Living Proof

Living Proof

Living Proof

an anthology of high school writing

Compiled by Publishing II Students University of Iowa

Acknowledgements This publication was made possible with support from the University of Iowa College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, Department of English, and Nonfiction Writing Program.

We would like to thank the many high school students from around the United States who shared their work with us, as well as our editors for their hard work and dedication throughout this project. And finally, we would like to thank you for reading and supporting this anthology.

Table of Contents

Letter from the Editors

Section 1 Beautiful Creations An Edit of My Self Portrait by Krystina Franks A girl by Sheridyn Bailey

Hearth Sucker Punched by Caroline Kayea The Roar of the Highway by Nancy Nahra

Thawed Cold by Courtney Rhineheart December 19th by Naylea Verdinez

Passage Happily Ever After by Ricardo Larios Duran For Just a Minute or Two by Tacy Andrews

Endings

The Last 100 Days by Nicole Lee But “Move” by Lina Groner-David From Three to One by Jennifer “Levi” Doty

1 2 4 7 8 10 13 14 15 17 18 20 23 24 30 31

Section 2 Cosmology Power in the Trees by Tacy Andrews Earth’s Whispers by Krystina Franks

39 41 43

Sum Of Your Parts A Woman I Know by Sheridyn Bailey World We Created by Naylea Verdinez Memories Made in Other Worlds by Jennifer “Levi” Doty

A Snapshot of Hope Oswin by Betty Barbarash Cormorants on the Cove by Zoe Smith Iowa City South District Residents Unite... by Marta Leira

Undiscovered Depths All That Remains Is Ink and Blood by Courtney Rhinehart We, The Scarred by Eli “Cillian” Moawad

45 47 48 50 53 55 60 61 69 70 73

Section 3 It’s a Fine Line: Quests Through Dialogue & Lyrics How 6 Minutes and 17 Seconds Changed... by Maya Kirzner Stuck in the Middle With You by Anthony Menting The Legend of Charles the Mighty by Luke Krchak

Human Reaction The Puppet and Her Fears by Hannah Huisman Sudden by Brandy Lopez

A Gruesome Look at Childhood Nostalgia When We Didn’t Feel Small by Tacy Andrews Milestones by Anna Matu

Mourning Meadow

77 79 82 86 93 94 98 103 104 106

Mourning Dove by Caroline Barker From the White Meadow by Sheridyn Bailey

109 110 112

In Memory

115

Mama by Courtney Rhinehart My Mailbox Friend by Meredith Toussaint

116 119

A Plein Aire Sketch of Home

123 122 126

Spoken Word: My Family by Kaetlyn Clark From House to Home by Jennifer “Levi” Doty

Hysterical Strength Platinum-Based Anti-Cancer... by Ruba Ahmed-Abdelmutalab There Is Mental Illness Here by Etoile Lumiere Chinese by Athena Wu

129 131 134 135

Contributor Bios Editor Bios

139 147

Letter from the Editors According to Merriam-Webster, “living proof” is “someone who provides an example that proves something can be done.” If any term were to sum up the young writers whose work is collected in these pages, this would be it. Living Proof represents their voices. The pieces within this anthology are unapologetic in their existence. They are living proof of their creators, who allow themselves to be seen and celebrated through their work.

Living Proof pulls together the work of talented high school writers from across the nation, giving today’s youth a platform to express their thoughts through the written word. These pieces represent their writers’ searches for their identities in our ever-changing world. These young people explore identity through the process of heartbreak and grief, finding one’s place in a community, and evolving into oneself and one’s world. Their stories draw on the challenges of real life with every twist and turn: they speak of loss, discovery, and growth, and above all, they are living proof of young people’s power and creativity.

Sharing one’s writing is a vulnerable experience, but the students featured in this anthology had the bravery to put their work before our team of editors. We would like to extend our thanks and admiration for all those who submitted―this anthology would not be possible without their courage.

Through the pairings of pieces you will read in this anthology, the words of writers from different perspectives and walks of life come together to develop a greater meaning. Some works harmonize with each other, some contrast. In each case, the comparison deepens the emotional qualities of the pieces. To highlight these qualities, the pairings are introduced by a brief letter written by a team of editors. These letters explore the thematic links between the works therein so readers can approach them as both separate and whole, understanding what makes them unique and what connects them.

This anthology is a labor of love for the high schoolers whose hearts and souls fill the pages you will read. Our goal in its publication is

to elevate the powerful voices of youth in today’s society. We hope you enjoy reading this collection of student work as much as we have enjoyed curating it.

—Sonia Beltz, Elsa Richardson-Bach, and Delanee Ensley, Managing Editors

Section 1

Beautiful Creations “Beautiful Creations” is, at its heart, the reason we are chosen to learn how to love ourselves. We know, deep down, that we should, but we have our moments when we choose to hate ourselves instead. These two pieces approach this in a way that is meaningful and artistic. They show that while we can choose to hate how we look, we are all made with intent and are beautiful just the way we are.

The formatting is a very intriguing part of these poems. Formatting is so important, as “An Edit of My Self-Portrait” starts to dissolve at the end, leading the reader to slowly spiral with the author (a real bonding experience). There are also intentional boldings of “One” and “This” to emphasize the difference in mornings, while also adding extra emphasis to the italicized parts of the poem. It’s a great way to indicate change in tone or place extra importance on specific words or phrases. The formatting of “A girl” reminds us of vertebrae of a spine. Vertebrae are what hold us up and keep us going at a fundamental level. This adds a second meaning to the work, and with that meaning comes a new wave of understanding.

These poems are quite interesting to us in the way they discussed the human body and how it related to them. These pieces focus on viewing the human body as not flesh and bones, but as pieces of art crafted by those living inside, or bodies being one with nature, ever growing with the Earth around them. These two differing approaches are what draw us into the pieces, hold our attention, and make us want to stay with the writing for even a moment longer.

These poems really pull the reader in with the way they approach the subject matters. The intended audience for “An Edit of My Self-Portrait” seems to be the author themselves, as this poem feels like a diary entry that we have been granted access to read. As for “A girl,” it feels as though we, the readers, are being directly spoken to. Nevertheless, these poems represent two very different approaches to setting the tone and accomplishing the same level of emotional connection.

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An Edit of My Self-Portrait Krystina Franks One morning, I sat in front of my Tarnished mirror and spent dozens of useless minutes poking at my body’s weaknesses, counting the purple indents that taint my precious skin.

I counted every one of them, hoping I can somehow convince myself that I am worthy of love.

I traced the indented lines that stain the bottom of my stomach where fat rolls hide in plain sight— they deserve love too they hang loose from my torso as if to taunt me for not loving them more.

I spent the day imagining myself as a priceless painting, a figure in someone else’s sketch book, someone’s proud creation.

I don’t want to ruin their artwork with marks that can’t be erased.

How long would it take to paint this body?

To get every line 2

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stroke color so precise, so delicate that no one else could replicate it.

The artist who designed my body— must’ve taken weeks perfecting the shading of my hips, color-correcting my thick, curvy smile,

highlighting my dull jaw line,

airbrushing every inch of skin that layers me.

I have no room to critique Someone else’s artwork.

This morning, I sit in front of my two-sided mirror, and identify my authentic

dimples,

wrinkles, and scars.

When I am done, I kiss each one of them and call them all immensely beautiful.

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A girl Sheridyn Bailey I wish the sky would stand still And the sea settle into silence The wind to stop its blowing Till all the world finds its balance So I might walk out into summer air And see clouds of color sail Then at last I’ll be able to study Life in all its secret detail Finally I will breathe a breath That’s been held within my lungs No longer will I need to worry About the time I have to outrun I know my words seem idle For what really does a child know Of life and other meanings And of dreams we must forgo But listen here to what I have to say; I am not what you've been fooled to see This is not my body nor my face Nothing I am is truly me I am the pallet of the sunset The sun filtered through leaves A chorus of morning birdsong I am all the beauty this world conceives But I am too the trick fire The haunting ode of night 4

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Hunger’s stubborn snapping jaws All the ugly scathing spite So please do not take me For the value of my surface Something as shallow as my style Or to see me as just a person For I’ve told you such— I am not a child But all of time and all of earth Just living as a girl for a while.

5

Hearth “The Roar of the Highway” and “Sucker Punched” express how individuals link different sentiments to their homes and families. “The Roar of the Highway” is a poetic work that sings out about the nighttime noises that plague us in our sleep. The poet turns these nuisances into a beautiful work of melodic sound, transforming their frustration into creativity rather than being overwhelmed by it. The story of “Sucker Punched” expresses views on family life which to some may be unfamiliar. It conveys the everyday life of one family which others might not easily identify with. It shows us that we are not always as open minded as we think and that normality can be relative to one’s own situation.

Together, these two pieces provide us with a perspective of household and hearth that is both enlightening and enjoyable to read.

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Sucker Punched Caroline Kayea What kind of scam was this? Even at twelve—only a year older than me—my brother knew the sole purpose of banks was to provide kids with lollipops. Why else would there be a Fifth Third in Kroger? In the movies, right before the big crash, characters put their heads between their knees and “brace, brace, brace!” Too bad all I could do in the crush of people was wait with bated breath, the inevitable fast approaching.

This feeling was one I knew very well. Will was—still is—prone to melodramatic meltdowns. The kind where you stare at the sky and wail.

An unmovable stone of sorrow. Let’s just say the Kayea family couldn’t really be seen in public. Stores? Wail. Parks? Wail. Restaurants? We vow to never return any time we go. So, as per usual, I waited.

Will stood in stunned silence as the banker flashed him an apologetic smile. It took him a minute to comprehend this tragedy. There were no lollipops. That’s when the instincts kicked in. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled out some Mission Impossible-style stunts in the hopes of reaching our mother before it happened. Pivot, dodge, left, right. Too late.

“I WANT A LOLLIPOP!” Bright tears shone on his cheeks. But, as bright as they were, nothing could match the brilliant blush blooming across my face. He stood stoic in front of all the checkout stations—and all the people at them.

My greatest fear in life was—probably always will be—others. Not interacting with them, but what they think. When they stare, I can feel the beams of unbridled judgment burning a hole through me. People always tell me that no one even notices we’re there; that they are too wrapped up in their own problems to notice. If that was true, they wouldn’t goggle freely. It was like they were watching The Bachelor. A guilty pleasure tv show they couldn’t help but watch. Next thing you know they would be asking for popcorn.

A mere few steps away, a woman stood in line, watching the fiasco in front of her. She watched the young girl tug on her brother's coat sleeve, her childish features marred by a look of dread. The woman’s 8

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knuckles turned white on the handle of the cart as she approached the cashier. She began shoveling her findings onto the conveyor belt. She was ready to bolt.

Too bad everything costs money.

The checkout attendant at the line next to her was under the impression that this woman was as unjustifiably infuriated with the crying child as she was.

Boy was she wrong.

“Waah, I want a lollipop. What a brat.” The attendant spat out the words as if they burned her tongue (I wish they had).

Just as Will had earlier, the woman stood stock still. Her head spun with anger, all the insults racing through her mind seemed more than adequate. Instead, her voice was eerily calm.

“I hope your children are blessed with all their chromosomes.”

My mom—yes, that woman was my mother—hurriedly finished getting our groceries before she left to usher Will, her beloved son, out of the store. I scurried quickly behind them, eager to leave this mess behind.

Mom felt a hand on her shoulder before we could leave. A kind-faced woman gave us a wide but sympathetic smile.

“Your children are beautiful.”

It was like a sprinkler turned on. My mom's tears came fast and heavy as we left the store. Poor Will was so confused. His special needs getting in the way of his ability to understand what had happened.

What had happened was ignorance.

To this day, people stare. People make comments. We’ve tried everything. I guess what they say is true. You can lead horses to water but you can’t make them drink. We can hand unknowledgeable people cards about Smith-Magenis Syndrome, but we can’t make them read. Even though we tried.

Nowadays, these types of things don’t bring on the tears. Even so, I avoid banks and their lack of lollipops with fervor. Chuckling merrily, we recount event after event. We can laugh and laugh and laugh, but it’s not funny. And neither is Will.

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The Roar of the Highway Nancy Nahra The roar of the highway is the song I fight with every night.

A hollow sound for the hollow road, Friendless, rubber tires and fatigued metal boxes and Chills in fortissimo Amplify The beautiful sound haunting me from my balcony.

Low, hazy bellows and hunger— ridden notes cushion and sing the suburbs to sleep.

The roar of the highway Cools down the stars.

Can you teach me how to have that power in my voice?

How to make the desperation sweet when I tremble?

And which way to push and lift my voice to fly 80 miles an hour and an extra light-year to me And me alone?

So that the wind would catch the trailless noise and Want to replay it in new keys.

Roar of the highway, Can you teach me to Find the right place to scream?

Take me where you’re going and kill the hesitation in me that makes me cry in pitches Quieter than I should.

Teach me To let the deepest part of me 10

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pierce the air like a dagger. don’t let me hang in the cold all vague and meaningless Can you teach me?

Please teach me to just Scream and when you teach me can you repeat it with me?

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Thawed The fundamental definition of “Thawed” includes becoming warm enough to stop feeling numb or becoming more susceptible to change.

In this section, our authors face their adversities head on and accept the fact that healing will not happen overnight. Thawing takes time, and only through perseverance will everyone finally come to accept their emotions.

Each poem showcases a level of heartbreak or a first encounter with unrequited love and loss, emotions that when still difficult to understand are easiest to cope with through the art of writing. The emotions within these works are not new, but they are new to these authors.They are feelings that will be faced time and time again, each time with more experience but nevertheless, a new hurt, and with that, a new desire to heal.

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Cold Courtney Rhinehart You’re young and tired beyond your years, counting each stuttered breath like a cloud as darkness crowds around your trembling body like shadow monsters coming out to play.

The wintry cold bites at your fingertips, your toes, crystalizing them in frozen blues and dripping ice.

Snowflakes rain from your eyes leaving frosty trails down your beet-red cheeks, as unforgiving as a winter storm.

You breathe in the ice and they burn like coals in your lungs.

You come to realize, through the bitterness and the numb regret encasing you, that the sun is shining beyond your window and the burning, chaotic blizzard was all in your head.

You come to realize that there are no shadowy demons and they’re not snowflakes collecting on your face.

It was never cold in the warm, summer heat, but you still trembled and pretended it was.

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December 19th Naylea Verdinez I fell in love with my soulmate who I thought would be my forever I was wrong as I’m listening to “StreetCar” by Daniel Caesar Maybe the universe had something planned out Maybe I was his soulmate, but not mine Maybe the love of my life is out in the world figuring out what kind of woman he desires what kind of woman do you think he wants that you don’t represent? Ex: a woman with… A woman that is… something I am not I’m not sure if I’m ready to accept the fact that I’m healing Maybe If I wish harder or hold my feelings tighter A light will shine through the tunnel of my darkness I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me But that is not how it works I’m still healing and I’m moving My tears are drying up as they run through my pink blossom cheeks that your fingers trace through Sometimes I wish I didn’t like you from the moment I met you But that is not how life works You were my soulmate, but not the love of my life

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Passage The pieces of this section share themes of time, reminiscing the past and looking forward to the future. This section, entitled “Passage,” signifies the passage of time and how this reflects changes in ourselves and the world around us. Both pieces grapple with very human and universally felt issues, like the anxiety surrounding the unknowns of the future and the ease of being young that becomes lost as we grow. “Happily Ever After” is a short piece that takes the reader on a trip through time, highlighting the defining moments in life that lead us to the “happily ever after” we all seek. This piece incorporates many aspects of life, including emotion, change, love, and heartbreak. Conversely, the poem entitled “For Just a Minute or Two” concerns the uncontrollable aspects of life and reminds us to take time for ourselves in a chaotic world. This piece conveys how disorder in the world and times we live in manifests as disorder within ourselves and within our minds.

Although different in many ways, these pieces together remind us that growth and change are inevitable and necessary facets of life. The world is a tumultuous place, and so is growing up. The authors of this section emanate these ideas through their works, and each grapples with these concepts in unique and beautiful ways.

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Happily Ever After Ricardo Larios Duran Sad moments define us. Whether it's heartache or something else. No matter what it is, you’ll feel sad. The late nights of overthinking, wondering if you were ever good enough and the misfortune of not knowing why things changed. Remember what life used to be like when a certain person was around. Was life happier or was it just as dull? Life definitely felt much more exciting. It felt as if every morning just was right, like everything had fallen into place. Then the unexpected happens, everything falls out of place. A mix of emotions. Could it have been sadness or anger, or maybe it was both? That part doesn’t matter because there’s a feeling of heartache. Remembering those late-night adventures, night talks, and a bunch of joy. Now, you have to deal with the pain of seeing them but not having that same happiness as before. You fake your smile so no one will know what’s happening. You imagine a whole life without them so you can feel better.

Whenever their name is brought up, all you want to do is die or make them feel the same pain. Wanting to wake up with no memory of them ever being in your life just to feel happy before you met them. Maybe it’s the fact of not understanding why life had a change of plans for you.

Maybe it was for the best, who knows? All you know now is that you have to be happy for yourself and imagine the future that you want. It’s senior year; next year will be a new chapter in your life, a fresh start.

You won’t see that person anymore because you’ll be in a different state of living life. You won’t have to worry or even think about them. Imagining what life would be like feeling happy once again, a genuine feeling of happiness engulfs you, the one you felt before you knew heartache.

After a few months, graduation day comes; the day you’ve been waiting for so you can leave the town that reminds you so much of them.

They say “all girls are the same,” but who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone better. Someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who is willing to help you get out of your own dark hole. Someone who will make the time to call or text you. Someone who won’t make you question your worth. Maybe you won’t get hurt again. Maybe this time they’ll 18

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love you for a long time. The thought of finding the person who wants to grow old with you and be there for you through all the hard times is what you want. You tell yourself love isn’t for you. You don’t want to be in that small town any longer. When you find that person, you’ll forget about the heartache you endured during your teenage years. You’ll have the life you wanted with the person who brought back the happiness that you genuinely missed. This was the happiness that you were looking for all this time. This time you’ll leave for good and not turn back.

Life goes on and you’re 24 years old. You're with a couple of friends and one of them brings their cousin, who starts to talk to you. After getting to know each other, you both fall in love. In that moment, you knew she was the right one; she was everything you wanted. A few months pass by, and you decide to take it to the next level. As life keeps moving on, you create someone special, a child. At 27 years old, you tell yourself you want to marry this girl. On your wedding day, people tell you, “you only fall in love once,” but you think that can’t be true because as she walks down the aisle, every time you look at her, you fall in love over and over again. After all the heartbreak and dark times, you finally get to live your life with your family.

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For Just a Minute or Two Tacy Andrews But what if, for just a minute or two, we stopped pretending we were thriving and admitted we were just surviving.

Not living; existing.

What if it was socially acceptable to stop with the studying and the smiling and take a minute to bring peace to your chaos.

To admit there are piles of insecurities and tragedies and you are not enjoying your chaos right now.

To write, not because you have to.

Without any word limit.

For no reason, with no due date.

But just to write—because we all need a minute or two maybe six or seven hours maybe even a week.

Maybe just a wink, maybe just enough time for an eye roll or a sigh of relief. Just a split second of being who we are, under the lip gloss and hairpins, without a GPA attached or a calculator running in the back of our heads.

We admit that we have lived happier lives before this. That we are praying there are happier times after this. That right now, no matter how many smiles we give others, or even get back, we need rest.

What a world we would live in.

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Endings The section’s last three pieces are about people dealing with their own ends. The end of a way of life, the end of life, and the end of the world itself. These two short stories and a poem don't continue to show the aftermath. We never know what happens to the characters after the final lines of these pieces. However, in reality we continue pushing past the end.

These authors touch their audiences in a way everyone can relate to personally as their pieces were written in the same year our country dealt with tremendous loss and the death of our way of life. Only one of these pieces touches upon covid-19, but the same bleak sense of the end can be traced throughout this section. This is the end of this section, but not the end itself.

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The Last 100 Days Nicole Lee (Content Warning: Suicide and Death) September 16 (100 days): It’s official. In precisely a hundred days from now, humanity will cease to exist. No one could believe it. First, we thought it was a prank, a ruse, misinformation. We didn’t want to face the truth. But now, we have nothing else to turn to except the truth.

That’s why I’ve started this journal. Because even though no one else will be around to read it by the time I’ve finished it, I want it to exist.

I want it to be proof that I existed. That once upon a time, I stood on this planet.

September 20 (96 days): It’s almost scary how normal things are. Of course, it’s not entirely normal. The rest of the world is in complete chaos, trying to find a way to survive, but overall, my daily life hasn’t changed. I wake up, get to school, try not to fall asleep during classes, head to the library to study, and come home.

My parents insist that I should continue going to school even if the world is ending in a couple of days. They are part of the majority that aren’t convinced that humanity is ending. I don’t mind. What else am I supposed to do?

September 23 (93 days): The first week since the announcement. People have yet to give up hope.

Protests are going on every day, pushing for the government to come up with a solution, and they’ve been provided with nothing but excuses that they’re working on it. But I hear that government officials have been resigning worldwide to spend their last few months with their families. I suppose I can’t blame them.

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October 2 (84 days): The market down the street closed down yesterday. The owners decided to take what money they had left and travel the world while they still could. A lot of people are doing the same. All over, social media shows people posting pictures of them having all sorts of experiences and crossing stuff off their bucket lists. I guess this will make getting groceries a lot harder.

October 4 (82 days): Mrs. Hoffstetler was lecturing us today. She kept saying how ridiculous it was how so many people believe that the human race will be going extinct. I think she’s just mad because people are using the end of all days as an excuse to commit crimes. I heard someone broke into her car and stole her groceries.

October 11 (75 days): Is it just me, or do the days seem to be getting longer somehow?

Whatever it is, something in the air seems to have changed as well. I can’t pin it down. Also, it’s hotter. Isn’t it supposed to be fall?

October 17 (69 days): I was walking past my old church today. Crowds of people were spilling out the doors. These days there’ve been all sorts of national disasters. Floods, forest fires (ironic, I know), earthquakes, etc. I suppose some people need some universal guidance during times like these. If He does hear those desperate cries for help, will He help, or just leave us to our fate? Maybe it’s just out of His hands. Pastor Fred seems delighted at all of the new followers, though.

October 23 (63 days): I just realized Halloween is coming up soon. It completely slipped my mind since no one seems to be putting up any decorations this year.

Too bad, I used to love Halloween. Maybe I should put on a costume?

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October 31 (55 days): Today, I put on some cat ears and drew on some whiskers for the spirit of Halloween. Tacky, I know, but barely any stores are open these days, and those that are open are completely skint. People have been stocking up on everything in an attempt to survive the upcoming apocalypse. Anyways, my costume turned out to be a waste. Only a third of students came to school in the first place. Why go to high school if you’ll never grow up in the first place? Mrs. Hoffstetler was unusually quiet for once; she didn’t talk except to announce the suicides of six students.

November 5 (50 days) Suicide rates have gone up drastically. People just can’t seem to see the point in living in a world that’s going to end soon. My parents are concerned, too; they’ve been trying to reach Uncle Harry for a while now. No response. Erik is dead as well. Found in his bathtub with slit wrists. I know we sort of drifted apart near the end of junior year, but it’s still crappy. The last time I saw him was at the school’s parking lot, holding a baseball bat to Mrs. Hoffsteter’s car windows.

November 14 (41 days) Cut school today. I’ve been doing this for a while now. The classrooms are just so empty now. Even the teachers are barely coming anymore. I was walking around the park, but it wasn’t long until I quickly went back inside. The air outside was somehow burning my lungs. It’s been so foggy these days, too; where has the sun gone?

November 19 (36 days) The president’s dead. He was found in his room with a handgun in his hand. No one can even find the vice president. Rumors have it that he’s locked himself and his family up in an underground bunker. It seems even our leaders have given up.

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November 21 (34 days) No one goes out these days. Remember when I mentioned how the air outside seemed to be burning my lungs? It turns out it was the same for other people too. They tested the air and detected some sort of acid that has never been discovered before. Mom and Dad both inhaled too much and are sick. We can’t go to the hospital because most have either reached capacity or closed now. They’re on permanent bed rest.

November 27 (28 days) Lightning constantly strikes despite no thunder and storm to go along with it. The skies are now just a pale shade of red—what a great way to spend my birthday.

November 30 (25 days) Dad passed away. I was a little sad. I think. To be honest, I’ve been feeling numb to emotions these days. I can’t remember what it was like to be sad. You’re supposed to cry in these situations, right? Instead, when Dad’s chest stopped moving up and down, all I thought about was having one less mouth to feed.

December 4 (21 days) I didn’t realize till now, but the day the end of humanity comes, it’ll be Christmas. Dying the same day Jesus was born, the irony is strong.

December 9 (16 days) Ever since Dad died, Mom’s been a real handful. She keeps weeping and screaming about how much pain she’s going through. Her condition is getting worse. I don’t know how much longer she has. Actually, I do.

Fewer than 19 days, just like me.

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December 11 (14 days) I don’t want to die. I need more time. At least, let me go back in time, so I’ll be able to appreciate it better the next time around. If there is a God out there, please give me another chance to live.

December 15 (10 days) You know how in the movies, the countdown from ten is always so dramatic that everyone is chanting, and you brace yourself before takeoff? My last ten days on Earth are probably going to feel like that. The only difference? When we hit zero, instead of launch…nothing happens.

December 18 (7 days) One more week. Nothing much to do now. Mom was really quiet the last few days; she has been doing nothing but staring blankly out of the window, watching the moon, which has been getting closer to Earth these days so it looks gigantic. A couple of hours ago, she closed her eyes for a nap. I should try making her some food for when she wakes up.

December 24 (1 day) I stuffed Mom’s corpse into my old toy trunk and pushed it into the water moat surrounding our house. In the few seconds I was outside, I caught a glance at all of the other corpses floating around in the dark, tainted water. By chance, I saw Mrs. Hoffesteter’s body float by as well.

Even someone like her didn’t deserve this.

December 25 (A couple of hours) I feel childish—this entire time, a small part of me was clinging to the hope that humankind would pull through. That’s why I wouldn’t allow myself to let me experience life like everybody else. I was too afraid to accept fate. In fact, there were so many times I wanted to stop writing 28

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this damn thing. I only continued because I needed something to distract myself. Now, look at me, curled up in the corner of my bedroom, the only light source being the illumination of the bloody sky outside the window, filling the room with an orange haze, writing in a journal that will probably be destroyed by midnight tonight. But in my final moments, I’ll continue to hold onto the hope like the child I once was.

Let me delude myself that possibly, humanity will rise again, and this journal of mine won’t go to waste. Let someone who was stronger than I, who survived, come across this writing and let it comfort them. Inform them they were not alone in this cursed world. And let it drive them to live on because that’s what humans are meant to do.

So, as the air burns my lungs, tears blind my eyes, and my skin goes numb, let my final words not be spoken, but written down instead: Farewell and good luck. For once upon a time, humans roamed this earth.

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But "Move" Lina Groner-David I am wearing a mask of skin Dry like old leather It is not me Yet it defines me It is the first thing that will be noticed It is how I appear I add colors decorating my appearance Making it prettier and more appealing Yet this only changes the body I am within The mask I wear changes with time It shows signs of wear as it bumps it bruises it wrinkles But “Move,” I say and my tired fingers move Up and down Side to side 2 I am wearing a mask of skin Dry like old leather It is not me I am the soul within my body My skin does not produce my thoughts I am constant But “Move,” I say and my tired fingers move Up and down Side to side Wherever I want them to go All anyone sees are these movements They don’t see me, they can’t No one can

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From Three to One Jennifer “Levi” Doty (Content Warning: Blood and Murder) Jasper The car doors slam one after another; I take a deep breath and enjoy the cold breeze for a second.

“I don't understand why this is necessary. If anything this makes us more sketchy,” Sarah chimes in.

I sigh, having already explained earlier, “The headlights could attract attention, we don't wanna get caught.” I know she’s rolling her eyes so I don’t even bother looking at her. Lance is already shaking like a leaf, whether from fear or the cold I’m not sure. I pat him on the shoulder, “It's not far, come on.” I make my way towards the tall corn rows on the side of the gravel road we’ve parked on. If somebody drives by, they’ll assume someone broke down and won’t bother checking the car.

“Wait, we’re going through there?” Lance speaks for the first time since getting in the car. I turn and raise an eyebrow at him.

“Seems faster than walking the gravel,” Sarah says, already making her way towards me. I smirk and look back at Lance.

“If you don’t want to, then stay here, or you could try walking the gravel roads alone. Can’t promise you won’t get lost though.” I turn back towards the corn. He mumbles before I hear his feet move into the grass. ...

“Why can’t we be a normal friend group, take our little siblings trickor-treating, and then steal their candy when they fall asleep? NOT mess with spirits in a creepy old barn and possibly get caught.” Lance says this while trying to keep up with Sarah and me.

“Jesus, dude, It's not that bad. We’re having fun,” Sarah says before quickly sucking a breath through her teeth, “Damn it.” She's holding her upper arm, eyebrows knitted together.

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“See, this is a bad idea!” Lance runs to her side to look at the wound.

I roll my eyes and shrug my jacket off my shoulders. “I guess that's my fault for not telling you guys we’d be walking through corn.” I hand the jacket over to Sarah. “Sorry.”

She forgives me quickly and takes the jacket. We begin to walk again.

“Halloween is the one day of the year where the veil between worlds is thinnest, and it's a full moon. Why not take advantage of the opportunity?” I speak my mind while looking at the moon in the cloudless night sky.

Lance responds under his breath, “A stupid and dangerous opportunity.” I turn around to smirk at him, now walking backwards.

“This is the last year you'll have to put up with my creepiness, I promise.” I turn back around in order to not fall.

“Thank the lord,” Lance says with fake malice.

“Lord Lucifer?”

“Shut up.”

I laugh loudly, and the noise fades out into the corn.

We reach the edge of the corn field; ahead of us is a broken down barn, paint chipped and falling apart.

Sarah steps up next to me. “For a second there, I thought we were lost.”

Lance dramatically falls to his knees in the grass, “I am not going back through that corn.”

“You won't have to,” is all I say before I’m moving towards the barn. …

Sarah The large barn door is open just enough for us to squeeze through.

The barn is empty aside from left over hay, some lame graffiti, and chunks of broken wood. I look to the right of me and see a ladder.

“I'm gonna start setting up,” Jasper speaks while setting his bag on the ground “This place is pretty fun if you want to explore.”

“Don't have to tell me twice.” I look at Lance and nod towards the ladder.

“No, oh my god, that is such a bad idea! Stop!” He says this and moves towards me. He holds onto my sleeve lightly, a silent prayer that I'll listen for once. I give him a look, and he slowly lets me go, keeping 32

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his gaze to the floor. I climb the ladder carefully and step onto the wood of the second floor as it cries out in old age.

“It's fine, there's nothing up here.” I try to reassure my safety. There are big holes in some parts of the walls, boards splintered and spread across the floor; looking out and seeing nothing but corn makes me feel a bit uneasy, like one of those cheesy horror films.

Slow creaking sounds make their way to my ears making me spin around quickly, checking my surroundings. Lance is making his way up the ladder carefully. When he gets his feet onto the second floor, it bows and creaks. I'm surprised this green bean weighs more than me.

“I came up only because you’re stupid and need supervision.”

“Ouch,” I say, rolling my eyes. I turn and walk towards a big opening in the side of the barn, hoping to get a better look outside.

“Hey be careful—” Behind me is the haunting sound of wood splintering and air leaving lungs.

“Lance!” I keep a good distance not wishing to cave the floor in. His right leg is completely through the floorboards, hands splintered from catching himself. ...

Lance Breathing hurts, my hands are bloody in front of me. My leg hurts the worst, pain shooting from my toes all the way up to my head. I can barely hear Sarah over the ringing in my ears. I can hear someone else…

Jasper, he came to help me.

Looking up, Sarah is in front of me looking at who I presume is Jasper behind me. I watch her face, desperate, confused, concerned. Her gaze is moving as he moves, why is he moving? Couldn't he pull me out from behind? She takes a step back only to be met with his fist. I can only watch as my friend falls to the ground, stirring up dust.

I'm coughing, everything hurts, there's dust in my eyes and in my lungs. My body is pulled, and I let out a pained cry. ...

I feel everything and nothing, sharp pains and dull aches. I open my eyes, breathe shallow, mouth dry. Jasper…dragging Sarah. The fog 33

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clears and I remember what happened. He's got her hands tied, dragging her by her feet as if she's already some lifeless corpse. Maybe she is, maybe hitting the ground was enough, or maybe he finished her off when I was knocked out. We’re on the main floor now. I try moving to take a look at my surroundings but curse myself internally as Jasper raises his gaze to me. His face is blank, tired, emotionless, his movements robotic.

“Jazz, what the hell.”

He lays her against the wall; the way her head hangs limp makes me sick. Jasper walks towards me, and I start to panic. What is this, is this a joke? Some sort of prank to scare me? They really would be the worst friends in the world to scare me like this, but I would forgive them as long as this isn't real. I would compliment them on their acting skills, and then I would never spend another Halloween with them again.

Jasper grabs the back of the chair and tips it back. I panic and try to lean forward but to no avail. The chair falls back, effectively crushing my arms and hands. I can feel the splinters still in my skin dig deeper, my cries echoing off the barn walls. Everything feels so wrong, this is a different world, these are different people. How can a fun Halloween night turn into something so sinister?

I allow my head to fall back onto the hardwood floor as tears spill down my face. I'm embarrassed hearing myself sob like a child, hiccups and gasps for air. I turn my head to the side and open my eyes. There are red markings on the floor; I can't make them out clearly with my eyes full of tears, but I turn the other way anyway. More red.

I hear Jasper but I can't see him from my position on the floor. The noises stop, and he walks towards Sarah.

“What are you doing?”

No answer.

“Jazz, please,” I say more desperately.

I hear him sigh and shuffle a bit.

“Fine, you can watch.”

He kicks the chair slightly so I can see Sarah, scraping my arms against the wood floor, causing tears to blur my vision once again. Jasper takes Sarah’s hand and looks at me, still with that bored look until he turns her hand around revealing her palm. (Suspense) “Dont touch her!” I try, but it's not intimidating when you're tied to a chair.

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He reaches for his pocket and flicks open a knife; I can't tear my eyes away as he drags the blade across her palm. Sobbs are all that leave my mouth as blood flows down her arm onto the floor. A velvet waterfall which Jasper allows himself to touch.

He's mumbling something I can't make out as her hand falls to the floor. I didn't think I could ever see something more frightening, but as I lift my eyes to the scene in front of me, obsidian black eyes look back. I stop breathing, my heart drops into my stomach, and I feel as though I could puke. Jasper’s mumbling has gotten louder, and now with another voice chiming in, a haunting slurring of words in a language I’ve never heard. As he steps closer, my vision begins to fade, his voice seemingly inside my head now. He tilts my head back and drags his bloody fingers across my forehead. ...

-----The sun is starting to rise as sirens wail, lights flashing through the tall corn stalks as police cars and an ambulance sit outside a brokendown barn. Yellow caution tape surrounding the area even though there isn't a pedestrian in sight. A stretcher with a body bag is wheeled out of the barn and slowly brought into the back of the ambulance. Not far behind is a kid in handcuffs, a bandage wrapped around one hand. She's screaming about a boy named Jasper, trying to tell the cops that she wasn't the one who killed the other boy, but her screams seem to fall on deaf ears as she's placed into the back of the cop car.

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Section 2

Cosmology In the modern age of convenience, it is easy for us, as humans, to consider ourselves separate from Earth or even forget that it is beneath our feet. In truth, no matter how we try to defy it, we are part of the natural cycle like everything else that exists on our planet. It can be hard to contemplate the vastness of the universe, but Earth can ground us with its power. The following poems urge readers to look kindly upon Earth and see it as a living being. We see, in these pieces, moments of tenderness and oneness between humans and Earth. Our poets have created, between themselves, the image of an Earth that loves the people it sustains, a portrait in which we are not living atop a dead hunk of rock but living around and in a live body. Therefore, the theme of these pieces is the human-Earth connection.

The poem “Power in the Trees” explores and humanizes the forces of nature. Tacy Andrews describes the sound of the trees as music and speech and urges the reader using the second-person address to consider their voices as well as our place among them. Through skillful use of metaphor and simile along with clever diction, Andrews is able to keep the trees as mysterious figures of power while also comparing us humans to them. We are reassured through the fact that we are also part of the natural world that we have the same resilience: we were made to survive the turbulence of life.

In “Earth’s Whispers,” Krystina Franks imagines what it means to exist outside of the physical body. Franks describes the relationship between Earth and humans, noting how Earth nurtures our first-person speaker and offers guidance while maintaining an awareness of the limits of this relationship. A poem crafted with an expert tongue, “Earth’s Whispers” is a portrait of Earth, its inhabitants, and Earth as an inhabitant of the larger universe. Franks uses fantastical imagery to place the narrator and Earth in a parental relationship within space.

Within these two poems, the poets have captured the way in which Earth provides for us. “Earth’s Whispers” focuses more on our planet as a heavenly body who cares for the life on it in this vast universe, while “Power in the Trees” plants the reader’s feet on the ground to consider our place on it. Andrews and Franks are able to effectively use imagery 39

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to show the beauty and power of Earth and its elements. The poets show how we, as humans, are also made of these elements and that we have the same potential for growth and power. These two pieces make great use of poetic techniques to humble and simultaneously empower the reader through the human-Earth connection.

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Power in the Trees Tacy Andrews If you listen closely enough There is music in the sway of the trees If you pause just long enough You can hear mouths that are ready to speak The words that they say The tune they portray Branches out to normals like us and asks do not stray From the unknown or unseen From perhaps the unwanted or maybe the unbelieved From what may seem so cloudy and gray Or sparsely dreary and plain If you watch the storms and the rain The wavering frames will call out your name Bustling wishfully to advocate You are not finished yet Your time here remains Your physique was made for this moment Whatever this moment may bring So hold fast to yourself As the greenery around you illustrates

You are capable of achieving every one of your dreams Take this pause Take it in just as you may

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As the botanicals around you play Consider their earthly games For there is power in the atmosphere of this day This ream of dancing greens That whisper soft and lovely themes

There is power in these trees, indeed.

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Earth’s Whispers Krystina Franks From here, I could touch Jupiter and swim in the puddles of melting stars, if I just loosened my grip from the rooftop.

Instead, I sit here cradled in Earth’s palms as she sings me to sleep.

When I let her psalms consume— She sets me on the ground, my back against the damp grass, staring up at the balls of fire we call stars.

Earth tells me to dream, so I do.

I imagine myself in space, floating, hoping,

waiting.

I imagine what it would be like to let myself become weightless— to drift from planet to planet, to become a supernova destined to burn out.

Earth tells me to become, so I do.

I let space absorb me.

I am now one with the blankets of stars and abandoned milky ways.

I watch from afar as Earth bursts into flames.

This was her protecting me from the destruction of other humans.

I am nothing without her.

I am a decaying star.

I am…a forgotten planet

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Sum of Your Parts Each of the poems in this section describes different forms of escapism from various facets of our worlds that hold us back while maintaining its own rhythm and individual spirit. Despite the differences in form between the pieces, each speaker from within the poem comments on being someone more than what society broke them down to be and more than the sum of their parts.

“A Woman I Know,” the first piece in this section, focuses on loving the wild parts of oneself beyond the limited perspective of the male gaze, especially the aspects of femininity that are not inherently “pretty.” This piece defines a space in reality for women not often portrayed or accepted in modern media, and the ending focuses on understanding yourself beyond the parameters of how you “should” be. This subject can also be seen in the poem, “World We Created,” in which the speaker is learning to love themselves as they are in a different sense.

In line with “A Woman I Know” and the aforementioned breaking away from the patriarchy, “World We Created” focuses on breaking away from ethnocentrism. The subject looks at stereotypes forced on minorities and chooses not only to fight against them but to embrace their differences as a person of color. Instead of rejecting our roots in favor of pleasing a country of assimilation, the subject describes how we should embrace our differences. They celebrate their culture and create a world that accepts them while critiquing our current one. This metaphorical world-building can also be seen in “Memories Made in Other Worlds,” in which the subject deals with entering a pre-constructed world that suits them to escape a conformist reality that does not.

Similar to “World We Created,” the poem “Memories Made in Other Worlds” focuses on taking the space one needs when reality becomes a burden. This poem also deals with the often-revisited worlds within beloved stories and how those worlds continuously shape us to the point that they become a reality—a reality that, at times, is preferred over the waking one, which can be demanding and might not suit our individual spirits. This poem maintains the attitude of never losing childlike wonder and embracing the past self and present self.

These three poems, which deal with the individual spirit through 45

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the limited lens of the current world, have a similar message: to love yourself. If the world does not accept your differences, then build one yourself and find your place in it, for you are more than the sum of your parts.

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A Woman I Know

By Sheridyn Bailey I used to believe a part of me Belonged to the heart of a man And should I find him I’d be whole A lady all plain and planned.

But this feral spirit I do don I know has stomached a fervor For a life unbridled by bounds No half a soul could endeavor I had been born a girl who knew No shoes for feet nor brush for hair My socks of mud and crown of leaves The garb of fae and maidens fair Here there is no man to outrun me For this path I tread I tread alone One as wild and unbroken As the woman I’ve come to know

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World We Created Naylea Verdinez As I leave the home where I was raised From the people who pushed me to the limits to overcome the dreams that we all desired To finish what my father started but never had the chance to go back to it To accept and be proud of where I’m from Mi ama raised me to stay quiet and be respectful to others calladita te ves más bonita To keep my mind open when the time is right To speak the truth when there are lies around my head Is this the time to use my knowledge and opinions for this?

Is it okay if I describe to you the color of my skin or will I get sent to a place where I need to keep my mouth shut My father told me to raise my chin up and let them speak whatever they have in mind I ask myself How is America great again?

All I see are black people being killed or being thrown into the floor to be pressed down as they speak the truth All I see is any teenager being scared to be pulled over by police because of the color of their skin All I see are kids being separated from their parents on the border Locked up in a cage as if they are animals Don’t punish me for being open-minded I see the torture that any person of color goes through All I see is a white tall person with a dark blue suit and a red tie saying once again “aliens,” “murderers,” “drug dealers,” “the Japs,” “banned Muslims from the U.S.” I thought America is a place where I can receive the love as I get from my home I want to touch the sky and feel free as I should be If I told you what my ethnicity is, would that matter?

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No, I wasn’t born from an “alien” family I was born from two immigrants who came to the United States for a better life I am Mexican and American I was raised to be open-minded, to be generous, to be kind to one another, to learn from a new culture I am a social butterfly My body moves to the music that I was raised by I am ready to show you what I have in mind for this “world we created” But only if you don’t interrupt me Let me show you what I learned

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Memories Made in Other Worlds Jennifer “Levi” Doty Lounging in the gloomy old library I catch a glimpse of a memory Another world almost forgotten among the shelves The contrast of the flimsy cover pulls me in The monochromatic display with details in red It shimmers like broken glass under the broken uv lights I reach towards the sinister work of literature With delicate hands I riffle the off-white pages The dusty scent hits me as I turn to the back I read the description The ominous words making me shiver I am filled with nostalgia My breath catches in the back of my throat Suddenly I am back in this fictional world Surrounded by characters I loved way back when The heavy atmosphere anything but intimidating Instead it’s a familiar and exciting feeling I welcome this world with open arms like an old friend Soon I realize that I will be reliving the tragic ending The fate of my favorite character already sealed I can do nothing but read one line after the other I shake with sobs for someone not even real But this feeling is not fake Curse beautiful words making me feel this way

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More time has passed than I thought I allow the last page to fall from my fingers I lean back and let out a shaky breath Nothing has changed yet it feels too quiet My eyes feel heavy with emotions I slowly stand from my spot in the corner I hesitate when putting the book back It feels too soon to leave this world But I know there’s nothing left to read I slide the book into its place amongst the other worlds I’ve read about I am comforted knowing that when I’m ready I can open it again And join my characters in their world once more

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A Snapshot of Hope There are times in our lives when we’ll stumble across something that makes us want to stop forever. Pause. Drink in the moment, engulf ourselves completely in something beautiful, or exhilarating, or heartwarming. Perhaps that something comes during the rush of a first kiss, the stomach-lurching thrill at the top of a rollercoaster, or the way your friends laugh as you scream the lyrics to that one song in the backseat of your car. Or maybe that something comes in the quieter moments, the ones we feel but sometimes overlook—like the way they smile at you on slow mornings when you have nowhere to go but there. The days when the air feels sweet and alive with sun that warms your skin after weeks of winter. A long-awaited call from someone you miss. How your pet nuzzles into the crook of your arm and looks up at you with all that love, all that adoration. Regardless of what that something is, we all have moments like this—moments that make us aware of our humanity, of our gratitude, and of our place in the world. Betty Barbarash’s “Oswin,” Zoe Smith’s “Cormorants on the Cove,” and Marta Leira’s “Iowa City South District Residents Unite to Paint Community Mural” all direct our focus to the moments of peace and tranquility we manage to find within our friendships, communities, and environments—and how these moments, no matter how big or small, manage to triumph over the unstable conditions of our modern world.

“Oswin,” written by Betty Barbarash, is a phenomenal tale of the unlikely friendship between human and gopher. Both irresistibly funny and heart-wrenchingly sad, “Oswin” brilliantly guides readers through the tender emotions that accompany new friendships—the longing for mutual understanding, the striking beauty of blossoming connection, and the eventual, painful realization that sometimes we have to let things go. “Oswin” is a story that hooks readers from the beginning with raw, vivid imagery and witty descriptions, capturing the hope and love we feel for our friends despite any obstacle that invades our lives.

Zoe Smith’s “Cormorants on the Cove,” the only piece of photography included in Living Proof, beautifully examines the relationship between humans and our environment during COVID-19. The photo captures the breathtaking serenity of birds existing within their natural 53

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habitat, a brief moment of respite and solitude in a landscape seemingly removed from the rest of our chaotic world. While looking at the photo, it’s impossible not to feel whisked away to somewhere better— somewhere with the song of calling birds and flapping wings, with the tickle of rushing water against bare feet, and with the tranquility that comes with the complete immersion in nature. “Cormorants on the Cove” offers us a peaceful glimpse into a single moment filled with an abundance of natural, easy stillness—a welcomed breath of relief during such a difficult time.

Finally, Marta Leira’s “Iowa City South District Residents Unite to Paint Community Mural” directs our attention to the positivity, strength, and love that envelops the Iowa City South District neighborhoods as they come together to paint a mural for their community.

The mural, located on the back of the Faith Academy, centers around the aspects of Iowa City that make it uniquely beautiful and a place of belonging for people of many different cultures, backgrounds, and experiences. As the community works together during COVID-19 to finish the stunning work of art, they cultivate a sense of peace, hope, and respect—managing to find moments of happiness and serenity, despite the painful circumstances of our outer world.

All three incredible pieces allow readers to think about the moments in our own lives that bring us joy—sparked by our relationships, our communities, and our environments. We cling to these memories and these moments because they bring us relief, evoking a sense of serenity and security amidst the chaos and confusion of our daily lives.

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Oswin Betty Barbarash FOR PLAYWRIGHTS, THE USE OF DIALOGUE is, of course, inescapable. The challenge, therefore, is to create dialogue that goes beyond the traditional notions of what dialogue is capable of accomplishing; mainly, a sense that characters are able to momentarily, however failingly, express a small figment of their souls. Dialogue, then, should always be concerned with the soul. The problem, however, is that in so-called real-life situations, dialogue is very rarely concerned with the soul, but rather with transactions. These exchanges of language accomplish little more than the setting of appointments, the buying of commodities, the sharing of factual information, the expressing of opinion. Very rarely will we turn to anyone, an intimate love or stranger, to say, “Oh, my!

Today my soul is so laden with metaphysical heaviness that I simply do not know how I will get through this already very wearied day of impersonal spoken exchanges.” Even rarer do we express whatever it is that our minds are so busily engaged in throughout the day. When this does happen, sorrowfully, the secret-teller has already been committed, already believes that insanity is what occurs when one expresses oneself fully.

What the novel can accomplish that real life cannot is miraculous indeed; a character can express his most inner thoughts, however blasé or insane, without dialogue, and still speak to other characters as well as the reader through dialogue. There is something inside that wants to break free but is afraid of impending insanity. How then, in writing or life, to transfer what is inside and have it interact with, enjoy an existence in, the outside? A person moves through his surroundings, but a person’s thoughts only move through his mind. What a glorious enigma, then, a person must deal with every day; what thoughts to say as dialogue versus what remains, untransferred, in one’s mind. It’s almost as though every person has a mental sieve, sifting out the appropriate words and gestures to use and leaving the other, less accepted, to wallow in the back of their minds, floating in between brain cavities until they find a place where they fit. But what happens when someone has too 55

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many thoughts? So many that they crowd and cluster together until they can’t stay inside. When I was ten, I was met with this dilemma; that is, before I met Oswin.

We met in very ordinary circumstances: we were both at the park near my house, minding our own business when he bumped up against my shoe. I stopped to look, unsure of what it was when I saw him. He was small, much smaller than me, and I had to crouch down to stare into his eyes. When I looked at him, his mouth gaped open, almost in awe of my existence. His hair was short, fluffy, and brown, and it blanketed his stumpy body. He didn’t say a word to me, so I decided to call him Oswin. What amazed me most were his eyes; they were small, black, and beady, and I couldn’t stop staring into them. They acted like a void, and all my energy got sucked into those dark, all-consuming orbs until all I could think about were the unspoken thoughts pounding on my brain to be let out. The more I stared, the faster the pounding became until, eventually, I opened my mouth and began to talk.

I told him anything and everything on my mind, and we must have been there for 2 hours while I blabbed on, spilling every secret thought I had kept hidden in my mind for so long. And even more to my dismay, Oswin stayed. He just sat there, crouched next to the bench, looking up at me with those beady little eyes that had gotten me here in the first place.

I was baffled. How had this strange, tiny creature learned every corner of my mind in 2 hours? Why had I told him everything about myself? Oswin was, technically, a gopher, and any other person would have just pushed him to the side. But to me, he seemed to be so much more than that. Our friendship existed beyond what was considered “normal,” and that was what made it so great. He didn’t care what I looked like or what I said. He only listened, and that was all I had ever wanted. Someone to listen. In “normal” friendships, between two humans, you have to think before you speak, carefully crafting a sentence that makes sense to the other person. Oswin wasn’t like them; he didn’t care what I said. I could have read him a grocery list for all he cared. All Oswin wanted was to be around, hear my thoughts, and sit by me as I spewed out word vomit, cleansing my brain of all the things I hadn’t been able to say before.

As the day faded and the sun started to come down, I realized that 56

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the park would soon close, and I would have to leave my new friend. My heart began to break; at that moment, he seemed to be the only thing that mattered. I couldn’t just leave him! We were alone in the park now, as everyone had left, and I could see the night-guard who locked the gate up every day coming towards us with a key. I quickly grabbed Oswin, stuffed him into my backpack, and rushed out of the park.

I wasn’t thinking about Oswin and how that could hurt him, but I should have. As Oswin kicked and yelped, begging to be let out and put back into his home, I pushed on, rushing to get home so I could find a way to keep my dear friend forever.

When I got to my bedroom, I zipped open my backpack, and Oswin hopped out. As he looked back at me, I was reminded of how happy I was talking to him at the park. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, so I assumed he was happy too and began to continue the endless banter I had started earlier. The line between practical dialogue and my innermost thoughts had faded completely, even more so than before, and I felt better than I had in years.

After a while, I began to stop and focus on my surroundings when I realized Oswin wasn’t actually there; he had pushed the door open to my bedroom and gone outside the door to the kitchen! I quickly ran outside and grabbed him so my mom wouldn’t see. There was no way she would let me keep another pet, even one as amazing as Oswin, after the escape of my guinea pig, Tyrone, who tore up the house into bits and pieces when we left home for a day to go to Disneyland. This time, I would have to keep my pet a secret.

I crouched under my bed, Oswin in one hand, until I found it; my old guinea pig cage. I opened the latch and placed Oswin in. Then, I grabbed the small bowl still in the cage and filled it up with water; Oswin lapped it up, as he was thirsty from all the excitement of the day.

My heart filled with joy as I thought about how I would get to have Oswin forever—just as long as I was careful not to be discovered by my mother. As I continued to sit and think, I heard a voice in the other room: “Dinner!”

My mom was calling out for me, so I had to leave my new best friend.

I sat at the table with my parents and older sister, picking at the mac and cheese my mom had put onto all of our plates. My family was laugh57

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ing, talking about god knows what, and even though I was in the middle seat of the table, inches away from every member of my family, I couldn’t have felt farther from the conversation. They wouldn’t have listened to me anyway; I had always felt unimportant to them, as though every word I said was pushed to the side of their minds. Unlike them, Oswin made me feel important.

As soon as I finished my meal, I rushed back to my room to see Oswin, but he was already asleep. I poked at him to wake him up, and he slumped back over, uninterested in what I had to say. I decided to leave him alone and headed off to my own bed to close my eyes and wait as patiently as possible until I finally drifted off to sleep.

That night, I dreamed that I was Oswin in the park, digging holes behind the swing set. I was so happy there in the park near my family and friends. I felt at home. I began to dig a really large hole and had gotten pretty far in when, all of a sudden, a large surge of water flushed in, pushing me out back onto the ground. I felt shocked and violated; who could have done such a thing? I had spent hours digging the hole, and someone had destroyed my hard work within seconds for their own personal gain. I looked up and gasped; the person with the now empty bucket, standing over me-as-Oswin, was…me.

I woke up the next morning and grabbed a food bowl filled with lettuce, carrots, and potatoes to give Oswin—things I hoped he would like.

I opened my bedroom door, only to find that Oswin had been chewing at the plastic at the bottom of his cage in an attempt to escape. It was at that moment I truly, finally realized that while I had been flourishing in Oswin’s and my friendship, having been able to express every emotion I wanted to, he had been withering.

Ever since Oswin had arrived at my house, he had attempted any means possible to escape. I looked into his eyes again, realizing that what was once filled with wonder and interest upon viewing me was now covered in a swarm of fear and anguish. Everything about him seemed different: his hair looked less glossy, and his shoulders were drooped.

He wasn’t even facing me while I looked at him anymore; I felt like a monster. I was not Oswin’s friend anymore—I was his jailer.

I knew what I had to do. I took my hamster cage, Oswin inside, up the street, and down the corner, until we arrived back in the park at the bench where it had all begun.

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With a heavy heart, I placed Oswin’s cage on the ground and opened the latch, setting him free.

And thus, the need to invent new names or call on old words for new meanings arises out of perceived failures of the present language. In an existence where galaxies x and y refuse each other’s company due to voids where very little subatomic activity occurs, it is only natural that one should be inclined to reach. Where our dear lad Ishmael says, “With a frigate’s anchor for my bridle-bits and fasces of harpoons for spurs, would I could mount that whale and leap to the topmost skies to see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!” He is longing for the ultimate reach, a glimpse beyond his autopoietic nature into the sympoietic system of that vast otherness.

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Cormorants on the Cove Zoe Smith

This photo was taken this summer while with my cousins, walking on Lambert’s Cove beach in Martha’s Vineyard. Martha's Vineyard is very special to me because it is a place where my family can all be together. I spotted these birds this summer on a jetty and snapped a picture. It was the first time I had seen them out because the beach wasn’t as crowded due to the pandemic.

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Iowa City South District Residents Unite to Paint Community Mural

By Marta Leira South District community members gathered to paint a mural two years in the making.

Minivans, garbage trucks, and semis alike honk in celebration as they pass by Broadway St., cheering on community members painting a mural that has been two years in the making. Despite the wide range of ages, all volunteers had one thing in common: a love for their community.

Over the course of three days, more than one hundred and twenty volunteers organized by the South District Neighborhood Association donned their masks and helped paint a mural on the south side of Iowa City.

Four-year-old AK Beacham is one of them. AK and his mother, Tajeria Beacham, stand on marked squares to stay safely distanced from other volunteers while waiting for their turn.

“We’re going to paint!” AK exclaims.

Tajeria laughs and explains with a smile what that means for her.

“The mural is in our community, and it represents our community… even with everything that’s going on, it’s important to help out in your neighborhood in any way, and I’m just trying to instill that in him.”

Shaquita Smith agrees and has been painting the mural with her children for all three days.

“Every single day we’re able to meet new people and see so much progress that we’ve made, and we’re so excited for this to be in our community,” Smith said. “[My kids] need to see everyone coming together, positivity, and community work. They need to see all of that because they’re little, growing kids, and they have to understand how important it is to be helpful around the area.”

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The mural is located on the back of the Faith Academy, a private Christian school. Principal Jan Hochstetler helps paint and explains how the concept for the mural came from students at the three area elementary schools: Grant Wood, Faith Academy, and Alexander.

“The theme of it is different positive activities you can do and positive things about Iowa.…It’s pulling together positives when we have so many negative things in the news today,” Hochstetler said. “It’s important…for [kids] to have ownership in making the neighborhood beautiful.”

Nick Meister agrees. He is a South District resident and the artist tasked with combining the student’s art and creating a template.

Meister created initial outlines with a paint-by-numbers system so that children could easily be included in the painting process.

“As soon as we decided to make it a community mural where the neighborhood would be invited to help paint, I knew it’d have to be something a six-year-old could color,” Meister said.

Meister began by going to the three schools and educating students about the history of murals. From there, each school’s respective art teacher had students from 4th-6th grade write or draw ideas they wanted to see on the proposed wall.

“I sifted through the kids’ thoughts and found recurring ideas and themes,” Meister said. “The top things I kept seeing over and over were: animals, music, sports, and the neighborhood.”

Meister was originally drawn to the enormity of the proposed project: 4,400 square feet, which according to his research, would make it the largest mural in Iowa. But as the project went on, it took on a whole new meaning for him.

“As the project grew, I realized it was something much more important than a big wall,” Meister said. “It is a community coming together. It is a landmark for a neighborhood that gets overlooked. It is something for us all to be proud of.”

In 2018, the Pepperwood, Wetherby, Grant Wood, and South Pointe neighborhoods merged to form the south district in an effort led by Angie Jordan, now director of the South District Neighborhood Association.

The group also fundraised enough money for each school to get their own individual mural once students return to schools when pandemic guidelines allow.

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Volunteers wear masks and follow social distancing guidelines as they paint. Were it not for the pandemic, Jordan says the Association would have extended the painting event to engage the greater Iowa City area through some sort of publicized event with music and food.

Instead, they chose to start small, and neighborhood families were offered the option to paint over the course of three days. They recruited families by advertising on social media and going door to door spreading the word.

“We wanted to focus on our priority of having our folks in the neighborhood paint the mural,” Jordan said.“If COVID wasn’t here, we would have had a much larger-scale event. It’s unfortunate, but it didn’t stop us.”

There will be a painting session exclusively for adults to work on more detailed or higher sections in the near future. After that, Meister will add final touch-ups.

West students Gabby Davis ’23 and Eleanor Dillon ’23 work on filling in green trees. Davis, who lives in the neighborhood, explained its importance, “It’s just a way of representing our community.”

Dillon adds on.

“I think it’s important for the community to come together, especially in this time, to do something together to make the community nicer,” Dillon said. “It creates a sense of togetherness.”

Meanwhile, first-grader Andrea Alter and her mother Megan Alter are working on filling in a yellow section.

Andrea stops to chat between brushstrokes.

“It helps out the community,” Andrea said. “There aren’t any pictures or paintings on this side of town, so I really think it brightens everything up and makes it a lot more nice.

Her mother echoes that sentiment.

“It’s really, really cool and important to have this side of town have something that brings the community together. I think this has been a project everybody can agree on,” Alter said. “The timing of it probably couldn’t be more perfect. Right now, it’s really important to have a sense of neighborhood and community.”

Teacher Jessica Bovey helps painters sign in and welcomes them to the event Elementary students Marie and Eliza Martin have been painting two 63

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hours a day for the last two days. Their current focus is the deep blue outline of a wave. Elinor Levin assists them.

“Miss Angie invited us to come here,” Eliza said. “We’re mostly bored because we hadn’t left the house.”

“It’s fun, and it’s gonna look pretty.…It used to be all white,” Marie chimed in.

As the three work, they discuss the progress they had made and decide their favorite parts of the project. For the sisters, it has been painting the wave; for Levin, however, it has been seeing others in the community.

“My favorite thing about this is that I’m meeting a lot of my neighbors that I never met otherwise, or people who I didn’t know were my neighbors,” Levin said. “Especially in a time like right now when everybody’s stuck by themselves, we’re finding a way to do something together.”

Ten feet over, Lo Whittington is working on painting the crest of the wave. Whittington is an active member of Moms Demand Action, a national gun safety advocacy group. The group worked in partnership with the South District Neighborhood Association to raise money for the mural.

“Every community is affected by gun violence,” Whittington said.

“Part of our mission is to be creating safe communities, and one of the hallmarks of a safe community is one that is committed to projects like this, beautifying and making the community safer.”

Halfway through the painting shift, a fire truck pulls into the lot. The firefighters don their masks as they greet the children and help paint the mural.

“Our neighborhood association always invites and has the expectation that some first responders will come because it allows them to engage during non-emergency time,” Jordan said. “They probably only get to see these kids and families when they’re in crisis, so it gives them another perspective, and vice versa for the residents. It gives them an opportunity to engage with the first responders in a very positive collaborative environment.”

Nearby, Kelly Story and her daughter paint shades of red over a soon-to-be guitar.

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“We drive through here every day when we go places, and it’s just been such an eyesore. We’ve just been so motivated by the opportunity to make it part of our community and bring pieces of everyone into this,” Story said. “It gives us some connection to our own neighborhood and community because there are people here that we see at school, but we don’t even see out and about.”

According to Jordan, the Association typically gets ideas such as the one for the mural from their monthly meetings, which have been postponed due to COVID-19. The Association typically invites speakers to meetings in addition to having an open dialogue between community members. Jordan hopes projects such as the mural can help empower the community.

“It shows folks in and outside of the neighborhood that…we can actually be a force for the things that we want specifically,” Jordan said. “If that’s a mural, or if that’s a monthly dinner, or childcare, it can come from us.”

Not wanting to draw large crowds to the event due to COVID-19, Jordan found another way for non-neighborhood volunteers to be involved.

She asked them to drive by and honk to show their support.

“Showing support as an ally to a project we’ve been working on to empower our children and our neighborhood is huge. If they’re coming by to support us…I want to wave, and I want to be happy, and I want to show them gratitude,” Jordan said. “And for the folks that were driving by that had no idea what was going on, I wanted to make them smile.”

Jordan says while the Association is grateful for the support they receive from the rest of the community, it’s crucial to recognize the effort coming from within the neighborhood.

“It’s so important that people know that this was all done one hundred percent by our neighborhood, and it was specifically to empower the kids so…they’re part of something they can see every day,” Jordan said.

Jordan is trying to erase the negative stigma she feels surrounds the South District of Iowa City.

“I think our side of town throughout the decades has this narrative spoken for it. Others from the outside have their opinions…‘Oh, that’s scary. Oh, there’s shootings. Oh, those families. Ooh, those parents.’

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Not just our neighborhoods but our schools. ‘Oh, the literacy rate. Oh, the socioeconomic level. ‘Oh, the oh oh the.’ And they’re missing a huge voice of the actual people.”

Community volunteer Sam Khreible lives in and runs a Systems Unlimited group home for individuals with disabilities in the South District. He mirrors her sentiment.

“I try to put it…from the only perspective I have—that of a white person in Iowa City. I think that I hear too many people talking about vandalism and ‘bad neighborhoods,’” Khreible said. “I think art, especially big public art pieces are a really easy way to express to the community at large that our neighborhood is united and our neighborhood wants to put good into the community.”

“When things are said, or sirens come down our streets…nobody other than the residents know and can experience that trauma, and what it does to us,” Jordan said.

This is why Jordan is committed to creating the mural with volunteers from the South District.

“If you have that genuine desire to get to know somebody, that’s how you build a community, and that’s how you build a neighborhood.”

Jordan says the South District Neighborhood Association will continue to strive to engage and connect the community in positive ways.

“Our neighborhood association is only two years old. This is only the beginning,” Jordan said. “The mural project is not done even when the mural is done,” Jordan said. “It’s just the beginning of even more amplification of who we are on the south side.”

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Undiscovered Depths The human experience is unique to every individual. Daily life becomes the mold that shapes us, and in the midst of growth, there are silent bystanders. These bystanders seem insignificant in the reality of our world, but they become the focus in the sphere of literature. In both these pieces, our editors observed the main characters experiencing awe and appreciation when witnessing the enriching experience that is personal change and development in another person.

In “We, the Scarred,” there is an examination of the subject’s mental and physical state through the lens of a passive bystander. In this piece, the body and its pain serve the purpose of implying a deeper, unseen emotional pain that the narrator seems to understand. As the piece progresses, that understanding grows and so do the narrator’s appreciative undertones for the subject’s resilience through their suffering. The piece is insightful, and there is a well of literary power found in what remains unsaid yet understood—and the reader perceives that.

Similarly, in “All That Remains Is Ink and Blood,” the narrator recounts their experience of connecting with a rival and strangely rediscovering the empathy they had for that person in their youth. Despite their being on opposite sides in battle, the narrator finds that they are able to connect to the dying soldier’s pain and finds a solemn appreciation for his life experiences and, ultimately, his death. The piece details the physical toll this battle has taken on him but also attempts to delve into his mind through the lens of the narrator, providing the reader with an engaging reading experience that shows profound reflection upon another’s life from the eyes of the main character.

Our team found these pieces to be tied through deep introspection and reflection upon the lives of others and how they overcome the challenges life sets for them. Such challenges reveal the harrowing underbelly of the human experience. These pieces illustrate the remarkable endurance of physical fatigue and pain that unveils a psychological toll within. This is the physical manifestation of the stressors placed on the mind and the narrator’s reflection upon someone else’s pain. For that reason, our team has decided to name this pairing “Undiscovered Depths.”

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All That Remains Is Ink and Blood Courtney Rhinehart You always knew that it was going to end like this. From the moment you heard the plan, the moment you caught his eye from across the meeting room, you knew.

A feeling of dread boiled in your stomach, aching and bitter, but your mind was horrifyingly blank. There was no chaotic whirlwind of scrambled thoughts or meaningless pleas. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t come up with an alternative. Your mind was a dry oasis, while your heart was a crumbling figure begging for water. You couldn’t let this happen, but there was nothing to be done.

Desperation didn’t drip from your eyes, and panic didn’t clog your throat. There was only a growing pit of pitch-black nothingness in your stomach. Even so, you were terrified. Terrified of the end, terrified of that resigned, dull light that flickered in his eyes. Harsh determination hardened his expression, turned his softened edges into sharp, deadly blades. You felt them slice into your skin when your eyes met from across the meeting room.

You silently wondered if he knew how this was going to end too.

He offered a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips. There was no nervousness in his stance, just blinding confidence and a strength you didn’t know existed. The gleam burning in his crystal blue eyes seared into your wavering soul like a thousand suns, moments away from flickering out. He was no longer the boy you once knew long ago, no longer the boy who chased behind you with stumbling feet and bruised knees.

He was no longer the stuttering mess of jumbled words and soft whispers lost to the wind.

He was a soldier. He was a soldier trained to analyze and fight and win.

But he would not be winning this time around.

He would fall, bloodied and broken and irreparable, and you would only be able to stand by and watch as he lost. You would not be there to comfort him in those few final moments; you’d be elsewhere, as per the plan. From the sidelines, fighting your own battle, you’d be a witness to his defeat, but his defeat ensured your ultimate victory.

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You knew you should have been glad. You were once prideful, only seeking the chance to further yourself by winning. You were selfish, and back then, winning was all that mattered in the end. It didn’t matter who fell in your path, who stumbled, what obstacles stretched before you. So long as you came out on top, nothing mattered.

Realistically, you knew that the death of one man to win a war was not a momentous sacrifice.

Realistically, you knew he’d be marked as a hero in history—if he was even remembered at all. He would be praised, not mourned, for his death, for his ‘selflessness.’ He would be known as a martyr rather than a soldier ordered to give everything he had for the sake of a mission.

History would morph this story into one of great joy and excessive cheer. They’d shine a golden light over his tragic life, highlighting his brightest moments while cutting out the dark, twisted paragraphs completely. History would never mention the shy demeanor or whispery stutter he possessed as a child. They’d never talk about the determined glint that lit his crystal eyes on fire in the darkest moments where others might falter or hesitate.

They’d erase everything that he was and replace it with little white lies until he was unrecognizable on paper. Those texts would not hold your plethora of memories of him; it would be as though you were reading about a stranger, not a childhood friend, not someone who grew up beside you. You wouldn’t be able to pick the little slivers of truth out of the pool of falsehoods and censored past.

Ultimately, you knew the person he was would be forgotten.

He was calm as you grabbed his arm once the meeting ended as sharply as a guillotine coming down upon his neck.

When his eyes entrapped yours once more, the words you so desperately wanted to spew died in your throat. They curled in on themselves, crumbling into dry ashes that left a bitter taste on your tongue. Nothing but smoke came from your parted lips, revealing the fire burning in your belly.

He understood despite your silence. He understood more than you thought he should, and maybe if you had more time, you would’ve come to find out why. But you didn’t. He didn’t.

His hand was cold in yours, freezing and biting as though he had already fallen. Still, you didn’t hesitate to squeeze back with everything 71

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you had left. He grinned comfortingly, like a promise that everything would be fine. He was always making those promises, and you knew they were rarely true.

But you believed him. For the first time, you took his silent words to heart, held him to his promise.

You believed that everything would be fine.

You believed that he’d be fine.

You always knew how this was going to end, and you were sure that he knew as well from the very beginning. From the moment you heard the mission, from the moment you stared into his gleaming blue eyes, you knew. From the moment he patted your shoulder and turned his back, weighed down by thousands of responsibilities that no one that young should carry, you were prepared to say goodbye.

You knew, but you were still surprised when his words turned out to be lies.

He had always been a horrible liar.

Yet you still screamed when he fell.

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We, The Scarred Eli “Cillian” Moawad I have seen.

Many things, but above all, you.

I have seen your eyes, sunken and hallowed.

Haunted by your past, conversations long since had.

I have seen your skin, a tapestry of cruel scars.

Weighed down by doubt and by dread, you fell to your knees, wished them only dreams.

I have seen your bones, cracked and broken.

“Unwanted,” that’s what you said, and so made them stronger.

I have seen your mind, tortured and unspoken.

Inside, a whirlwind of thoughts, a tornado of screams.

I have seen your heart, still and depleted.

Shattered and sore, it whispers: “No more.”

I have seen.

I have seen you, for you and I are the same, a ghost, barely there, a flicker of a flame.

We drag on, unwillingly, bound by these chains.

They said we were fine.

That this disease was benign.

That we will not die.

They lie.

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Section 3

It’s a Fine Line: Quests Through Dialogue & Lyrics “Hey, we don’t talk enough. Maybe we should open up?”

“Yeah, okay, what do you want to talk about?”

“I just finished this piece, called ‘Stuck in the Middle with You,’ where the narrator details his quest for love.”

“Does he succeed?”

“Well, that’s the thing. He doesn’t, and it’s because of the ineffectiveness of dialogue. No, no, hear me out. We hype up dialogue so much, when most of the time it’s transactional. The author examines how that affects how we speak to other people, and then provides a heartbreaking personal example. It really caused me to question how I can create meaningful conversations with others in this world.”

“That’s really deep. It kills me to know we can run out of things we can say—like, meaningful things to say, you know?”

“Right, and also that we don’t have the words we need to say what we want to say, which is also something the author examines in the piece.”

“That reminds me of something I read recently, actually, in an essay titled ‘How 6 Minutes and 17 Seconds Changed How I Think About Life.’

It discusses the relevancy of song lyrics in our everyday lives through Harry Styles’ ‘Fine Line.’ Music is more than just catchy melodies with lack of meaning. ‘How 6 Minutes and 17 Seconds Changed How I Think About Life’ reminds us that song lyrics open up a dialogue between the listener and singer. ” “Music really does help us find where we belong, where we will be alright. I never really thought about it like that.”

“We might not know where we are going exactly, but at least we know where we belong.”

“Exactly.”

“That actually now reminds me of this fiction piece I found called ‘The Legend of Charles the Mighty,’ which opens a conversation about the search for truth. The main character, Davide, uncovers the Legend of Charles the Mighty and then has to make an epic choice between saving the world or saving the day. The piece opens up this dialogue 77

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about how legends act as a way people communicate with each other throughout the ages, about past values and truths. In the end, that’s how Davide makes his choice.”

“But even though we have legends, there’s things that we’ll never know.”

“Exactly! The legend might not be the full truth, but it’s the catalyst for Davide’s story and his individual choices.”

“All these pieces open up dialogues, essentially.”

“Right, and all those dialogues examine different kinds of adventures, the adventures that we all crave.”

These next three pieces embody those adventures, these quests. Follow these authors as they craft stories with all the successes and failings that come with taking the leap. Because, we are all on a quest: for love, for human understanding, for truth.

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How 6 Minutes and 17 Seconds Changed How I Think About Life Maya Kirzner One Direction is one of the most iconic and biggest boy bands of this generation. After 5 years of releasing albums and taking the world by storm, One Direction took a hiatus in 2015. This hiatus allowed the boys, Harry Styles (the cute one), Louis Tomlinson (the sassy one), Niall Horan (the funny one), Liam Payne (the responsible one), and Zayn Malik (the quiet one), to create music by themselves and start their new careers as solo artists.

From this hiatus, Styles came out extremely successful immediately following the release of his debut single, “Sign of the Times,” which was quickly followed by his debut, self-titled album in 2017. Following the release, Styles went on a worldwide tour and then went to make his second album. In December 2019, Styles released his highly anticipated sophomore album, Fine Line, which has won multiple awards and is nominated for three Grammy Awards.

The 12-track album chronicles and describes the highs and lows of relationships and life while going back to the thought that our emotions are a fine line. One day you can feel your highest high and wake up the next day, feeling lower than you’ve ever felt before. The final song on Fine Line—with the same name as the album—has left listeners with the feeling of comfort and satisfaction, while also leaving them to contemplate life itself.

A few days after the release of the album, I finally got to sit down and listen to it (I wasn’t really a fan of Harry Styles at this point, but had heard so many great things about it). That night, I decided to clean my room while listening to the album. I don’t remember much about my first time hearing it—only for thinking that it was really good—with the exception of the first time I listened to “Fine Line.” I was trying to put my clothes away when I heard the guitar chords that I would soon hear every day in the months to come.

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The song itself starts off with a slow, mellow guitar followed by the first verse, “Put a price on emotion, I’m looking for something to buy.”

This metaphor perfectly sums up how so many people have felt before, feeling so emotionless that you would do anything, even pay for it, just to feel a tiny bit of something. Having this as the first verse in the song also allows for more vulnerability and honesty between Styles and the audience. A lot of people view fame and living life as a celebrity as always having fun and never having any “real” problems. Having such an emotional and relatable line helps the audience view Styles as a person more than a celebrity.

Immediately after hearing the first verse, I realized that this was a song that required my full attention and I sat down to listen and take it all in. For the next 6 minutes, I sat on my floor, clothes in my lap, staring at the wall, thinking how my celebrity crush from 6 years ago from a boy band I fangirled so hard over back then had put such an indescribable feeling into words that I never could. As the song, and with that, the album ended, deafening silence consumed my room as I sat on the ground thinking over everything I thought I knew about life and watching it all get thrown out the window. I never finished cleaning my room that night.

Another part of the song that really caught my attention was the second verse, “My hand’s at risk, I fold.” In this part, Styles refers to the game of poker. When you have a bad hand in the game, you can accept this loss and fold to avoid losing everything you have put into it already.

Gambling has been something that we have already heard talked about before in this song, like gambling away something for emotions. The choice of alluding to poker, rather than any other game where you can gamble, is important to this song because poker is all about hiding your emotions and reactions to the cards you are dealt. Referring to your emotions as a game also goes back to the theme of your emotions being a fine line. Like your emotions, a game you thought you had the lead in could take a quick turn and you can end up losing everything.

At this point, the background of the song has been mellow guitars and soft vocals. After the second verse, the repetitious lyrics begin.

Styles begins to sing, “We’ll be a fine line” 12 times until a crescendo of trumpets kick in as he sings, “We’ll be alright” 5 times. He reminds his fans, again and again through his repetitious lyrics, that we really are 80

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walking a fine line of emotions and we can easily fall onto one side in a fraction of a second, but that’s okay, and we’ll be alright.

Even though “Fine Line” has been out for over a year now, it still has valuable lessons to teach, especially throughout quarantines, lockdowns, and the world pressing pause on ‘normal life.’ This song has been an easy escape and a quick reminder to people that their emotions are normal. Naomi Segel, a high school freshman, has mentioned how this song has helped her through this past year: “The whole idea of the song that life is a fine line and we are always on the verge of our highest highs and lowest lows no matter what has changed the way I see life in terms of my emotions.” Recognizing that your emotions can change so quickly helps remind you to appreciate the moments where you do feel on top of the world, but see the beauty in those days that don’t feel so great because at any moment, things can quickly change.

I have always turned to music for comfort. Before December 2019, I had multiple songs that I would go to for each situation I found myself in. After listening to “Fine Line,” all of those songs were thrown out the window and this immediately became my favorite song—and the one I turn to for everything. Wherever I can’t sleep, if I don’t know what specifically I want to listen to, or when I don’t know how to put into words my emotions I know that I can always turn to this song and be reassured that everything will be okay. Because in the words of the iconic Harry Styles himself, “We’ll be alright.”

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Stuck in the Middle with You Anthony Menting on the use of dialogue in literature For playwrights, the use of dialogue is, of course, inescapable. The challenge, therefore, is to create dialogue that goes beyond the traditional notions of what dialogue is capable of accomplishing, mainly a sense that characters are able to momentarily, however failingly, express a small figment of their souls. Dialogue, then, should always be concerned with the soul. The problem, however, is that in so-called real-life situations, dialogue is very rarely concerned with the soul, but rather with transactions. These exchanges of language accomplish little more than the setting of appointments, the buying of commodities, the sharing of factual information, the expressing of opinion. Very rarely will we turn to anyone, an intimate love or stranger, to say: “Oh, my! Today my soul is so laden with metaphysical heaviness that I simply do not know how I will get through this already very wearied day of impersonal spoken exchanges.” Even rarer do we express whatever it is that our minds are so busily engaged in throughout the day. When this does happen, sorrowfully, the secret-teller has already been committed, already believes that insanity is what occurs when one expresses oneself fully.

What the novel can accomplish that real life cannot is miraculous indeed: a character can express his most inner thoughts, however blasé or insane, without dialogue, and still speak to other characters as well as the reader through dialogue. There is something inside that wants to break free but is afraid of impending insanity. How then, in writing or life, to transfer what is inside and have it interact with, enjoy an existence in, the outside? A person moves through his surroundings, but a person’s thoughts only move through his mind.

What a glorious sight before my eyes, my sound reason has been eclipsed when I peer’d forth the window on my balcony and glimpse a bedazzling and lucent shine of an angelic face that glows as if it has

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fallen from the Western Welkin. Hymns I hear, the expergefactor that woke my heart.

Through the lenses of love, I see the silhouette of a sundress that makes its shadow dance on the pale wall it projects on. I walk apace to the promenade; the muffled still who’s always precise, it’s a winged cupid I see on my shoulder. But with much delight to have been struck by the arrows of a patron of love, I hesitate.

I reminisce.

Returned with me now are those painful memories when I endeavored and took a crack at the prickly pear that is love.

And so I recall and retreat. Half a turn away and like a boomerang, I turn back. I’m a pendulum of feelings. The still-waking feeling of love suffering from uthceare is determined to reach the angel that came before my eyes. In the effort to move forward, I dismiss the ill emotions of heartbreaks past. I remind myself that those erstwhile experiences of life are simply chains anchoring me to shortcomings; begone malevolent memories!

It shan’t hinder my quest for love.

I keep on the boulevard towards my destination as I manage to move one foot in front of the other, but my legs feel like sandbags. At this rate, I’ll make it there by eventide.

She’ll be gone by then.

Miraculously, I advance.

I feel faint and with slight febricula. I feel drenched in my sweat like cloudbursts. My utilitarian serviette has never been this most convenient, and never more unneat. I wipe it across my forehead and continue my pace forward. I don’t mind water as long as it’s not an inundation of my tears. At this dew moment, the beads of moisture are unstoppable. Crisp like an apple, unsteady yet gentle, a wave of the cool breeze embraces me.

Receiving a rousing reception, I clasp with the breeze that brings me much relief from that ill-conceived sweat.

Just what I needed: a wind and second wind.

My confidence and strength proliferate, and with every step I take, my courage builds like a monument. My heart palpitations augmenting, fervently pulsing, never before has it this way.

I come to a halt.

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Inhale, exhale, I catch my breath.

I take a moment to contemplate my actions and inspect my decision as does the artist of paintwork for cracks and flaws. Will my journey send me on a bleak descent to heartbreak?

It shall not.

My reassurance is as solid as knowing that the sun will rise. Triumphant shall I be declared in love and exult in the advantage gained. It’ll be like reaching the summit at such an altitude the wind will have to catch up, and the clouds will briskly kiss our cheeks, delighted to be so high in bliss near the sky.

The weary legs sandbag-like that helped get here are now no more than hollow bones, so brittle and light, now shaking much like leaves on trees, trembling with this stochastic frequency, as I stand before her. I’ve reached the culmination of my journey, the encounter I’ve envisioned. Indubitably, I’m incredulous, I’ve made it without further hesitation, I am here.

Sheer panic overcomes me, countless words evade, they escape me and avoid my mouth, yet they cycle in my head as they go round and round. My thoughts a jumbled mess, a warbler’s nest. A harpooner am I to that school of words that torments me, missing my reach. At the very moment I need them most, forsaking me, for not making themselves available to articulation.

So if my words are a riddle, then riddle me this—how will I ask someone out when I can’t even speak?

Or will my words fall on deaf ears, and just like that as though I never asked anyone, akin to the deaf words they are to me for not being able to make it to my lips. In my thoughts, my words live. I look in extremity.

I have to think hard, like a trident, spear the words. At last minute’s worth, I sputter one, “Salutations.”

I picture myself as I’m lolling, but this is not courtship behavior, so I have to be stoic. Chivalry is not dead. I see she’s carrying her osier cage, and I would carry it for her at her behest.

My salutation is left unheard, so this time “Hello,” I said.

A deer in headlights gaze, a blistering stare.

Can this be the beginning before the end?

For me, it was love at first sight, a thought that if I professed my love, it would be professed back. I continue to say, 84

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“Fair gentlewoman, by your beauty humbled am I. Mystified by your fragrance. I am no nincompoop, I fancy thee. Although now I am he who comes into great company, with but two cents in his pocket, everso susceptible to your charms. I present myself and can only gift you this humble rose that you put to shame. Perhaps tomorrow though, shall you accept, we wilt go where prawns grow, and you can feast on them.

How stands your disposition, what say you?”

“What?”

“I’m trying to ask you out to dinner.”

But my love did not accept my rose nor did she my heart. My heart, now just an ember that will die into nothing but ash, remnants of destruction. Barely palpitating and nearly dying now how to heal such grieves that presses upon my chest.

Maybe next time I’ll just keep it simple.

And thus, the need to invent new names or call on old words for new meanings arises out of perceived failures of the present language. In an existence where galaxies x and y refuse each other’s company due to voids where very little subatomic activity occurs, it is only natural that one should be inclined to reach. Where our dear Ishmael says, “With a frigate’s anchor for my bridle-bits and fasces of harpoons for spurs, would I could mount that whale and leap to the topmost skies, to see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!” he is longing for the ultimate reach, a glimpse beyond his autopoietic nature into the sympoietic system of that vast otherness.

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The Legend of Charles the Mighty Luke Krchak The trees speak their vile words, begetting these hallowed grounds.

“Leave our lands foul creatures of the north, you have no business amongst the elderwoods,” King Elderic said.

King Elderic led his elderwood soldiers for centuries claiming countless lives, as he conquered most of the green lands. I can not stand up for their conquering any longer, Charles the Mighty thought.

“I will not leave your lands, your reign of terror will end, King Elderic,” Charles the Mighty said.

Charles led his band of soldiers deeper into the forest. The roots of the elderwoods began to coil around the legs of his soldiers. His soldiers made many attempts to cut them, to no avail, until Charles took out the mighty Maul of Thoradain, a weapon made of pure valorium.

Charles broke clean through the roots, hearing the cries of agony from the elderwoods as he swung the mighty weapon.

“Have you had enough yet, King Elderic?” he said. “With my men free, we will be able to secure the forest.”

“Silence! Your weapon is no match for me, and no one for thousands of years will be able to destroy me,” King Elderic said.

The ground shook as King Elderic tore himself out of the ground.

“Hear me, humans, for your destruction is at hand,” King Elderic said.

The giant elderwood smashed the ground sending a shock wave through the woods. The ground opened up, swallowing Charles and his soldiers. The ground didn’t close until it engulfed the forest, never to be seen again.

A cold winter sprang, with blizzards almost every day. Snow covered the lands as animals hibernated. There was not a sound nor an animal stirring for some time. Things were quiet as the lands became more forgotten.

The past was a fickle mistress, and it would not give their battle any notion, not even a word for the history books.

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For years only animals and plants lived on and near the lands, but now they have returned, humans. Humans, by nature, are a conquering species themselves, if one group held the lands for more than a year, it was a miracle. Even though humans settled near the site of the battle, they never noticed its importance.

These humans become different over time, leaving their castles and ambition for militaristic might, for inquiries into the natural world.

These humans were called scientists, yet they never learned of the vile elderwoods. They tended to study the human body, and that became prevalent in their art as well. These times would pass however, continuing their pursuits of science but with a greater sense of greed and fight for money.

They built factories, buildings that turned raw materials into various goods. Inventions were made that would astonish their ancestors, inventions that decreased the number of people to work on farms, inventions that improved the health of its citizens, inventions that could move anything from city to city, yet the humans were not finished evolving. Times became worse.

People struggled to get by during a great plague that ravaged towns.

Brother turned against brother as resources became scarce. The plague brought war and famine, but it also allowed the people to grow and learn how to better their societies. Inventions came to end the plague, which in turn ended the famine as farmers got back to work.

The townspeople came together to rebuild their town as well as nearby towns and cities. It was a time of unity as much as a time of peace, people from across the world came to live in the town, which overnight became a populous city. The people erected large buildings that pierced the clouds. This is when people began to question their past, when they were intrigued by their lineage and their ancestors. That is how we got to today. ________________________________________ Andorra la Vella, Andorra, 2021 “King Sancho the Great lead a great battle against Charles the Mighty and his armies, later resulting in the defeat of Charles the Mighty right here in Andorra la Vella,” my teacher, Mr. Olden said. “If you open your books to Chapter 7, it delves more into the Aragon-Castile union.”

The bell rang as students rushed to put their stuff away.

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“Remember to finish the packet for Wednesday,” Mr. Olden said, as students were already out the door.

“Mr. Olden?” I asked.

“Yes, Davide,” he responded.

“What did Charles the Mighty do before his defeat?” I said.

“Well, there’s a legend that he fought against mystical creatures, conveniently called the elderwoods. The legend also tells of the fall of Charles to King Elderic, the alleged king of the elderwoods. I guess people made the legends up because they never found his body or his soldiers’. Well, see you tomorrow, Davide,” he said.

“Yep, see you tomorrow,” I said, leaving the classroom.

If the legends are real, that means the ruins of his defeat are somewhere in the city. Finally an adventure, I thought. I held onto my backpack tightly as I left the school. Where could I even start to look? Perhaps the library or the museum, nevermind the library is probably for the best. I ran to the library that was only a few blocks away.

Winded, I saw the giant stone bricks of the library. I entered knowing my mission.

“I seek the truth!” I shouted, not knowing that I said that out loud.

The old librarian looked up from her book laughing and said, “What are you looking for, son?”

“Do you have any books on King Elderic?” I asked politely.

“Let me see…” she said, “Ah, here, we have one book called The Tales of Charles the Mighty vs. the Elderwoods, it will be in the Folklore section on the second floor,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My pleasure,” she responded, returning to her book.

I walked as fast as I could up the rickety wooden stairs, with the thrill of excitement. I quickly looked through the Folklore section and found the book almost immediately. I glanced through its pages, then I found it.

“Charles the Mighty fought King Elderic, in a mighty battle both kings and their soldiers fell, never to be seen for millennia. The Valorian Forest sunk into the Earth, later to be replenished by lush grass and new trees, to become the La Vella woods” (page 24).

The La Vella woods, aren’t those woods just north of the city? I thought. I brought the book with me to the checkout.

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“Have a nice day,” the old librarian said, stamping my book.

I briskly walked out of the library. Wait a second, I don’t know where these woods are. No, now I remember, they are north of that old church, I thought. I picked up the pace, rushing towards the woods. I passed people just sitting around or even walking as they talked on their phones. I am a very lucky person for finding out about this legend, better pick up the pace though. I’ve still got that packet to do, I thought.

I picked up the pace even more until I reached my destination, the La Vella woods. The sun was getting lower and lower in the sky, making the forest even darker. With each step, I was spooked either by a small critter or by my own footsteps. About halfway into the woods, I decided to read more of the book.

“It will be found by the unlikeliest of heroes. At the rocks end, where the water begins. Through a cave of wonders, deep inside, they will find what was lost for centuries,” (page 32).

Did they really have to be mysterious? I thought. I started pacing back and forth. Found by the unlikeliest of heroes, that should be me.

At rocks end, where the water begins, makes no sense. Wait a minute, through the cave of wonders, at rocks end where water begins, does that mean a waterfall? I thought. I began walking through the woods in search of a waterfall.

A few steps later, I found a pond. Its glorious blue water reflected what little light was left. I took a sip to find a smooth, delicious taste, so I took a gulp. Then across the way, I saw it. The waterfall. I walked around the pond, and entered through the waterfall into a dark cave. My phone had a decent charge, as well as a decent flashlight. My phone’s flashlight lit the cave, showing a dark labyrinth. There were so many paths to choose from.

What does the book say about multiple paths…Here, the cave of wonders, so something shiny, perhaps, I thought. I looked through the different pathways finding nothing overly shiny, but something was standing out in one of the tunnels. I went down the tunnel, coming closer to the object, not knowing what it was exactly. Then as I was near it, I could see it was some sort of maul clung to by a skeleton.

The skeleton wore armor, that if it was cleaned and upheld better, it could have been shiny, probably something a king or leader would wear.

I looked through the book to see if it said who this was.

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“King Charles the Mighty, was equipped with the best weapon in the realm, Thoradain’s Maul. The maul was a symbol of his kingdom, and a symbol of his pride as a warrior, which was one of the reasons he donned it on his chest plate. The wielder of Thoradain’s Maul would be granted incredible strength, yet the wielder’s heart was to be pure, they had to have the heart of a hero to be able to defeat King Elderic” (45).

I lifted the skeleton off its front to look at its chest plate, and sure enough, there it was, the symbol of the maul. I picked up the maul, feeling its immense power. I could feel the world spin around me as I was briefly lifted into the air and set down. Then the ground shook as I saw him, King Elderic. His yellow eyes stared back at me as he lifted himself out of the stone.

“You have awoken me, mortal. Bow before me, my wrath is finally at hand,” King Elderic said.

“I will not bow before you, I must defeat you in the name of Charles the Mighty,” I responded.

“So be it,” King Elderic said.

His roots coiled around my legs, lifting me up. I struggled and struggled, not being able to free myself. I realized I still had the maul in hand, and swung it. It flung around through the air, not hitting King Elderic.

“The hero who awakened me is unworthy for such a weapon,” King Elderic laughed.

“I do not have to be a warrior to wield such a weapon, I only have to be a hero in my heart,” I said, plunging the maul into King Elderic’s chest.

“No, this is not possible, you are but a child,” King Elderic said as his roots fell limp.

“I am a child, yes, but I am also a person who will do whatever it takes to protect the people of Andorra,” I responded.

King Elderic’s chest started to break down, his wooden body decaying, until there was nothing left.

I left the tunnels, towards the exit of the cave. With such power, I could save the world. If I was in charge, I could really help people. I could end famine, end wars, end turmoil across the world, I thought.

I looked down at the maul. No one person should have such power, I thought. I swung the maul against the entrance of the cave. The ceiling began caving in, closing the cave. Before the last rock fell, I tossed the maul inside, burying it forever.

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Human Reaction Fear is a complex human emotion. Sometimes fear stems from very real, dangerous threats, but it can also come from our minds. No one likes to be afraid. As humans, we do whatever we can to avoid feeling afraid.

What we know about fear, and how we experience it, is different for everyone, but the gut-sinking feeling of panic resonates with us all. In the following pieces, “Sudden” by Brandy Lopez and “The Puppet and Her Fears” by Hannah Huisman, we explore two very different fears: fear in the unknown and fear of missing out. Both pieces showcase fear in a raw and personal way, portraying substantial vulnerability in their work.

In Brandy Lopez’s nonfiction piece “Sudden,” we follow Lopez and her experience dealing with the consequences of an unknown car issue on the highway that quickly turns into an unpredictable, fiery situation.

As humans, we rely on things like predictability, but how does one cope with what we never saw coming, or even the things we knew could happen, just never expected? Lopez grapples with the question of how they found themselves in this situation, what could have happened, and why it happened to her family. When all is said and done, she doesn’t know how to feel or process the events in full, and while glad her family is out of danger, Lopez acknowledges that recovering from circumstances so scary and so sudden will take a long time.

What follows is another nonfiction piece by Hannah Huisman, titled “The Puppet and Her Fears.” Whereas “Sudden” centers around fear of the unknown, Huisman explores the fear of feeling like an outcast. As a child, Huisman’s gullibility made her more susceptible to fear. Huisman presents a kind of anxiousness that cannot be contained. It causes her to spiral out of control and constantly wonder about the “what ifs.”

Fear made her a puppet. Instead of Huisman acting freely to do as she pleased, anxiety and fear took control of how she lived her life. Similar to how a puppet is controlled by the hand inside it, Huisman was being controlled by her inner fears, with no freedom to act without concern.

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The Puppet and Her Fears Hannah Huisman The air conditioning of the dining hall is battling with the heat streaming in through the doors. I bite down on my slice of cornbread, which, in my opinion, is really just cake without frosting. Izzy does the same with her corn-cake. She turns to me. As we make eye contact, she gestures towards a lonely paper taped to the wall.

“There’s a graveyard walk tonight,” she explains. “Should we go?”

It’s my third year of Kern’s Memorial Weekend Family Camp, which I’ve been attending since fifth grade. This year was off to an amazing start. Izzy and I have gone swimming, played Ga-Ga ball, and we’ve cycled around the entire camp. These were all pretty common endeavors for any year of Family Camp and despite the slight repetition of activities, but we always had a great time.

Walking through the cemetery was a new option, though.

It may not have been exclusive to this specific year, but it was unfamiliar to us. That’s why Izzy was so keen on participating. She’s always been so adventurous. When presented with zip-lining, she wouldn’t hesitate to try it. Going rappelling down the side of a cliff? She would join you. Izzy faces the world with nothing holding her back: it’s as though she has no fears.

Izzy and I cannot relate in that sense. I had never been able to shake the title of “scaredy-cat.” The name was even more applicable when I was younger. Simple misunderstandings painted horrifically vivid images in my mind. More often than not, my overactive imagination consumed me.

Kindergarten year was a time when this phenomenon was especially prominent. My teacher, Ms. Morgan, explained to my class that our 94

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hearing would be tested around the middle of the year. After listening to the words “hearing screening,” my brain became a concrete prison cell. One wall was replaced with a giant fan, with sharp, knife-like blades spinning around the center. When I held my imaginary ear to the giant knife-fan, and I could hear the piercing shriek of a woman. Tears and snot—reminder, I was in kindergarten—streamed down my face at the thought. Ms. Morgan consoled me in an attempt to lose the tantrum.

I came around eventually. However, my habit to be fearful of anything that presented itself as a threat, no matter how ridiculous, rarely dwindled.

By my logic, dealing with the possibility of something scary being real was better than being skeptical and thus unprepared for it.

Yes, kids would laugh when I glanced up after they told me “gullible” was written on the ceiling. They would snicker as I spelled out I-C-U-P. But I cared more about the “what if…” aspect than being the butt of a joke. What if it was on the ceiling? What if I have to spell “icup” in a spelling bee in the future? Logically, neither of those things would happen. Instead of using reasoning, my fears controlled me as if I were a marionette.

Back in first grade, I was friends with a girl I’ll call Amelia, although I always felt something was off about her. Now I know why I felt that way: she was never truly my friend. Amelia teased me for my taste in music, my water bottle, and she always made a point to exclude me from activities with one of our mutual friends. But, we lived in the same neighborhood, so I had no chance of avoiding her. Especially because we shared a seat on our bus, which would always take one long street that overlooked a cemetery.

Amelia once saw an opportunity to put me in my place. I had complained about how ominous cemeteries were because my only experience with them was from the depictions they get in movies. She adopted the role of “puppet master,” forcibly taking the reins with her use of one simple sentence.

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“Didja know that if you breathe when you go past a graveyard, the ghosts will come inside you?”

That question tormented me for over five years. Every day, I would attempt to hold my breath while we drove past the cemetery, shaking for more than one reason. It took about two minutes to completely pass it every day. I couldn’t hold my breath for that long, of course. But it never stopped me from attempting to keep the ghosts out.

Clearly, my gullibility got the best of me. I knew that she was purposely tricking me for such a long time. But, knowing that I was toyed with like a puppet didn’t change that I felt like how I did in kindergarten, crying over a hearing screening.

Back to Izzy’s question. Should I go on the cemetery walk? I could decide not to and remain content in our cabin while some group of kids and their overprotective mothers tag along on a walk through a graveyard. The comfort of that idea was incredibly appealing. But, I could go on the walk, despite it being out of my comfort zone.

“You know what? Sure.”

I decided to cut the strings that restrained me. Before, I was willingly gullible, which created anything but a symbiotic relationship between my wellbeing and my innate childhood naivety. I remember hoping that this one small decision could only improve it.

Izzy nodded and smiled at me, which I now know didn’t mean anything more than a kind gesture, but it struck me as a sign. One promising that freedom will be wonderful. It was time for me to turn away from the spinning blades of the knife-fan and confront Amelia. She can lie to me and make fun of me, but she can’t change the fact that facing your fears is more fun than holding your breath every time you pass a cemetery.

Besides, Pinocchio wanted to go from a puppet to a real boy, not the other way around.

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And I want to be a real girl.

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Sudden Brandy Lopez What is that smell? I awake to my father pulling over on the interstate.

I’m with my parents and two sisters on our way home from Chicago.

I had fallen asleep. My father gets out of the car and opens the hood to check where the smell is coming from and as he is doing so, smoke spreads everywhere as if it is a curtain blocking my view from seeing everything. “Bájansen del carro,” he instructs. We all obey. As I do so, a semi-truck had passes. My stomach turns upside down. Wow, that happened so fast. I am not going to vomit right now. My anxiety is over the roof to the point where I forget it is cold outside. I have my sweater on, and my phone is in my hand, but I don't remember when I grabbed it. As I am walking away from the car, I yell at my older sister over the loud cars passing by. “Wait! I need my Airpods!”

I hear my dad yelling at us to call 911, but my mom was already doing so. I hear her telling the operator to come as soon as possible. I see it in her face that her anxiety is over the line just like mine. As I am walking with her to make sure she is fine, I finally remember that there is snow on the ground. I feel my ankles touch the snow. My feet are cold and wet; the grass makes it much harder to walk since the ditch is a hill. My sisters are helping my dad get as much stuff they can get out of the car such as our coats and food we had just bought. As my sisters are walking towards my mother and me, I look over to the car. I see flames under the car, and then I look over to my dad. I see my dad walking towards us with our coats a couple steps behind us. It smells. I look to my mom and tell her to give the operator my number. She obeys. I look over to the cars on the interstate. They’re all just passing by. Help us God, help us. We need you. Why aren’t any cars stopping? I wave my hand for attention. Help! Help! I see no red or blue lights flashing. I’m starting to feel desperate.

We all walk towards the bottom of the ditch, avoiding any smoke reaching us. I look over to the car and see the flames slowly covering it like a blanket. My father tells us to call our older brother. I try to call 98

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him from my phone, no answer. Pick up. Pick up! I text him: EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY. ANSWER PLEASE. NOW. NOW. After several minutes, we see a sheriff pull over, half a mile away. What are you doing? We’re over here!! I wave my hand once more. I see the cops approaching. Relief rushes through my whole body. Finally. The male sheriff gets out of the vehicle. “Is there anyone else in the car?” “No, we all made it out safely,” my mother replies. Thank you, God. “I’m glad everyone made it out safely. I need to see your ID please.” While my parents do so, I inform the sheriff that my wallet was left in the car along with my sister’s. “It’s fine. You can replace it. I’m glad everyone is okay,” he says. “If you girls want, you can sit in the car while I get information from your parents,” he kindly insists. Being Hispanic with the knowledge of the horrific police brutality, I can’t help but think about it during this very moment. My sisters and I get in the car, but our parents stay behind.

Our brother finally gets back to us. I send him our location, as he is on the road. I look at our burning car. Why did this have to happen?

I try to find a purpose behind the whole situation, but I’ve no luck.

This is so strange. This has never happened before. My sister shares that all she cared about was to get me out of the car. I look at her, and we slowly and quietly, sob. I had felt the same way. It all happened so fast we had no idea what to think. What now? Another sheriff pulls over along with the firefighters. After the sheriff receives everyone’s information, he escorts my mother, older sister, and me to the nearest gas station. As he is doing so, we pass our car. I take my phone out to take a video; I have to capture what had just happened. The car was no longer in flames, but it was all burnt. Everything was gone. My family is safe and that is all that matters. I quietly sob. He drops us off, asks us a few more questions, and he goes off to view our car once more. I use the restroom, and walk around the store, trying to bring peace into my heart and mind, but my mind is racing. What could have caused it?

After an hour or so, my dad and oldest sister arrive. As we all reunite, he gives us a talk. “What happened, happened. It can’t stop us from moving forward.” What happened, happened.

I don’t know what I’m feeling. Is it a pity that we’ve gone through this? Happy tears that my family is safe? I can’t figure myself out. I’m shocked that is the only way to describe my emotions. A while later we 99

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also reunite with the sheriff; he informs us that it isn’t the first time he has seen a car burn up out of the blue. It is actually common for cars to mysteriously blow up or have accidents in that particular spot on the interstate. Great, paranormal activity. Creepy. He later leaves, and we head back into the gas station to wait for my brother. He arrives an hour later with his friend in two different cars. We explain a little about what happened, and we head home again. I know my dad is nervous about driving after whatever had just happened. So I begin to pray. A Padre Nuestro and Santa Maria. I feel relief, but I continue to think.

Thinking in the dark about what happened, what could’ve happened, what didn’t. Tears trickle down my face. Again, I don’t know what I’m feeling. I’m a mess of sorrow with gratitude. It has been a couple days since the incident. I can tell our minds are racing with questions and flashbacks. We’re slower than usual. Quieter than usual. It’s not easy recovering from something you thought would never happen to you.

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A Gruesome Look at Childhood Nostalgia When you’re a kid, you can’t wait to get older. The future holds promises of staying up late and being able to make your own decisions. But there’s also something morbid about it. In the following poems “When We Didn’t Feel Small” by Tacy Andrews and “Milestones” by Anna Matu, we see the morbidity of growing up presented in two different ways.

In “Milestones,” Anna Matu uses intense language and imagery to paint the inescapable terror of a childhood passing by. The reader jumps from image to image, each one carrying the weight of memories. Lovely ones, like nights spent with our friends. Almost instantaneously, the scene shifts to a morbid and grotesque image of two flies finding love in the rotting carcass of a deer. The life of these insects—who meet, fall in love, have children, and finally die—is reduced to two stanzas soaked in disdain and disgust. Matu’s gruesome imagery is a powerful rejection of that sentimentality.

In “When We Didn’t Feel Small” by Tacy Andrews, we travel with the speaker as they fixate on childhood memories, taking us back to a time when they were young, wild, and carefree. It is a nostalgic piece, where the speaker brings us along as they bask in the memories of a simpler time. But suddenly, that blissful childhood is interrupted by new fears and anxiety about the looming future which makes it feel impossible to hold on.

While “When We Didn’t Feel Small” looks back on simpler times, “Milestones” looks forward with visceral details. Andrews’ imagery presents a more subtle horror while Matu throws this repulsiveness in your face, making it impossible to ignore. Both are striking tactics.

Andrews and Matu play with nostalgic imagery to subvert the cliché joys of childhood and expose the morbid truth of getting older.

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When We Didn’t Feel Small Tacy Andrews The days when we danced on the sunshine We forgot to brush our teeth and our hair was still in knots.

Our parents claimed they’d buy us more Christmas presents If our dental bill was more reasonable But we were so high on the atmosphere outside that two minutes twice a day was just too long.

Dirt smudged on our faces And we did not care.

It added to the wildness of it all.

The days when the world seemed so big.

But didn’t feel small.

Twenty-five cents seemed to stretch so far.

Tootsie Pops lasted all day and tears didn’t fall Till our knees were purple or the big dog started to bark.

Sleep was a waste of time we thought.

There were so many things to see The back of our eyelids were just too familiar to read.

The days when adventures in puddles and trees Made us feel so complete.

Life was more tame And yet more exciting all the same.

When there was nothing greater than the thought of spending Mom’s extra change.

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Our greatest fear was always the dark We couldn’t help but wonder what was lurking around When the lights were all shut off.

I suppose that’s the mystery of it all.

We lived for the unknown but only for so long.

We thrived in our quests And made each day full of discovery Uncharted paths were our favorites.

But some waters were still too scary to cross.

Foreign sights were only fun with guidance From our protectors, those who made it feel like nothing could go wrong.

I suppose that’s why our young hearts don’t live very long The unfamiliar still terrifies us when there is no one to tell us, “hold on.”

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Milestones Anna Matu blobfish retrieved from the depths, unmoored by the sudden change in pressure, a group of teenaged idiots write a ritual of pure coincidence: two cherries tongue-tied together rocking on a scratched log around a fire like modern art on exhibit, broken glasses forgotten in the pocket of a fold-out fabric chair; skinny dipping in unclear air, tonight, weathered bottle bottoms collected from the creek in that hazy teenaged way, wondering what swilled and who drank, yellow popcorn and sticky soda cans. they all start pouring them on the ground: as a joke, as a parody, as a cleaving rebellion, just to be funny again, as some funeral for strangers. logs pop and they admire the red hot termite lines. seasick guts of gelatin fish and Oreos, red-dyed tongues from DumDums, slippery and half drunk on untreated grass and ticks. fingers in four belt loops, jeans for nostalgia, play punches to brawls that are still funny, 106

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cold-out cuddling, dusk dew slick slip-and-slides down hills. peek-a-boo to hide and seek, they work on their object permanence; out, sight, out, mind. they all spin too close to the fire, hang upside down over decade old chairs and get dizzy and top heavy; the jumpies keep monkeying on the bed. the little kids are little flies over roadkill in the summer: two mates meet in the lines of a heatwave, undulating sickly over a tawny deer, antlers twisting towards the ground like confused branches, split unneatly at the belly like a gaping maw. slick organs fall out clumsily and stick to the asphalt. back to the flies, who meet lovingly over a dead and unmourned fixture of the highway and stare drunkenly at the interminably fractured images of each other, living young and stupid for two days (sky time-lapsing through too bright and speckled dark) before dropping, seesawing like feathers, to a warmly cooling soft spot to rest and have 2.5 kids, which come out ugly and looking nothing like them, and to die before the larvae molt and rise again and find again a port to momentarily float, listlessly and happily, teeth bared uncomfortably, over the fire.

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Mourning Meadow In the following pieces, you’ll witness how our writers tackle grief and the complex mix of emotions that come with losing a loved one. While “Mourning Dove” and “From the White Meadow” are both poems that examine the experience of loss through the point of view of the survivor, they differ in the ways in which their respective speaker’s grief is grounded.

In “Mourning Dove,” grief is not present from the start, but rather is something the speaker learns by the poem’s conclusion. This grief and the speaker’s memory of their loved one are inseparable from observations of nature: of spiny cacti and sun-kissed mountains, of desert flowers, hummingbirds, and javelinas. While this imagery portrays the distinctive scenery of the American Southwest, it also informs the reader how the speaker is coming to understand their grief: what once brought so much joy and connected the speaker to their loved one now only highlights the fact that their beloved has departed—they can no longer observe or interact with the natural world they once adored and knew so well. This becomes painfully clear in the last few lines as the speaker reflects on their lesson about loss: “the sun no longer kisses her as it kisses me and the mountains.”

“From the White Meadow” grounds the speaker’s grief as an ongoing struggle that persists long after the loss of their love. Unlike the more concrete and straightforward imagery of the previous piece, “White Meadow” is very dream-like, blurring the line between what’s real and imagined. For example, the speaker encounters their loved one as a ghostly-figure, “[wearing] the sun like a halo, the mist you made a sweater.” The ambiguity reflects the tangled emotions the speaker is experiencing as a result of this encounter: on one hand, the speaker wishes for their love to rest and be at “peace.” On the other, the speaker is struggling under the weight of their unresolved grief, desperately wishing to see (and be seen by) their love again, even if it is merely their “ghost.”

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Mourning Dove Caroline Barker I would be awoken from a dream by the coo of the mourning dove.

I would sit up and feel the warm glow from the yawning sun kiss my skin just as it had kissed the mountains earlier that morning.

The soft carpet on each step would rise to meet my feet, as I floated into the day ahead.

I would see her sitting there, being kissed by the same sun that kissed me before her and the mountains before me.

The slow days would roll by, the desert marigolds would open their petals, smiling up at us.

Tiny stones would crackle beneath our feet as we passed by the spiny cacti and the blooming flowers.

“Palo verde,” she would say. And I would nod, admiring the wild and bright tree.

“A Costa’s hummingbird,” she would whisper, pointing her gracefully knobby finger at the garden.

And I would search the garden for a glimpse of the tiny thing.

“Come quick!” she would exclaim, and I would rush to her window, peering out to see a family of javelinas, sipping water under the evening sun.

The sky would turn golden, 110

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then blush, then a deep, rich purple.

The suddenly not-so-slow days have since raced by, and the sun no longer kisses her as it kisses me and the mountains.

The mourning dove no longer wakes me, as its mourning is now familiar to me.

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From the White Meadow Sheridyn Bailey I went looking for you, One morn with the sun still shy, The dew damped my shoes, Mist a gentle sigh.

What was real—I couldn’t say, Sleep a shawl on my shoulders, The earth a hum and fog was fey, I stepped, And I saw you.

You wore the sun like a halo, The mist you made a sweater, But it was those eyes—so mellow, The one I’d always remember.

And all at once I felt alive, Finally my heart did weep, As my eyes had long since dried, Once you were six feet deep.

I’d tried to follow you, But I never did find where you’d hidden, So I let you keep your peace, Even as I came unwritten.

And yet you’ve returned I see, If merely in just a waking dream, But my love I’d swallow the sea, If I could only just know your ghost, Had been watching me.

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In Memory Throughout our lives, we connect with others—with family, friends, romantic partners. Through these connections, we create memories. We recall the ones we love in certain scents, foods we’ve eaten that day, a laugh that sounds familiar but comes from a stranger. Often we unlock memories we thought we’d forgotten, and they come back like clouds in the sky. We reach. We grasp for the entire image, but it floats away, the clouds igniting little fires on our fingers. Courtney Rhinehart’s “Mama” embodies this exact phenomenon: what can we hold onto when our loved ones disappear? Does love fade with the memories? How do we get the memories back? Can we get love back? “Mama” is visceral and heartbreaking, capturing an all-consuming desperation to recover what we’ve lost, fragments that always remain just above our grip. It’s a harsh realization, but a true one—good or bad, important or irrelevant, all our memories will eventually fade. Everything that comes next? That’s out of reach, too.

But ephemeral as they may be, memories also carry an incredible beauty we rediscover with every connection. It’s the feeling that warms us from the inside when we hug a family member after time apart, celebrate birthdays at work, see a friend between the shelves of a grocery store. We find one particularly special connection in Meredith Toussaint’s “My Mailbox Friend,” a nonfiction essay about Toussaint’s pen pal relationship with a nun in a nursing care facility. Through letters, the two women were able to bridge any and every divide and find true friendship in the middle of a global pandemic, a time when we’ve needed connection most. “My Mailbox Friend” reminds us of beauty, of hope, of new memories from the old. We may not get to know what the future holds, but we can trust that for all the heartbreak, we will experience joy. Nothing lasts forever, for better or for worse.

“Mama” and “My Mailbox Friend” draw from two different stories and elicit two different emotional responses, but we can learn a valuable lesson from both: we should never be afraid to make connections and memories. Instead, we should live in the moment and be grateful for it, knowing we will be able to reminisce about the moments in our memories later. After all, these memories shape us into the person we are today. With them, we transform existence into a life.

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Mama Courtney Rhinehart Sometimes, the memories come in faint flashes.

They’re never loud, never bright, never long, but they burrow in the back of your mind, digging their home in-between the fragile recesses.

They’re always blurry like a foggy mirror, just general outlines and quiet edges that might be a memory, might be a made-up fantasy. They haunt you. They hurt you. They suffocate you until your chest caves in and crushes your lungs beneath their weight.

And in between each breathless, dying moment, you realize you can’t remember her face.

Her charming laugh like the jingling of bells, her mischievous grin, her playful words that swirl around your head like an enemy searching for an opening to attack. Yes, you can remember those things. You can remember the simple, meaningless ones, the fleeting moments. You can recall the colors she wore and the words she spoke.

But never her face.

You swear up and down that her eyes were blue, light and pale, changing slightly with the clothes she wore. You swear that wrinkles had once carved their way down from the corners of her eyes as she grinned, lines of unfathomable happiness that could never be reduced to mere words. But how sure could you possibly be? The pictures were fuzzy, yellowed, crinkled as though time was forgetting her as well. What if they were more of a green color? What if those wrinkles were comprised of worry and stress instead?

Blonde, her hair was always blonde. You remember because you used to have the same light shade when you were younger. Years and age and time away from the sunlight stole your similarities away until your hair was a only few shades lighter than his. Jealousy and something incredibly ugly bubbles up when you think of those little pieces of her being ripped away from your desperate hands, but you shove it down until it vanishes from your sight. Her hair was short, maybe collarbone length.

You know because you used to copy that as well, but the last time you 116

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saw her, it was longer than yours.

Her skin was pale. She never tanned, only burned like you do in the harsh summer months. You remember that she always made the excuse that she’d burn to a crisp if she went outside for too long, but you also remember that the last time you saw her, between centuries of silence and reality, that her skin was a gentle, sun-kissed tan. It spoke of dozens of adventures that you were never a part of, that you would never get to see. You weren’t around back then, and you were sure it would stay that way.

Her smile was natural, easy. It spoke a thousand words without a single wasted breath. Those curved lips whispered millions of stories, and each time, you leaned in a little closer to hear every inviting word and phrase as though it was the most important thing in the world. She reassured silently, and you listened. Each and every time, you listened.

But now there’s a chip in her smile, and you don’t know its story. You had shut your ears, and her stories ceased to reach out towards you like a gentle embrace.

The memories you clutch so desperately to your chest are faded, infected with a distant poison that ate away at the fuzzy corners of images dyed with time. You remember, but you don’t. You wish you could, that you could see her face once more: the curve of her smile, the brightness in her maybe-blue eyes, just her. You wish and wish and wish, but you don’t utter your desires aloud.

You know better now. You know nothing good would come from the frail words resting on your tongue, so you shatter them before they can pass your lips.

The very last time you saw her, she was tired. Bags clung to the bruised skin beneath her aging eyes. Centuries may have passed, and you could see the signs. She worked and worked until her eyes became dull pools of shadowed gray and the life dripped from her body, collecting at her aching feet. Her smile was the same, you thought, but a bone-deep weariness stole away the light and mischievousness.

You were tired too, but you pulled at the strings connected to the corners of your lips anyway and smiled. You smiled even though you were exhausted and your heart was rusted and clogged with dust. Maybe it creaked, but she was deaf to it. You both played by the rules of the game and pretended not to notice the awkward air suffocating your lungs and 117

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lumped inside your throat with words you wished to scream but knew to be pointless.

You remembered the little things as you always did. You remembered the simple generalizations that echoed in the recesses of your mind. That day you might have relearned it all, but when you left that night, you already knew that you’d forget everything between one forever and another eternity.

It was inevitable.

When the doors shut behind you, loud and ringing with finality, you knew that her eyes were blue, her hair blonde, and her skin pale.

But that night, curled up in the exhausted warmth of your bed, you realized that you still couldn’t remember her face.

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My Mailbox Friend Meredith Toussaint On a brisk February afternoon of my sophomore year of high school, my mom texted me the mailing address of a Catholic nursing care facility in the middle of Chicago. This was where Sister Mary Ann lived, my great-aunt Sis’ best friend and someone our family had virtually lost touch with after Sis passed away in 2010. I got home from school that day and decided to write her a letter. I thought it might bring a smile to her face but didn’t really expect anything more. I sent it off, bearing a stamp with flowers on it, a tribute to the hours we had spent with her in the Chicago Botanical Garden on a trip when I was six.

A few weeks later, my life changed.

Mary Ann became a nun in 1954, then spent twenty-seven years as a teacher and principal, and the next ten years as a pastoral associate. She wrote a book called Seasoned by the Word about how she, along with my great-aunt and ninety other Sisters of Christian Charity, branched off to form the Sisters of the Living Word in 1975. They followed Vatican II’s call for the renewal of religious life and began to advocate for the homeless, immigrants, the environment, anti-racism, and human-trafficking victims. My grandpa’s sister Lea, who we affectionately called Sis, was close friends with Mary Ann, and though I have few memories of them, my mom has always painted a picture of their lives that inspired me to do something bigger with my own.

One morning in early March of my sophomore year, I received a small card in the mail with a butterfly painted in shades of red, gold, and sky blue on the front. I opened it up to find precise, flowing cursive writing dancing across the page. “You gave me the surprise of my life with your lovely letter,” Mary Ann wrote. And so began our unexpected friendship. I wrote Mary Ann back right away, breaking out the pink and white polka-dot stationery that I hadn’t used since middle school, and began to tell her about my life. I told her about my hobbies, interests, goals, and dreams. We talked about the weather and thanked God for the blooming flowers and the showers of rain. Each letter continued 119

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an ongoing conversation between friends that lifted us both up and brought a little more joy into our lives.

As the weeks went on, as I began to trust Mary Ann more and more, I would pour my heart out to her in each letter. I talked excitedly with her about preparing for my confirmation, I told her about my favorite classes in school and why I liked them, and I shared how excited I was to have my sister home for the summer. She explained to me the anniversary celebrations for her religious order, what books she was reading, and shared happy memories of my aunt Sis. We sent each other birthday wishes inside cards embellished with images of plump balloons or flickering candles, and wishes for a blessed Christmas wrapped in green and red ribbons. We declared what we were thankful for at the end of November and confessed our dreams for each new year. She sent me her community’s book of Advent reflections, and I had a bouquet of flowers delivered to her on Easter morning. We shared so many moments together, and I found myself rushing down to the mailbox every day, rejoicing when I found a letter from Chicago.

However, not every letter came bearing good news. In January of 2020, Mary Ann wrote to tell me that her last remaining sibling had passed away, declaring, “I believe God is embracing him with much love.” I joined her in praying for him while also praying for her to be comforted. A few months later, we shared the challenges of being in quarantine, and she mourned the events and experiences I had missed out on in high school, even when she had not been allowed to leave her room in months. Her ability to keep hope alive in what could easily be a situation of despair inspired me to count my blessings and appreciate the fresh air and sunshine even more. When telling me about the wheelchair she needs because of her hip injury, she once wrote, “But I could never complain. I am so much luckier than a lot of other people.” Mary Ann’s resilience and strength has given me courage, and the ability for us to share our experiences with each other made life better for us both Many things have inspired me about Mary Ann, such as her simplicity and ability to always find beauty in everyday life. In almost every letter she sent for the first few months, she mentioned the courtyard visible from outside her window with an excitement and joy that can only come from someone truly in love with what life has to offer. “My room looks out on a lovely courtyard,” she wrote, “with lovely flowers 120

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in boxes and pots, a real treat!” This inspired me to find joy in the little things and take time to realize how beautiful the flowers are. I would look up at the sky or at a blooming tree or see a bird soaring through the air and exult in its beauty, a practice that comes straight from Mary Ann’s spirited outlook on life.

Writing letters with my mom’s late aunt’s friend, a retired Catholic sister living in a nursing home in Chicago, is something I never would have predicted for my life. But it has been one of my greatest joys these past few years, and a blessing beyond what I could have imagined when I sent that first letter. Her kindness to me has been exceptional, and her beautiful example of humility, trust, and hope inspires me in everything that I do. Mary Ann Zrust, SLW, has helped me to see the joys of life every day and to notice, in her words, “how much good is coming forth from people. It is truly amazing.”

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A Plein Aire Sketch of Home In visual arts, there is a technique called plein aire, which means painting the landscape in front of you while outdoors. These next pieces— Spoken Word: My Family” by Kaetlyn Clark and “From House to Home”

by Jennifer “Levi” Doty—may be written, but they’re plein aire works of their own, standing firm in their settings and the emotions they recreate. Both poems are rooted in their speakers’ desires for a safe environment as they wrestle with their pasts only to arrive home.

“Spoken Word: My Family” peers into a frenetic mind and begs its reader to watch the world through the speaker’s eyes. It lays bare sharp anxieties and self-doubts for us, each line a brushstroke slashing jagged cliffs into the paper. It’s rhythm pulls viewers into a spiraling wave before releasing them like a clear stroke of sky when the speaker regains their footing. Clark artfully immerses readers in hopelessness and anger, only to offer them love and stability through family on the other side.

“From House to Home” weaves a narrative of bittersweet companionship as it follows the speaker and their sister on their journey to find a place where they can belong, and people to come back to. Doty’s poem comes to life through the concept of a home as something to be built and nourished. Rather than accepting their unhealthy environment, they take control of their own narrative and paint themselves a new one.

Clark and Doty explore the bravery of introspection, of painting the past in all its grit and troubles, of rewriting each brushstroke until it looks and feels like home, leaving a sharp self-awareness to pulse at the heart of each piece. Both pieces explore feeling out of place in, and out of control with, their worlds. Yet, by their final stanzas, they both regain love, companionship, and the safety that comes with belonging. These poems are plein aire, confronting troubling realities with unflinching honesty before stepping back, taking a breath, and sketching a new landscape for themselves. One with family. One that is home.

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Spoken Word: My Family Kaetlyn Clark I’m telling you the things I see, I’m breaking it down so you can think like me.

Wake up with a blurry mind, shaking skin and watery eyes. The reflecting cover, which is over my eyes, teaches you the words that I chose to hide.

So when the time comes for the truth to fall, please don’t stare…don’t look at all.

See the story within reality, the one people push back because all it causes is fatality— Watch the fragile hearts break as it all flows out— Started when I was young, dumb, and desperate to be loved.

Messing with a power too strong for my arms, at that time they were uncut.

I took in all the problems, stacked them up so they are all mine. They all come falling down, my temper like a freaking land mine.

See now I’m choking out these words they don’t even feel like mine, I can’t go inside, I need to be out here…laying with all the trouble and fear of mine I’m stumbling along now, just come and push me down! I swear when I hit the ground I won’t cry, you think it might hurt I mean c’mon really try!

Try breathing in like me, in 2, hold 4, out 3! But if I’m gone then how will the world be without me?

Put me up on stage, anything is better than the cage of which you helped my heart escape.

Tell me speak my mind, but please don’t make me, my mind is not fine!

You take my hand and promise in the end I’ll make it to the better land, couldn’t ask for a better friend But still as you fell I ran…I couldn’t understand that maybe it was me who needed fixing but the world was fine I kept getting lost in my own mind, or is it even mine?

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I can’t find your light even when I am putting up a fight—I still try to hide I’m scared you’ll see, my friend, this is the real me.

Got a little older, my mind took a major fold, got into things that would make my mind considered old. I couldn’t stop, my mind controlled by things that the internet holds.

I’m not proud of who I am or was, but looking back I see I changed cuz when you look at me it’s not hate I see. It’s something bolder, one that’s in fine print and now my heart has it in an audio clip saying— “I hated being scared, I hated being weak. How come it was you who chose to love me?”

Your love changed my world, made my mind more clear.

Let me know my head didn’t need changing, just a new gear So now the wheels in my head are turning, it’s not longer my dreams that are burning See my story isn’t long but I swear it has it all, my best friend, new gears, and mended heart.

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From House to Home Jennifer “Levi” Doty I am from a house—not a home A childhood of screams that tear through walls +++ I am from a dad who needs alcohol like air A mother too tired to care I am from siblings who left too early Leaving me alone in this house unsturdy The ground shakes, the walls cave I am crushed beneath the remains +++ A sibling I thought long gone Running fast through the lawn Her desperate hands digging through the rubble Reaching for the small hand in trouble No longer buried she tells me she’ll stay We’ll build together a place called home +++ Now I’m from a home full of creativity Sloppy paintings hung on strong walls Paint underneath her tiny fingernails She is my niece I’m from video games and movies Controllers across coffee tables Words mumbled in his concentration He is my nephew +++ We are from Bonfires and late night motorcycle rides Laughter filling a room Silence shared with understanding 126

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We are sisters Always together We built this love from the ground Finally a home

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Hysterical Strength There is a phenomenon called “hysterical strength,” which has been observed in dire circumstances and has allowed ordinary humans to lift vehicles and even fend off a polar bear. The brain allows the body to momentarily extend itself beyond its limits in its fight for survival.

The following three pieces channel a tremendous strength in the face of unbearable weight.

“There Is Mental Illness Here” by Etoile Lumiere responds to “There Are Birds Here” by Jamaal May. This poem aims to redefine the way the world views mental illness. For high school students, it haunts the hallways, overwhelming and unseen. The narrator issues a plea to correct the assumptions that mentally ill means crazy. “There Is Mental Illness Here” delivers truth, uninhibited by the pain it has caused. The piece demands that people with mental illnesses be seen and respected.

The poem “Chinese” by Athena Wu addresses Western society’s warped views of Asian culture. By satirically meshing elements of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese tradition and using “Chinese” as an umbrella term to represent them all, the narrator illustrates just how little others understand about the difference between cultures (and how little they care to educate themselves). It also addresses the racism towards Asian Americans and how they have been blamed for the covid-19 pandemic. “Chinese” is blunt and unapologetic in demanding understanding from its readers.

The final poem in this section is “Platinum-Based Anti-Cancer Drugs” by Ruba Ahmed-Abdelmutalab. The poem uses the science behind cancer treatment drugs to break down their inconsistencies.

There is no guarantee the drugs will cure anything, but they will surely destroy the body in the process. The narrator points out the irony of drugs that do more harm than good.

“There Is Mental Illness Here,” “Chinese,” and “Platinum-Based Anti-Cancer Drugs” are written by authors who found strength to advocate for empathy. Pushing back against the stigmas attached to these topics, these poems address the strength it takes to be honest and vulnerable. Under pressure, the authors found their power to fight for something greater. By extending themselves beyond what inhibits 129

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them to make their voices heard, they embody the meaning of hysterical strength. In this section, they will be heard. It is our duty to listen.

When the car is lifted, the dust has cleared, and the adrenaline spike fades, there is relief. Witness this hysterical strength and find rest.

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Platinum-Based Anti-Cancer Drugs Ruba Ahmed-Abdelmutalab Cisplatin Enters your cell through the window or through the door Passive diffusion or active transport It’s kind of confusing so lemme keep it short Platinum-based drugs kinda save you but I’ll explain a little more Loses its two chlorines Attaches to two more nitrogens so not it’s with guanines Guess it doesn’t want chlorine anymore Lost its arm like it never belonged Lost its identity, but it never had it for that long Lost its sanity now it’s killing a soul The DNA is bent, now the cell’s destroyed Cisplatin Good for malignant tumors Those cancerous cells spread like teenage rumors[+ Intoxicating organs one by one Putting down each other until there’s absolutely none Dividing uncontrollably, escalating with no constraint Until it’s much too late The tumors embedded deep inside But there’s still hope, platinum drugs come to rise Cisplatin One of three Cisplatin, carboplatin, oxaliplatin and other wannabes All similarly structured but used for different things All approved by the FDA but none are guaranteed 131

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They’re like lemons and oranges Both round but one’s more sour-y You see platinum drugs have a funny discovery Rosenberg was tryna electrocute cells but instead they stopped dividing They found a good use; they saw a treatment hiding Said, “Why not use this for cancer?”

Tried it on mice, and then they had the answer Cisplatin Doesn’t just attach to DNA And that’s what all these people are trying to figure out today What else does it attach to?

Why not that RNA? I mean it’s basically DNA…nevermind They’re not really the same Cisplatin Attaches to RNA they say Interferes with that ribosomal RNA Now it’s coming in the way Of transcribing proteins I guess that’s the only price I have to pay…

Nope.

As effective as these drugs can be Your cells are stronger than they seem Basically what happens is resistance to this tiny little thing Maybe that’s ’cause DNA found a key to locks itself in Or maybe ’cause it knows how to repair better—don’t you think?

Remember how cisplatin actively transports itself in?

I wonder what transporters they use I wonder how they’re affected by the resistance But what about the rest of the platinum Floating around in your blood It’s gonna have to go through that kidney It’s gonna have to mess it up If only we could have a less toxic drug 132

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If only we could find a bed without the bug Cisplatin And the tragic resistance to cisplatin It’s time for another platinum Thus the discovery of phenanthriplatin Significantly less distortion of our beloved DNA—no more famine From the nucleotides, we use every day Still, there’s inhibition of transcription Oh what do we do with this encryption Can we get a little more detailed description?

Cisplatin The hero and the villain The knife and penicillin The home and the prison It either worked or it didn’t

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There Is Mental Illness Here Etoile Lumiere After Jamaal May For my friends There is mental illness here.

Mental illness that is a swirling dark cloud and shining crystal dust.

No, I do not mean straight jackets and screams, I mean students walking the hallways on the way to class.

No, I do not mean a deranged serial killer, I mean a child with so much empathy their heart is always breaking.

But I also mean anxiety so heavy you cannot move. I also mean The World constantly saying ‘You are broken’ ‘You are not normal.’

I mean seeing the world in a million more colors or a million less. No, I do not mean colorblindness, I mean that each and every taste and texture is distinct and blinding.

I do not mean that no mental illness is a drawback.

But I do not mean that every mental illness is one.

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Chinese Athena Wu Yes, the mooncakes and dragon dances and Mid-Autumn Festival We honor our ancestors, for honor is life, you must not lose face for your family Step outside, find a geisha, buy delft porcelain Made In China With firecrackers and hanbok in the next stall Red vests Red lanterns Red flag, and no those aren’t five stars Those are a hammer and sickle We’re across the ocean worshipping Chairman Mao though some are flying kamikaze to you Delivering gifts of kung-flu

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Contributor Bios Ruba Ahmed-Abdelmutalab Ruba Ahmed-Abdelmutalab is a Sudanese-American Muslim junior at West High School who began writing poetry in her freshman year of high school after attending a summer writing program. Although she enjoys writing in her free time, her career and academic interests revolve around science and STEM, in general. In the near future, she plans to study biomedical or chemical engineering in college. This poem combines writing and science to discuss and explain the topic of platinum-based drugs and their use in treating cancer patients. It includes general background on how the cisplatin drug works, in addition to evolving research surrounding platinum-based drugs.

Tacy Andrews My name is Tacy Andrews and I am a high school senior at HLV Community Jr & Sr High School. I have always loved writing and am ecstatic to have my writing published again this year! I will be attending Emmaus Bible College in the fall of 2021 to study secondary English language arts education and keep my love for language and literature with me as I head into a professional career. On top of my love for writing, I love all things music! You will see three poems from me in this anthology—my favorite of which is “For Just a Minute or Two.” I wrote this poem in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, referencing the chaos that it turned our lives into. It is my hope that the words of this poem will remind us of our ever-present nature to be human; our unwavering characteristic of feeling. It is my hope that this poem brings a touch of clarity, a sense of relief, and a necessary reminder that when it all feels like too much—it is okay to say so. I hope you enjoy my writing!

Betty Barbarash Betty Barbarash is a senior at The Buckley School. She wrote this assignment as part of her Experimental Literature class; in the assignment, students were given the chapter “On the use of Dialogue in Literature” from the book The Book of Beginnings and Endings by Jenny Boully.

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The chapter consisted of the first and last page of the chapter, and students had to fill in the middle pages.

Sheridyn Bailey is a sophomore at Van Meter High School. Her passions include anything art, writing, music, reading, and the outdoors.

When she isn't in school, she's writing or drawing. In the future, Sheridyn hopes to share her art, both written and visual, with the world.

Caroline Barker Caroline Barker is a junior at West High School this year. Ever since she could hold a pencil, she has loved creative writing. She used to spend kindergarten recesses writing stories, and still uses writing to express thoughts and emotions. She wrote this poem as a way to grieve her grandma and memorialize their time together in Tucson, Arizona.

Kaetlyn Clark I’m Kaetlyn Clark, and I am a ninth-grade student at Grinnell High School. At my school, I play on the softball team. I often don’t share my writing within the school. I have never been the best with expressing my emotions in a verbal way, but the second I begin to write, it all seems so easy, the way you can say a million things but only mean it one way always amazes me. Poetry and writing are ways to mask yet express the deepest feelings. I started writing a few years ago while I was dealing with a lot of mental issues. I wrote this spoken word for my friend who stayed with me even when I wasn’t the best person to stick by: it took me about a year to realize I had a true friend. This was my way of showing him my appreciation. I took this opportunity to share a personal spoken word because I feel that my story has had a major impact on some people and will help them during hardships that I finally got myself out of. Struggling with depression and anxiety can really suck the fun out of everything, I wanted to show that there is always light at the end of the tunnel.

Jennifer “Levi” Doty I am a senior at West Marshall High School. I love acting in plays and musicals the school puts on every wyear. I was in speech my sophomore year of high school (at a different school) and ended up going to all-state with an

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acting piece I wrote myself. After that, I was really hooked on writing and eventually would love to make a short film or even write a book.

Krystina Franks Krystina Franks is a senior at Central DeWitt High School. She is the lead editor of (and published in) The Scribbler, her school’s literary magazine, a member of the newspaper, (The Purple Onion) and a part of the yearbook (The Centralian) staff. She is also an intern at the Midwest Writing Center during the summer. You can find some of her work published in the literary journal, The Atlas 15. Franks plans to attend the University of Northern Iowa to major in early childhood education and special education with a minor in creative writing. Franks is known for her colorful clothing and as the “wanna-be poet.” When she’s not writing (which is a rare occurrence), you can find her reading bedtime stories to her 6 cats, shopping for oversized “grandma” sweaters, or hiding in the school library.

Lina Groner-David My name is Lina Groner-David, and I am a senior at The Buckley School.

After completion of a poetry assignment in ninth grade, I became interested in poetry as an outlet for expression. I write original poems on my own and have also written poetry for other school assignments.

Hannah Huisman Hannah Huisman is a fifteen-year-old ninth-grader at Mason High School. She has lived in Mason for ten years now, and loves taking up the opportunities offered there. This is her first piece of published writing, and she is excited to have the opportunity to share her voice—or rather, her written thoughts—with others. She enjoys acting and has participated in five shows with Acting Up, two shows with MMS Drama Club, and one show with MHS Drama. Her roles have included Juror Four in The Twelve Incompetent Jurors, The Genie in Aladdin Jr., Lavender in Rohl Dahl’s Matilda: The Musical, and The Caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland Jr. These experiences have allowed Hannah to explore her passion for theater-specifically, musical theater—and have taught her about cooperation and teamwork. Outside of acting, Hannah also enjoys singing, filmmaking, and participating in MHS Model United

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Nations and MHS Youth Activism Club, which have taught her about problem-solving and the importance of being willing to learn.

Caroline Kayea resides in Mason, Ohio, attending William Mason High School as a 9th-grader. She lives with her wonderful family and dreams of being a published author. When she’s not at dance rehearsals, she dedicates her free time to reading and writing.

Maya Kirzner Maya Kirzner is a freshman at William Mason High School in Mason, Ohio. She participates in her high school marching band’s color guard.

She is also a teaching assistant for Sunday School classes at her temple.

In her free time, Maya is an avid reader, enjoys listening to music and being with friends.

Luke Krchak Luke Krchak was born and raised in Iowa City, Iowa. For as long as he can remember, he has been writing and telling stories. Throughout high school; he has worked at the West Side Story, writing profiles, reviews, and columns. In fall 2021, he will be a freshman at the University of Iowa majoring in English and creative writing.

Ricardo Larios Duran My name is Ricardo Larios Duran. I am fifteen years old, and I go to school at West Liberty High School in West Liberty, Iowa. In my free time, I like to practice my soccer skills and draw. I feel very honored to have been chosen to share my essay with this publication.

Nicole Lee Nicole Lee, fifteen, was born in Coralville, Iowa, on November 15, 2005.

Her parents, Sooyoun Chung and Sangshin Lee, were both immigrants from South Korea when they moved to America. Excelling in subjects such as language arts and literature, Nicole has become a lover of books and writing but still gives her all in all of her other classes. Nicole can’t say what her hopes and dreams are for the future except for graduating from a good university, receiving her master’s degree, and having

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a stable career. All she aims for is that she can spend most of her life surrounded by all sorts of literature and experience life while continuing to involve herself in writing and maybe even someday publish a book of her very own.

Marta Leira is the author of “Iowa City Residents Unite to Paint Community Mural.”

Brandy Lopez Hello, my name is Brandy Lopez, and I am a sophomore at West Liberty High School. I spend my time reading, writing, crafting and listening to music. I started journaling when I was in third grade and continue to do so today. I write about all kinds of things, but mostly about my emotions, anxiety, and experiences I have gone through. A few of my favorite writers are Anne Frank, Rupi Kaur and Billy Chapata. I hope to share my work one day and inspire someone else to do the same.

Etoile Lumiere I’m a freshman at William Mason High School. One of my biggest aspirations in life is to get rid of the stigma around many groups of people.

A part of this comes from my friend group and seeing what they still go through in 2021. The majority of my friends are LGBTQ+, people of color, or have physical or mental disabilities. I myself have anxiety and depression, but unlike negative stereotypes, I am still able to function as a human being and live my life. I use literature because I find I can better communicate through it than other means. Afterall, nearly everything can be described via words.

Anna Matu I am a freshman at William Mason High School in Mason, Ohio, an editor of the school literary magazine, Writers’ Block, a member of the Film Club and Black Student Union. I’m an inconsolable optimist, and I spend inappropriate amounts of time reading and thinking about growing up. Thunderstorms are my favorite weather, and I like meditating on small things. My piece is one of said meditations, on flies and teenagedom.

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Anthony Menting Hailing from the Los Angeles area, writes Anthony Menting. He is a senior at The Buckley School in Sherman Oaks, California. He found that Experimental Literature quickly became one of his favorite classes because of the unrestrained, unhindered freedom it allows him as a writer. Yes, he is a writer. At first, he did not exactly see himself with an author’s signature, but the more he reads over his work, he realized that he liked his writing although he doesn’t exactly have a conscious style of writing, allowing him to simply explore his penmanship on paper, where creative writing just flows. It has become the slow opening of a door to a world unexplored. His assignments are the keys to unconstrained thoughts where he starts out dreaming and ends up an insomniac, not being able to sleep until his soul is content thinking that the reader will actually enjoy reading it. So please enjoy.

Eli “Cillian” Moawad Eli “Cillian” Moawad is a sophomore at The Buckley School in Sherman Oaks, California. A California native, Eli developed a love of story-telling and a history at a young age. He is particularly drawn to poetry and creative writing as an expressive outlet that provides a voice to the challenges he faces as a young adult with learning disabilities and high functioning autism. A talented presenter, Eli/Cil is a gifted speaker and is naturally inclined towards language and accents. He hopes to pursue a career in creative writing or acting and looks forward to resuming travel abroad, perhaps even as a college student in Northern Europe.

His interests include medieval European and tactical warfare history, Roman and Nordic culture, and European and ancient languages. In his free time, he enjoys escape rooms, LARPing, reading and writing poetry, committing interesting facts to memory, rock climbing, geocaching, and like many teens, playing video games. Eli attributes the cultivation of his passion for creative writing to his fifth grade teacher, Mr. Green, during his enrollment at Bentley School in Oakland, California.

Nancy Nahra Nancy Nahra is a tenth-grader at Liberty High School. She is a member of IC Speaks, a spoken word club.

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Courtney Rhinehart Courtney Rhinehart is a junior at HLV Community Schools. She has written for group speech ensembles and individual prose for contests.

When she graduates, she plans on getting a degree in journalism and creative writing.

Zoe Smith Zoe Smith is a ninth-grader who attends Iowa City West High. She loves school, her journalism class is her favorite. When not at school you can find her on the soccer field or the volleyball court. She also loves spending her free time with friends and family, baking, photography, and of course, playing with her two Labrador Retrievers. She is also in various clubs and organizations at West High, such as Best Buddies and Business Professionals of America.

Meredith Toussaint Meredith Toussaint is a senior in high school from Decorah, Iowa. She loves reading and writing, baking, and spending time outside with her sister. She is excited for college next year and is ready to go wherever life takes her with the positive attitude and trust in the goodness of the world that was inspired by her pen pal in Chicago.

Naylea Verdinez Hello, my name is Naylea Verdinez, and I am from a small town called West Liberty, Iowa. I am a senior at West Liberty High School. To add on, I am in the Upward Bound program, which helps students who are the first to graduate seek a career that they want to study for. For 10 years, I’ve been dancing in a dance studio, but I’ve also spent 3 years on a dance team. I participated in cheerleading for football and wrestling. When I graduate from high school, I’ll be attending Muscatine Community College for two years, then I’ll transfer to the University of Iowa majoring in journalism and writing.

Most of the time, I get my inspiration for writing when I from books I read from the library, articles, or the conversations that I have with my loved ones. My favorite genre in a book is romance with a bit of mystery.

At a young age, I started writing in a journal about my lifestyle which turned into a journal of poems. “World We Created” is based on the true events that happen in the world. It is also based on how I was raised in 145

an Hispanic community. I use my creativity to tell stories so I can get people's attention as they read my work. To be a writer means to speak out of the box from our minds and to speak about the truth in the world or about anything in general that we go through in our minds.

Athena Wu Athena Wu is a freshman at West High School and ticks off 90% of the smart Asian nerd checklist. For example, she loves math and has competed in numerous math competitions including Mathcounts and AMC. In 2020 she qualified to AIME only because the Mathematical Association of America decided to take pity on her and lower the cutoffs.

Reading is a major hobby bordering on obsession, and she’s currently in the xiaxia phase that apparently every Chinese teen goes through.

Deviances include Dungeons & Dragons, failing at drawing cartoons, and Chinese pop music. This pandemic has provided her time to better connect with her roots and deal with what being Asian means in society.

The subject of her poetry at the present is being a second-generation Chinese immigrant.

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Editor Bios Section 1

Thawed Katie Rihel is from Oswego, Illinois, and is a junior at the University of Iowa—she hopes to one day become a publisher within the city of Chicago. One fun fact about Katie is that her favorite author is Cassandra Clare.

Miah Clark is a second-year English and creative writing major at the University of Iowa. Alongside their coursework, Miah is the managing editor for HALOSCOPE and runs their own poetry Instagram, @miahwrites.

Beautiful Creations Madi Meek (she/they) is from Watertown, South Dakota, and is currently pursuing an English and creative writing degree on the publishing track at the University of Iowa. She hopes to one day be a traditionally published author and have a fanbase of her own.

Courtney Stearns (she/her) is one of the section editors for Living Proof. She’s also a poetry editor for Zenith Lit Mag, a literary magazine based in Iowa City.

Hearth Elyse Apple is a senior at the University of Iowa and is majoring in English and creative writing on the publishing track. She is the copy editor for Zenith Lit Mag, a magazine founded at the University of Iowa, and has been accepted into the IES Dublin Writers Program for next fall.

Passage Paige Osland is a third-year student at the University of Iowa studying English with a minor in anthropology. She is exploring her interests in teaching as well as publishing and editing and is very excited to be a part of Living Proof as a section editor!

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Alexandrya Hopkins is a senior at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track as well as theater.

She writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and scripts for the stage.

Meg Doster is a third-year student in the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences pursuing a degree in journalism. She’s one of the section editors for Living Proof.

Section 2 Cosmology Sarah Moss is a senior at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. They are also a fiction editor for Zenith Lit Mag. Zoë Charlery is an English major from Yonkers, New York. She is also currently the nonfiction editor of B.A.R.S.

Sum of Your Parts Evie Dohm is a fantasy addict always looking for her next great adventure (real or imagined). She spends her free time hiking, hammock-ing, or listening to sea shanties with her cat.

Charlotte Komrosky-Licata is currently a section editor for Living Proof. She is also a full-time student studying business analytics and creative writing at the University of Iowa, and was previously an art and design editor for Zenith Lit Mag.

A Snapshot of Hope Madeleine Ackerburg is a junior studying English and creative writing on the publishing track at the University of Iowa. When she’s not writing, you can find her playing amateur chess with her friends, birdwatching at Hickory Hill Park, and fangirling over Mary Oliver on a consistent basis.

Meghan Bloom is an English and creative writing major from Des Moines, Iowa. Most of her free time is spent cuddling with her cat, attempting to keep her plants alive, and thinking about how she should be writing instead of actually doing it.

Madison Thiede is a junior at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing with a minor in gender studies on the publishing track.

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Undiscovered Depths Catalina Irigoyen is originally from Buenos Aires but currently lives in Iowa City where she studies creative writing, is a senior editor for Zenith Lit Mag, and tries her best to adapt to Midwestern winters.

Emily Wiegand is a senior at the University of Iowa hoping to pursue a career in publishing after graduating in May.

Section 3 It’s a Fine Line: Quests Through Dialogue & Lyrics Natalie Muglia is a second-year student studying English and creative writing on the publishing track with a business administration minor.

When she’s not studying, Natalie enjoys rereading Pride and Prejudice, sampling the iced London fog tea lattes around Iowa City, and laughing a little too loud.

Zoey Jenkins (she/her) is a third-year student at the University of Iowa studying journalism and mass communication and English and creative writing on the publishing track. When she is not studying, she can be found managing social media accounts, writing personal nonfiction essays, and editing for Her Campus Iowa.

Human Reaction Allyson Stoops is a third-year student studying English and sociology.

Her passions include reading, creating super niche Spotify playlists, and traveling the world.

Abby Gaugler is a sophomore studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. She enjoys thrifting for grandma sweaters, hanging out with her roommates, and eating copious amounts of Cheez-Its.

A Gruesome Look at Childhood Nostalgia Maya Penning is a third-year student at the University of Iowa majoring in English and creative writing on the publishing track with a minor in communication studies. She lives for rainy days and sleeping in.

Emily Donahue is a senior majoring in English and creative writing on the publishing track. She enjoys summer rainstorms, hanging out with her cats, listening to ABBA, and reading young adult fiction.

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Mourning Meadow Alex Escalada is a third-year music major with minors in English and Latinx studies. Alex is from Cedar Falls, Iowa and loves Thai food, Whitney Houston, and stringing along thoughts of consciousness in hopes that someone will understand.

David Marquez is a senior at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. He has worked on many campus publications over the last few years and enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction.

In Memory Elizabeth Muncy is a graduating senior with an unhealthy relationship with coffee, BookTok, and purchasing hardcover books. She spends most days snuggling with her two cats while she becomes too emotionally attached to fictional characters.

April Bannister is an undergraduate student studying English and creative writing. She enjoys writing across all genres, especially within a mental health focus.

A Plein Aire Sketch of Home Carmela Furio is a second-year at the University of Iowa studying publishing and Italian. She’s heavily involved in the campus publishing community and spends her free time threatening to drive cross-country to spite her friends.

Odessa Neeley is a fourth-year journalism student. She loves pistachios and poetry.

Elsa Richardson-Bach is a sophomore studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. Everyday she wishes she lived in Dinotopia, but alas, reality calls.

Hysterical Strength Anna Nelson is a third-year student graduating early to pursue graduate studies. She is endlessly grateful for her experiences in the Iowa City literary community during her undergraduate career.

Mikey Waller is a second-year English and creative writing major on the publishing track with an art minor. When she’s not doing some form

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of creating, you’ll probably find her buying books (even though she has no time to read them).

Managing Editors Sonia Beltz is a second-year student at the University of Iowa majoring in English and creative writing. After graduation, she plans to pursue graduate school and one day work as an editor.

Delanee Ensley is a junior at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. She has experience working on several magazines as an editor and is excited to make her debut as a managing editor!

Carmela Furio is a second-year at the University of Iowa studying publishing and Italian. She’s heavily involved in the campus publishing community and spends her free time threatening to drive cross-country to spite her friends.

Natalie Muglia is a second-year student studying English and creative writing on the publishing track with a business administration minor.

When she’s not studying, Natalie enjoys rereading Pride and Prejudice, sampling the iced London fog tea lattes around Iowa City, and laughing a little too loud.

Amanda Pendley is a queer, twenty-one-year-old writer from Kansas City who is currently studying creative writing and publishing at the University of Iowa. Her recent and forthcoming publications include Homology Lit, Vagabond City Lit, Savant Garde Literary Magazine, and JUKED. Elsa Richardson-Bach is a sophomore studying English and creative writing on the publishing track. Everyday she wishes she lived in Dinotopia, but alas, reality calls.

Jacob Sammon is a second-year student at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track.

Marketing Kaitlin Channell is a third-year student at the University of Iowa.

She’s studying English and creative writing on the publishing track with a minor in French.

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Evalyn Harper is an English and creative writing major originally from Stillwater, Oklahoma. When she’s not writing, she channels her creative energy into editing videos for her YouTube channel and baking scones with increasingly improvisational flavor palates.

Zoey Jenkins (she/her) is a third-year student at the University of Iowa studying journalism and mass communication and English and creative writing on the publishing track. When she is not studying, she can be found managing social media accounts, writing personal nonfiction essays, and editing for Her Campus Iowa.

Hannah Reynoso is a third-year English and creative writing major at the University of Iowa. When she isn’t writing, Hannah enjoys cooking gourmet dinners, tending to her herb garden, and pen pal-ing.

Morgan Ungs is a junior studying English on the publishing track. Someday, she hopes to be a marketing content writer or a travelling nomad.

Mikey Waller is a second-year English and creative writing major on the publishing track with an art minor. When she’s not doing some form of creating, you’ll probably find her buying books (even though she has no time to read them).

Design Rebecca Jefferson is a senior English and creative writing major on the publishing track, and she won’t stop talking about all the work she must do before not doing it. She wants a tattoo that says, “THIS IS NOT IN PRAISE OF POISON.” Jeff Piekarz is a junior with an English and creative writing major who is also hoping to get ASL and philosophy minors on his way out.

Hayden Williams is a second year at the University of Iowa double majoring in English and journalism with an art minor. She is passionate about art and literature and hopes to build a future career in literary design.

Copy Editing Della Gritsch is an education and creative writing major on the publishing track. She is also a nonfiction editor for Zenith Lit Mag. Sophia Kilburg is a copy editor for Living Proof and is a second-year student at the University of Iowa majoring in English and theatre arts.

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She also works on the editorial boards of Horizon Magazine and Zenith Lit Mag. Odessa Neeley is a fourth-year journalism student. She loves pistachios and poetry.

Maya Penning is a third-year student at the University of Iowa majoring in English and creative writing on the publishing track with a minor in communication studies. She lives for rainy days and sleeping in.

Olivia Tonelli is a writer studying at the University of Iowa with a passion for musicals and poetry.

Savannah Zobeck is an English and creative writing major at the University of Iowa. She enjoys writing poetry and takes inspiration from travel and nature.

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