am about to tell you has been written down a million times. I still know every detail to this day. When I was 10, my sister died in a mall restroom. Emily, my sister, had long dark brown hair, a perfect smile, and dark brown eyes. She was more on the heavier side but she had a toxic laugh and the best bear hugs. My sister had the kindest of hearts. She kept our family from killing each other. I liked to think of her not only as my sister, but my best friend and second mother. Yet, Emily was born with severe food allergies, asthma, and eczema. With eczema, her skin would always be dry and she would itch constantly. When I would lay with her in her bed the rocking of the bed from her itching her feet would take me to a deep sleep. My parents didn’t find out until my dad gave her a peanut butter cracker when she was about three years old. She started fussing and her face started to swell. The doctors told them that along with peanuts, Emily was allergic to thirty other things. But she always saw the best in people and never thought twice about helping someone. I lived in Cincinnati, Ohio in a two story traditional house, with a traditional family. I lived with my mom, dad, brother, and sister. The house was hidden in the woods but attached to the outside world by a long drive way. About halfway out of the driveway there were two more driveways, going separate ways, where there were two more houses. Our house was mostly woods, except for a big hill my brother, sister, and I would go down in the winter. Off to the side of the hill was some flat land. My dad had built me a wooden swing attached to an old tree. I would dress up in my best dress and pretend to be a princess riding a horse side saddle. Life was perfect. But life can change in a matter of seconds. It was April 13, 2006, a Thursday. It started like any other morning. I don’t remember why, but we didn’t have school that day. I woke up around 11:00 A.M. I could hear my brother playing basketball outside. I could smell food wafting upstairs from the kitchen. I ran down the stairs so fast I ran into our front door. The 39
door didn’t stop me from smelling the delicious food coming from down the hall. I started to run down the hallway. When I got closer to the kitchen I slid down the hardwood floor in my socks. When I slid in I saw my sister making a sandwich. It was made with white bread along with lettuce, tomato, turkey, mayonnaise, and a smiley face made out of pickles. My mom walked into the kitchen a couple minutes later. She took the sandwich down the basement and through into the garage for my dad. My dad was working on our bikes. Back in the kitchen I had asked my sister if she’d be willing to make me a sandwich as well. The kind heart of hers said yes. As I waited for her to make my sandwich, I saw her camera sitting on the table. I grabbed it, taking selfies, and random pictures of the house. When she came over to hand me the sandwich she asked, “Do you want to see something really cool?” She set the camera on a high surface, clicked the button, and ran over to hug me. I was amazed at how she could take a picture without having to be near the camera. Yet, I just thought of it as another picture. Halfway through my brunch my mom came up to the kitchen. She asked me, “Would you like to go to the mall with us to get Emily a graduation dress?” My natural girl response was, “yes.” Emily was thirteen years old and was about to graduate from St. Dominic Elementary. We headed to Cincinnati Mills Mall. Cincinnati Mills was one of the lesser popular malls. It was rundown and the parking lot always seemed empty. We parked the car in front of the Bass Pro Shop. As we headed in there were two men on each side of the doors. They were wearing black suits and black sunglasses as if someone of high importance was inside. We walked through the store passing racks of soft winter jackets and deer heads mantled on the wall. I stopped for a second to watch fish in a giant tank swim around aimlessly. After a few minutes the smell started getting to me and I continued to walk through the store. We exited Bass Pro and headed to Debs dress shop. The store was crowded with young teens and moms. All I heard was laughter coming from every angle. Every now and then I would hear the sound of high heels clicking on the hard surface. We searched and searched for the perfect dress. I would pick out every soft dress I could find. After a half hour of trying on dresses, Emily found the perfect one. It was a thin strapped, black and white dress. It was black on the top and then a mash of black and white and the bottom. Emily loved the dress so much she wore it out of Debs. When we walked out of the store my mom and sister asked me what I wanted to eat. When they mentioned food I could smell fresh baked bread, pizza and Chinese food coming from the left. We walked down to the food court and I chose Subway since the smell of bread and chicken grabbed my attention more. We all ordered our subs and sat at a table near a thick pole and some garbage cans. 40
After we ate we had some time to spare so we went into a t-shirt shop on our way back to the entrance. We looked around at all the funny shirts and different styles. We went down an aisle when all of a sudden we heard my sister fall. We turned around to see her laughing. She picked herself up and we continued with our shopping. None of us thought much about it. She was wearing heels so we figured she just lost her balance. After that we went into Claire’s. My sister and I were debating on whether or not to get our ears pierced. We walked around for a few minutes when things changed. My sister started getting panicky. She said her dress felt tight. She grabbed my arm and asked me if her face was red. She asked my mom for her clothes back and ran down into the bathroom. The bathroom was only a couple feet away from the store. Five minutes later while my mom and I were looking around at jewelry, my mom’s phone rang. I could tell by the look in her face that she felt the same way I did. Sick to her stomach. She had a backpack purse on so she turned her back to me. I grabbed the phone out of the side pocket. I took a deep breath, flipped open the phone, and said, “Hello?” She asked for my mom. The look on my mother’s face is hard to explain. Her eyebrows were raised, her mouth relaxed, but her eyes. Her eyes said everything. Right when I looked into my mother’s hazel eyes I knew I needed to run down to the bathroom where my sister was. I ran down the long hallway, it felt as if it would never end. I finally hit the end of the bathroom, took a right and curled around the corner only to take a sudden stop. I found my sister leaning over a sink with nothing but her bra and underwear on, struggling to find air. My mom came in shortly after me and took charge. She handed Emily her inhaler. Emily took about five puffs but nothing seemed to help. I turned a way for a moment. I tried to find reality. I knew this couldn’t be happening. How could this be real life? I felt my mom rush pass me. She ran down the hall screaming, yelling, and begging for someone to help. I could feel my sister behind me. She was moving slowly. As if she was having trouble walking. I could feel a rush of cold air hit me. I turned and saw my sister turning blue and purple with every step she took. I ran to her, telling her to lay down. She fell to the floor. I went down with her. The ground was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. Not long after, I heard two sets of feet running down the hallway to the bathroom. A woman who happened to be a nurse came down to help us. They got on each side of my sister. I got up and looked at the wall trying to find reality again. I was lost for a moment. It was as if I wasn’t on Earth for a couple minutes. Yet, I was quickly brought back when my mom handed me the phone. “CALL 911!!!” she yelled. I handed the phone back to my mom when a 41
woman picked up. While my mom was talking I stared at my sister. Her eyes were half open. Her lips, cheeks, nose, everything was white. Everything went quiet. I couldn’t hear anything around me. All I could see was Emily, lying on the cold hard bathroom floor, lifeless. My mom handed me the phone again. The woman was asking me questions such as what my name was and where I went to school. She was asking simple questions that I couldn’t think of answers to. It was like I completely forgot everything. It was as if my life up until this moment was just a dream. I couldn’t tell what was real at that moment. The woman asked me to hand the phone back to my mom. While I handed the phone to my mom I started screaming while foam started coming from my sister’s mouth. My mom told me to start doing CPR on Emily. “I don’t know how” I said panicky. She started pressing on my sister’s chest. Watching it go up and down. I knelt down to the side of my sister and did exactly as my mom had done. I pressed down on my sister’s chest, then back up. I saw her eyes open for a second. That one second, I felt relief. That one second in the midst of chaos, I felt better. The paramedics arrived. My mom asked me to get her purse. I don’t know where it was. A woman walked with me back to Claire’s. It wasn’t there. When I got back I could hear the paramedics coming out of the bathroom hallway. I turned to a store that was out of business. There were black sheets covering the windows from the inside. I look up for a moment and the last thing I saw was the reflection of my sister on a stretcher heading out the door. When we got to the hospital the cops questioned me. Asked me what happened, what was going on beforehand, but I just said, “I don’t know.” All these questions I was being asked, yet I had one simple one that was “why?” I didn’t feel or cry until my mom walked in the trauma room. I could tell it wasn’t good by the look in her eyes. She asked, “You know that bad thing I said could happen?” I don’t remember if she ever told me, but she didn’t have to. I knew what it was. She told me, “It happened.” That moment. Those two words. It made my entire body shut down and all I could do was cry. What had happened was, when we went to Subway, they made our sandwiches and set them on the counter next to peanut butter cookies. When they put some more peanut butter cookies in the trays some of the peanuts got into my sisters sandwich. She died in ten minutes. One crumb, a tiny substance, took the life of Emily. All I have left of her is the picture we took in the kitchen with her camera. I blamed everything after that. I blamed God, I blamed the guy who made our sandwiches, and I even blamed myself. I know now that nothing could have saved her, not even a hundred epipens. 42
I know she is in a better place. I have been able to go into malls since then. Just not that mall. I pass it every now and then. Memories come back and every now and then I’ll even shed a tear. For me the mall is full of memories, sadness, and sometimes even anxiety. Yet, a mall is a place where people go to interact. It’s a place where people go to enjoy time together. It’s a place filled with laughter, joy, and great selections. My sister was flawless and the nicest person you could meet. I don’t see that day as losing a sister, but the day heaven gained a beautiful angel and I got a great guardian angel.
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Expressions of Complexions Poem by Deanna Wilbur Expressions of Complexions, 2 is the face of beauty. 3 Beauty is the excrement of societal computer clicks 4 And skin-tight bones surrounding a young girl’s body. 5 Interpreting words their skin never dared to bleed on onto paper 6 To bleed out in public 7 To bleed out expectations. 8 Expectations their skin splits 9 Spits to show insecurities to the word. 10 That gifted them to her, like a Christmas gift 11 From Ted Fosterman himself. 12 All you see is muscle tissues like issues being vented out 13 On my Balcony. 14 It’s like young bones are singing Beautiful Black sonnets 15 trying to find her Romeo. 16 Romeo, Romeo 17 Where art thou, beauty? 18 Why does skin have to be crystal clean 19 And hips so narrow, and a face as perfect as china dolls. 20 Broken bones can be seen under touchless glass skin her body holds. 21 As if it were a newborn child clinging to his mother’s every movement. 22 If beauty is in the eye of the beholder 23 Then why doesn’t that eye hold you. 24 Lyin’ eyes rip delicious young skin from every girls’ 25 Brittle shaved bones. 26 Eyes see and speak in secret codes, 27 That’s why my eyes scream clear words 28 Of beautiful, sentences. 29 While a small black mouse scurries across her face, 30 Just to make it, beautiful. 31 I wanna see eyes of happiness, 32 Not perpetration and skep portraits of women who see 33 No face but the one staring back at them. 44
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Head up, Shoulders back, As to show skillful beauty as it passes through the air, Like spiraling spitting spiders beaming down their web, in her brilliant path of life. Beauty, my beauty, your beauty, her beauty, Will not be, the image of bones, Bones reaching out to touch passion so hot They fill colorless skin with such rectifying beauty. Clicks and taps mean nothing to the holders of our eyes because, the only tangible beauty, Is you.
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36 Long Essay by Mimi Daria I knew it would happen sooner or later. It happened to my grandma. It happened to my mom. It happened to my sister. It happened to my friends. It didn’t seem like such a tragedy until it happened to me. There was no denying that I wore a 36 Long. There I was at Victoria’s Secret trying on bras. I tried on the Body by Victoria, the Perfect Coverage, and the Perfect Shape. I tried on lace, silk, and cotton. None of them were holding the ladies like they used to. The Perfect Push Up? How about the Perfect Pull Up? It was during the middle of my internal rant that a perky 34C said “Ma’am is there something I can help you with?” With my most sincere smile I retorted, “Yes. Where is your Girls Gone South line? You know the line for the mature Dream Angel.” My ladies have been faithful friends. They nourished my hungry babies. They pleasured my otherwise unengaged husband. They filled out my swimsuit. They accentuated my V neck sweater. They beautifully framed my pearl drop necklace. Of course I knew they had lost the density of their youth. And yes, they no longer had the elasticity of a rubber band but 36 Long?? Why did I nurse those freeloading bundles of joy? Why didn’t wear a sleeping bra? As I looked around my eyes couldn’t help but to fall on every set of girls that bounced in the store. Some were small and perky. Some were large and round. The bitch with the frozen face had a new and improved set of knockers. There was no evidence of any other 36 Longs. I had taken the trip south, seemingly, alone, against my will. When does one become middle aged? I was completely unaware that I was of the middle aged category, the “You’re good looking, for a woman your age” category. It all started at work when 34B told me out of the blue “You have a good style for a woman your age. There is something youthful about you.” I smiled brightly and said “Thank you very much” with my outside voice while my inside voice screamed “F- you very much.” A few days later 32 C looked at my new Coach shoes and exclaimed “Wow! You really do have style for an older woman!” Why, yes, I do. And, you my dear, have acne. I can’t wait to see your tattooed tits in twenty years. You 34 B’s think you are so perky. Call me in twenty years and I’ll comfort you and your 34 Seen Better Days. I would love to say looks don’t matter. And it’s true that men love any boobs 46
that bounce on by, but this isn’t about men. It’s about the God forsaken industry that promotes youth as beauty and age as pathetic. We have the Council for Aging. We have age discrimination laws for the elderly. Well, what about the middle aged woman whose bathroom cabinet is void of medicine but filled with magic creams?? I have retinol creams, age defying serums, BB creams, CC creams and cold creams. And let’s not forget the tube of Preparation H that I bought because some Canadian beauty on Oprah said it plumped out wrinkles! I know what you’re thinking. You think that I am jealous of 34 Perky and 36 Check Me Out. Well, you are wrong. Of course, I miss the pre-lactation rack of my youth. A time when stretch marks were something older women had. A time when a wet t-shirt contest would have provoked a challenge not a pity party. As I stood in Victoria’s Secret, with my shoulders back and my head held high, I can honestly say no. Hell no. I would not trade in my 36 Longs for the insecurities of my youth. I would not give up the tender moments of nursing my babies for bouncing boobs. My girls sprouted when I was eleven years old. They damn near exploded during my pregnancies. Ironically, they headed south when it was time for my life to slow down. Middle age is a wonderful time of self-awareness and selfacceptance. My girls are a part of me. They do not define me.
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A Family’s Best Friend Essay by Megan Erdman January 2007 was the first and only time I have ever seen my Father cry. Father’s aren’t supposed to cry. They are supposed to be strong, brave and caring. It came down to one of the toughest decisions we have ever had to make as a family, whether we should put our 14-year-old Golden Retriever asleep forever. That Golden Retriever was the best thing we ever received under our Christmas tree. Jewels was a best friend, another sibling, and the perfect cuddler. One of the many visits to the veterinarian with Jewels changed the way I thought about having a pet. There were times I took Jewels for granted and didn’t want to spend quality time with her or take her on that run or I pushed her away when I was busy and annoyed. That all changed when the veterinarian looked my parents in the eye and said Jewels is suffering and should be put down. My throat began to tighten, my stomach was upset and tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t know what to do besides walk away and sit on the floor of the vacant hallway and sob. My parents didn’t know what to do or say, so I spent the rest of Jewels’ last weeks not leaving her side. Jewels wasn’t getting healthier and I was forced to visit UK for a week to attend a basketball camp with my high school team. I begged my parents not to go, and that Jewels needed me more no matter how much my basketball skills needed improvement. I tried to make the best of the getaway and prayed and prayed that Jewels would have the strength to wait for me before she passed. Before I left she was depressed, not eating, constantly sleeping and not being the dog that I’d come to know and love. A week passed slowly and I was on my way home. All I could think about was my parents delaying to tell me that my best friend passed so they wouldn’t make my camp worse. When I pulled down my driveway I saw a Golden Retriever running, playing fetch, and jumping. It was my Golden Retriever! She was like a new dog. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I jumped out of the un-parked car and raced to her. I got chills down my spine when Jewels jumped onto my torso and licked my face. That was the last best memory I have with her. Soon after that day she began to deteriorate again. It got even worse and it was unbearable. My dad made the call we were all dreading. The next day, two veterinarians knocked on the door and tears were flushing down my clammy, rosy cheeks. My Father carried Jewels to the basement where she lay on this garbage bag like she was a tasteless TV dinner being thrown away. I lost control of my emotions and she 48
wasn’t even gone yet. The doctor gave her the first shot soon after we said our good-byes. I wanted to give her one more hug, one more kiss on her wet nose; I wanted one more night with her so I could cuddle her and hold her tight. The doctor gave her the second and final shot she would ever receive although I never witnessed him give her the dose. My youngest brother and I couldn’t bear to watch so we sat outside the basement, holding each other, crying indefinitely while our best friend was slowing fading away. I regret that decision now. I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to be the last thing she ever saw and I wasn’t there for her. Jewels needed me and I was in another room. Losing my best friend at 13 never occurred to me. No dog could ever replace Jewels. She is never forgotten.
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Poems in Four Lines By Josh Zeller Literature Dearest, darling literature, You do confuse me so! For you have the power to bind me up And the power to let me go. Memory Memory is a precious thing, For remembering all we’ve met. But there are some not-so-precious things That make me glad I can Forget! Sleep To lie on a bed and close one’s eyes; The feeling is sublime! I want to escape in dreams forever, But for forever, there is not time. Diary Into you I pour my intimations, Expecting solemn secrecy— But should an intruder open you up You’ll sing out loud and free. Emily Dickinson I looked to Emily Dickinson To teach me how to live, But instead she taught me how to die, And what a gift it is.
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Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literary collection of works by the College of Mount St. Joseph students and alumni published online with the cooperation of the English Department. Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters. When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”.We take submissions during all twelve months of the year. If you are currently a student or a graduate of the College of Mount St. Joseph and you would like to see your work published, you may submit your work to LOL simply by emailing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction or digital artwork to LOL@mail.msj.edu. For full submission guidelines, consult our website. Lions-on-Line is always looking for new staff members! If you’re interested in joining Lions-on-Line, please contact the faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth_mason@mail.msj.edu.
Editors and Staff Poetry Editor/Treasurer:
Margaret Kaehler
Fiction Editor:
Open
Creative Nonfiction Editor:
Megan Moore
Art Editor:
Molly Ehrnschwender
Assistant Editors:
Lauren DiMenna Christopher Kline Megan Simmermeyer Jacqueline Tackett
Faculty Advisor:
Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. 52
Worrisome Heart, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender
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